String Bridge (30 page)

“I’m pregnant,” I say, stroking Tessa’s arm in a semi-conscious trance. Mum’s eyes shift from my face to Alex’s, to Tessa’s, and back to my face again. Dad leans forward, balances his elbow on his knee, rests his chin in his palm and hides his huge smile with his thick folded fingers.

“You’re kidding?” Mum cries. “Congratulations! This is cause for a celebration! Got any bright ideas, James?” She winks at him—infested with jovial cynicism.
Oh, don’t. Please not now.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Tessa squeals, jumping off the couch into a superman position.

I rub Tessa’s back as if to console her zeal. “Blossom, I don’t think Grandma would really enjoy that. She doesn’t like the beach.”

“Then why does she live on an island?” Tessa screws her nose up in thought.

“Good point,” Mum says. “How about you show me how to enjoy it then, Tess?”

“What, you’d really like to go?” I ask, astounded at her change of tune.

“Sure. Why not. I’ve got to stop being such a stick in the mud. Don’t I Tess?” Mum pinches Tessa’s belly. Tessa whinnies like a horse and playfully flicks Mum’s hand away.

“I think it sounds fun. How about it, Mel?”
Alex is agreeing with Mum?
I hum in thought, not feeling quite up to the forty-minute drive. Of course, Tessa starts yelling and screaming with fruition, and before I can utter my opinion she runs into her bedroom and out again with her bathing suit, floaties, and goggles on, strutting her stuff in the living room like a model.

“I love the beach. Don’t you love the beach, Mummy?” Tessa asks as she jumps onto the couch, treating it like a trampoline. I
tsk tsk
and gesture for her to stop and sit still, incoherently mumbling the request to avoid sounding too strict or grumpy.

“Look. I’m not feeling too hot, as you can imagine. I’m actually quite tired,” I lie. “And I keep neglecting to finish off some work I’m supposed to have done by Monday. So, why don’t you guys go without me? Tessa will love it, and it’ll be a good opportunity for me to focus, and finish my work. Is that okay? Do you mind?”

Tessa protrudes her bottom lip in a forced whimper, and runs on the spot. Her bare feet pattering like she’s running on dough.

Mum, Alex and Dad shrug in hesitant agreement forming a trio of conquered sighs and grumbles.

“Why don’t you take the car, Alex? It’ll be a pretty tight squeeze with five anyway and it’s better than the bus.”

“You sure?” Mum asks, tilting her head with concern. I haven’t told my parents about the move to London yet. Guilt pricks like an irate toothpick.

“Yeah. It’s no problem. You all go and have fun. Tessa needs it anyway,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck.

Everyone scurries around in preparation. I stand in the entrance hall, hoping to be of some help, but no one needs me. I watch everyone scatter—leaving luminous trails of color behind them—it floats around me like a sprinkler-induced rainbow as my vision goes a little hazy from fatigue. I can hear Alex emptying out the sheet cupboard, most likely looking for the beach towels we stuffed in the back, and our old bathing suits to lend my parents.

“Sorry, it’s all I got,” Alex says, as he hands my dad a pair of Speedos.

Dad shrugs with a curt wince and a brusque laugh. “Ta. No worries.”

Within minutes everyone is standing in the doorway, holding so many bags I can hardly see their faces peering above them. Bags filled to the brim with snorkels, flippers, goggles, floaties, towels, beach mats, inflatable mattresses, picnic lunches, beach balls, cameras—
Where did Alex find all this stuff?

“Right. We’re off.” Alex kisses me on the cheek.

“I wuv you, Mummy,” Tessa says, in baby squeak as she hugs me around the legs.

“Okay. Have fun.” I kneel down to give Tessa a kiss and she gives me a two-eyed wink, and then shoots out the front door, which Alex is holding open.

Mum and Dad kiss me goodbye in turn as we wait for Alex to load the elevator with the gear.

When I close the door behind them, I can hear Tessa giggling as she runs down the stairs, despite Alex inviting her into the elevator. She’s always hated the elevator. She thinks it’s boring.

I look around at the quiet empty house and smile with relief.

Peace. Finally.

