Authors: Jessica Bell
“Really? An original Hummingbird? I’d love to have a go.”
I put my handbag down and have a seat on a leather footstool near the door.
A footstool near the door.
Weird. The guy goes to the back and comes out with what looks like a chunk of hollow wood with a hole in the middle and a few threads of metal stretched over the top—for all I know there could be a bird’s nest inside. But I find myself strangely drawn to it.
The guy hands it to me—the neck warm from his grip—he must have been playing it himself. Before the first strum has even rung out, woe falls from me like loose autumn leaves in wind. I have fallen in love. I want to take this baby home. Replace my crisp, abandoned guitar—gifted with poise, passion, power—with something worn, used, loved for its purpose rather than its beauty. Perhaps this guitar will suit me better. Perhaps we’ll understand each other.
I look up with an absent smile, hand the guy the guitar with a nod, and say, “I’ll be back to buy them both next week,” without even asking how much it’s going to set me back.
Right here. Right now. I have to. It’s now or never.
Outside, standing by my car, I sift through my handbag for my mobile phone, and search through my recent messages. I open one of Charlie’s and press reply.
I type: I’m in.
Twenty
I stand at our front door, sea salt burning a small cut in my nose. I hold my shirt sleeve against it, with my wrist, trying to sooth the sting—my handbag falls down around my elbow. My hair partly dry, stuck together in clumps like dreadlocks, tickles the back of my neck. Like a birthmark, the scent of ocean owns me. Smells like … freedom? Salt grains exfoliating pollution from my skin.
Tessa and Doggy come charging for me like bulls. Tessa clutches Doggy’s left ear. Doggy pants, her thick pink bouncy tongue hanging from the side of her mouth. I kneel down and hug them both at once. Warm wet drool splashes on my hand. I intend to scratch Doggy behind her ears, and stroke Tessa’s hair, but my wires get crossed and I do the reverse. I wish the three of us could sit on the floor in the corridor all night—in a cocoon of unconditional love, freedom from the world, no responsibility, no ache, simple pleasure at its best.
Alex is sitting at his desk, blank-faced. I walk over to him, unsure of what to say, whether I want to say anything at all, or even if I want to be anywhere near him. I stand by his side. Don’t utter a word. He doesn’t look up. I bend down; semi-consciously give him a peck on the forehead. I soar above images of my future on an imaginary flying carpet.
“What’s up?” Alex asks, smirking as if I’ve given in.
Alex’s voice snaps me back to reality.
“I missed you,” I say, covering my bikini strap with my hair. “Doesn’t mean I forgive you,” I add, pulling back. But I didn’t miss him. I missed the idea of him; the impression of how we used to be.
He looks at my breasts through my damp shirt exposing blurred blue checks below. Once upon a time he would have cupped his hands over them, squeezed them, and nudged me toward the bedroom. But now he looks at them as if I’m violating some cultural indecent exposure law.
“Mummy, what does ‘forgive’ mean?” Tessa tugs on my pants, looks up at me. Curiosity shines through her sad eyes. I never thought I’d witness melancholy from her so young. My airway constricts as she looks at the ground, picking at a fingernail the way I do when I’m upset and don’t want to look Alex in the eye.
“Honey,” Alex says, looking at me and then Tessa. “Someone has to forgive someone when they do something that hurts them.”
“What did you do to hurt Mummy, Papa?” Tessa asks, pushing her fringe out of her eyes.
“I did something very bad. I did something that you won’t understand right now, but I’ll explain it to you when you’re a bit older, Blossom.” Alex shifts his eyes back and forth from Tessa to me. His seat creaks. His reassuring smile weakens—twitches to a frown, a result of guilt. He rubs his hands over his face as if attempting to wipe his feelings away.
Is he trying to make me pity him?
Out of pure concern for Tessa, I say, “Alex. Don’t be silly. This isn’t necessary.”
He shakes his head and swallows. I can hear the saliva travel down his throat.
“Tell me what you did, Papa,” Tessa says as if consoling one of her toys. “I’ll forgive you. Did you break one of Mummy’s dolls? Don’t be scared, Papa. If you did, it doesn’t matter, does it Mummy?” Tessa looks to me for affirmation, pulling her knickers out of her bottom. I laugh a little. “We can just go to Jumbo on the weekend and buy Mummy a new one, can’t we Papa?”
