String Bridge (34 page)

Dad’s expression turns from annoyed to stunned when the guy opens the case to reveal the famous gold Gibson Les Paul. Speechless, Dad bends down and strokes it like a cat. He looks up, chuckles like a school boy, lifts the guitar out of its case and hangs it over his body, then jiggles it up and down.

“Wow. I forgot how heavy these were,” Dad grins, showing his crooked stained teeth.

“It’s a present … from Mum,” I lie. “She never got the chance to …, you know, have it wrapped.”

Without a word, he lifts the guitar to his mouth and kisses the strings right by the bridge, then lays it in its case.

“Thank you, Betty,” he whispers, as if in prayer. “I couldn’t have asked for anything more precious.”

Before setting off to take Dad to the port to catch the ferry, I go to see the gynecologist. The baby is in good shape, and the doctor said it wouldn’t be a problem if I wanted to move back to Australia before it was born. So, today I decide it’s what I’m going to do. I have to stop thinking about the possibility of leaving Alex’s spirit behind. Surely he can follow us?

I won’t sell the apartment either. I can’t bear to think of someone else living amongst our history. It’s Tessa’s home. I won’t take it away from her. If I never return to Greece myself, maybe she will, so I want her to always have a place to stay.

Serena and Tessa stay while I drive Dad and Doggy to the port. I’m worried about him, but he insists he’s going to be okay. I suppose I’ll just have to take his word for it. At least he’s taking Doggy with him. I’m going to miss the sweet little soul, but she’ll be much happier running around with the goats than being shipped off to the Land of Oz.

People are already boarding the ship when we arrive. And it occurs to me only now that this is goodbye.
Will I ever see him again?

“Dad, you know you are always welcome to come back to Australia with us,” I say, focusing on the flurry of feet scurrying past us for fear of looking him in the eye and breaking down.

“I know.” He smiles, with a glint of hope shining in his eyes for the first time since the accident. “But Greece is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else anymore.” Tears trickle down his cheeks and onto mine as we embrace.

Oh my God. He’s leaving. He’s really leaving. Stop it. Don’t make him sadder. Keep it together, Melody.

“Have you got Mum’s ashes?”

Dad nods and looks out to sea.

“What are you going to do with them?” I ask, not really sure if I want to know.

“Well, remember that chest your mum and I found on the shore near our home last year? You know—the one that sits next to her piano?”

“Oh. Yeah?”

“Well, I’m going to put her ashes inside that—loose, without the urn—along with the lock of hair and baby teeth she kept of yours.”

She kept my baby teeth?

“I also wrote her a song I was planning to play for her when we got back from Athens. I’ll write up the lyrics and the sheet music for it and put that in, too. Then I’ll go back to the place we found the chest together and throw it back in the sea.”

“You wrote her a song? And she never heard it?” The thought makes my heart ache.

“Yeah, it’s okay. I don’t feel bad about it, Sweetheart,” Dad says, wiping away a tear hanging from the end of my nose with his knuckle. I hadn’t even realized I was crying.

“I sing it to her in my head every night. I’m sure she can hear me from somewhere. Don’t you think?”

I nod and give him one last hug. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Melody …
aw
, don’t cry. You and Tessa will be a lot happier in Australia. And I promise I’ll come and visit once you’re settled in.”

“Okay, go.” I flick my hands in the direction of the boarding ramp. “You’ll miss the boat.” I bend down to give Doggy a quick hug and a pat. “Give … Mum a kiss … for me … before you … throw her into the … um … sea.” The words escape my mouth in bursts as I try to swallow thick lumps of grief, sorrow, relief and looming happiness wrapped all into one, as they walk to the ferry.

“I will, Sweetheart. I love you.”

Dad waves and blows me a final kiss goodbye. Then he and Doggy disappear. Behind a humming motorized door.

Thirty

When I tell Heather I’m moving back to Australia she bawls her eyes out like a drama queen and insists on coming over to help me clear out the house. I had intended on going through Alex’s belongings on my own, but with both Serena and Heather adamant as to why I shouldn’t do it on my own, I seem to have no choice in the matter. But they’re cramping my style. Every time I try to sneak an item of Alex’s clothing into my baggage, they catch me out. They won’t let me take anything.

