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

by Jessica Bell

  “Yeah. A month. Ron said if I’m back within a month, the job will be waiting for me.”

  “Oh.” Gabriel sighs with relief. “You’ll be back in a month?” Gabriel gulps half his wine down. “Thank God. I seriously don’t know what I’d do without ….

  Ivy screws up her nose and looks at her feet.

  “Oh my God, Ivy. You’re going to stay longer?” Gabriel bursts into an overdramatic wail and pulls Ivy back down to the couch. He wraps his arms around her so tightly that Ivy envisions herself being strapped into a corset.

  “Gabe,” Ivy chokes out, gulping for air. “I’ll come back. Chill out. I just don’t know when yet.”

  “Phew! You had me worried there.” Gabe wipes his brow as if performing in a play.

  Ivy gives him a few gentle pats on his upper back. “Can you please find me a ticket with your genius deal-finder skills?” She points to Gabriel’s bag with her chin.

  “Okay. On it.” Gabriel rubs his dry eyes with his knuckles as if they are flooded with tears, and sniffs. He pulls out his iPad from his Beatles’ Abbey Road handbag and sits back down on the couch as Ivy leaves the room. “Thank God your house didn’t get rented. Hey, Ive!”

  “Uh, yeah,” Ivy calls back, just through the kitchen door.

  “Ive?”

  “What?”

  “Can I stay here while you’re away?”

  Ivy returns holding a wooden spoon in the air. “Sure. Why?”

  “I’m breaking up with my boy.” Gabriel smiles as if bracing himself for some bad news.

  Ivy, knowing better than to ask for details, just nods and goes back into the kitchen. She drains the spaghetti and serves it—hers in a breakfast bowl and Gabriel’s in a proper pasta dish. She calls out for Gabriel to come and get the plates while she changes into something more comfortable.

  In her room, she sits on the edge of her bed staring into her open wardrobe. She finished putting everything back in it. Today. And now has to choose what to take out of it again.

  She grabs a pair of pink-and-grey polka-dotted tracksuit pants from a drawer and slips them on. The black slinky dress she purchased all those weeks ago catches her eye. She rubs the soft fabric between her fingers as if gently rubbing detergent into an oil stain. She hasn’t even tried it on yet. She imagines the way the dress would feel on her skin. Perhaps I should just try it on now? No. Wait until I feel the way that dress is going to make me look. Save it. For a moment you never want to forget.

  She puts on her white puppy-dog slippers and shuffles into the lounge.

  “Gabe? You think you could pack my bag for Australia too?”

  Gabriel snorts. Ivy knows he knows what she’s thinking. He knows everything Ivy thinks. Her face reads like an open psychiatrist’s notepad. Well, that’s what Gabriel always tells her.

  As she sits down to eat in front of the TV with Gabriel, he gives her a little wake-up slap on the cheek. He’s smiling. Like a child who has been told they never have to go to school again. Ivy appreciates his effort. Especially considering his own relationship is going down the tubes.

  Is he really happy for me, or is he just trying to make me feel better?

  “You know it’s summer there, right? Don’t go packing me any woolies,” Ivy adds, with a mouth full of food. She sucks in dangling pasta, and sauce flicks onto Gabriel’s cheek.

  “I know! What the …?” Gabriel takes a napkin from the table and dabs at his face as if applying powder. He turns on the TV with a huff. Ivy scoffs.

  A documentary about Australian wildlife is on. She tries to picture herself back home. Will her family be happy to see her? Will she be happy to see them? Will they all avoid the dreaded subject of her recent divorce? Whenever did she say she didn’t like speaking about him anyway? Just because Eleanor and Ailish decided to take a vow of silence when it came to Roger, doesn’t mean that she wants to do the same thing with Amir. Does it?

  Emirates ..”

  “Gabe?”

  “Wassup?”

  “I want you to book me a flight on United Arab Emirates.”

  Gabriel looks at Ivy and frowns. She has never told him Amir works for Emirates.

  “Okay. Why?”

  Ivy winks. “I hear the stewards are gorgeous.”

