String Bridge Read online

  I close my eyes and the image fades and molds together like I had been staring at the sun. I’m just drifting off to sleep when I feel the other end of the couch move. I open my eyes. It’s Alex. I watch him as he takes my feet and rubs them.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I don’t move. But I do smile at him despite feeling too sad to do so.

  “Mel,” Alex says, lying down next to me and kissing my neck. “Let’s get Tessa dressed.”

  “Pardon?” I ask, sitting up. Not quite sure if I heard right. “She just went to bed.”

  “Well, get her out of bed. We have tickets for Patti Smith.”

  Five

  Patti begins a Jimi Hendrix cover on clarinet. It murmurs a tragic mellow vibrato through Lykabettus Theatre like a wilting willow pleading to be left in solitude to wither and fade. Chatter hushes like ebbing rain as the guitarist’s jazz scales move the clarinet’s tune through waves. Rhythm guitar suspends the melody and the crowd roars. Patti puts the clarinet down, approaches the microphone and sings in her deep, gruff, aching voice,

  If you can just

  get your

  mind together …

  The slow four/four beat of the guitar and Patti’s voice thumps through the ground, through my legs, body, arms, tightening my throat. Synchronic drums, bass and distorted guitar unite with the rhythm on the beat, creating an eruption of sundry emotion within me that startles the cold tears falling down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my smooth silk, silver shawl; I smile self-consciously at Alex. He’s balancing Tessa on his shoulders so she can see above the crowd of bobbing heads. He winks and wipes a stray tear dangling from my jaw. I quiver from his touch, in shock at the tenderness, the warmth I feel through such a small gesture. Has he realized what I’m craving? Does he understand?

  “You okay?” Alex screams into my ear gripping onto Tessa’s legs as he leans over. We are standing right next to a speaker twice the size as us, so I just smile, shake my head, and indicate that I have some dust in my eye by pretending to get it out. I give him a peck on the cheek, face the stage again and nod my head to the beat reverberating through the floor.

  I didn’t want Alex to see the tears. He says I cry too much. He also believes I use my tears to get what I want. But it’s not so. He overheard my mother one day, whispering in my ear when she thought Alex wasn’t listening: “There’s nothing wrong with a few tears to give a little push in the right direction.” The fact that Alex believes I’m capable of such a thing, alone, makes me want to cry. But if I was ever put on stage, or in front of a camera, and instructed to cry, it’d be like asking me to grow a penis. I can’t stop my feelings but I can’t fabricate them either.

  Alex, on the other hand, doesn’t cry. I’ve never seen him cry. I’m sure there’s some psychological explanation for it, other than being an orphan and having to stay strong through the countless foster parents he’s lived with in his lifetime, like our (long gone) marriage counselor proclaimed. Somewhere below his skin is Lake Eyre—only once every thirty-odd years does that dry salt lake in central Australia flood.

  There may not be tears to show my husband’s emotions, but I’ve seen how the melancholy turns his insuperable face pale with grief every time we talk about his deceased ex-wife, Angelica; a stunning, tall, olive-skinned Latina. My looks don’t compare to hers one bit. I sometimes wonder whether Alex still loves her. After all, her loss was not his choice.

  Patti’s long gray hair hangs loose and scraggly over her eyes. She emanates an aura so potent that you have to look twice to realize she’s dressed in an unflattering flannel shirt and jeans. I want to be her, drenched in visible inner-beauty.

  As I look up at the stage I wonder if I ever knew her in a previous life. The atmosphere in this theatre and Patti’s presence feel so familiar and accessible to me I could catch it in a jar, put it on my mantle like ashes in an urn, and take sips from it every now and then as if it were an elixir for life.

