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  STRING BRIDGE

  by Jessica Bell

  STRING BRIDGE

  Copyright © Jessica Bell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  E-book published by Vine Leaves Press 2012

  Edmonton, AB, Canada

  [email protected]

  Trade paperback edition first published in 2011 by Lucky Press, LLC, Athens, Ohio, USA

  Cover design © 2012 Jessica Bell

  Cover image from Shutterstock © iko

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  ALSO BY JESSICA BELL

  Novels

  The Book

  Poetry

  Fabric

  Twisted Velvet Chains

  Non-Fiction

  Show & Tell in a Nutshell:

  Demonstrated Transitions from Telling to Showing

  For Spilios

  PART ONE

  If You Were Me

  At times I wish I’d speak my mind

  My thoughts are vile and you are blind

  But what if I could house these thoughts

  With wood and glue a hut of sorts

  Chorus:

  I’d lock them in

  You wouldn’t see

  The things you’d say

  If you were me

  If you were me

  If you were me

  You’d never feel the sting of shame

  Corrupted hope a need to blame

  So let me hide away from light

  Away from grace and out of sight

  Chorus

  I am not worth the effort, dear

  Just solitude; no hate, no fear

  This plastic smile is all I can give

  Until the beat puts my heart back in

  Chorus:

  Don’t lock me in

  I need to feel

  I need to sing again

  Let me be me

  Let me be me

  Let me be me

  Preface

  If music were wind, I would live in a hurricane. If it were a mother, I would sleep in her soothing womb. If I were music, I would simply be me, shrouding my existence in a monsoon. But I am not music, even though my name, Melody, suggests I could be. The closest I get to “being” music, is playing it, living it, embracing it as if it were the organ most vital to survival. I might say it was my heart. But no … I can’t give it a name, because it’s more like a sixth sense.

  Music is the shadow of thought.

  A muse for grief.

  An unending moan.

  A manic pandemonium that roams through rhyme and mimics my soul through mime. It masquerades selfish woes, masks my hollow lifestyle like warm, humming cellos. It’s a blend of folly and secretive gen, acoustic vignettes—motionless, yet moving.

  Music is not meek; it’s neurotic, like me. An eternal vessel for pain that must be voiced and heard, but can’t reach its desired destination because it is trapped in the skin of a four-minute tune. Because of this time limit, I reject the constant sorrow I feel for abandoning my guitar in a corner of my bedroom. If only a song could last my lifetime, then I wouldn’t have to listen to that slice of silence, of domesticity, that makes me forget how much music means to me.

  Now I’m a career woman—a mother, a wife, a “happy” homemaker—who lives a socially acceptable existence. Like a metronome. Tick. Tick. Tick. No dynamics, just monotonous responsibility. But between the octaves I play over and over in my mind every day, and the struggle to push my need to play guitar out of mind and get on with the life I chose to pursue, is the scent of reviving this need for music in my life; of understanding where this true love for music stems from and embracing the path I desire to follow. It’s time to dust off my lonely guitar and press my fingertips into its strings so hard that they mould around them. It’s time to live as if I were music, and if music were wind. It’s time to live in a hurricane.

  One

  I gaze at myself in the full-length mirror that doesn’t fit my head in. I suppose it’s better that way, though, because I’m unable to see the ugly faces I make in reaction to my morning splendor. I focus on the haze of dust brought to life behind me in a beam of sunlight—my body becoming a blurry foreground image. Dust. One of the endless woes of living in Athens, Greece, and the root of my guitar’s death.

  “Alex?” I call for my husband, still gazing at myself, inspecting the wrinkles between my breasts that take forever to disappear now that age has left its mark on me. The hissing sound of gas seeps through the gap below the bedroom door. It means he’s making his morning Greek coffee—a ritual that has become as important to him as being a good parent to our four-year-old daughter, Tessa.

  “What, Mel?”

  Alex’s watered-down Greek accent is stifled by the filthy rugs we have yet to remove from the corridor for the approaching summer. His voice is smooth, deep, and gentle. Unlike mine, which will forever be polluted with a brutal Australian twang. Alex’s voice was the first thing I was drawn to when we met five years ago at my debut solo performance in this city. It was just me, my voice and my guitar, battling the fear of laying my soul out for scrutiny, below the hot stage lights and in front of the quiet, unresponsive Greek crowd.

  “Can you come and help me do up all these buttons on my dress?” I call, looking up at the ceiling, the crumbling paint, and the damp stains, wondering if I should bother trying to get it repaired or whether the old lady upstairs will forget she left the bath tap running again.

  “I can’t, I’m making coffee. I’ll fuck it if I leave. You come in here.”

  There’s that dreaded ‘f’ word again. Something that took me a long while to disregard. Alex, new to the English version, now uses it for every possible part of speech as if a nerd with a new gadget. I soon realized that swearing in a foreign language is like playing a game. The impact of the word is no greater than saying flower, or something to that effect. But when he swears in Greek, I hold my breath, waiting for the swing of his fist to finally cease toying with the idea of hitting me. Alex has never hit me. But I know he wants to sometimes. And I’m afraid that one day he will. I can see it in his face when it goes blank and pale. It means he’s holding back rage. I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape this kind of rage. Will I ever?

