String Bridge (16 page)

“YUK!” Tessa screams, and runs down the corridor yodeling like a turkey.

Beep beep. Beep beep.

I get up off Alex’s lap as he reaches for his cell. He opens the message and almost instantly presses delete.

“Who was that?” I snap, with my arm already in one sleeve of my light blue denim jacket, ready to pounce, to reveal all, find an excuse to get meticulously inebriated.

“Oh. No-one. Just my father.”

“Is he okay?”

“Hmm-hm.”

“Why’d you delete it?”

Alex looks me right in the eye, not a flinch, not an ounce of hesitation.

“Trying to keep my inbox clean. That’s all.”

The lights in this underground club are kaleidoscopic enough to bring on an epileptic fit, and the music is so loud that Heather and I have had to revert to lip reading. My face sets in concrete; my body stuck, numb against the prickly walls of a theme park Graviton. I lean against the bar, trying to avoid eye-contact with the sleaze in the unbuttoned luminous shirt.

“Loosen up, Mel. Just pretend you’re eighteen again. You look hot!” Heather screams, looking me up and down, a treble shrill sharpening her voice.

“And how do you suggest I do that?” I scream back into her ear.

Heather reaches for a glass of something that looks like toxic waste and hands it to me. “Here. Slam this down.”

“Jeez. How? What is that?”

“Can’t remember what it’s called. Just made a fool of myself asking for it. Typical—the
gorg
bartender had to take my order, didn’t he?” she screams into my neck.

“What did you ask for?” I question with a flick of my hand.

Heather leans in. I can hear the indulgent squint in her eyes through her hot, moist, rebellious breath. “I said, ‘You know that beer drink with the shot glass inside? Can’t really remember what kinda alcohol is in that shot glass, but it made me drunk. Can you give me one of those?’ Ha!”

I tsk, hang my head in my hands, wonder what I have got myself into. But there is also a twinge of hunger for a reckless, thoughtless eventide of poppycock. Heather’s right. I
should
loosen up. Swallow this bomb in a glass—sooth my pharynx.

“Yeah, well, you know Heather,” she winks. “She don’t make small talk ’bout weather! Ha-ha!”

We clink glasses and imbibe our juicy backbones. Heather asks for two more, winks at the bartender and almost falls off her stool. Her chortle pacifies the compressed punch of retro beats. Non-music to my electronically fused ears.

Three more bombs later and we’re slow-dancing to disco beats. Heather proclaims to be the man in this relationship because she’s taller. This triggers a flurry of slurred feminist opinions on my part. I’m drunken and disorderly and as soon as my anti-sexism theories have exploded like verbal shrapnel, I sob and slobber on Heather’s shoulder.

“Alex doesn’t love me anymore,” I whimper.

“Of course he loves you, Smel. You’re just goings through rough time.” Heather tries to sooth, slurring in my ear, on the verge of licking it like a lollipop.

“Nope. He doesn’t love me. I know it. Something’s going on. He’s hiding something from me. I know it.”

“Smelody. He loves you. It takes two to make a relationship work and it takes two to break one up. If you really want your marriage to last, the two of you will work something out eventually. Believe me. I’ve been there before. Anyway, what are you doing sobbing on my chest when you should be having fun? I feel like I’m leaking breast milk.”

Heather’s words, though uttered at the rate of a tortoise’s saunter, race through my head in search for some sort of validity—a sign, memory, something to deem her words true, when I actually get one. A dance version of “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch” comes on and we both burst out in song, our heads wobbling on our shoulders like dashboard bobble head dolls.

Wanna tell you I don’t love you, Tell you that we’re through, And I try, But ev’ry time I see your face, I get all choked up inside, When I call your name, ALEX, it starts to flame, Burning in my heart, Tearing it all apart. No matter how I try, My love I cannot hide …

It’s been a long time since I’ve been out like this. I mean,
properly
out, doing girly claptrap, rather than eating a respectable meal in a reputable restaurant. The last time I spent a night getting sloshed at a club was a few months before moving to Greece. Life was one big experiment then. I’d go through phases of goth, punk, intellectual, muso, introvert, extrovert, comedian, poet, and sometimes bitch just to see how people would react to me. A subconscious effort to fit in with my mother’s mentality? Who knows.