I have no intention of letting Alex expand on his explanation, so when Alex opens his mouth, I interrupt. Shake my head. Stiff. Short and tight. Inconspicuous.
“Tessa, Daddy didn’t break one of my dolls. He broke one of my plates.” A pang of sympathy to match Alex’s apparent appreciation stimulates a little nausea. Tears well up in Alex’s eyes—prisms of blue crystal brimming with self-hatred
. I know what that feels like.
If I hadn’t already doubted the success of our future together, I’d probably forgive him without a second thought. Despite the pain. Despite the little voice that would constantly tell me that men never change and he will do it again. Despite what Serena or Heather or anyone would advise. I would stay with him. Forgive him.
But at this stage in my life, I can’t. I won’t. I won’t become my mother, who at fifty claimed she only ever loved my dad like a brother, but stayed with him because she was afraid to leave, and now regrets it; wonders whether she missed the chance to find a true soul mate. Is that what love is meant to be? Brotherly? Void of the deep hurt that twists your flesh at the mere thought of never being able to see or touch him again? Whatever happened to that? That … that spasm … of heartache … that triggers a vicious thirst to hold on tight and never let go. Is that meant to disappear? And should I hang around to find out? I don’t think I could forgive myself if I did. What if I realize that, “no,” loving him like my own flesh and blood is not the way it’s supposed to be?
“Was it your favorite plate, Mummy?” Tessa asks, flicking my knuckles to get my attention.
“Yes, darling it was,” I nod, biting my bottom lip, swallowing diffident tears. “Daddy always liked to use it, but I’m not going to let him use my plates for a while until he learns how to take care of them.”
Tessa mouths, “Ah,” nodding as if she has just understood the meaning of life.
“Come on, Blossom,” I pinch her cheek. “Go wash your hands for dinner.” On her way she shoots Alex a squint, a finger shake, and says, “Naughty, Papa.”
Alex forces a laugh and slaps himself on the hand.
It’s the right thing to do,
I say to myself.
Even if it’s just temporary
.
I stand out on the balcony after putting Tessa to bed, in my dressing gown, inhaling the uncongested breeze we are lucky to have up here. Every now and then, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, I can smell the basil Alex and I planted together. I breathe a smile onto my face with the memory—our touching crouched bodies, cracking knees, dirt stuck below our nails—him nibbling on my ear as I’d pat down the soil, me drenching him with water after dropping mud down the back of my shorts. It was a time when we could be stupid and play pranks on each other without getting pissed off—inappropriately irritated at good intentions.
There’s a false sense of security standing here, eight floors high. Away from chaos. Untouchable. Restful. Conscious. I …
feel
. I move to the corner of the balcony and lift my arms into the air—trying to inhale what’s left of the happy thought. But immediately bring them down when I realize I might appear to be reenacting
The Titanic.
I look toward the sky hoping to witness a shooting star—an omen for good luck?—but can’t see any stars at all. The Sahara Desert is responsible for this night sky—the dark orange-brown sheath that hangs like fog illuminated by city light. I imagine watching sand encompass us like a violent hurricane from space, eventually suffocating our planet until all that remains is a dried-up prune.
Pop!
The Big Bang revisited.
When I look back down, Alex is standing in front of me. It seems he’s been talking to me the whole time, but I only catch the last few words. “ … and the aliens will invade us.”
“Sorry?”
“Was asking if you’d ever forgive me, but then realized you weren’t paying attention, so made up an alien story. Funny, the things you learn from kids, eh?” Alex smiles, looking into my eyes as if searching for answers.
“Can you close the door? Mosquitoes will get into the house.”
“Don’t think mosquitoes can fly this high, Mel.”
“Can you close it anyway?”
“Sure.” He sighs, briefly pauses at the door before sliding it closed behind him.
He returns holding two glasses of vodka. Citrus vodka. My favorite.
“Thought you might need a drink,” he says, handing me a whiskey glass filled to the brim with ice, garnished with lemon rind. It’s cold in my warm hands.
Is that saying, “cold hands, warm heart” true? Is he trying to warm my heart?
