String Bridge (10 page)

Bill, our faithful waiter, seats the three of us by the window looking into the beer garden. I feel at ease here—a place where the waiters don’t judge our parenting abilities if Tessa decides to spit out her food and throw a tantrum. This, on many occasions, has happened if her food isn’t 99% sugar.

Bill walks by with a tray of someone else’s meal—meatballs in rich tomato sauce and red wine. I breathe it in as if standing all alone in a field of tomatoes. The aroma reminds me of the night I introduced Alex to my parents. My mother cooked, a rare occurrence. But when she does, you’d think she’s been a chef all her life. Another item on her long list of skills she boasts about.

James, my father, turned into a schoolboy discussing common favorite 1970s psychedelic rock bands with Alex. It was the first time in years I’d seen him move his hands so much. They are usually squashed between his crossed legs in silent languor masked by a lacking yet compelling smile.

My mother could hardly get a word in all night. Tight-lipped, she watched my father and Alex chatter away as if she didn’t even exist. She slipped in a few comments about the music she’d been working on now and again. But my father’s eyes glazed over as if blocking her voice out entirely when Alex humored her for a few moments before continuing their conversation. Then she glanced over at me, as if I could somehow steer the conversation toward her again. But I didn’t even try. I was silently thrilled. I’d finally found a man that didn’t let her steal the limelight. I was proud to be with him.
When did that fade?

“New mee-alls,” sings Alex in faltering English, looking at the menu and moving his eyebrows up and down as if a mystery were unfolding. “You see anything interesting?”

I smile as if rehearsing a scene for a movie—a frame of mind I often adopt in situations where I need to be sociable, happy, on good behavior—when life needs to be a 2D picture; a view of what only rises to the surface of the polluted pond.

Tessa looks up at me as if preparing to laugh, to join in on the joke, without really understanding why.

“Should I order the ‘Lamp In Lemon Sauce’?” I reply in an aristocratic British accent, as if reading from a script.

“Yeah, that’ll be
loight
,” replies Alex in his best attempt at my Australian twang.

I exhale a one-way scoff as Alex shakes up and down with forced silent laughter. He must have prepared the response when he saw it on the menu. He tickles Tessa’s neck and she brings her shoulder to her ear as she chuckles.

I appreciate him trying to smooth out the tension, and I know that he had a fun afternoon taking care of Tessa, while I sat in the bathtub surrounded by scented candles, listening to Joni Mitchell.

Does he really think it’s that easy? Does he really think clowning around is going to make everything alright?

“What about the ‘Beef with Wine and Beetroot Compost’,” Alex asks. His mischievous stare burns through my forehead like sun rays shining through a magnifying glass.

“Er … not the ‘Rubbit With Onions’?” I ask, not at all amused by the mistake. How can I be? I edit when I eat, sleep, clean, drive, anywhere my eyes pass by text of any kind. I can’t even read the ingredients on a juice box without finding mistakes. I see mistakes on street signs, on junk mail, even on TV commercials. I’m over it. They’re not funny anymore. All it does is remind me of how disorganized and incompetent the majority of the Greek corporate population is. For instance, if you want to hire an architect to design your dream home, don’t expect the house to remain upright through it’s first heavy storm unless
you’ve
learned how to do the architect’s job and guided him through the process yourself.

Alex breathes inward through his teeth as if a football has hit him in the groin and his face twists like someone stuck a straw too far up his nostril. I raise my eyebrows, thinking I might laugh, but no … the sensation doesn’t move beyond the slight clench in my throat.

“Find any other good ones?”

“Nope,” I pop. “Only a crappy grammatical error.”

Alex grins from behind his menu like a bald middle-aged pixie. All I can see are his puffy cheeks and how much deeper the wrinkles around his eyes look. Tessa gazes at him in awe—her eyes glowing like marbles in sunbeams. Alex is her king. And he knows it. I sometimes wonder whether he uses it to his advantage.

“Mummy, what’s crappy grammatical err-ah mean?” Tessa kicks the leg of the table in two/two rhythm, making the cutlery rattle and wet rings form around the bases of our glasses.

“Tessa,
please
sit still. We’re in public. We need to behave a little better than we do at home, okay?” I say, rubbing and squeezing her knee.

