String Bridge (28 page)

I look at Tessa, staring at the wall again, chin still hooked over the rail. Absent as if dreaming of rainbows. If only she were.

“Blossom, come here.” I pat the bed beside me. “You’re going to choke yourself if you keep doing that.” In silence, Tessa obeys, and cuddles into my side. I stroke her hair, without a word, knowing very well it’s not words she needs for comfort.
Like mother, like daughter. This family is cursed.
I feel a little nauseas.
There can’t be anything wrong with me can there? Not now. Definitely not now, please.

Alex returns, sits by my side, and strokes my head the way I do Tessa’s.

“So you’re
proud
?” I ask, maintaining my gaze toward the foot of the bed.

Alex searches for my knee below the covers and gives it a little squeeze and pat. He sighs heavily, stands, and stretches his arms toward the ceiling. His tracksuit pants are halfway down his bum. I focus on the inch of crack that’s visible and have an urge to stick my finger in it.
No. Stop it.

“I’ll go and make you some breakfa—, er brunch,” Alex says, and kisses the top of my head. Twice.

For the remainder of the day, I’m pampered with odd forehead kisses from Alex and uncharacteristic cuddles from Tessa. The kind of cuddles that seem like a plea for permanency; as if letting go will mean never coming back. I recognize it because I used to be like that—during my mother’s fits of “normal.”

By the evening, I’m feeling fine, and wonder whether my body was subconsciously reacting to stress. Well …
praying
my body was
just
reacting to stress. Because I can’t stop thinking about my mother. She was my age when … it all started. Panic attacks. Then more and more, and more often; then medication, addiction, rage, depression, withdrawal, bipolar disorder diagnosis; gigs, festivals, more gigs, stress, tours, unhealthy lifestyle, alcohol on top of it all … then what? Habit. She was left with the bad habit of negative behavior and ten records to show for it—each song a melodic cry for help to escape a life she was supposed to love; a dream she spent years aiming to reach.

If she had taken it easy in the very beginning would her bridge have remained woven, or would it still have frayed? Is today the day my bridge is beginning to fray? Should I
choose
to stop crossing it, burn the thread, seal the hole? Save myself, my family, before it gets out of control like it did with her? Before I realize it’s not the life I really want, when the fact of the matter is, all I want is to be appreciated, loved, exist on this earth for a reason? Isn’t Tessa a big enough reason to want to exist?
Yes. Yes, she is. But … Alex isn’t.

How do you keep a chemical imbalance like that under control and still do all the things you passionately crave in life? Is it even possible? I don’t want to put my daughter through what my mother put me through because she was too stubborn to take a step back and see the bigger picture.

A couple of hours after I’ve put Tessa to bed, and pampered myself with a bubble bath, candle light, and Enigma, I poke my head through Tessa’s bedroom door. She’s still awake, examining a row of deformed Barbie dolls spread out in a line in front of her.

“Hey, honey, what are you still doing awake?” I ask, wading through some stuffed toys on the floor and picking up odd dress-up items to return them to the basket.

“They were feeling sad because I chopped off all their hair,” Tessa replies in a tone a little more adult than I have heard before.

“Oh, Blossom.” I sit by her side and stroke her hair. “Are they feeling better now?”

“No. They are angry with me. They said that I’m a horrible person.”

I’m stunned and angry and want to punch the living daylights outta these dolls. I envisage snatching them and pulling their heads off.

“Why? Why did they say you’re a horrible person? That’s a terrible thing to say!” I say a little too loudly, engrossed in my own imagination.

“No, Mummy, it’s true. I
am
a horrible person.” Tessa begins to cry, and crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“You are
not
! Don’t believe a word they say.”

Tessa falls face-first into my lap, sobbing and heaving a little louder than I think she would naturally.

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong? Why so sad?”

She sits up, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Mummy? Are you going to die
again
?”

“Of course not! Why do you think I’m going to die? What do you mean again?”

“You died today, and maybe you’ll die again and not wake up!”

“Oh Tessa, I didn’t
die
today! I was just, sort of … well, sleeping.”

