String Bridge (18 page)

I force myself to return to the bedroom. Each footstep a spasm of ache. Alex is still sitting on the bed, naked, staring at the wall. I stand by the door. He doesn’t look my way.

Red eyes weep without a sound. Disjointed from his face, hanging somewhere around his feet. His wrinkles are embedded with grit. The grit of lies. I hope they burn. I hope they get deeper. Cause him pain. I want him to hurt.

Alex looks at his feet. I put my dressing gown on, focus on its texture, its frayed appearance.

“It’d probably be better for both of us if … you slept in your office.”

I narrow my eyes.

Alex lifts his hand as if directing me to stop in traffic. “Just … just for tonight. It’s late. Get some rest, and we can talk tomorrow.”

I step forward. I slap him. He looks through me, eyes glazed with tears, as if I might offer pity. I slap him again. He holds his head and neck stiff, creating a stronger impact. My wedding ring hits his cheekbone. He flinches, face contorts in pain. Tears unite behind my teeth. I clench my jaw. Headache. My head aches with contaminated, faulty, frail ardor. I want him. I finally want him back and now I want him gone. I
hate
him. I …
love
him.

Again, he looks down.

I jump on top of him, punching, kicking, screaming, crying, “You fucking lying bastard! You fucking lying bastard!” over and over. When I stop, I can hardly breathe—panting on all fours, on the bed, above him.

“You fucking mother
fucker,
” I scream again, hot tears streaming down my cheeks. “You love me so much that you can’t breathe? What the
fuck
was
that
?” I move so close to his face that our noses touch. “What the
fuck
does that mean
now
?”

“I’m … I’m sorry.” He protects his face with a bent arm. I sit up, panting, crying, he tries to get me to lie down.

“No way! No.
Fucking
. Way!” I lean backward against the foot of the bed; try to catch my breath, and put my head between my knees. I feel like I’m rocking backward and forward in this dizzy fury. I focus on my breath, the way my father taught me when I started getting migraines. Meditation. Healing. Summoning the right energy.

“When … did this …?”

“I— ”

“Who?”

“Baby—”

“How?”

“I just—”

“You
just what
?

Alex stretches his neck, looks at the ceiling. His eyes flicker back and forth as if trying to decode a computer encryption.

“When?” I ask.

“About a week ago.” He blows his nose into a eucalyptus tissue from the bedside table. He shakes his head in what seems to be disbelief.

“About a week ago,” I nod, biting my bottom lip so hard I have to consciously stop myself before I make it bleed.

“In this bed? In
our
bed?” The thought sends convoluted images through my mind so fast I feel the need to look away. “Alex?” I swallow.

Alex nods, hangs his head in his hands. I try to lick my dry lips, but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth from holding it together with suction force.

“Alex … who was it?” I ask, my hands beginning to tremble.

“Just … just some …”

A pang of cold impatience releases as a roar. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Alex, just answer the fucking question!”

“Melody, I was
really
drunk, I wasn’t able to drive. She drove me home. It wasn’t meant to happen, Melody. I’m so sorry! I am!” Alex takes my hands and brings them to his cheeks. I pull away.

“And where was I? On the island?”

Alex looks me in the eyes, all color draining from his face. “Yes.”

With poise, I stand, wipe my eyes with the bottom of my palms. Pull a few clothes out of the wardrobe, take a deep breath and close my eyes. I can sense Alex staring at me—willing me to forgive him.

“I’m going to sleep in my office,” I say, nodding as if the action will convince me it’s the right thing to do. “I don’t want to hear or
see
you. Just stay
out
of my
fucking
way.”

At three o’clock in the morning I’m still awake, shivering from the unusually cold night. I turn on my computer and log onto Facebook, do a few quizzes, play online backgammon.

Charlie
.

I search for him—friend him. My ex-boyfriend, from Australia. Serena had suggested his friendship to me a long time ago, but I never sent a request, fearing that it’d be betraying Alex.
Betraying Alex. Ridiculous.
I leave Charlie a message, half crying, half laughing—reciting as I type like a lunatic.