The old lady, in black widow’s attire, sitting at the table next to us offers a kind, shaky smile.

“Why?” Tessa asks as if this is the first time she’s heard me say such a thing. The kicking comes to a halt as she crosses her arms so high on her chest they are almost touching her chin.

I roll my eyes, unfold my napkin, lay it on my lap, and straighten the crooked cutlery around my plate with flared nostrils and a huff. I feel like I’m miming a whinnying horse.

“We’ve spoken about this before, remember?” I say.

The old lady opens her napkin and lays it in her lap too. She winks at Tessa and gestures for her to do the same thing. Tessa smiles and copies her.

“Anyway, grammatical error just means mistake,” I add, “with words.”

“And crappy?” Tessa asks still staring at the old lady who has now diverted her attention toward the other people at her table.

“Um, it means bad.” I take Tessa’s chin and turn her head to face me. “But, please don’t use it. It’s a bad word.”

“It’s a
crappy
word.” An audacious grin emerges from ear to ear as Tessa slaps her hands on her knees, just like Alex often does.

“Yes, but
please
don’t use it. It’s not nice.
I
shouldn’t have used it.” I hold out my hand. “Come on, give me a little smack and say, ‘naughty Mummy.’ ”

Before tapping me lightly on my fingers, she looks to Alex for what seems to be approval. He nods, she giggles. My stomach sinks. I look into my lap—my face burns from the pressure of …
jealously? You’re winning her away from me.

Bill approaches our table to take our order.

“Sorry, Bill, could you giv’us another coupla minutes?”

“Of course, Mrs. Me-low-dy,” replies Bill with a courteous torso nod and a step backward.

We asked him to call us by our first names when we started to regularly dine here, but I guess he thinks it’s disrespectful, and so compromised.

As Bill turns to leave, Alex interjects, “
Den chriazete,
” nodding upward and raising his eyebrows toward the ceiling—a typical, abrupt and insipid Greek gesture for no. “
Ferte mas ta synithizmena.
”

Bill glances at me in question. I snap my menu closed and nod in defeated affirmation.

“What’s the problem?” I whisper when Bill leaves. “I don’t feel like eating the
usual
stuff we order. I wanted something from the specials board.”

A melee of Alex’s past offenses flood my mind. I’m on the brink of reeling them off like verbal inventory, but then realize I’m overreacting. Again.

“Sorry! I didn’t realize. You didn’t seem bothered. Just thought I’d save Bill the trouble. I’ll go change the order. What did you want?”

I don’t know. I don’t particularly like what’s on the specials board now that I think about it.
“Don’t worry,” I sigh, flicking my hand in front of me. “Next time.”

“You sure?” Alex asks.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”

I reach for my glass of water, but Alex takes my hand mid-air. It’s warm, gentle, reverent. He lowers our joined hands to the table and holds my stare. An ambivalent sadness imbues his gaze. Melancholy, nostalgia—disappointment? Everything.
Hope
.

“We’ll make this work,” Alex whispers, certifying the compromise with a blink. The corner of his mouth twitches as if he were about to smile, but changed his mind.

“I need to go pee-pee,” Tessa says, pushing her skirt between her legs.

“I’ll take her.” Alex lets go of my hand and jumps out of his seat.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll go.”

“Don’t be stupid. Sit. Relax.” Alex is already out of his seat and helping Tessa out of hers. As they walk to the washroom hand in hand, Tessa jumps up and down, tugging and bouncing his arm around like a skipping rope.

As they disappear from view, I begin to map out my speech in my head. Tonight we’ll talk.
I’ll
talk. Tonight I will say what I should have said a
long
long time ago.

Nine

“Sweet dreams say the jelly beans, it’s time to sleep, that means,” sings Tessa wriggling her feet beneath her duvet.

“Nighty-night says the little mite, then switches off the light.” I tuck Tessa in, hooking her new doll under her arm. The purple nightlight illuminates the left side of her face as if impregnating her with knowledge. A lorry rumbles below. Binweed, the homeless fairy Tessa claims to have found refuge inside her bed frame, was sure to feel the vibrations.

“Lights off at freckle o’clock, okay?” I tap my wrist. Tessa nods and kisses her doll on its head as I walk out of her room. I leave the door open a crack.