“Sleeping? Oh. Were you having a siesta?”

I laugh, “Well, yes, you could call it that.”

“Why?”

“Because I had a very hard day yesterday and didn’t sleep well last night, and my body just couldn’t keep me awake any longer. It needed a rest that I wasn’t giving it on my own.”

“Oh. But why did Papa look so scared?”

“He did?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, he was probably worried because he didn’t understand that I was just sleeping either. You see, my body didn’t give me the chance to let you know before hand. It happened by surprise.”

“Oh. But he understands now?” Tessa scratches the corner of her mouth where a tear seems to be tickling her.

“Yes, he does. And so do you, right?”

“Yep.” She wriggles her legs beneath the duvet to get comfortable again.

“But, you still haven’t told me why you think you’re a horrible person.”

“I don’t think I’m a horrible person, Mummy! My
Barbies
do!”

“Oh. Right. Why do your
Barbies
think you’re a horrible person then?”

“I
told
you, Mummy! ’Cause I cut off their
hair
!”

“Right. Sorry. Silly me. I must still be sleeping,” I say, laughing a little.

She looks at me as if I’ve lost the capacity to comprehend the clear and simple. She’s probably right. There always seems to be a hidden meaning I feel the need to interpret. But maybe there isn’t. Maybe everything
is
just clear and simple. Maybe I take life too seriously and we are just material for mulch; on earth to merely keep the damn balls spinning.

“Mummy, I think it’s time for you to go to bed,” Tessa says with a stiff nod, attempting to imitate me. “It’s eleven o’clock. At night!”

“Oh, is it? Goodness, we’d both better get some sleep then, hey?” I get up, tuck her in as she clutches onto her Barbie dolls again, and kiss away the remaining tears from her cheeks.

“Sweet dreams, say the jelly beans, it’s time to sleep that means.”

“Nighty-night says the little mite, then switches off the light.” And with that, Tessa turns the light out herself, and says, with pure conviction, from within the darkness as I close the door behind me, “I don’t think we need to sing that anymore, Mummy. Lullaby’s are for babies. And I’m all grown up now.”

Twenty-three

Once I get to London, and Tessa and I are settled in, I’ll pull myself together for this tour. Don’t know what I’ll say to Richard—
oh
…
Richard
—but I’ll find a way for him to approve my leave. And then, once I’ve had my fun (because I could really do with a little leisure in my life) I’ll work on my marriage; I’ll make sure Tessa receives the upbringing she deserves, and most of all, I’ll stop beating myself up over the choices I’ve made.

I have a beautiful daughter who needs me. She needs me to become the woman I am not. Strong. Stable. Able. I’ll teach her to play guitar, piano, to sing, to appreciate art, whether it be music or some other avenue she has an interest in. I’ll teach her to love herself as much as, if not more than, she loves her passion. I’ll teach her to be confident, to never rely on a man to make her feel whole, to respect herself. I’ll teach her that happiness does not come from others, or things, I’ll teach her that it comes from self-worth; and if it is happiness she seeks, I’ll make sure she knows she’s not going to achieve it by
becoming
something
—she’s going to achieve it by allowing a passion
to become her,
void of pressure to tell the world why, or the expectation that she should have something to show for it in the end. I’ll teach her that life
does
have meaning—life means
living
.

At the kitchen table on Friday morning, I sip freshly brewed coffee, Alex-style; reinvented, composed, considerate, and cautious to not ruin the air of calm settling on us all today. Tell me why I want to leave him again? Why is it, as soon as a man does something nice, you wonder whether all the disagreements between you were a result of your irrational temper and lack of patience?

And now I’m craving his attention—a stroke on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead, a smile that says more than words ever will. I want a guarantee he won’t let our relationship die. I want him to tell me the date he’ll arrive in London. I’m positive, that after a few months of separation we’ll be able to wipe the slate clean. Start fresh. In fact, I’m looking forward to it already. Why so happy all of the sudden? Why do I feel like I’m dressed in silk, ready for a ball?
Bipolar? Exaggerated highs, exaggerated lows? Shit. Oh, who cares? I feel great
!