  I gulp down the last of Alex’s whiskey from his white plastic cup, crush it in my hand and squash it into his back jean pocket. I close my eyes; soaking up the melodious warmth travelling through my chest as one particular lyric Patti sings catches my attention. I open my eyes, watch her gifted thick lips move against her gaunt face; her jagged raw beauty weeping with roaring passion. She sings something about there being a wind over our land and that we live not to die but to be reborn. And right at this moment, relief flushes through me like holy water cleansing me of sin. Maybe not all is lost if I don’t pursue my dream? Perhaps I’ll have the chance to do so in my next life? Should I be patient, appreciate what I already have—take advantage of the good that already exists in my life?

  If only I could remember this relief in the midst of a bout of my daily “what ifs.” I signal to Alex to pass Tessa onto my shoulders for a while so that we can share a bit of dancing frenzy. I have a sudden urge to really just have some fun and to share it with my daughter. It would be better if she were a little older, but I suppose by the time she’s old enough to appreciate having a bit of fun at a rock concert, she wouldn’t want to be appreciating it with me—so I take the chance now.

  But it doesn’t last long enough. Tessa forgets whose shoulders she is on and swings her limbs around like a rag doll in a washing machine. I wince in silence as she accidentally whacks me in the face with her orange patent leather shoe. I tried really hard to get her to wear the black pair, but she’d insisted. I pass her back to Alex and we exchange head shakes. His meaning, “What’s wrong?” Mine, meaning “Can’t do it.”

  When we return home from the concert, Tessa is asleep, hanging over Alex’s shoulder, her arms dangling down his back like thick rope. Our elevator is still out of order. We climb the eight flights of marble stairs listening to our breath and footsteps echo through the building. Exhausted, Alex puts Tessa to bed, and we both collapse on the couch in front of the TV. Alex has an absent smile on his face—one of those smiles we aren’t often aware of, but that bloom like flowers triggered by sudden sunshine.

  “Must have been nice going to a gig where you didn’t have to run around networking,” I say. Alex twitches his head in my direction as if I have disrupted his sleep.

  “Sorry?” he asks, eyebrows raised, resting his elbow on the left arm rest, and chin on his hand. “Oh, yeah. It was cool.”

  A few moments of silence pass as I watch the blue TV light flash on his still smiling face. I wonder what he’s thinking. I could ask. But I just sit there, a little drunk, staring at the wrinkles around his mouth; wondering if I’m capable of feeling anything other than this repellent emptiness; wondering whether the emptiness is normal, if I should see a therapist, if I should tell Alex that he has crow’s feet and I don’t, and that his stubble is flecked with gray; whether I should ask if he has got everything out of life he desired.

  “Did you have a good time, babe?” Alex asks, seeming to realize I was trying to start a conversation. How long has it been now? Since we had a decent conversation? I can’t remember. I can’t remember.

  “Um … yeah!” I chirp, false enthusiasm squirting from my mouth like poison. I don’t know how to describe the time I had. Was it a good time? Moments of it were torture—a reminder of what I don’t have. Other moments were sanctified with sheer joy—a reminder of how much music resuscitates my failing pulse. But most of it felt like trying to cross the ocean on a bridge made of fraying string—Will I? Won’t I? Can I? Should I?

  Alex rubs his eyes and mumbles, “Bed?” Looking at me with blind eyes, he slaps his hands on his knees in cue to stand.

  “Er, not sure if I’m ready yet. I think I’ll read a bit. Go if you want. Won’t be long. I just need to get the buzz out of my head before I sleep.”

  Alex smiles with horizontal tight lips. “Okay. Try not to wake me. I’m fucking tired.” Try not to wake you? I presumed he sympathized with me during the concert after the compassion he showed. I guess I presumed wrong. What was that? That moment when he wiped awa
y my tear and I felt a hint of care?

  Once Alex goes to bed, I close the corridor door so as not to wake him with my rattle. I shuffle into my office to grab a book to read, but switch on my computer instead. Perhaps I’ll send a couple of emails back home to Australia. Tell my family my news—whatever that is. But to my surprise and relief my best and lifelong friend, Serena, is online.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Heya! You busy?

  Serena_Servais

  G’day stranger! What u doin up?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Went to see Patti Smith!

