String Bridge (32 page)

I stand in the hall. Stare at the floor—imagine carpet fibers expanding like thick slugs—a devil’s accomplice—around my feet and legs like vines—they pull me into the ground where I belong.
I need to piss.

“I’m making you a sandwich with feta and tomato. Is that okay?” Serena calls out as I head toward the bathroom.

“Fuck the feta and tomato,” I mumble as I pull my pants down and sit on the cold flimsy toilet seat that sounds like two plastic plates knocking against each other in a sand pit.

“What? I didn’t hear you.”

I sit on the toilet, legs spread, surely exposing my naked unshaven crotch to Serena who is looking at me from the other end of the hall with impatience. Well, no, not impatience, I’ve never met a more patient person in my life, it’s more like patience with a stern attitude. I begin to piss and slam the bathroom door closed with my feet.

I hang my head in my hands, elbows digging into my knees. My labia warms—burns slightly, as the last trickles of urine seep into my pubic hair.

I turn to face the mirror without wiping myself, without getting up. My face is pale, eyes bloodshot and murky green, as if they have been marinated in sewage.

I stare at myself. For too long.

The muscles in my thighs twitch—naked legs goose pimply—hairs standing on end like antennae. My vagina stinks. It’s damp with discharge embedded into three-day old underwear. I need to wash.

Serena knocks on the bathroom door.

“What are you doing in there?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been in there for almost an hour. Have you got diarrhea or something? I wouldn’t be surprised; you’ve hardly eaten anything substantial.”

“Um. Yeah. Diarrhea.”

“You need anything?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m waiting on the balcony with your sandwich. I sautéed some mushrooms for you, too. And cut up some lettuce. It’s all you had. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

I nod. Undress. Jump in the bath. I can hear Serena hovering by the door. I turn on the tap. Hot. Very hot. The bathroom steams up instantly.

“Okay. Have a bath and then come and eat. You need to eat.”

I nod again, digging my teeth into my knuckle so hard I make it bleed.

Day Two:

Pasta. Twist fork. Lift to mouth. Insert into mouth. Chew. Pause. Stare at Alex’s record collection. Tears. Breathe in heave. Breathe in pasta. Get’s sucked into wrong hole. Cough and splutter like child. Spit out pasta. Serena cleans it up.

Day Three:

Serena walks me to the couch and turns on MTV. They’re showing REM live in the centre square. I feel like I’m going to throw up. It’s Alex’s production. And it’s going ahead without him. I frantically search for the remote, hot tears stunting my breath.
No, no, no, no!

“Remote! Where’s the fucking remote?” I cry, banging my fists on the coffee table like a misbehaving child. She turns around to leave. Ignoring me. The remote is sticking out of her back pocket.

“Give me the fucking remote!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Dad races in.

“What’s going on?” he asks, sleepy, weary, red around his eyes—he’s been crying, alone, in Tessa’s bedroom all day. “Serena? What are you doing?”

“She’s got to face the truth. No better way than to look it straight in the face.”

“It’s too soon.” He shakes his head. “It’s too soon,” he says again and leaves the room.

Serena glares at me with her arms crossed like a teacher disappointed in a student for not doing their homework.

I take a deep breath. Trying not to scream. But as soon as I will the anger to subside it’s replaced with a grief so heavy I can’t even hold myself upright. I can’t decide whom to cry over—Alex, or my mother.
Oh, Mum. Just when I started to understand … Was my understanding the only other thing left that you needed in this life? Was it your cue to leave?
The room spins and I lower myself to the couch. Serena doesn’t move.

“Please,” I beg, putting two pillows over my ears. “Please!”

But instead of giving me the remote, she pulls the TV plug out of the wall and walks out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door closed behind her. She turns her back to me—looks out into the square.

I watch, stunned that she finally gave into my pleading. She buries her face in her hands, and her shoulders shake up and down.

Day Four:

The phone rings. I look at Serena and shake my head. I’ve ignored every single call since the accident.

“I’m answering it,” says Serena, picking up the cordless and holding it in the air as if giving me an opportunity to take it myself. I flick my hand with dismissal.

Beep
.