“But I have to take something,” I cry.

“Why? What’s the point? Who’s going to wear them?” Serena retorts, as she folds my underwear into perfect little squares and fills all the small pockets of my suitcase with them.

“Exactly,” Heather says, nodding with her eyebrows so high I wouldn’t be surprised if she pushed her scalp off her scull. “Who’s going to wear them? I can’t imagine you letting your second husband wear Alex’s clothes.”

“I’ll never have another husband.” I look down at the long-sleeved shirt I was trying to hoard—a deep, yet faded navy blue, with dark brown stitching around the hems and high square collar. It’s the shirt he was wearing the day we met.

“Well, don’t go cutting yourself off from the world,” Heather says. “That won’t do you any good either.”

“Since when do either of you know what’s best for me?” I ask, bringing the shirt to my nose to smell. I hope to breathe in remnants of cologne, but all I get is the standard laundry powder aroma.

Heather tries to answer, but Serena interrupts.

“What
Heather
is trying to get at here …,” Serena gives Heather
the stare
—her social-worker stare that seems to mean,
I’d stop while you’re ahead if I were you,
“ …is that keeping Alex’s clothes locked away isn’t going to bring him back. It’s better to be rid of them, so you don’t keep going to them for comfort. If you keep them, every time you feel sad you’ll just wallow in his clothes. It won’t do you any good.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit early to be forcing me to do this?” I ask, snatching another shirt from Heather’s hands. “It’s only been a few months.”

“When do you think it
is
a good time to do this? After we get back to Australia?” Serena asks, flinging a shirt over her shoulder and letting her arms drop sluggishly by her side.

“Yeah, but what if Tessa is right? What if he
does
come and visit us at night?”

“Even if he does, Melody, having his clothes is pointless. It’s just more weight.”

“I don’t know. I just feel having some of his things around might lead him in the right direction once we leave.”

“What are you talking about?” Heather asks, glancing at me, at Serena then back at
me
. “Has Tessa said that Alex visits her?”

“Yeah, not only that, but she says he speaks to her too. He never comes to visit
me
. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe she’s just pretending. Maybe that’s just her way of dealing with the loss,” Heather replies, emptying my sock drawer onto the bed.

“But maybe not. She’s always been quite logical with her inventions. She even tells me I’m silly for thinking dolls can talk. Anyway, I’ve always believed that spirits linger around in some form or another, whether they are reincarnated, or simply let to roam free, if for some reason they didn’t finish what they were put on earth to do. What if that’s what it is? What if he’s going to linger as a free spirit for the rest of eternity because we never had the chance to reconcile our differences?”

“God, that’d make me miserable.” Heather rummages through Alex’s shirts.

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Serena asks as she investigates the top cupboard for a soft piece of baggage.

“I don’t.”

Heather frowns.

“I just believe … oh, I dunno … I suppose, in notions true believers might like to debate about. Anyway, I—”

“Oh, this’d look nice on my husband,” Heather interrupts, holding one of Alex shirts against her torso and looking at herself in the mirror. “Can I—”

I glare at her.

She drops it back onto the bed as if it stinks and continues to sort through my socks for ones without holes.

“Do you think it’s possible to feel miserable when you’re a spirit?” I ask, hoping for dear life that it’s not.

“Of course not,” Serena says jumping up and down, trying to hook the handle of my sports bag with a coat hanger. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She catches it and it drops to the ground. “Heather, get you’re bloody head out of those shirts. Jesus … Melody just pick one. You can have
one
. I wasn’t going to let you because I’m still letting you sleep in the same bloody bed sheets you slept in together and that’s probably worse, and not to mention unhygienic, and in my opinion, just
gross
. But I give in. I can’t possibly be the person responsible for not letting you keep one of your husband’s shirts. It’s your right—I just couldn’t live with myself. Go on. Pick one.”

She waves her right hand in the direction of Alex’s shirts on the bed, and nurses her forehead with the back of her left wrist.

“Hey,” Heather squeals. “I thought you said not to give in no matter what.”

“Yeah, well, I made the rule. I can break the rule,” Serena huffs, laying out the shirts she seems to think I should choose from.