The house implodes into a lull—a silent angst drunk with anticipation for the week ahead and a secretive intoxicating thrill. I dawdle down the corridor toward Tessa’s bedroom to put her washing away, cracked plastic red bucket digging into my hip. My bare feet sink into the rough squishy carpet. I lie down on Tessa’s bed—sinking like I do when drunk and passing out on the couch. Although this pregnancy has set me back music wise, life is finally feeling like my own. “
My
life,” I say to myself in Tessa’s Barbie handheld mirror. “I’ll do it. It’s just going to take a little longer than we expected. Right?” I touch my stomach. “Everything happens for a reason. The best thing Mum ever taught me.”

About three hours later, I’ve completed two thirds of the work I’m supposed to have done. Made and consumed three strawberry and honey smoothies, let the dog drink from my glass (something I never do), and written lyrics for two songs.

I should ring Charlie to say I can’t go. No. Don’t do that. What if I have a miscarria— Sheesh! What are you THINKING? Slap, slap, Melody. Slap, slap.

I turn on the radio—dial through all the cheesy Greek pop that modern Greek teens go
Beatles Frenzy
over, in search for Rock FM. When I find it, I raise the volume so high it makes the furniture rattle. I don’t immediately recognize the band, but before I’ve had the chance to listen more carefully, I notice my mobile flashing, and turn the radio off.

I answer my phone and it’s the guy from the air-conditioning repair center—calling
three
weeks after us initiating a need for their services. I call Alex as soon as I hang up.

“
Parakalo?
”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“What’s up? You alright?”

“Yep. Having fun at the beach?”

“The sea’s a bit cold for me, but Tessa’s loving it.”

“Well, you’re all going to have to come home as soon as you can.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just that the guy we called to fix the air-con is on his way, and the only key to the back balcony where the outdoor unit is secured is on your set.”

“You’re kidding? Can’t you get him to come on Monday?”

“I already tried that. But he said he’s making a special trip for us today because he’s booked out for the next month.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He said it’s going to get really hot over the next few weeks.”

“Where do these fucking handy people think they get off? Could have done with a bit more notice.”

“I’m sorry. I tried.”

“Fine. We’ll be home as soon as possible. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. We’re on our way. See you soon.”

Two and a half hours later, I finish my work. They’re still not home. The doorbell rings. It’s the air-con guy—sweaty bald head shining under the muddy yellow hall light.

“I’m really sorry to have dragged you out here on a Saturday for no reason. But I’m afraid my husband still hasn’t returned, and he has the key to the balcony.”

The man grunts and re-enters the elevator—his thick white suit scratching between his legs as he moves. I close the door. The realization that Alex should be home by now flicks my consciousness like a Venus Flytrap. On the verge of panic, I pick up the phone and dial Alex’s cell.

“The subscriber you have called is not available, and will be notified of your call via SMS.”

My heart booms.
Try not to panic. You’re overreacting. Just try again in a couple of minutes; maybe there’s no signal where he is. Okay, breathe. Try Mum’s phone.

“The subscriber you have called is not available, and will be notified of your call via SMS.”

Fuck. What were you thinking? If Alex’s phone is out of range then why would Mum’s be in range? Sit down. Stop being silly. Where’s Doggy?

“Doggy? Ella tho … You wanna biscuit? Here you go. Good girl …” Has it been a couple of minutes yet? Okay, try again.

“The subscriber you have called is not available, and will be notified of y—”

Dial again …

“The subscriber you have called is not a—”

Again, Goddamn it …

“The subscrib—”

Christ. Okay. Let’s calm down. I sit cross-legged on the floor.

Maybe Tessa was having such a good time at the beach they didn’t want to spoil her fun. Maybe they’re on their way home right now, and I’ve happened to call while they’re driving through the mountainous area, and that’s why there’s no signal. He could have called to let me know. Am I overreacting? I think I’m overreacting. No, maybe I’m not overreacting; because Mum would have been the first to tell Alex to call me so I don’t get worried. So if they’d decided to stay on at the beach she would have told him to call me back … Or maybe Alex didn’t say anything to my parents. Maybe they have no idea I called. Yes. That’s probably what happened. Alex wouldn’t think to call me if he was running late. He doesn’t think like that. He doesn’t know I worry. I’ve never told him I worry. I’ve never been worried before because I’ve always had too many other things on my mind. Okay. Melody. Stop it. Make yourself another smoothie and go back to the balcony. Play with the dog.

