String Bridge (11 page)

“Mother.” Alex rubs his eyes. He sighs and looks at the wall.

“Yeah. And I
really
hate it. I need you to
stop
,” I say, nodding assertion and weight into each word. Alex’s eyes flick erratically over the wall as if searching for cracks in the paint.

“Alex! I really
need
you to stop. Please look at me!”

Alex meets my gaze and nods clenching his jaw. I lower my tone. My hands shake. Fear re-emerges like aggressive bacteria. “Otherwise I can’t feel confident about telling you things I think you might get upset about, or trust you won’t jump to conclusions before you’ve heard everything I have to say. And I don’t want to be afraid to tell you—”

Alex narrows his eyes.

“… that I really want—”

“Me to get you a gig.” Alex pushes the duvet down to his knees and laughs as if he’s been expecting this request all along.
So why didn’t you just offer instead of make me suffer through this unspoken torment?

“This is ludicrous,” Alex continues, getting out of bed and towering above me.

“What is?” My shoulders recline. My voice turns to kitten squeak. “That I want you to get me a gig?”

“No!” Alex tosses his arms in the air, his fingers outstretched; the lines inside his hands redden. “That you think I’m like your mother!”

“But you
are
,” I say, wishing I could control myself. But I can’t. Unspoken ache drives the volume of my voice to a level I’ve never heard before. It’s not very loud, but the pain in it is—like a mute trying to express grief. “I mean, it’s how
I feel.
” I clench my fists and bang them on my chest, knocking the last breath of confidence out of me. My palms burn as I press my fingers into them.
This is what I have needed to say—all along. How could I not have realized this?
“Can’t you see that that’s how you
make
me
feel
? I’m afraid to speak about everything to you in case you blow up. And I
know
you’ve thought about hitting me. I
know
it. It’s just a matter of time, Alex. I can see it in your eyes every time you—”

“Mel!” Alex bangs his fist on the wall. “I have never hit you. How can you—”

“Stop! See what I mean? Look at you! Look at that fist, that anger. You could snap me in half with one swipe. And for what? What have I done to you?”

Alex loosens his fist and sighs as he crouches down. He looks at his feet through his parted knees and balances himself on the edge of the bed, rocking himself backward and forward.

“Stop being so defensive for
just
a second and try to look at this from my perspective, huh? Look deep into your own heart and tell me, do you seriously have
no
idea what I’m talking about here? If you can honestly say you don’t then … I guess, so be it. You can’t see it.” I shrug. “But can you at least
try
to understand my problem here?”

His eyes become watery, and his intimidating demeanor ebbs as if he’s been injected with a tranquilizer.

“I love you. You know that right?” he whispers looking up at me like a lost child.

“Yes. I do.”
I do. He loves me. Otherwise what would be keeping him here? Right?

“Okay. Do
you
love
me
?”

“Yes.”
I think so.

“Okay. I’ll, um, watch my temper. And if I lose sight of it, if … if I forget, just, I dunno, yell at me or something. I
promise
I won’t hit you. How could I
ever
hit you? You’re my … Melody, you’re my music. I’m sorry. I’ve been so wrapped up in my business that I forget you’re not as strong as you show on the outside. I’m sorry.”

Alex steps back into bed and wraps his arms around me. He rubs my back and shoulders up and down as if I need warming up. I always thought an apology would seem empty after the way I’ve been feeling lately. But, surprisingly, it has given me hope. I feel
hope
. And it’s exactly what I need to replenish what we had. Because what we had was precious.

About a year or so after Tessa was born, we used to set our alarms for an outrageous hour of the morning, to make sure we were awake before her. Sometimes we didn’t even speak. We would just lie there, touch each other’s skin, stroke each other’s cheeks, our hair, or warm our hands between each other’s thighs. We didn’t make love. We didn’t have to. Being awake in each other’s presence was enough—to remind ourselves that we existed. Even if we drowned in chaos in the outside world, we knew that in here, in our tiny cocoon of ‘us time’ at the crack of dawn, we were together, and that was all that mattered. It represented love in its most simplest form—Me. Him. Us.
I want that back. We can get that back ...

“Mel?”