“So you two have been discussing it behind my back, have you?” I ask. “Great. They are
my
husband’s shirts, if either of you can remember correctly.”

“Well, I’m giving you a say now. Go on. One shirt,” Serena repeats, slapping Heather’s hand away from the one she wants to take for Chris.

I look at all the shirts, each one bound with the memory of a specific event, specific date, specific time of year, holiday, season, celebration, and I can’t choose. How can I pick just
one
shirt, when I long so much to take them all?

“Can’t. Can’t take any,” I cringe and turn to look out the window.

“You want me to choose for you?” Heather asks.

“No. Forget it. You’re both right. It’s probably better if I don’t.”

Heather empties Alex’s part of the wardrobe into two massive cardboard boxes. I want to ask what she’s going to do with them, but I bite my tongue. If she tells me where she’s going to put them, I’ll probably end up traipsing all the way to wherever they are in the middle of the night to retrieve them.

I look down at my dresser drawer and remember the family photo my mother gave me the day they arrived in Athens is in there. I open the drawer and pull out the photo. I stare at it. Mesmerized by our smiles.
Were we really that happy?

I wish I could have Alex here for just five more minutes. Five more minutes to see his amazing smile; to let him know that no matter what happened between us I will always love him. Five more minutes to feel the warmth of his skin against my lips. I would do anything for five more minutes. Of Alex. To tell him all is forgiven; to feel him close—just one more time—One. Last. Time.

“Mummy, what’s this?” Tessa asks, putting the brake on her chair as soon as she approaches the doorway. She’s holding onto a 2mm resin-colored guitar plectrum. Serena and Heather look at me in dread and stop folding the clothes. I can smell their anticipation like a dog. I ignore it.

“It’s called a plectrum, Blossom. You use it to play guitar,” I reply, managing a brief smile.

“Orh! Cool! Can I play the guitar, Mummy?”

“Um …” I hum, glancing toward the guitar Alex bought me sitting in the corner by the window. I remember my dream:
Teach Tessa.

“I guess,” I say, pursing my lips in thought. “Do you want to have lessons?”

“No, Mummy. I mean, can I play with it na-
ow
!”

“Oh. Why not. Wait, just let me get it out of the case for you.”

Serena and Heather exchange surprised glances as I reach for the guitar. I lie it down on the ground, open the case, trying not to breathe in the scent of fresh wood and hand it to Serena to hold. I wheel Tessa into the living room, sit her on the couch and place the guitar in her lap. Tessa is still clutching onto the plectrum as if her first ever coin. Without any further instruction from me, she places her whole hand over the first fret and plucks the bottom string. She plays an F. She shrieks in excitement and grins from ear to ear looking at the three of us for approval.

“Yay!” We applaud.

“What’s this called, Mummy?” Tessa points to the neck of the guitar.

“It’s called the neck.”

“Um … what are these?”

“They’re called keys.”

“Like what you lock the front door with?”

“Um, yeah, sort of, except the keys on the guitar lock a certain note into a string.”

“Oh!” She looks up and down the guitar as if searching for something else to inquire about. “How about this?”

“That is called the bridge.”

“What’s it for?”

“Well, that is one of the most important parts, Blossom. If the bridge isn’t straight, or built properly, then the strings won’t sing very well—the guitar will be out of tune.”

“Out of tune?”

“Well, I guess that just means, not quite right—when strings are out of tune, they sound a bit sad.”

“Are you out of tune, Mummy? Because you sound a bit sad.”

I squat and squeeze Tessa’s knees.

“Blossom,” I nod. “I
am
a little bit out of tune. But I’ll find myself a better bridge very soon. And then I’ll be in tune again. Okay?”

Tessa nods and smiles and plucks the E string with fervor, banging her head up and down to the erratic beat.

“Rock ‘n’ roll,” Tessa says with a cheeky grin, and licks her lips.

And we all break out into laughter.

Thirty-one

In the evening, Serena, Tessa, and I watch a movie and order pizza. When Tessa finishes eating, we transfer her to the couch and sit her between Serena and me. I stroke her hair while Serena massages her legs to keep her muscles warm—doctor’s orders. She falls asleep—ear to my stomach, and breathes a smirk onto her face as if the corner of her mouth is being hitched up by a peg.