  Kit

  “Okay. So here’s what we’ll do,” Kit says, raising her voice for Eydie to hear above the raucous St. Kilda pub crowd, and gulping down a quarter of her fresh icy-cold pint of Carlton Draught. She takes a moment to overcome the brain freeze, contorting her face as if she’s overheard a ridiculous rumor. “Mum is organizing Christmas at ours this year, so we should wait until that’s over. Once Boxing Day is done and dusted, we’ll call Samuel and organize a day to visit him. And Mum doesn’t have to know. I don’t want to get her all worked up over this anymore. I mean, if she finds out after the fact, I can deal with it, but I’d just like to avoid any sort of confrontation beforehand. I’m sick of getting people’s approval for everything. You all right with that?”

  Eydie nods, watching a couple of junkies making a score on the street with a pitiful expression on her face. She rests her folded hands on the bar; her collection of silver bangles clang on the black marble surface as the girl in the street punches the guy in the face and bolts toward the esplanade with a plastic Ziploc bag sticking out of her back jean pocket.

  “You sure you don’t want a drink?” Kit asks. Eydie nods again, pursing her lips. “Come on. At least get a lemon squash or something.” Kit’s last word hovers in the air as the background music pauses between tracks.

  “Okay.” Eydie nods at the bartender, coming back to earth as Sonic Youth’s “Kool Thing” starts to play. She looks at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and scrunches her waxy, messily spiked hair in both hands. She then rubs her nails on her faded black jeans and pushes her top lip up to touch her nose.

  “What’s wrong?” Kit asks.

  “I dunno.” Eydie shrugs, stealing conspicuous glances at the young crowd of boozers behind them through the mirror.

  Kit imagines Eydie scrutinizing every single person in the room, especially the drunk ones, to sum them up, perhaps comparing them to her mother and creating little scenarios of their lives in her head. Kit does that too, even if for totally different reasons. She’s recognized herself in Eydie ever since they met, but more so since they’ve been spending time together as “sisters.” The similarities in character shine through the most when they catch each other staring at strangers. What is it about strangers that make you want to take up photography for that split second of blissful observation? Is that how writers feel? Or is it a moment when you speculate on whether life might have been different if ...?

  Kit wishes she could offer Eydie some more guidance but doesn’t feel qualified, considering she’s been brought up with a pretty stable mother, even though the stability has only been evident on the surface. She knows about Ailish’s bathroom scribble sessions. And she’s known about the marijuana for more than ten years. What teen wouldn’t recognize a marijuana plant growing next to a bed of Chamsonette Pink Gazanias?

  “I’m so sorry, Eydie,” Kit says, shaking her head. “Do you want to go to a café instead? Or take a stroll along the seaside and get some gelati or something? We don’t have to stay here. I can drink beer at home.”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” Eydie says, drawing her attention back to Kit. Eydie taps her nails on the bar when the barman serves her the soft drink.

  Kit doesn’t buy it. After taking another couple of gulps of beer, she pushes it away. “Come on, drink your squash. We’re outta here.” Kit slaps her hands on the bar top.

  Since spending time with Eydie, Kit’s been a lot happier, but she sort of feels guilty about it. Does she feel this way because Eydie is less fortunate than she? What if she’s subconsciously using Eydie as an Ivy replacement? Or does this situation evoke a sense of purpose? Were they brought together so she could take care of Eydie? To push her in the right direction?
To give her courage to do more with her life? Kit would like to think the latter.

  Eydie downs her squash through the thick black straw as Kit leaves a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

  Out in the street the air smells like beer and beach. They follow the footpath toward the esplanade, wading through environmentalists, colourful hippies, tree huggers, political yahoos, pamphlet distributors, eccentric academics with thinly framed specs, metalheads, gothic rockers and prick-piercing punks, daddy’s girls, country girls, wannabe cool girls, alternative musicians, classical musicians, funk musicians, buskers, writers, painters, poets reciting on the footpath with violin cases at their feet, call girls, junkies … and drunks. Eydie clutches Kit’s upper arm as they walk.

  A guy in a tattered grey tracksuit with a thinning blonde greasy ponytail approaches them asking, under his breath, if they need a hit. Eydie stiffly shakes her head and walks backward, dragging Kit with her. Kit turns Eydie around and speed-walks in the direction of the pier, where the crowd is a little more civilized. Where kids actually play. Kit knows the crowd is harmless around here. It’s all show. Most are just trying to be cool. But it seems Eydie doesn’t get out much to realize that for herself.

  “You all right?” Kit asks, stopping for a breather, raising her eyebrows.

  “Uh-huh.” Eydie nods. “I’m sorry. I’m such wimp.”

