String Bridge (2 page)

“Um, I … alright. Clothes?”

“They’re on the dresser. You’ll see ’em.” I almost lose balance on my one shoe. Ironic, really, as my literal lopsidedness mirrors my psychological state. A poignant reminder that all this emotional turmoil isn’t just in my head. Life itself is offering me signs. I should listen to them, instead of flicking them away like a fly interrupting my concentration.

Alex runs down the corridor knocking on all the walls, whisper-calling, “I’m coming for butterfly kisses! You better have them ready …”

I can hear Tessa giggling as a big bed-plonk reverberates through the apartment. He must have lifted her out of her sea of toys on the rug and thrown her up in the air. He doesn’t do it very often. Only when he thinks our relationship is back on track. I should scold myself for making him believe so. Last night, when we finished arguing about the fact that we don’t communicate properly anymore, I backtracked by insisting I was over-reacting and that everything was going to be alright. But it’s
not
going to be alright because I couldn’t muster the courage to be honest with the one person on earth who deserves the truth. Surely, if I had faith in this marriage, I would be able to tell him how I feel?

When Alex returns, he has a dressed Tessa on his shoulders. Her head misses the kitchen door frame by a centimeter as he walks in. Our daughter smiles at me with her incandescent green eyes, giggling as Alex sings and bounces her up and down to the tune of “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch.” Her brown curls bob like rubber springs. She holds onto Alex’s shaved head so tight that she almost pokes out one of his eyes. I take Alex’s coffee off the heat and pour it into his cup. I look up at Tessa, squinting my eyes and pursing my lips for a good-morning kiss. Alex bends his knees so that Tessa and I are eye-level and she plants a big sloppy one on my cheek.

“Morning, Mummy,” she says, still bobbing her head to the tune of the song.

“Morning, Blossom,” I reply, stroking her silky pink cheek with the back of my hand.

“So what’s the dress for?” Alex asks, taking Tessa by the waist and putting her on her feet.

“Er, yeah, let me put my other shoe on and I’ll explain.”

As I limp back down the corridor to get my shoe, I wonder how I can possibly bring up the idea of relocating to London in a way that makes it sound appealing. It wouldn’t be a bad step to take, would it? There is greater opportunity in England than there is here in Greece for musicians. Perhaps I should use this promotion as a means of fulfilling my dreams. Think of it as a stepping stone, instead of an obstacle.

“We going, Mummy?” Tessa is standing in the doorway with her school bag that’s covered in cartoon kittens.

“Soon, Blossom,” I say, straightening my dress with splayed sweaty fingers, summoning the nerve to tell Alex what I’m up to once and for all. “Go and play with Doggy on the balcony and I’ll come and get you.”

The bells on the back of Tessa’s sneakers jingle as she runs out to play with our black cocker spaniel. Her purple skirt is stuck inside her pink frilly knickers. Fury bubbles in my ears at Alex’s oblivion to his daughter’s appearance. I bring Alex his coffee, because he neglected to take it himself, and kiss him on the cheek with a 1950s-happy-couple phoniness you see in the movies, or in relationships like ours.

“Thanks,” he says, staring at the computer screen, gripping his mouse like it might soon develop a mind of its own. I can’t remember the last time he said “thank you” and looked me in the eye. How hard is it to look someone you’re supposed to love in the eye? What I want to say in return is, “Are your arms broken? You couldn’t take it to your office yourself?” But I don’t.

I close my eyes for a moment, facing the window, pretending to look out at the overcast sky—at the clouds that make living in a high-rise building seem like living low in a valley, in the mountains, in the mist, in a place where self-doubt and fear have been erased from the dictionary, and self-belief and hope are not only feelings, but material objects that you can hold in your hands and confidently say you possess.

I am my own person. I have the right to make my own decisions. I do not need my husband’s permission. What century am I living in? And I know I have always, and will always have Tessa’s interests at heart. Following my dreams is not going to jeopardize bringing up my daughter. If anything, it is going to make her respect me and look up to me for doing something I believe in.