I look up and touch my nose to Alex’s chin. “Hmm?”

“How soon would you like that gig?”

PART TWO

Please Don’t Break Me

A puncture wound, will never heal

its hole forever hollow

Can’t fill the void or roll the wheel

or flee its crushing sorrow

Chorus:

You might wanna mask it, patch it

get it stitched up and cleaned

You might wanna fill it, peel it

or sew it up into seams

Pretty girls with bouncy curls

They trigger long lost dreams

Oh oh. Oh oh.

No sticks or stones, or brittle bones

Don’t aim to crack my knees

No, oh, oh, oh.

Chorus

Soothing words aren’t set in stone

Should I believe in you?

Should I believe?

Or will it end with me in bed

Feeling torn and bruised?

Please don’t break me.

Chorus

Ten

Selflessness. An animal instinct; an innocent whim, present only in a child. An unconditional inclination to assist without personal gain. For an ape, that’s life. But for us, as we grow old, our naive allure toward altruism; our aspirations to aid anyone in need, abates. We keep tabs on each other’s behavior, and feel proud about what we give only when the favor is returned. Always anticipating the arrival of “the one” to accept us for who we are; all future action expectation-free.

Yes.

Expectation
-free.

As certain as the fact that a guitar needs strings to make sound; as pleasant as the muffled silence after screeching amplifier feedback.

I stare at Alex until he opens his eyes—hoping his enthusiastic offer to secure me a gig is void of agenda. My instinct tells me he either wants something or is hiding something. The latter being the strongest jackhammer in my gut. It’s been drilling so many holes in me lately that I’ll soon need a colostomy bag.

When did I start thinking nice gestures must be spiked with impure intentions?

“Happy birthday,” I whisper as if a ‘sweet nothing’ and nibble his earlobe. The bed linen crumples. A spring pings: a faerie soul puncture stifled in cotton wool. If Tessa had the vocabulary, that’s what she’d say the noise is.

With a groan, Alex stretches his arms; his walnut shell elbows blending in with his pale bed-sheet wrinkled skin. “Mmm, thanks, babe. I’m forty fucking years old.” He kisses my cheek—lips so coarse they could sand away the cracks in the ceiling.
He should drink more water. He should look after himself better.

“So? You don’t look a day over thirty-five … and once you wake up a little and the pillow imprints have disappeared from the side of your face, you’ll probably look thirty-two,” I say with a wink, thinking he looks more like
forty
-five.

It was only a year ago that I thought he could still pass as thirty. How did he age so quickly? Is life beginning to burden him? Am I? Am I now the extra pinch of salt that causes the heart attack?

And what happened to the wife who would give him a foot massage first thing on a Sunday morning before offering to cook him French toast? Or the wife who used to wake up singing the song she’d just written the day before? The woman who would gladly forfeit music time for quality Alex time, because she … because I … knew how to keep a balance?

Who am I now?

I’m no silicone spatula, that’s for sure. I’m the wooden spoon with the snapped handle.

“Ha-ha. Thanks.” He yawns, opening his mouth as wide as a cookie cutter; his breath like off milk—the smog of bodily fluids.

For the last five years I’ve been speaking like a ventriloquist in the mornings until I brush my teeth in fear that mine might smell the same. Our breaths never smelled bad before we got married. What’s with that? There must have been something in the ceremonial wine. An eternal curse of discomfort. Once married, always harried. It should have been in our vows. Warnings are always better than surprises.

“So, seriously now, you’re bringing Alana Miles?” I twist my hair into a bun and lean my head against the wall to momentarily secure it.

Alex nods, his stubble brushing against the duvet below his chin. The sound of tires passing over a wet patch of road.

“Isn’t she like, fifty, now?” I ask, screwing up my nose, wondering why I would even consider it an issue.
It’s not an issue. At all. What’s with you?

Alex laughs through his nose, rubbing behind his ear. Looks as if he’s been bitten.
Do dust mites bite?
I envision dust mites burrowing under my skin; a giant cockroach dropping me into a greenhouse swarming with flying ants. I squeeze my eyes shut to shake the thought.

“So when are you bringing her?”