  “No, you’re not. Your reaction is normal.” Kit winks and gives her a hug. She smells like the latest musk Rexona deodorant.

  “I’m so happy I met ya, Kit,” Eydie replies, wiping a tear from her cheek and breaking into a self-conscious laugh.

  Down at the pier, Eydie buys them both a gelati from a van by the road, when Kit’s mobile rings. Eydie takes Kit’s ice cream without Kit asking her to.

  She watches as Kit rummages through her bag, her face hinting at a contented smile. A lot like the smile Kit remembers having as a young girl when she watched Ivy dig for treasure in her neighbour’s yard. What is she actually thinking? Why has she not uttered one single opinion of her own since the day we met as “sisters”? Why should things have to change? Was the toughness at the salon all an act to hide her insecurities?

  Kit finally finds her mobile phone. Before flicking it open with her thumb, she leans over to her gelati in Eydie’s hand and takes a quick mouthful, while Eydie licks melting rainbow drips off her wrist.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi,” replies a reluctant female voice on the other end. Kit’s heart beats with exaggeration as if being pumped with fluid. She sucks saliva to the back of her tongue until the roof of her mouth hurts.

  “What do you want?”

  Ivy hesitates. It sounds as if she puts her hand over the receiver and coughs. “I’m coming home.”

  Fuck. “Good for you. And?”

  “Well, I just thought you might like to know. I’d like to meet Dad with you.”

  “I don’t care about Dad anymore,” Kit winks at Eydie, who has a concerned frown on her face. “I’ve stopped looking.”

  “Why?”

  “Not my place to say. Ask Eleanor.”

  “Oh.”

  After a long silence Kit can hear some whispering. She decides to hang up without saying goodbye. But just before she does so, Ivy asks who is hosting Christmas.

  “We are,” Kit replies in a tone so languid she can hear herself slouch.

  “Great. Hey, I’m really sorry ab—.

  Kit hangs up and tosses her phone into her bag.

  “Who was it?” Eydie asks, passing Kit her gelati, now shiny from the heat. Kit flattens her tongue and licks it full circle with attack. “Someone we are unfortunately related to,” she mumbles, trying not to cry.

  Eydie sighs, tight-lipped, and links her arm with Kit’s. They walk along the esplanade, hooked by their elbows, eating their ice creams in silence. Children squeal, thick white waves crash, car horns toot. Kit’s footsteps rattle her knees as if trying to tell her to stop moving, to sit, to look out at the ocean and lap up the “goodness” that surrounds her. People change. She has to move on. But tears threaten to burn through the rear of her nasal cavity like a strong chemical smell. Don’t.

  “She’s comin’ home, in’t she? Ivy, I mean.”

  Before Kit can summon the control, tears stream down her cheeks, and she walks to the nearest park bench to sit down.

  Eydie throws the remainder of her cone into the nearby trash can, rubs her mouth on the back of her right hand, sits and puts an arm around Kit’s shoulders. “It’ll work out,” Eydie says, looking at Kit’s jogging knees. “I’m sure she’s sorry. We all ’ave … moments. She probably regrets the whole thing. ’F course she regrets it. She called ya. That counts for somethin’ duznit?”

  Kit inserts the last bit of cone into her mouth and crunches it as she speaks. “I don’t think she regrets it. I think she just changed her mind about meeting Dad, and I’m the only way she has in. She wouldn’t dream of going to Eleanor.”

  “Ya don’t know that, Kit.” Eydie’s speech slows down as she follows the movements of a middle-aged blonde woman standing on the side of the road in a gold mini and bright-purple boob tube. Eydie’s eyes glaze over, and her face goes pale.

  “What?” Kit looks at the woman and rubs her sticky fingers on her thighs.

  Eydie shakes her head, swallows.

  “I just saw Ma.”

  “Really? Well, let’s go and say hello.”

  Eydie grabs Kit’s upper arm with weightlifter strength as she attempts to stand. “No,” she snaps through gritted teeth. “She’s gone now anyway. Fuck.” Eydie hangs her head and balances it in her hands. A tear drops onto her thigh. After a moment of silence she sniffs, swings her head back, and lets out a low guttural growl.

  “Eydie.” Kit strokes her hair. “What’s going on?”

  “She just got into some car with some sleazy wanker,” Eydie replies, blinking at the sky, trying to stop her tears.