“Hello? … I’m sorry, Melody can’t come to the phone right now, but maybe I can take a message? … Oh … Oh … well, I think she finished them before … yes, yes, indeed … I’ll get them posted off tomorrow morning first thing … yes, okay, I’ll tell her … Oh, thank you … yes, that’s great … Mm-hmm … she’ll appreciate that … Yes, thanks for understanding, Jodie. Bye.”

“Fuck. I forgot about the proofs,” I say when Serena hangs up.

“Don’t worry, she was fine. I’ll just post them off tomorrow. She also said you’re welcome to take your old job back, as they’re unable to wait for you to fill the position in London.”

I smile, and give a half nod, feeling queasy over my disgusting infatuation with Richard Viadro.
Why couldn’t I just appreciate what I had?

“She did say, though, that Mr. Viadro welcomes an application from you for any other position that might arise in the future.”

“Okay … let’s talk about something else?”

But we’re interrupted by Dad walking in the front door with two big bags from the local
Zacharoplasteio
. He holds them up with a big grin. The first I’ve seen since the day he arrived in Athens.

“I’ve got cake,” he says with a half-possessed wink. “Let’s make ourselves fat.”

Day Five:

“I want to sell this apartment,” I say to Serena while she washes some dishes. She nods as if she knows I won’t do it. “And I need your help. I can’t handle going through all the paperwork. I just want to move out and forget about ever living here. I’ll give you power of attorney.”

Serena pauses, scratches the side of her nose with sudsy fingers. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. And I need you to call … you-know-who. I can’t bear to speak to him.”

“Who? Charlie?”

“Yeah.”

“I already have.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about anything. Just, you know, let yourself heal.”

“Let myself heal?” I scoff. “Let myself heal,” I repeat sarcastically as I walk out of the kitchen. “Huh. That’s a good one.”

Day Six:

“Mummy!” squeals Tessa, from a wheelchair, as I enter her hospital room.

“Oh my God! You’re speaking?” I bend down to give her a big squeeze and cup her face in my hands. “She’s speaking,” I exclaim to the orderly, who looks young enough to be my son, as he fiddles with the height of Tessa’s chair.

“She’s speaking,” nods the boy with a wink. “When you have minute,” he whispers, “Doctor wants speak you about your daughter’s ‘wheelchair situation,’” he quotes with his fingers, and winks again.

Wheelchair situation?

“Your daughter and I, we did go for walk, just now. She like wheels, very much.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” He winks again. “Will fetch Doctor. Will be just, one, two minute.”

The orderly leaves, and I squat down to Tessa’s level and take her hands.

“How are you feeling, Blossom?”

“Good. Look, Mummy, I’ve got my own personal car!”

I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm. “Well, yes, I suppose you do. But you’ll have to learn how to drive. Have you got the patience?” I ask, trying to swallow the wretchedness of the situation and stay upbeat for Tessa’s sake.

“
Yeah
-eah! Everyone’s got more patience than you, Mummy.”

I wince. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right … um … Blossom, I have to speak to you about something.” I sit on her bed and pull her chair close to me, so our knees touch. “Something that isn’t very nice and you might get upset.” I pretend I’m talking about going to the ice cream parlor to avoid an outbreak of tears.

“Mummy, don’t worry. You’ve told me already.”

“Pardon?”
Yeah, when you were in a coma.

“It’s okay. Papa and Betty are happy now. They told me so.”

“What? They told you—”

In prances the doctor, stethoscope dangling around his neck like a gold medal.

“Good afternoon, ladies!” He puts his hands in his coat pockets, leans forward and swings his buttocks side to side as if preparing to role-play a dog.

“Hi. What’s this
situation
, the orderly said you needed to speak to me about?”

The doctor puts his hand on my upper back and walks me to the door where he obviously thinks Tessa won’t hear.

“Your daughter didn’t suffer any spinal injuries. So her paralysis is temporary, initiated by psychological trauma.”

“You mean she’s …
pretending
?” I gasp, wondering why the hell Tessa would want to do something like that. The doctor laughs.

“No, no, no. She’s not pretending. It’s very real. But she is very likely to walk again, with rehabilitation. And she’s young. Children always recover faster. She’ll be fine. With the right support, and love from her parents. She’ll be fine.”