“Alex,” I snap, shocked at the tone of my voice. I had not intended it to sound so aggressive. I clear my throat in my fist. Alex looks up as if I’m interrupting him.
Ignore
it. “I’m wearing this dress because I’ve got a very important presentation today—a presentation about a new English course. You know how I came up with the concept myself and have been working on it for the last year to produce the books? Well, the books have finally been printed and the first sample copies came in last week. So now I have to present the course and my bright ideas about how beneficial it will be for kids nowadays—which now I’m not quite sure of; they’re not as bright as I thought—to the Greek Board of Education to try to get the course accepted into next year’s curriculum. If it gets accepted into next year’s curriculum, I’ll know by next week and I’ll have made the company a whole lot of money that I’ll never see. But I could see some of it, possibly, because if it does get accepted into next year’s curriculum, they’ll want to make me chief editor of a collaborating publishing house—”

“Mel, that’s fucking fantastic!” Alex interrupts. He gets out of his seat and approaches me with open arms, but I take his hands and push them to his sides. He frowns, shakes his head in question.

“Alex, the publishing house is in London. We would have to relocate.”

I massage my left brow as if nursing a headache. Alex looks at me blankly. We stare at each other—his breath and my breath clash. His anger thickens the air around me like starch in water. His fists clench, but he keeps them by his side.

“London? Mel, I’ve just turned down a job in New York for you.” Alex crosses his arms, making himself taller by straightening his back and broadening his shoulders. He hovers above me.
I will not let him intimidate me anymore. I will take no notice of this manipulation.

“Last night, you said you were happy here,” Alex continues. “My God, Mel. And you’ve known about this possibility for a year? And you’re just telling me now?”

“Well, I could have told you back then—”

“Yes. Why didn’t you?” he asks, his voice tight. “We’re responsible adults. We can both decide what’s best for our family, don’t you think? And since when are you so gung-ho about your job? I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I don’t. I’m not finished with what I want to say.”

Alex squints. “Go on.” He leans against the wall and flicks his chin up as if giving me permission to speak.

“I’m tired of this routine, Alex. I want to play gigs again. I want music back in it. No, you know what? I don’t
just
want music back in my life. I want it to
be
my life. I want my dream; the dream you somehow convinced me I didn’t need anymore. So, if I get this promotion, and if you want to save our marriage, then we
will
relocate to London, where I will have the opportunity to follow my dream.”

“No, Melody. We won’t.
You
won’t follow
any
dream. Forget it—we’re not going anywhere.” Alex sits back behind his desk.

“Excuse me?” I screech.

“You heard me. Just hope that your presentation
doesn’t
go well, so that you don’t have to regret turning the promotion down.” Alex takes hold of his mouse again, clicks a couple of times, and pretends to read something.

“Alex. I …”

I want to tell him that I’ll just go without him. That I’ll take Tessa and flee without even discussing it, but I lose my nerve. Am I being irrational? Selfish? Is it so bad to want something for yourself? Is it selfish not to accept living a life you didn’t wish for?

“What?” Alex snaps. “Alex,
what
?” He glares at me. I shake my head. “Go, to your stupid presentation. I have work to do.”

Tears fill my eyes. My bottom lip shudders a little in the hope that what I want to express might find the words to do so. But I don’t utter a word. I close my mouth, press my lips together and swallow my devastation. I have an important presentation to give. I must pull myself together. Tonight. I will continue this conversation tonight.

Two

The sharp shrill of car horns and Tessa’s wails prick my head from every direction like acupuncture needles, doing nothing to help lessen my grip on the steering wheel while I inch along in slow, grueling traffic. It’s so hot and congested that I feel as if I’m sitting in a box of melting forgotten chocolates. All we need now is an amateur string quartet to add some punch and a wince to this hyper-city soundtrack.

“It’s stuck!” Tessa cries, dragging out the words in a teary and unnerved whimper. Her chewing gum is embedded high up her left nostril. She leans herself forward and her head back so that I can see via the rearview mirror.

“Oh Tessa,” I whine, furrowing my brow, trying to comprehend whether the jolt I just felt is from Tessa’s legs flailing about, or from a car hitting my rear bumper bar. I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter. My eyebrows remain together so long that the skin-crease tattoos itself between them. Another corporeal proof of exhaustion to add to my list.