  Kit takes Eydie’s hand to offer some calm. “What does that mean?”

  “She said she’d stopped doing that fucking crap.” Eydie looks at Kit and rolls her eyes. They glisten under the streetlamp.

  “Doing what?”

  “Being a fuckin’ whore.” Eydie pulls her hand away to wipe her eyes. The tips of her fingers turn grey with mascara, and she wipes them on her jeans.

  A what? Kit isn’t sure if she says that out loud or whether her lips are just moving up and down.

  “Yeah.” Eydie nods. “And you know what she told me last night?”

  Kit shakes her head.

  “That was how she met Dad.”

  Brian

  Sunday morning. Red Sox replay. Background noise. Naked. Cold. Heater taking too long to work. Grabs quilt from couch. Wraps himself in it. Prickly on skin. Especially penis. Itchy scrotum, nostril, big toe. Goes to bedroom. Puts on boxers. The red ones covered in giraffes. Drags toe along carpet. Itch relieved. Wraps himself back in quilt. Returns to kitchen. Scratches bum crack through prickly quilt. Not comfortable. Gets angry at quilt. Throws it at couch. Goes back into bedroom. Puts on tracksuit. Returns to kitchen. Coffee made. Can’t remember turning machine on. Farts. Boiled wax gone hard in pot on stove. Too lazy to fix. Smells nice, triggers grief. Brian sobs. Wimp.

  Brian looks at the Christmas tree Ivy put up the day she walked out. No. The day he threw her out. You’re a complete moron. He walks over to it and takes a shiny red ball off it. He holds it up, level to his eyes. He looks at himself, at his distorted, lying, son-of-a-bitch face. “You be-lew it,” he says to his reflection, over emphasizing his facial movements as he speaks. “You fu-cker.” He throws the ball across the room, and it shatters against the wall. He stares at the spot on the wall where it hit for so long that the rest of the room becomes a blur around it.

  The percolator crackles as if telling Brian to get a grip. He turns his head to glare at that too. He squints at it like a bull ready to charge. Then his email pings on his open laptop near the shattered Christmas decorat
ion. He walks over to see what it is and cuts his finger on a piece of glass lodged into the mouse.

  “Jesus!”

  He bolts to the kitchen sink and runs it under the faucet.

  Then his cell beeps.

  “What the fuck do you all want from me? I’m trying to mope here!” Brian screams toward the ceiling.

  Then the doorbell rings.

  Brian expels a loud gritty wheeze as he rips a piece of paper towel off the roll by the stove and wraps it around his hand.

  “What?” he snaps as he swings his door open, expecting it to be his annoying neighbour who likes to “borrow” a teaspoon of instant coffee on occasion. He doesn’t even drink instant coffee. He keeps a jar of it in his cupboard merely for this purpose.

  But it’s not his neighbour. It’s Gabriel. Wearing a T-shirt with “Some respect might be in order” written on it.

  “Oh. Gabe.” Brian sighs. “Sorry. What are you doing here?” He pokes his head out the door to see if anyone else is with him. “How did you get in the building?”

  Gabe looks Brian up and down and pinches his nose as if Brian stinks. Brian sniffs down the front of his sweatshirt by pretending to rub sweat from his top lip with the collar.

  “Darling, I could rip your unreliable little balls off and throw them into a wood chipper, but I won’t.” Gabriel crosses his arms, tilts his head, and flits his eyes toward the paper towel wrapped around Brian’s hand.

  Brian mutters, removing the paper towel and throwing it on the floor to his left. He chuckles like an idiot. “Thanks?”

  “Yeah. Thank me later, schnookums, when you manage to stop Ivy getting on that plane to Australia this afternoon.” Gabriel taps his foot. It snaps through the corridor like a cane on a desk.

  “What?” Brian suddenly has trouble swallowing.

  “Mm-hm. This afternoon. If you want to give her another chance—and I’m pretty sure you do because I ain’t seen such a sincere heart in my life as I do in you—I tell you, and I’m not saying that just because I love Ivy and want her to be happy and I know that she sees something in you worth pursuing. I’m saying that because I mean it, and I seriously think you just got overwhelmed and reacted to fear, so, honey …” Gabriel takes a deep breath, smiles, takes Brian’s jaw in his right hand, and holds his head up. “Flight EK461, leaves four p.m. It’s your last chance, darling.”