Alex suggests we retire early to watch a movie in bed. Another thing we haven’t done in a while, which I love to do. He’s making an effort. So why are you wishing he wasn’t?
So you can stay angry with him for neglecting you and break free from this dire world of domesticity? Maybe you should just let him be nice? You might actually remember why you fell in love with him in the first place.

In bed, Alex lies flat on his back and presses play on the remote control. Deep bass and fast-paced electronic intro music fills the room like a mortal roaring gust of wind.
Great. Action Adventure. Ugh.
I cuddle up to Alex on my side, and nuzzle my head into his neck.
Why do you keep using Tessa’s shampoo? You have no hair.
I lift my head to kiss his cheek out of habit. The gray shade of stubble contrasts against his pale, olive-tinged skin—the result of spending half his life in dark, soundproofed, underground rock venues, and the other half in front of his laptop.

Through a medium-thick coat of curly graying chest hair, I focus on a film of dust settling on our jet black cotton sheets. In an instant, I imagine creepy-crawlies making a snug home under my skin and shudder at the thought. I
hate
black sheets. You can see
everything
. When I get into bed I feel like I’m wrapping myself up in a used vacuum cleaner bag. But they were the only clean set this week, so they had to do.

“Can I turn the light off?” I ask.
If I can’t see the dust, maybe I can relax and pretend it’s not there.

Alex nods, switches off the orange-tinted light by the bed, kisses my head, and increases the TV volume.

I listen to the opening dialogue as if it were background noise. I press my eyes together. Tight. Trying to picture myself on stage. Willing myself to speak up. Now. Before the movie starts properly. Psychedelic colors form beneath my eyelids—a cocktail of animals and Jesus. I smile—an involuntary reaction. My face flushes with brief contentment lying in Alex’s arms, breathing out and in to the rhythm of the soundtrack.
I love you. I hate you. I love to hate you. I hate to love you. I’m scared.

“You sleeping?” Alex murmurs.

I open my eyes. My lashes brush against his jaw. “Nope. Just relaxing.”

“What about the film?”

“You know I don’t like action stuff.”

“Why are we watching it then?”

“Because you wanted to watch it.”

“Why didn’t you say you didn’t want to watch it?”

“Didn’t bother me. I just like lying here.”

Alex sniffs outward and rubs my back.
It’s now or never, Melody. Do it while you’ve got the nerve.
I slide the remote control from Alex’s grasp and press Pause.

“What’s up?”

“Before we get sucked into this movie, we should really have this talk.”

“Now?” he whines. “But I made it clear we’d work it out. Let’s talk about details tomorrow. Can’t we just enjoy this quiet time together?” We both sit up. Alex strokes my cheek and leans in for a kiss. I put my hand on his chest. His chest hair spreads between my fingers; his heart beat warms my nerves.

“You’d
said
we’d talk later.
Now
is
later
.”

Alex grunts, pushes his back against the headboard and runs his hands over his face as if brushing off a cobweb. He takes a deep breath through pouted lips and gritted teeth. Perhaps he’s trying to control his aversion to the words I’ve practiced in my head. I wait for him to stop making noises before continuing to speak. My heart beats like a cog train increasing in speed.

“First, I’m sorry for not telling you about the promotion earlier, but—”

“We’ll discuss
that
at the appropriate time. When you know for sure what’s going on. Don’t worry.”

“May I finish?”

“Yeah,” Alex huffs, puffing the duvet up around his legs.

“It’s just that
some
times I’m …” I close my eyes in quiet meditation, willing my pulse to slow down.

“You’re
what
, Melody?”

“I’m …
scared
of you sometimes.” False calm squeezes me like a boa constrictor. I hold my breath.

Alex turns the main light on using the switch behind his head on the wall. He scoffs.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

I exhale. “No.” I bite a dry piece of skin off my lip and spit it out between two fingers. I wipe my hand on the sheet by my thigh. “And sometimes I’m afraid to say things because I’m scared that you’ll yell. And your yelling is irrational and … terrifying.”

Alex stares—blank-faced. I scratch a non-existent itch under my arm. “You yell before you even know what you’re yelling about. And you know I
hate
it when you get aggressive. You remind me of my—”