Family Drama 3-in-1 Box Set: String Bridge, The Book, Bitter Like Orange Peel

by Jessica Bell

  “How could you lie to me, Mum?” Kit screams. “I’ve never lied to you. Ever.”

  Ailish

  Ailish is finishing up with Kit’s schedule, when her door bursts open and a picture frame drops from the wall. I knew I hadn’t nailed that up properly. Her daughter’s face is flushed, and tears anticipate escape. She blurts out something desperate, almost incomprehensible, except for “How could you …?”

  “How could I what, sweetheart?” Ailish puts her glasses on her head in order to secure some loose strands of hair hanging in her face.

  “Lie to me!” Kit’s hands are on her hips and her frown more vivid than Ailish has ever seen. What on earth did Harold say to her? What could he possibly …?

  “Honey, lower your voice. What has got into you? What are you talking about?”

  “That’s Dad’s name on the plaque underneath yours, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” Kit yells, throwing her bag to the floor. “How could you say to me all these years that you don’t know where to start looking?”

  Ailish brings her hands to her face and cups them around her mouth and nose, focusing on her feet, her big black ugly toenail hiding underneath five layers of matt apricot enamel. She releases her hands from her face and looks up, takes a deep breath, and stares at the skirting boards, not wanting Kit to see the shame flicker through her eyes. Damn it, Ailish! Me and my stupid need to preserve his presence. She bites her lip, about to respond, but Kit interrupts.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me he worked here with you? You could have easily found out how to find Roger all these years. Couldn’t you? You just didn’t want—.

  “Kit. Stop yelling and sit down for Pete’s sake, and let me explain.” Ailish guides Kit toward the beanbag, knowing she feels secure there, her right hand gently on her upper back. She shuts the office door, pushes off her beige leather sandals from her heels, and sits down beside her on the carpet, crossing her legs yoga style.

  “Kit, we didn’t work together. I was his student.”

  “His what? What do you mean?” Kit asks, holding onto Ailish’s gaze. Ailish can feel Kit’s stare search for truth. Through her reflection in Kit’s hazel eyes, Ailish can see, for the first time, what she has been running from all these years: the fear of not being loved; of breaking through the self-built glass wall and being judged, not only for what people can see, but for her past; for the secrets she’s hidden and almost convinced herself weren’t real.

  “I thought you said you had only known him long enough to get pregnant with me?” A tear lingers at the corner of Kit’s left eye.

  “I know. I know I said that. Kit, I …” Ailish clutches at the roots of her hair with her elbows resting on her knees. She lets her hair down and runs her fingers through it, without taking the usual care to loosen the pins one by one. A few fly across the room. “This is very hard to say,” she mumbles behind the mop of hair hanging over her face. Kit isn’t moving or saying a word, but Ailish can hear her swallow sorrow in her extended breaths.

  “Mum, please. Just tell me. I won’t be angry. I promise. I just want to find him. Get to know him before … Well, Mum, what can possibly be wrong with wanting to know my father?”

  “Get to know him before what, Kit? Getting acquainted with Roger is not going to define who you are. You don’t need your father to shine. You already shine. You are already you.” Ailish pushes Kit’s hair behind her ears and rests her hands on her cheeks. “You haven’t recognized your own potential yet.”

  Kit flicks Ailish’s hands from her face with a swift shift of her head.

  “You’re right,” Ailish says. “You deserve to find your father. And I can completely understand why. But you have to understand that this is difficult for me because I … well, the affair between Roger and me lasted for … a very long time. We were both very secretive about it because I was his student. And he was married.”

  “To Eleanor.” Kit’s frown grows deeper.

  Ailish nods toward the floor, focusing on the cracks in her heels.

  “Does Eleanor know it lasted so long?”

  Ailish shakes her head, pressing her lips together. “Not that I know of.”

  Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry in front of Kit.

  “Does Ivy know anything?”