It’s now three and a half hours since I called Alex. I try again.

“The subscriber you have called is not available, and will be notified of your call via SMS.”

This is too much. This is too much … Dad’s phone! I never tried Dad’s phone!

“6977 261 451 … It’s ringing! Oh, thank God!”

“Melody?”

“Dad! What’s going on? Where are you? … Hello? … Hellooo?”

I’ve been cut off. Great. Where the fuck are they? Now I’m beyond worried—now I’m just pissed off. They could have at least let me know what the hell they’re up to.

It’s now
four
and a half hours since I called Alex. Twilight hangs like paper over a lampshade. I’m bloated and full and lethargic. Doggy is sitting in my lap, licking my face now and again. She jumps off my lap, runs inside toward the door, and barks at the handle.
Finally
, they’re home. I walk to the door, surprised at the lack of noise behind it.

“Well, you really wanted the air conditioner fixed, didn’t you?” I ask, looking down to nudge the dog away from the door as I open it. I’m about to lean forward to give Alex a kiss when I realize it’s not Alex at all. It’s a police officer raising his finger toward the doorbell.

“Ma’am? Are you Mrs. Melody Hill-Konstantinou?”

My head pounds as if lodging a flail. I swallow hot tears—tears that have been boiling on full for hours. They singe my throat on the way down and blister my mouth on the way up.

I vomit at the officer’s feet.

PART FOUR

Please Take Me Back

Patience

silences snow on a gray woolen sweater,

and then drowns you.

Doubt

paints a black and white silent film

on your forehead.

Chorus:

Please don’t tell me my baby’s gone.

Please take me back to Saturday morn.

Please don’t tell me my baby’s gone.

Please take me back to Saturday morn.

Hope

chews toffee apples

and then breaks your teeth.

Desire

sprinkles sea salt in your wounds

in the desert.

Chorus

Oh why does reason

hide desire, hope, and doubt

in a patient box,

all for

fate to leave the box near the fire?

Chorus

Twenty-six

The police officer escorts me to his car. A fist reaches inside my stomach and whisks my entrails like cake mix. This is nothing like heartbreak, nothing like betrayal, nothing like the lies I despised more than infidelity. My whole world has no more life to give. Plants have stopped growing and babies have stopped being born. And I don’t even know what has happened yet.

The police officer drives me to the hospital. In a trance, I watch life—the living—rapidly pass by the window—night lights reflecting in the side-view mirror—epileptic reverie. I don’t know if I should cry. Maybe they will be alive when I get there. All the officer said was that there’d been an accident. Alex’s car toppled over a cliff trying to swerve out of the way of an oncoming truck speeding around a bend. The truck didn’t even crash. I try to twist down the window, but I’m clutching the handle so hard I break it off. I stare at it—shaking.
It’s a sign
, I think.
They’re broken.

Dad is sitting in the waiting room—waiting for me. I’m sure he shouldn’t be there. He should be in his room, but a nurse seems to be supervising from behind the reception desk. I hug him tightly. So tightly he has to pull away. He has one arm in a sling and a big gash is weeping just above his left eyebrow. His arms and legs are already starting to bruise—pale lilac patches of pain. He dry retches when he opens his mouth to speak.

“Where are they? I have to see them,” I say, fiddling with something in my handbag to distract myself from the abundance of possibilities swimming through my mind.

“Sweetheart, sit down … er … for a minute.”

“No. Look, I’m sorry, I’m so relieved you are okay, Dad, but I really have to see them.”

“I know you do, but plea—” Dad coughs and clutches at his side, grimacing until the brunt of the pain subsides. “Please,” he heaves amidst tears streaming down his cheeks. “Please just … just sit down. You have to know—” He loses balance and I drop my handbag to break his fall. He moans as a nurse runs out to aid us. She lowers him into a seat.