“Heather!” I grab her arm and point toward a man standing at the end of the bar with a young, tall redhead. “Who’s that? Does he look familiar to you?” The red/blue lighting effects distort my view. I hold my hand over my eyes as if protecting them from the sun.

“Er, nope. But don’t think anyone would look very familiar to me right now … oops … where’s my shoe? You seen my shoe? Oh, there it is … is … is my shoe … stay here, I’ll just fetch my shoe ….”

Heather stumbles to the middle of the dance floor, almost colliding with the open-shirted man doing the limbo.

The guy at the end of the bar catches my eye, whispers something into the redhead’s ear. She nods, walks away. He heads toward me.
Me? I wasn’t eyeing him off. Does he think I’m flirting?

“Hi, Melody, you never called,” the guy says, imitating a sob.

“Right,” says Heather, leaning heavily into my shoulder. “Found my shoe … er, hi, pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, and you might be?” Heather slurs, hopping on one foot in attempt to put the missing shoe on at the same time. I point to the button on my shoulder of my jacket, pretending to scratch it, and raise my eyebrows.

“Oh!
Button
boy! I’ve heard—”

“Heather!” I cry, putting my hand over her mouth. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr—”

“Richard. Call me Richard.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Richard, for my friend’s behavior here, I-I—”

“No problem at all, Melody,” Richard touches my hand. “Just nice to know you actually didn’t forget about me.”

“How could I forget? My button bull’s-eyed you!”

What am I saying? You idiot! Melody, YOU IDIOT!

“Oh, you noticed that? You seemed so calm and collected I thought you hadn’t realized.” Richard laughs.

“Yeah, well, my career was on the line.” I scratch my brow despite not feeling any itch.

“Yes. Indeed. Well, now that your friend, um … ”

“My name’s Heather, Luv.”

Oh, Heather. Could you embarrass me more? Luv? You’ve gone into hick mode.

“Heather here,” Richard interrupts, gesturing apologetically with his hands on Heather’s shoulder, “has implied that you spoke to her about the incident. May I ask why you didn’t call? I assume you have been told you have the position in London? Correct?”

“Yes. How embarrassing. For a second, here, I thought you were trying to pick me up.”

“I was.”

“Oh.”

Queasy. Knots. Stretching. Fraying. Lubricating. Draining. Fraying. Breaking. Don’t pull. Stop!

Wait.

Richard?

His name’s Richard?

Richard Viadro, academic director in London? Is this man my potential boss?

Thirteen

Television light creeps beneath our bedroom door, igniting the corridor with liquid sleep waves. I tiptoe to my office to get undressed.

As I fumble for the light switch, Doggy appears between my legs and trips me. My handbag flings toward my desk, knocks off an empty water glass, and smashes on the floor. Tiny glittering shards of clumsiness float around my feet, threatening to spike me with lament.

Alex calls, “Eh!” I freeze, cold with guilt for not putting the glass in the sink before I left. I examine my blurry surroundings, making sure there’s nothing else I might hit, before I attempt to switch the light on again.

It’s only Monday night and I feel like this relationship/ career/dream—and now fatal Richard-attraction-dilemma—has been brewing since yesteryear.

Time drags on and on, and on … (One more! Clap your hands!) and on, but there is still not enough time to make rational decisions anymore. Life is just one big rush. There is never enough time for anything anymore. I don’t make any
sense
to myself anymore. I don’t understand what I’m
thinking
anymore. I don’t understand why I’m having so much trouble making this
decision
. Anymore?

Why can’t I just be mature about the whole thing and do what’s right? But what
is
right? And I
am
being mature about it, right? Write. I should write all of this down. Keep a journal. Maybe it’ll free my mind of all this … stuff. I’ve slipped off the beaten track. Yes. I should keep track of my thoughts. Then maybe at the end of the week I can backtrack and come to some sort of logical solution. Have I been brainwashed with Dad’s philosophical ramble?

I nudge Doggy onto the balcony despite her resistance, sweep the glass to the wall with a magazine, and pick up the cordless phone. For a moment I think it’s sticky with Heather’s vomit. But no, that was in her house. Not here.
How did I get her home? I don’t remember the cab ride at all.