  Serena_Servais

  Really? Fab!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Yeah was pretty fab! You at work?

  Serena_Servais

  Nope. Day off. Sittin with my mini laptop in the morning sun drinkin latte, eatin eggs Benedict in Fitzroy. On my own. Lovin it. All peaches and cream, lovey! How’s you?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I’m ok. Feelin bit low.

  Serena_Servais

  ???

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  You know me

  been to gig

  now feelin miserable

  story of my life

  Serena_Servais

  Sorry, egg yoke just went down my chin. On dress. Egg foam on latte. Reckon I could patent new egg latte? … C’mon Mel! Just speak to him. Alex wonderful man. Alex angel. Alex luv u, u luv Alex. What’s problem? We both know he’ll give u gig if u ask! Alex do anything u ask!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I just feel so alone …

  Serena_Servais

  You’re not alone Mel. You have beaut family. You have me too!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  But that’s problem. He’s really all I have. Not that I don’t appreciate having him, but it’s hard sometimes. I can’t talk to him about some things like I need to. Greek men have weird ways. Can’t talk without fear of maybe having fight if blurt out thoughts wrong. He always misunderstands my intentions. You live on other side of world. My parents live on island with weird ferry timetable. I miss you. I miss Australia. Can I join you for Eggs Benedict? Order me latte, full fat! I’ll jump on plane now! ☺

  Serena_Servais

  LOL

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I wish.

  Serena_Servais

  Don’t forget Tessa!

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Are you kidding? COURSE NOT! Tessa sometimes only savior. Can escape in her world. But not same. Nope. Can’t tell her I feel sad. I’ll just make her cry and psychologically damage her like my mum did me.

  Serena_Servais

  LOL You’ll be alright when u wake up in morning. U always are.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  Yeah. Know. But can’t live like this. Need not to have these feelings. Need not to go through neediness. I wonder if my mum ever felt like this?

  Serena_Servais

  Like what?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  A yearning to play music.

  Serena_Servais

  Doubt it. She played gigs whenever she liked, didn’t she? Why would she yearn?

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I dunno. Depression?

  Serena_Servais

  She was sick, Mel. You’re not sick.

  MelodyHill(Billy?)

  I’m not? LOL

  Serena_Servais

  No! Hon, let’s chat again tomorrow. I’m sorry, have to go. Please! You’ll be ok! Just think of Tessa. U told me yourself she’s only 1 who makes u smile when depressed. Luv u. xoxox

  I turn off my computer, singing Joni Mitchell’s River underneath my self-hating invisible sobs. Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on … I reach below my desk and pick up one of Tessa’s teddy bears that she’s left behind. It smells like her—Athens grime and Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. Its fur is hard and stiff in places where Tessa has drooled on it in her sleep. I rub my cheek against its belly, remembering the first day Tessa and Teddy lay in the same cot together. That was the day Alex asked me to give up playing gigs. I was so high on being a mother that I didn’t even care. I didn’t even question it, fight it, or even try to understand it. Did he take me to see Patti Smith to avoid continuing our discussion? Could he possibly be so cunning?

  I tiptoe into Tessa’s room, to look at her, to try and remember the feeling that washed all my dreams away without a care in the world. Maybe I can find it again. To convince myself that motherhood is music. It used to be. When did that feeling cease? And why do I feel so guilty about it?

  Tessa is curled up at the bottom of her bed—duvet and pillows and dolls and teddies all fallen onto the floor. I pick up the duvet and cover her petite body, being careful not to wake her. But all I want to do is take her in my arms, and sing her a lullaby. All night. I want to sing to her for so long that she will wake up the next day, and understand, deep down in her heart why I need more, because she’ll have realized that she needs it too.