  “No one knows, Kit. I know it was thoughtless of me to keep this from you. I do know that, but …” Ailish takes Kit’s hands in hers and rests them in Kit’s lap, leaning forward enough to feel her breath brush across her face. “I was afraid of ruining my friendship with Eleanor. She helped me through my pregnancy with you. She helped her husband’s lover, for goodness’ sake. Darling, Eleanor did a very selfless thing, and as a result we became great friends. I just couldn’t tell her, not after all she’d done. And then, of course, if I had, what would have become of you and Ivy? You may never have had the opportunity to grow up together. To be sisters. I made the decision I thought was best at the time, for you, for all of us.”

  Ailish pauses, sensing Kit’s reluctance to keep holding hands. She releases her grip and strokes Kit’s face before folding her arms below her breasts. “I haven’t been able to summon the nerve to tell you. I apologize, Kit. I truly do. Please. Can you forgive me?”

  Kit still hasn’t broken her stare. Ailish attempts to hug her, but Kit stiffens in her embrace.

  “Is there anything else I should know?” Kit asks, her tone bringing on the winter solstice.

  Yes. “No. No, of course not.”

  “So you seriously have no idea how to get hold of Roger?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  Kit looks out the window, her eyes becoming a pale green from the reflection of the eucalyptus trees outside. She stands up to leave, but Ailish grabs her hand and pulls her back down.

  “Please, don’t tell Ivy about this. Please.”

  Kit’s eyelids drop.

  “Please?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  Kit is halfway out the door, when Ailish asks, “Are we okay? You and I, are we okay?” Kit nods, vacancy oozing from the sadness in her eyes, and closes the door behind her.

  Ailish falls face-first into the beanbag, drawing and releasing a manic breath as if she has been underwater for the last ten minutes. Kit’s scent is bleached into the fabric, Ailish’s breath and tears doing nothing to rid the years and years of her daughter’s smell encompassing her face. You should have told her about the other sister. You should have told her. It was your chance. Oh my God. You stupid, stupid woman.

  Ailish punches the beanbag with both her fists, one on each side of her head, and screams into it, muffling the sound, stretching her mouth as wide as it can go so that her lips sting, the pain not even whispering the punishment she thinks she deserves.

  Ivy

  Gabriel and Ivy empty Ivy’s wardrobe onto the bed. Ivy stares at her clothes, shivering in her underwear. Maybe I can just say I’m coming down with something. Got a high temperature, maybe. It’s not a good idea to be going out in this weather, right? Especially if I have a fever. Gabriel squints at Ivy, hands on his hips, weight on one foot, head tilted to the side, and taps his toes.

  “I’m not going,” Ivy shakes her head and rubs her goose-pimpled arms.

  “You can’t stand him up,” Gabriel squeals as if his entire clothing collection is about to be thrown out into the muddy street. “Sweetcakes!” Gabriel quickly alters his tone after seeing her more-adamant-to-not-go expression.

  “Why not? It’s been done to me before.” Ivy shrugs. “And I got over it.”

  “Are you trying to frustrate the bejesus outta me on purpose, or are you trying to frustrate the bejesus outta me on purpose? I mean, just let me know, you know, so I can figure out how to proceed here,” Gabriel says, moving his head side to side like a Motown soul sister.

  Ivy pushes her clothes to the right side of her bed and gets under the covers to warm herself up. Gabriel sits next to her on the edge and rubs
her legs from above the duvet as if trying to comfort a child.

  “Okay, Ive, you are so not thinking straight. I think we have to do something to get you in the mood. Brian’s a spunk on a stick. You’re mad to even contemplate standing him up.”

  “Can you keep telling me that?” Ivy asks, frowning at her own ridiculousness. Gabriel strokes Ivy’s hair. “Have I got a fever? It’d be great if I had a fever,” she says, ignoring her conscience.

  “Ive. Listen to yourself. You’re wishing yourself to be sick. And for what? So you can avoid going to see what is probably the best thing that has happened to you in, like, a really long time?”

  “I’m an idiot, aren’t I?”