The atmosphere is so positive in the house today that I’m somewhat hesitant to bring London up. But I have to, and I will. Right now. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the past few weeks, it’s to never wait for the right moment to speak up. There
never
is a right moment. Speak up before it’s too late, or spin cycle in self-inflicted shit.

I walk to Alex’s office—stand opposite his desk. With a sigh, I say in the kindest voice possible, “Let me know when you’re ready to talk. Okay?”

He nods, with a melancholy smile, and rubs his hands over his face. A mannerism I’ve long associated with imminent anger. But I realize now, it’s just his way to find a moment behind a closed curtain, to express emotion in private, without being judged. I kick myself for not noticing that before. Perhaps if I had, I wouldn’t have been so afraid. Perhaps I would have found something in common—our way of coping: masking savage woes in the hope problems might disappear on their own.

“Sure,” Alex says, looking me directly in the eyes. “Just finishing something up. Gimme five.”

I nod, sick at my inability to express compassion toward him all this time.

I head back to the kitchen—stare at my empty mug. Should I clean up? Cook a meal? Bake a cake? No. Alex has already tidied everything up.
Now? Now that I’m leaving he decides to support my all men-and-woman-are-equal rant?

I don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve spent so many years having something to do at all times, that I
need
something to do. I just want to be bored and enjoy it. I want to sit in front of the TV and relax, but I can’t. Everything inside me is moving, muscles twitching. I pace the house, feeling a psychological magnetic pull toward the pile of press proofs on my desk. But I don’t want to start them. I don’t want to sit still.

I walk into my study—watch the wind toss the proofs off my desk—scatter them all over the floor. I ignore it—go to Alex’s office, smile, he smiles back. I leave Alex’s office, head into the kitchen,
still no mess
, leave the kitchen, sit on the couch in the living room, turn the TV on and off, get off the couch, stand on the balcony with the dog, throw the ball, leave the balcony, enter the bathroom, splash water on my face, leave the bathroom without even drying it, head down the corridor, see a Tessa fingerprint on the wall, spit on it, wipe it off with the hem of my night shirt.
Oops, Alex saw that.

“What was that?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean? You spat on the wall.”

“So?”

“So? That’s disgusting.”

“So?” I laugh, and Alex mumbles something in Greek and disappears. I follow him—stare at him again with an odd, half-possessed—half boredom induced pout.

“Don’t you have work to do by Monday?” Alex asks, smirking.

“Yeah.”

“So why don’t you do it?”

“Don’t want to sit still.”

“
Don’t
do it then.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, can you find something to do other than stare at me? Almost done. Just need a minute.”

“Okay. I can be patient.”
I think.

The phone rings. I rush to the cordless in desperation for something to do even though Alex is only an arm’s length away from the fixed line. My hands are sweaty, and I drop the receiver onto the black marble tiles in the entrance hall. It smashes to pieces. Batteries fly to one corner and the earpiece to another. I call out, “I’ll get it! I’m coming! Don’t pick it up!” I rush to his office to answer the phone in there. Sit on Alex’s aristocratic black leather seat opposite his desk, and cross my legs like a young schoolgirl, feet hooked under my bum.

“Hello?” I gush, wiggling from side-to-side.

“Hello? Mrs. Hill-Konstantinou?”

“Yes, speaking.” I freeze.

Alex looks up, squints and twitches his head in question.

“It’s Dr Leventis here.”
Am I sick? No. I feel fine. Of course, I’m not sick.

“Oh, hello, Dr Leventis.” My voice waivers. I cough, swallow a prickle of unease.

“I’m just calling to let you know the test result.”

“Am I okay?”

Alex stands with a supportive smile. Crouches in front of me, rests his hands on my knees, when Dr Leventis tells me the result. Relief and shock merge to combine the perfect ingredients of nausea.

“Thank you, Dr. Leventis,” I reply, trying to maintain a little joy in my voice.

The phone beeps when I hang up. My hand drops into my lap with a thud.
It’s not bipolar making me happy. It’s the hormones.