“You still playing music? Can I play too?”

PART THREE

Selfish Heartbreak

I used to thrive on hate

until I learned to love

you.

I used to bite my tongue

until betrayal scarred

virtue.

I used to feel selfish

til you proved it weren’t

true.

Look at this.

Look at this selfish heartbreak.

Look at this.

Look at this selfish heart break.

You destroyed what I learned to value most

the reason behind my

tattoo.

Fifteen

Doggy scratches at my door. It’s five in the morning. Can’t sleep. I let her in. She throws up at my feet. Squirts a whopping puddle of missile diarrhea not only between my toes, but in a trail toward the front door when she realizes she should be doing it outside. Of course she steps in it. And spreads it through the entire apartment. I grab the mop, but she chases it—something I’m really not in the mood to be dealing with right now. Normally, I’d play along, but I don’t want to wake Alex. Seeing him now might make me throw Doggy’s shit in his face. I feel more disgusted of Alex than I do of dog diarrhea on my hands. Perhaps I could do a bit of finger painting with it. All over his desk. And computer. And mouse. And … Screw it. Why not just bathe him in the shit?

I throw on a dark gray tracksuit to take Doggy out for a walk through Lykabettus national park. My face is numb to the chilly morning air. My fingers numb to the plastic handle on Doggy’s lead. My eyes numb to the dim pre-morning light. My bare feet numb to the pebbly black asphalt of the road and the damp scattered grass as I step foot into the park. My nose numb to the scent of pine. My rationale numb to the possibility of stepping on a syringe.
I should have put some shoes on.

My senses are blurred in a place I usually soak up like fragrant moisturizer. The tall trees, the scattered pine cones, the narrow pebbled paths, the
quiet
. A serene inner-city haven that blocks out traffic noise like double-glazed glass—where my brain is free to stop. And I let it stop. Here. Usually.

I sit on
my
park bench—the only old and tattered one left standing that’s missing a plank and has psychologically molded into the shape of my behind. I remove Doggy’s lead, and inch my toes into the dirt until my feet look like stumps. It’s cool and smooth on my skin—feels wet, but it’s not. I wish I could lie in it, bury myself with it like sand—deep pressure touch to calm my nerves. Doggy digs her front paws into the same place and scratches my toes. I give her a light nudge. She glares at me—cocks her head. She stops digging, sits with one hind leg tucked under her bum, pushes her body against my right calf and rests her head on my knee with a grumbly sigh.
Is she trying to listen to my thoughts?
I run my thumb between her sad eyes.

“Don’t worry. I won’t abandon you,” I whisper.

My phone beeps.
If it’s Alex, I’ll smash the phone into a tree trunk. I pull it out of my pocket,
turning my pocket inside out. It flops against my thigh like a cocker spaniel’s ear.

Yep. Still playin music, mate. How r ya? U still draggin out de ol gee-tar?

It’s Charlie.

Ashamed to tell the truth, I answer:

Yes. Nice 2 hear from u. Where did u find my no.?

I stare at my phone. Waiting for an answer—as still as a pencil on an old-fashioned school desk until the gifted student moves it with his eyes. A quick breeze blows through the trees, soothingly brushing against the back of my neck. As much as I wish the leaves were whispering secret messages, I think I’ll leave that illusion to blockbuster television series’ and clichéd song lyrics. Instead, I breathe in the air, and try to reignite my sense of smell—and the simple pleasure it used to give me.

Still hit da pub 4 a beer w/ Ser now & then. We both saw yr msg on fb. Ser wants 2 say hi. Ser goin 2 call in a couple hrs. I want 2 chat w/ u about sth.

Chat? With me? About something?

“Don’t forget to pick up Tessa,” I snap as I put Doggy out on the balcony. I can hear Alex rummaging in the kitchen. Most likely seeking out his coffee cup under a mountain of dry dishes that he will neglect to put away.

“I … I can’t, I … I have an appointment in town,” Alex follows my every move through the kitchen door. I refuse to make eye contact. I don’t even want to remember—anything.