  It doesn’t seem so long ago that I gave birth to Tessa. I can still feel my legs in those stirrups—the sweaty doctor sucking the entire universe through my spasming black hole. Muscles being pulled from my spine, my thighs to my pelvis. What began as an insignificant seed, violently pushed itself like a fist through tearing fabric. The only thought preventing me from slipping into oblivion was that, for this miracle of life, there was light, not darkness, to launch her into this rutted world. Because in those days I was never two shades of gray. In those days I thought I would be a brilliant mother. Full of light. And happiness. Now I worry I’m going to neglect her like my mother neglected me.

  I wake up a few hours later in a sweat.

  I dreamed I was on my childhood front lawn in a cabaret dress with the snotty-nosed girl, Marlene, from across the road pointing her finger at me, looking very cross. Her nose was running as she sniffed, “My mum says that Winterberry Holly won’t bloom in an Australian climate … My mum says that your dad doesn’t know how to prune the rose bushes properly … My mum says that you have a bogan accent … My mum says your freckles look like someone threw dirt in your face and the wind suddenly changed.” Then her voice grew deeper, and she turned into my mother. “I’m very disappointed in you, Melody. No more gigs for two months.”

  I lie back down. On my back. I monitor the adjusting darkness in the room and wish my days weren’t full of so much nothingness. Days that resemble an ice cube in a glass of hot water. Days I psychologically slip in and out of in seconds because nothing of importance happens. I exist. I eat. I work. I sleep. And then I don’t.

  Do people realize the damage routine does to our psyche? Routine is a monotonous exhaustion; an annihilation of the desire to differ. It humiliates the soul, kills passion. It’s a disease. I like to call it Routinitus. I’ve forgotten how to fight it, too. So lately I’ve been focusing my attention elsewhere. On mornings and nights. The times of day I can make it through without yearning pulling my mind every which way.

  During the few short moments I lie in bed before I open my eyes at dawn, I soak up the silence—its precious freedom. I’m the only one who subsists in this cocoon of linen, soft on my body, from toe to chin, defending the intricacies of the flesh and spirit within; in a field of cotton, protected from the sun, the sea, the wind. There’s no time to think, just to feel—near nothingness imprints peace onto my skin. Those few short moments of pleasant loneliness save me from sin. They save me from voicing my selfish woes, when I have everything anyone could need. They are my security blanket.

  During the few short moments I lie in bed before I sleep at night, I like to introduce myself to the dreams that await me; to dreams I never recall when I awake; to dreams that take me so far from reality that clicking heals together will never return me home. I push my weightless body so distant into obscurity that I’m afraid to question where I am. But the fear isn’t fear I experience on earth. It is a silent, hidden fear, which summons self-belief. For creed is credible in dreams. And we don’t need
to make choices. They’re already made. Sanctity prays for me instead of me for it.

  But no matter how hard I try to hold onto these pleasant moments throughout the day, time races by, in slow motion. A truth I cannot outrun. I am tricked by moments. I once told my mother, “Live the moment.” Advice offered to salvage her venture toward happiness. But then she retold it to me, as if wise in her old age, forgetting that it was me she’d heard it from. Forgetting it was I she once claimed gave her all the happiness she needed.

  If time could stand still, if the moments are truly all that matter, then why can’t we stop the clock when our children are born, when happiness is sewn into our seams? I can’t live life just appreciating moments. I can’t let time pass me by without anything to show for it. I don’t want to reach that point in life when dreams become small and meaningless and unattainable, when small needs become embellished, and ardent passions no longer inspire a fleeting thought. I don’t want to live my life and then realize I have nothing and can never attempt to get what I want again.

  Alex starts to snore like a lawnmower’s engine. I need to pull us out of this rut. Alex and I need to figure out what is going on between us—or finish it, so we can move on with our lives. We cannot keep going like this. But how do you heal something that isn’t open to being healed? And how do you find the strength to keep trying to change something when your changes keep getting thrown back in your face?

  Why can’t relationships be like a job? Work is work. Work is simple. When you have to get something done at work, you schedule a deadline and then you meet it. Object achieved. No ums and ahs, wondering how, when, why. You just do it.