My throat tightens at the word “parents.” Tears form behind my eyes. I look at the ground and take a deep breath. Smile a forced smile and thank the man.

I go over to Tessa and take the handles of her wheelchair.

“Right. Let’s go for a spin together then, huh?”

One Week Later:

Tessa is due home tomorrow. I want to jump with joy and celebrate, but I feel numb. I’m living the life of an empty shell. My body has been taken over by a person I don’t know. And this person drags the real me along to watch. This person forces me to become reacquainted with daily routines I wish I could turn to glass and smash against a wall. I watch my limbs move—do all the things a human body is supposed to do when it’s alive, but I’m not alive. Not really.

I can’t imagine ever feeling alive again.

I lie in bed with the duvet puffed up beside me, pretending it’s Alex. I can still smell him on our sheets—the sheets I refuse to change. I imagine listening to his rhythmic breaths and little interrupted wheezes like the ones puppies make when they’re dreaming and flinching their paws. I used to lie awake at night wishing he would shut up. Now I lie awake at night wishing I could hear just one little wheeze.

I place myself a little farther away from his side of the bed than I would normally sleep so that, in a realistic situation, I wouldn’t feel his body heat. Keeping my eyes closed, I visualize an image of him next to me. I convince myself if I stretch my hand over, I’ll be able to touch him. Then I stretch my hand over—but not all the way—I stretch it to
almost
where he would be, and then, with my eyes remaining closed, I picture him only millimeters away from my fingertips, and if I
really
wanted to, I could just reach a tiny bit further and touch his precious skin.

And I fall asleep, with Alex just
millimeters
out of reach.

Twenty-eight

Two months later:

Serena is in the kitchen with Tessa making dinner. She has propped Tessa up on five thick couch cushions in her wheelchair so she can reach the counter and help slice vegetables. I eavesdrop from the entrance of the living room while Dad sits on the couch flipping through my old photo albums.

“Serena, Papa was smart. He had a very important job. Did you know he had a very important job, Serena?”

“Um, no. Why was it so important?”

“Well, he was always writing emails to people. And you know where?”

“Where?”

“To
other countries
!”

“Really? Wow. That’s sounds
very
important.”

“Yeah. Papa was a
very
important man.”

I’m picking at my fingernails when I realize I’m smiling.

I sit next to Dad on the couch. He’s staring at a photo of me, him and Mum on the island when I was small. Mum, so beautiful, so young, so
healthy
, is holding me in her arms under the sun—her apricot-colored dress flowing in the breeze, with huge Janis Joplin type orange-rimmed spectacles balancing on the tip of her nose as she eyes the camera from above the frames. She looks so free and happy—a few years before being diagnosed with bipolar.

“Tessa’s got Mum’s smile,” I say, stroking my finger over her face.

Dad coughs up a little melancholic laugh while shedding a few stray tears salted with memories.

“Whatcha thinking about, Dad?” I ask, rubbing his upper back.

“Uh, nothing …” he replies, tilting his head to the side, wiping tears into his hair by his temples.

“Sure you are. Tell me. I can handle it.” I nudge him gently with my elbow.

“Orh. Just how happy I was when I met your mum,” he sniffs. “Can you remember much of when you were that young on the island?”

“Yeah, quite a bit,” I nod, as I try to convince myself I do. Funnily enough, I get a flash of her laughing and throwing me up in the air—catching me just before hitting the ground.

“Your Papou and Yiayia always asked me when Betty and I would have a second kid.”

“Oh, yeah? Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think Betty could have handled it. She started getting depressed, you know, and I didn’t think it would have been good for her. Or for the kid … Sweetheart …” Dad looks me in the eyes. “I’m sorry you had to go through so many horrible things with her. And I’m sorry I wasn’t more supportive of you. But I was just … you know … trying to get a grip on everything myself, too.”

“I know, Dad. Don’t worry.”

Serena pops her head out from behind the kitchen door.

“Why don’t you go and stay with James on the island for a while? It’d do you and Tessa good, I think. I could stay here and sort out a sale for this apartment, if it is, in fact, what you want to do.”