Is there any way I can just completely ignore this? Pretend that I haven’t been shoved into a well and left there to rot? Pretend that the disappointment in myself for believing in our marriage and having the wool pulled over my eyes isn’t bigger than my disappointment in Alex’s infidelity? How did I let our marriage come to this? Why didn’t I do anything about it earlier? Can I trust my own instincts anymore? Has everything I have ever known about Alex been a lie? How do I know there aren’t more lies?

“Right,” I reply. Sarcasm lines my tone like poison around the rim of a crystal glass. I fill Doggy’s bowl with water from the outside tap, then glide toward the kitchen to make myself some breakfast with my head held high—feeling nothing short of helpless. My head has morphed into a giant bowling ball. It weighs my shoulders down like wet wool. Any minute now I could buckle under this weight and surrender to the force that will jackhammer me into the ground. Cry. Forgive. Make Alex promise that he will never do it again. But I won’t. My determination to mask this vulnerability will not cease.

I
will
get through this with dignity.

I
will
assume the power.

I
won’t
let him manipulate me.

I
won’t
give in to my emotions.

Enough is enough.

“Listen, Melody, it only happened once— ”

“That’s what you all say, isn’t it?” I open the fridge and scan its contents for the tub of strawberries, wishing I had something smarter to say, something more articulate, something he’d have trouble understanding. “It only happened once. It will never happen again. She didn’t mean anything to me. You’re the one I love. Blah blah blah. What is it with all you Greek men? Do you all get together one day and work out what to say when your wife catches you out? Is there some sort of club I should start boycotting?”

Alex holds the fridge door open, clutching onto the edge so hard his nails form a rosy rim. “Mel,
please
. I know I have no defense against this. And I lay myself open to … to whatever you want to … to say to me. I … I was wrong. If I could take it back … I truly, truly am so so sorry, and I
love
you; I love you and
only
you. And I promise you it’ll never … never,
ever
happen again.”

I grab a tub of yogurt with one hand and a tub of strawberries with the other. I close the fridge door with a little too much force—its contents rattle. Alex moves to stroke my hair while I wash the strawberries under chlorine infested water, but I flick my head out of the way before he manages it. I grab a bowl out of the cupboard and slam it on the kitchen bench. Any harder it would have shattered.

“So you expect me to just forgive you?” I laugh. “After all the beautiful words we exchanged last night? How could I resist, right?”

I spoon the yogurt into my bowl, flinging it off the spoon so hard that specks splatter in my face. I scrape the remaining contents of the yogurt out of the tub and drop the spoon into my bowl with a clang.

“Mel, please.” The sides of Alex’s mouth curl up a little. “Let’s just work it out—I know we can. And if not for us, for Tessa.” Alex wipes the yogurt freckles off my face with the tea towel. I smack his arm away.

“For
Tessa
? For
Tessa
I’d be out of here tonight! I don’t want her to grow up in a household where the only love she gets is from each of us individually—’cause that’s what she’ll have if we’re separated.” I bang my fist on the kitchen bench, catching the edge of my bowl with a knuckle. It tips upside down. “Fuck!”

“Look, I understand you’re angry now. Can you just give it a bit of time?” Alex says, grabbing too much paper towel and wiping up my mess. I look at him as if his words went in one ear and out the other.

“I’ll go pick up Tessa,” he adds, throwing the yogurt-filled paper towel in the bin and walking out of the kitchen.

“I thought you said you
couldn’t
,” I call out after him as his heavy footsteps head toward the front door.

“I’ll reschedule.” He jiggles his keys in his pocket.

“Well, I’m going to reschedule a few things myself. I need to get out of here. I’m going to take the job in London after all,” I say to the ceiling, out of spite, with my arms folded under my breasts. I hear the front door open.

“Yeah,
well
,” he calls back, his voice spiked with contempt. “I’d like to see you try getting Tessa out of the country. Legally.”

“
What
did you say?” I run to the corridor where I can see him. I stunt my momentum by grabbing onto the sides of the archway. My body swings forward through the opening and back again as if it were barricaded by an elastic band.