  I hobble down the corridor feeling the scratchy carpet fibers stick through my stocking. For some reason I forgot to put on my other shoe in my eagerness for Alex to help do up my dress. I’m in a hurry. Don’t know why; I have plenty of time. Perhaps it’s become a habit since my transition from musician to career-oriented, manic mother.

  “Oh. Nice. You don’t normally dress like this for work. What’s going on?”

  His soft fingers brush against my breast as he slowly buttons my dress with a smirk on his face. Is he silently mocking my enthusiasm to dress up? He hasn’t even heard the reason why. The routine is, I wear the same black tailored pants (I own five pairs), and a drab gender-neutral mono-colored shirt. But today is the start of a new beginning. One I should be proud of, unafraid to tell Alex about. But I am afraid. And in all honesty, I’m more anxious about succeeding than of my husband getting upset when he finds I’ve kept a secret for the past year. Hence the outfit. If I succeed today, will music remain a thing of the past?

  I breathe in the sandalwood scent of Alex’s shirt collar and absentmindedly watch his coffee as it overflows and smothers the flame.

  “Oh shit!” Alex reaches for the paper towel and tears off more than is necessary. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Sorry. I
didn’t realize till it was too late,” I reply, not moving a single muscle to help him clean up the mess.

  “You were staring right at it.”

  “Was I?” I ask, through gritted teeth.

  Alex frowns, huffs, leans his weight on one foot and shakes his head. I look at the floor, wide-eyed, and bite my thumbnail. Why can’t he simply clean up the mess and not make an issue out of every little thing that goes on in this household? It’s coffee. Not a burst sewage pipe. Besides, it was his responsibility. He should have been watching it. I’m so tired of being the brunt of domestic mishaps no matter how large or small. Since when should a woman be responsible for her husband’s incompetence?

  My instinct is to argue, to tell my husband to stop blaming me for everything. Even though I’m not certain he is blaming me for anything at all. I feel rage too. All the time. The difference between my rage and Alex’s rage is that I don’t act on it. I bottle it up because it’s not worth getting angry over ridiculous things like overflowing coffee. So, I take a deep breath. I remain calm. I keep the peace, just like I learned to do when I was a child.

  “I must still be sleeping,” I continue, physically shaking off the unwanted wrath exploding within. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll make you another one. What time is it?” I take the coffee-covered paper towel from his hand and throw it in the bin. His hand rests on my lower back. He leans against the kitchen bench looking me up and down as if it’s the first time he’s seen me. He’s putting on an act now—trying to be the good guy.

  “Seven thirty. Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asks, pulling me toward him.

  He kisses my top lip with his mouth slightly open. I feel nothing. I don’t even know if I love him anymore. I nuzzle my head into his neck, trying to convince myself that I do, that I haven’t given up the last five years of my life for nothing, that I stopped playing gigs because Alex means more to me than music ever will. But I’ve carried around a larger resentment since giving birth to Tessa. Alex organizes music events for a living, so why did he insist I stop playing? And why did I accept that wish? Why didn’t I fight for my dreams? I never wanted to become a Greek housewife. And I married Alex because I thought he was different, and I would never have to. Clearly he isn’t the man I thought he was.

  If Alex were wind, would I like to live in a hurricane? No, I would not. If Alex were wind, I’d be forever trying to escape his debris.

  “I need you to edit an email before you leave,” he says as I pull away from him and begin fixing him another coffee. Has he totally forgotten about discovering why I’m wearing this dress? He’s always been a bit self-centered, but I thought that would gradually disappear after the birth of our daughter, Tessa. I was wrong. Men never change. They cling to habit like sap to a tree trunk.

  “Your English is fine,” I say, giving him a reassuring sideways glance as I put water into the biriki to make more coffee.

  “Doesn’t feel like it. Keep making the same mistakes. What was it you said? Prepositions?”

  “Seriously, Alex. It’s no big deal,” I insist, burying a twinge of irritation with a fake smile.

  “It must be the emails. British agents.”

  “Yeah. Must.” A little voice in my head keeps prodding me to ask for a gig. Before I had Tessa, he used to offer me a thirty-minute slot on the stage to play whatever I wanted. Our daughter is growing up now. She doesn’t need nursing twenty-four hours a day. And we can hire a babysitter if Alex wants to come and watch. I can juggle a full-time job and play music too. I can.

  I touch Alex on his shoulder while he pours himself a bowl of Special K. I want to ask him to get me a gig so much that my neck constricts as if I’ve eaten a lemon. But I get distracted by flakes falling on the floor. He doesn’t bother to pick them up, and hides them with his bare foot. They crunch. Like dry autumn leaves on a lawn. He looks at me as if he got away with something. The urge to call him out on it plagues my tongue like moss. Don’t worry about it. Leave it alone.

  “I love you, vlaka,” I squeeze the back of his neck even though I know he hates it. Vlaka means ‘stupid little person,’ but this time, as I say it, I think, What the hell happened to us? Alex turns and kisses me gently on the forehead after rolling his eyes at my neck squeeze and sniffs my skin like one would a glass of vintage red wine. He’s trying to be tender. Perhaps he’s trying to save our marriage. Does he feel like I do? Is he scared to admit that it’s really over?

  “Where’s Tessa?” I ask.

  “In her room, I think.”

  “Before you go to your desk, can you get her dressed for preschool while I make your coffee?”

  “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 mig
ht 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—”