“Thanks,” I say, hardly moving my lips.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Will you forgive me?” Alex strokes my cheek.
“Oh. You were expecting an answer. Sorry, but I got distracted by the thought of you in bed with another woman,” I reply, gently removing his hand from my face.
“Mel …” He swirls his drink, looks into his glass as if it might offer a solution, while holding himself steady on the iron barrier with one hand. He scratches the back of his left knee with his right foot. It reminds me of the time my prep teacher taught us how to pat our heads and rub our tummies at the same time. “Can you … look, I’m so sorry. What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg?”
I shake my head.
“Please, Mel. Please forgive me.” Alex places his glass heavily on the barrier. It vibrates and hums end to end.
“Alex, I can’t because—” I focus on his inert right hand gripping the hem of his
Kinks
T-shirt, willing myself to complete my sentence.
No cushions—just needles. Just say it.
I can’t go through life tacking hems in the hope they don’t unravel in the wash. I pull my dressing gown tight around my waist. “I want to separate for a while.”
“What? Mel, it shouldn’t have to come to this. We can work this—”
“No. No we can’t. No matter what you say I’m still going to feel the same when you’re finished. I don’t know if I can
ever
forgive you. I—”
Skepticism mutes me like a button on a remote. I hang my head. Alex lifts it. Shakes his head in question.
“I … I don’t know if I can lie to myself anymore. Or try to convince myself that it never happened, or that you’ll never do it again.”
Alex turns. Looks toward the swaying trees in the square. It hurts to know this hurts him too, that he can’t look me in the eye, and that from this moment forward, life will never be the same for us again. Does he feel like I do? Afraid of being alone?
“I don’t want to wake up every morning looking at you, lying beside me in bed, and wonder whether you came home the previous night at four a.m. because you had to take a band out to
eat
after a gig or because a fan felt like fucking you, and you said, ‘hey, what the hell.’”
Alex scoffs with acerbic scorn, leans his elbows on the barrier, and cups his drink in both hands. He looks down, spits, waits for it to land, then lets his glass go. Thoughts of being charged with manslaughter run through my head during the glass’s short journey between leaving Alex’s hands and the moment a stray cat shrieks when it shatters on the rubbish skip.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I screech, switching from feelings of hurt and betrayal to panic and relief. “You could have killed someone!”
“And? What does it matter?” Alex says flippantly, yet rubbing his face in angst. “I’ll go to prison? I’m in prison now anyway.”
“Excuse me? What do you mean you’re in prison now anyway? If you feel like that, what makes you think you won’t cheat on me again? You obviously still feel the same way, otherwise why would you say that?”
I glare at him—his solemn face drawing my stare like a magnet. My vision fluctuates—double, triple, half. I’m either over-stimulated with rage, or the vodka is swimming to my head, trying to break the world record. But I don’t want to yell. I don’t want to wake up Tessa. I blink, attempting to focus on Alex’s stubble.
“Baby, I feel really guilty,” Alex says, crunching a piece of ice he’d been holding in his mouth.
“Well, you should.”
Baby? Now he calls me baby?
“I mean really guilty. I almost thought about—” Alex pauses, levers himself onto the ground and rests his arms on his knees. A tear escapes and trickles down his left cheek—a drop of salty sadness I want to lick; to consume as a panacea—a symbolic gesture to mark the beginning of a pact to never hurt each other again.
“Almost what?” I kneel down beside him, willing to listen, but not give in, even though my instinct is pushing me toward taking him in my arms and comforting him like a child. I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to lose someone you love, but I certainly can’t imagine losing two in a row. Am I being unreasonable? Am I making the wrong decision? Am I kidding myself thinking this is the best for all of us and not just me?
“Nothing,” Alex replies, resting his head between his knees.
Nothing. Nothing? This is what is blatantly wrong with us. We don’t communicate. Here I am trying to find out how he is feeling, instead of blabbering on about myself, and I still get nothing.
“Jesus, Alex,” I snap, whacking him on the back of his furry, neglected head. “Can’t you just tell me how you feel instead of hoping I work it out for myself? You constantly claim you can’t read my thoughts, well, you know what? I can’t read yours either. So spit it out. Please.”