I never asked for this career-driven life—to become another rodent in this stinking patriarchal and hypocritical nation, hanging from faulty strings of bureaucratic security. But this country is blessed with a persuasive charm that I still, to this day, cannot put my finger on. What drew me here? Was it really just my father’s Greek roots? Was the need to keep returning to a land that oozes with unidentifiable mystique a habit merely instilled by ritual family visits? Or did the alluring Sirens’ song succeed in tempting me here, in view of smashing me against their jagged cliffs? They didn’t succeed with Odysseus. Perhaps I’m their next prey, knowing very well that song would undoubtedly cause me to stray from my anticipated path.

I bite my tongue, swallowing the urge to yell at Tessa’s stupidity. But I will not get angry.
Yes, you’re flustered and late. But you can’t undo what is done. Just calm her down. Calm
yourself
down
. I take a deep breath and watch Tessa through the mirror, squinting with concern. She keeps trying to get the gum out, but seems to be pushing it up even farther in her eager effort to hook it with her pinky finger.

“Honey!” I snap, then immediately lower my volume at the shock of my frenzied voice. “Stop it. You’re going to make it worse. When we stop the car, I’ll help you get it out, okay? I can use my tweezers.”

She sniffs outward, as if trying to dislodge it, and nods. A bubble escapes from her gum-free nostril. How could I possibly scold her? She’s a child. Every child sticks things in holes, and are bound to make silly, experimental mistakes. I certainly did. Such as when I scratched my dad’s gold Gibson electric guitar with my mother’s box cutter. I was only four, sitting in the corner of a rehearsal studio, listening to my parents bash out their gothic guitar riffs, vocals, and synthesiser samples, in passionate determination, oblivious to the world around them. I decided to make memory cards out of a brown box I found abandoned in the corner, and I needed a table. So I found the next best thing—the back of Dad’s guitar. Boy, did I pay for that. Not from Dad, from Mum. For blunting her knife. She whacked me on my backside several times with a rolled-up amplifier cable in front of all the rehearsal studio staff. Of course, she regretted it once her bipolar-induced rage died down and we got home. The rest of the night I was pampered with pizza, chocolate and ice cream, accompanied with her mascara-tinted tears and desperate pleas for forgiveness.

“What on earth inspired you to shove it up your nose, Tessa?” I ask, scrutinizing the dormant vehicles in front of me and wondering how much longer we’re going to idle in this skanky heat.

“I was just smelling it, Mummy. But it’s an alien. It’s from Mars. It went inside to make babies!”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Mummy, I want it out. It’s hurting me!”

“We’ll be there soon.” I swivel around in my seat so that I can look her directly in the eye, riding the clutch so that the car doesn’t stall as I inch forward with the traffic. “Look at me. How much does it hurt?”

“Lots?” she replies and shrugs her shoulders.

“How much lots? A lot-lots, or just a little-lots?”

Tessa hums a nasal “um” looking out the window. She rolls her eyes up in thought. “Medium-lots.”

“Okay then. Medium-lots isn’t
too
bad, right? Can you wait another ten minutes until we get you to preschool?”
If it is only ten bloody minutes.

Tessa nods with a half-smile.

“Great,” I reply, with a kiss in the air. “Soon. We’ll be there soon.”

Now the car behind me
does
nudge my bumper as the traffic moves forward at a more reasonable pace. I accelerate in haste, making it to the next set of traffic lights just in time for them to turn red.
I
can’t
be late for this presentation. I
am
the presentation.

I turn on the radio to distract myself from the anxiety bubbling in my throat like baking soda in vinegar. Rock FM—the only station I enjoy in this country. Patti Smith is on. What a legendary musician—an inspiration. A rock goddess, who in my opinion, puts every other female rock musician of her generation to shame. I would do anything to go to her concert tonight. Perhaps if I hadn’t been such a social recluse lately, I would have heard about it sooner than yesterday and arranged to go.

The lights turn green and we get moving onto a wider road where I can step on the gas.
Finally
. I take a fleeting look into the rear-view mirror again to check that Tessa hasn’t continued to dig up her nose. She’s bopping her head up and down to the music and twiddling her fingers around as if playing guitar. I sometimes wonder whether she’s seen Alex do it, or whether she actually feels the rhythm and can’t control herself. Unlike Alex, who does it consciously in fun, I catch myself playing air-guitar as if it were a common reflex.