“Gig’s not definite yet, we’re negotiating a fee.”

“So when are you thinking, then?”

“In about three months.” Alex sits up and scratches a dry flake of skin from his cheek. “You can get your shit together by then, right?”

“Of course!”
Better start practicing.

Alex’s cell phone rings. He looks at the caller ID, swallows and flares his nostrils.

“Sorry. Have to get this.” He jumps out of bed, ties his robe around his firm yet slightly protruding stomach, letting it ring and ring.

It stops.

Offering a tight-lipped smile in apology, he puts an ear bud into his left ear, presses a couple of keys, and walks out onto the balcony.

Ten seconds later he returns.

“That was a quick conversation. Mustn’t have been too important.” I sit up in bed, pulling the duvet up far enough to cover my breasts.

“Um, no. It was just my accountant. Problem with some invoices. Want some coffee?”

I nod, force a smile of gratitude to tame resurfacing suspicion. I watch him walk out of the bedroom with his cell phone clenched in his hand.

Ever since Tessa and I visited my parents on the island last weekend, and Alex stayed home, suspicion has been beleaguering me on and off like the transitory sting of an injection. In fact, last weekend was the catalyst of many things—including my current emotional state.

The catalyst of cataclysm?

When I was about six years old, arriving to the island was like stepping foot into an enchanted pop-up fairytale book. At dawn, especially, it was a Neverland of lush luminescent green mountain, deep purple sea, sherbet orange sky and sharp-toothed cliffs so high you could literally walk on clouds—a much needed change from falling asleep on a vibrating carpeted floor that reeked of old amplifier wheel grease and waking up to cigarette smoke wafting through ducted heating vents.

The island’s windy mountainous roads are framed with olive groves and air so crisp you could snap it like celery. The houses are stained with whitewash and embedded with old-style wooden shutters, tailored by the locals to keep the summer swelter out. They are painted blue, red, or green, but occasionally you may come across the odd pink or orange shutters, which are more often than not inhabited by the eccentric barmy type who are color-blind, or the young and loaded foreigner who believes an island revolution should be in order.

Goats meander about the streets, butting each other’s heads senselessly as they try to escape oncoming cars and motorcycles. The roosters, chickens, and geese fire up the locals at the first sign of sunrise. Birds chirp, cicadas “jijiga” in the olive trees, and dogs bark as the bread truck, a red beat-up Ute, delivers fresh hot loaves to each residence and slips the required amount of bread into handmade cloth bags hanging from wire fencing.

Summer on this island engraves your skin with a longing to spend sunrise to sunset lying on a small, empty, white-pebbled beach in a secluded cove at the end of a private dirt walking track. At midday, it gets so hot you need to wade through heat waves rising from the unevenly tarred road like kindred spirits before you can wade in the Ionian to cool off—a flat, motionless oil bath which glows with an infinite turquoise glint. It may seem you are stepping into velvet, however, you emerge covered in a thin salty crust you can brush off like sand when it dries.

Most folks have a siesta between two and five in the afternoon, so there isn’t much to do except wander the streets and explore. By about six the sun still reads midday, and the waterfront cafés fill with shouting teenagers drinking frappé. They stay until it’s time to return home, quickly scarf down some homemade
mousaka
, and get dressed to party until seven the next morning.

By about ten at night the sun hides behind a mountain of shrubby arid terrain, and the cool edge to the air is relieving. At the mountain’s topmost peak, a silhouette of an Orthodox church can be seen, accompanied by a soundtrack of owls and crickets. At this time of day mosquitoes congregate for their evening feasts. Shepherds’ voices echo through the valley while their goats’ bells jingle as they steer along the hot dusty trails home.

In the morning, when glittering sunlight made patterns on my wall through the thin slats of my bedroom shutters, my mother would make me Vegemite toast. I’d eat on the verandah, without a plate, propped up on a whitewashed ledge full of tacky red plastic buckets, where my Yiayia would hand-wash our laundry. Dad would play guitar in the garden, and Mum would sing along as if she were the happiest person alive. Papou would tend to his veggie patch, and as soon as I’d finish my toast, I’d probe the olive trees for camouflaged cicadas.