  “Yeah, sweetcakes, you’re an idiot. And I’m confused. You seemed so ready to jump back into life the other day. You threw your drumsticks away and even bought a revealing dress. When was the last time you showed off your flawless skin? See, that was a step forward. And I was so rooting for you. Come on.” Gabriel pats Ivy’s legs. “Tell me why you went and bought that black dress. There must have been a reason.”

  Ivy leans her head back. It makes contact with the wall. She closes her eyes and thinks back to her vision of archaeological genius standing outside the department store. The dress made the idea all the more realistic. It gave her an air of confidence she hasn’t felt since before the divorce. If only the positivity didn’t come in such erratic waves.

  “I had a revelation.”

  “What kind of revelation?”

  “That I need to forget Amir and get my confidence back.” Ivy squeezes her fingers on her left hand until her knuckles dig into each other and throb.

  “Only your confidence?”

  “No. Motivation to succeed, I suppose.” Ivy swallows a buildup of saliva and gets a flashback of making love to Amir in the back of the laboratory at Uni, surrounded by ancient Chinese shellfish fossils. She sinks further down into her bed until she’s lying flat on her back.

  “Well, here’s your chance. Use Brian to get over Amir, and the rest will follow. When you feel good about yourself, you’ll want to succeed.”

  “I just need a push.” Ivy turns the corners of her mouth down in a playful frown to mask the real pain.

  “Okay. Where are your New Pornographers CDs?”

  “Don’t bother.” Ivy groans, lifting herself up on her elbows. “That won’t help.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I associate them all with Amir. He’s the one who introduced me to them.”

  “Well, sweetcakes, this is the perfect time to start associating them with Brian.” Gabriel narrows his eyes. He means business. He stands and puts his hands on his hips.

  “Yeah, okay.” Ivy rolls onto her side and pushes herself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Her hair hangs over her face in a matted mess. She flicks her hand toward her bookshelf. “They’re in alphabetical order. You’ll find them.”

  “Sweetcakes, can you get out of bed and choose something to wear already?”

  “Hello? I’m sitting up.”

  Gabriel shakes his head, huffs, and mumbles something under his breath, picks up a pair of funky purple corduroy trousers with silver stripes down the vertical seams and a tightly knitted silver sweater, and shoves them into Ivy’s chest.

  “Here. Wear these.”

  “Aren’t I a bit old for these?” Ivy holds the trousers in front of her face.

  “You’re never too old for anything, sweetcakes. Just get up and put them on before I punch your nose in.”

  Crikey. I’m not suicidal or anything.

  Ivy runs her fingers through her hair and edges out a few knots. She puts the clothes on, cringing as if being forced to wear an ugly bridesmaid’s dress.

  Gabriel goes to the bookshelf and scans the CDs from top to bottom. Not only are they in alphabetical order, but all the ones beginning with vowels are grouped together at the top and the consonants grouped below.

  “Hey. I’ve never noticed this before. What’s with the organization?” Gabriel swings his torso around to offer a questioning glare. One side of his face is contorted so much that his cheek is touching his bottom eyelid.

  “Oh. Well, can you remember that little singsongy claymation cartoon on TV? The one that goes ‘a-eee-iii-a, e, i, o, u’?”

  “Er, no.” Gabriel scoffs as if some food has gone down the wrong hole.

  “Must have been an Australian thing.”

  “That still doesn’t explain the grouping.”

  “I like being reminded of the song. That’s all.” Ivy thinks about Roger singing and dancing to it with her in front of the TV and hums the tune in her head. Eleanor had been making a cake and whistled as she whisked. The only memory of Eleanor she has that doesn’t involve medi-speak.

  “Anyway,” Gabriel looks at Ivy as though she has completely lost it. “Which album do you want?”

  “You choose,” Ivy mumbles, head trapped inside the neck of her silver sweater.

  “Okay. Twin Cinema it is then. What’s your favourite song?”

  “I don’t care.”

  Gabriel shrugs and puts the disc in the CD player as Ivy goes into the bathroom to put on makeup and fix her hair. “The Bleeding Heart Show” begins to play.