Dad. Speak to Dad.

It’s two o’clock in the morning, but I know he’ll be awake. My parents have a tendency to record music on their computers till the sun rises and burns their eyes out. Especially my father—Frank Zappa’s zombie turned
Radiohead
in
Weird Science.

My mother answers the phone.

“Hi, it’s me,” I say, trying to balance the waver in my voice.

“Hi, Melody. Right. Where were we?” She coughs. I realize she assumes this will be a continuation of the conversation we’d started earlier in the evening.

“I was actually wondering if I could speak to
Dad
.”

“He’s fine. The usual. Not listening to a word I say,” she says, clearing her throat again.

“You didn’t hear what I said. I said, I want to
speak
to him. I didn’t ask how he was.” I walk to the kitchen table, pull out a chair, careful not to scrape it. It doesn’t, but the sound of metal legs landing on spotted marble is nothing short of an echoing pop. I wince at the thought of waking Alex. Why? Habit.

“Oh.”

Kitchen appliances sway around my head like tornado debris.

“Hold on a sec. I’ll get him. You know him. Glued to his computer with the headphones on.” Her hand muffles the receiver.

“James! Phone!”

A dampened stampede through her house ensues—the thunder of a tent being blown in the wind.
Does she really think I won’t hear anything?

Dad yelps.
Thump!

Did she just hit him over the head with the phone?

“Stop fucking around for a minute,” she demands. “Melody’s on the phone.”

“Oh. Sorry. I’ll turn the music down,” Dad says. I flinch, suspecting what might follow.

“No
ooo!
You’re wearing
headphones
you fucking
idiot
. She wants to
speak
to
you
.”

“Me? Oh.” He sounds pleasantly surprised and not at all troubled by Mum’s behavior. I hear the phone slide from one hand to the other.

“Hi, Melody.” His voice gurgles like a fourteen-year-old pubescent boy.

“Hi, Dad. How’s things?”

“Good.”

“Whatcha up to?”

“You know me. Fucking around on the computer.”

“Is Mum still there?” I imagine her standing in the doorway, watching him speak and nod with a smile that acts like a mask for resentment.

“Yep.”

“She watching you?”

“Yep.”

“Is there anyway you can stop it?”

“Nup.”

“So we need to talk about meaningless things until she gets bored and goes back to her own computer?”

“Yep.”

Mum grabs the phone from Dad and says, “Sounds like a nice intellectual conversation. I’ll leave you two to it. When you’re done, remind him to pass the phone to me before hanging up ’cause he won’t remember to do it himself, okay?”

“Givvim a break, Mum,” I plead, trying to save Dad the torture.

“I’m not joking.”

“All right, don’t worry. I’ll tell him to pass the phone back to you.” I suddenly feel quite sober.

“Why do you want to speak to him anyway?”

“I just realized I haven’t had a proper conversation with him for about ten years, that’s all,” I say flippantly, realizing how not “that’s all” it is.

“Pfft. Okay then, don’t come back to me brain dead.”

I hang my head wondering when she’ll ever stop being so mean; whether it’s intentional, facetious, an irrational fear of losing control, or even just habit.

I tell Dad everything. About music, Alex, and my potentially lucrative career opportunity. I even talk about my guilty button boy fantasies. But also, how when the man was standing right in front of me, I felt so sick and afraid, that vomit rose up into my throat. I tell him how confused I am—how
depressed
I feel. That I’ve been having the most horrible thoughts. Thoughts I prefer to deny thinking.

But, do I ask Dad whether it’s the right thing to uproot my family, move to another country, and expect Alex to commute from London to Athens whenever he has to attend an event? Do I ask him whether he thinks Tessa will adapt to her new environment easily? No, I ask him how I’m supposed to work in the same office as button boy and not be temped to have an affair. When did I become so selfish?
Why
am I so selfish? Why do I feel like I’m constantly scraping off old moldy wallpaper in search for the clean white wall?

Dad just listens and nods against the receiver. He doesn’t try to tell me what to do or how to solve any of these issues. He doesn’t even scold me for being so self-centered.

I like his nodding. And I know he knows all I
need
is nodding; that all I
need
is to get things off my chest. Because it’s something he can’t ever seem to do himself.