  “This is a bit depressing, isn’t it?” Gabriel calls with a shrill.

  “Just wait. It livens up,” Ivy calls back, shocked by the thickness of her voice bouncing off the tiled walls. Geez, wouldn’t want to have a band rehearsal in here. She sings to herself in the mirror while applying mascara. As the notes exit her mouth, doors to feelings that have been long awaiting revival open. She hasn’t listened to any music for months, aside from coffee shop crap, and has completely forgotten how light it makes her feel.

  I leapt across three or four beds into your arms

  Where I had hidden myself somewhere in your charm

  When the middle-eight begins, Ivy jumps out of the bathroom, legs spread wide for balance, mimes playing the building drumrolls, and jumps up and down to the beat. She hits the air, the walls, the couch, and the TV with her invisible drumsticks. Gabriel joins in with the jumping, adds a little air guitar, and sings the oohs. They bounce into every room as if trying to find the one that best amplifies their imaginary instruments. A familiar chord pattern reminds her of what was playing at Ditsy Daisy’s in the afternoon. She thinks of Brian slipping the piece of paper into her apron and the tingling sensation following it. She closes her eyes and imagines Brian’s hand slipping down the front of her pants. Ivy’s breath pauses at the thought.

  Oh my God. She flicks her eyes open and looks at the zebra clock on the wall of the lounge.

  “Turn it off,” Ivy yells above the music.

  Gabriel flicks his right hand by his ear in question.

  “I’m gonna be late.”

  Ivy pokes the first pair of earrings she finds on her dresser into her ears, grabs her bag and coat, and bolts out the door without her keys.

  Ivy and Brian stand outside the Moore after the New Pornographers concert. They head toward Waterfront Park to escape the entwined roar of excited chatter stifling their shy voices. During the ten-minute walk toward the sea they are silent, separated by an arm’s length. All that can be heard are their footsteps, the collision of clothing, distant sirens, car horns, and ebbing voices. Brian’s aftershave is so strong, Ivy imagines herself hooked under his arm, breathing him in until he disappears; a quick high before telling him she can’t do this and is sorry for leading him on.

  I don’t know what I want.

  They reach the violent, obsessive, and thunderous sea. Snow covers a few burned-out spherical lampposts on the pier by the high curved railings. Apparently, it’s the first time it’s snowed in Seattle for years.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Brian says after a few moments of admiring the city skyline and the West Seattle Bridge in the darkness.

  Ivy mouths, “Who me?” playfully tilting her head. Flakes of snow fall down the back of her n
eck, chilling her.

  She expects him to pull a gift out of his inside coat pocket, but instead he says, “The Seattle Asian Art Museum is looking for a new exhibits developer. You interested?”

  Ivy’s eyes widen, and she laughs involuntarily. “You’re kidding? Of course I’m interested. Do you have contacts there?” Ivy tucks her gloves into her sleeves.

  “My brother is an anthropologist. He’s their development specialist. He said they were planning to advertise next week, but if you wanted to go in for an interview before week’s end, he’d be happy to put you in touch with the deputy director. I put in a good word.” Brian smiles, oozing with proud satisfaction.

  “Oh my God, Brian!” Ivy bounces on the balls of her feet, crunching the snow beneath them. “You actually asked your brother if there was anything going? Why would you do that for me?”

  “Just wanted to help you out. You look so miserable at the café. Anyway, it was good timing, wasn’t it?” Brian says, and breathes into his bare hands.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Ivy takes his hands and rubs them between hers without realizing she’s actually making physical contact. She jogs on the spot, half to keep warm and half at the prospect of a new job.

  It’s just what I need.

  “‘Thank you,’ will do,” Brian says, not making any move to retrieve his hands from Ivy’s.

  Ivy tilts her head. “How am I going to repay you for this?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t owe me anything.”

  Ivy gives him a peck on the cheek, places Brian’s hands on his chest, and looks out to the sea. The wind blows strands of loose hair behind her shoulders.