Authors: Jessica Bell
Serena_Servais
LOL
MelodyHill(Billy?)
I wish.
Serena_Servais
Don’t forget Tessa!
MelodyHill(Billy?)
Are you kidding? COURSE NOT! Tessa sometimes only savior. Can escape in her world. But not same. Nope. Can’t tell her I feel sad. I’ll just make her cry and psychologically damage her like my mum did me.
Serena_Servais
LOL You’ll be alright when u wake up in morning. U always are.
MelodyHill(Billy?)
Yeah. Know. But can’t live like this. Need not to have these feelings. Need not to go through neediness. I wonder if my mum ever felt like this?
Serena_Servais
Like what?
MelodyHill(Billy?)
A yearning to play music.
Serena_Servais
Doubt it. She played gigs whenever she liked, didn’t she? Why would she yearn?
MelodyHill(Billy?)
I dunno. Depression?
Serena_Servais
She was sick, Mel. You’re not sick.
MelodyHill(Billy?)
I’m not? LOL
Serena_Servais
No! Hon, let’s chat again tomorrow. I’m sorry, have to go. Please! You’ll be ok! Just think of Tessa. U told me yourself she’s only 1 who makes u smile when depressed. Luv u. xoxox
I turn off my computer, singing Joni Mitchell’s River underneath my self-hating invisible sobs.
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on …
I reach below my desk and pick up one of Tessa’s teddy bears that she’s left behind. It smells like her—Athens grime and Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. Its fur is hard and stiff in places where Tessa has drooled on it in her sleep. I rub my cheek against its belly, remembering the first day Tessa and Teddy lay in the same cot together. That was the day Alex asked me to give up playing gigs. I was so high on being a mother that I didn’t even care. I didn’t even question it, fight it, or even try to understand it.
Did he take me to see Patti Smith to avoid continuing our discussion? Could he possibly be so cunning?
I tiptoe into Tessa’s room, to look at her, to try and remember the feeling that washed all my dreams away without a care in the world. Maybe I can find it again. To convince myself that motherhood is music. It used to be. When did that feeling cease? And why do I feel so guilty about it?
Tessa is curled up at the bottom of her bed—duvet and pillows and dolls and teddies all fallen onto the floor. I pick up the duvet and cover her petite body, being careful not to wake her. But all I want to do is take her in my arms, and sing her a lullaby. All night. I want to sing to her for so long that she will wake up the next day, and understand, deep down in her heart why I need more, because she’ll have realized that she needs it too.
It doesn’t seem so long ago that I gave birth to Tessa. I can still feel my legs in those stirrups—the sweaty doctor sucking the entire universe through my spasming black hole. Muscles being pulled from my spine, my thighs to my pelvis. What began as an insignificant seed, violently pushed itself like a fist through tearing fabric. The only thought preventing me from slipping into oblivion was that, for this miracle of life, there was light, not darkness, to launch her into this rutted world. Because in those days I was never two shades of gray. In those days I thought I would be a brilliant mother. Full of light. And happiness. Now I worry I’m going to neglect her like my mother neglected me.
I wake up a few hours later in a sweat.
I dreamed I was on my childhood front lawn in a cabaret dress with the snotty-nosed girl, Marlene, from across the road pointing her finger at me, looking very cross. Her nose was running as she sniffed, “My mum says that Winterberry Holly won’t bloom in an Australian climate … My mum says that your dad doesn’t know how to prune the rose bushes properly … My mum says that you have a bogan accent … My mum says your freckles look like someone threw dirt in your face and the wind suddenly changed.” Then her voice grew deeper, and she turned into my mother. “I’m very disappointed in you, Melody. No more gigs for two months.”
I lie back down. On my back. I monitor the adjusting darkness in the room and wish my days weren’t full of so much nothingness. Days that resemble an ice cube in a glass of hot water. Days I psychologically slip in and out of in seconds because nothing of importance happens. I exist. I eat. I work. I sleep. And then I don’t.
Do people realize the damage routine does to our psyche?
Routine
is a monotonous exhaustion; an annihilation of the desire to differ. It humiliates the soul, kills passion. It’s a disease. I like to call it Routinitus. I’ve forgotten how to fight it, too. So lately I’ve been focusing my attention elsewhere. On mornings and nights. The times of day I can make it through without yearning pulling my mind every which way.
During the few short moments I lie in bed before I open my eyes at dawn, I soak up the silence—its precious freedom. I’m the only one who subsists in this cocoon of linen, soft on my body, from toe to chin, defending the intricacies of the flesh and spirit within; in a field of cotton, protected from the sun, the sea, the wind. There’s no time to think, just to feel—near nothingness imprints peace onto my skin. Those few short moments of pleasant loneliness save me from sin. They save me from voicing my selfish woes, when I have everything anyone could need. They are my security blanket.
During the few short moments I lie in bed before I sleep at night, I like to introduce myself to the dreams that await me; to dreams I never recall when I awake; to dreams that take me so far from reality that clicking heals together will never return me home. I push my weightless body so distant into obscurity that I’m afraid to question where I am. But the fear isn’t fear I experience on earth. It is a silent, hidden fear, which summons self-belief. For creed is credible in dreams. And we don’t need to make choices. They’re already made. Sanctity prays for me instead of me for it.
But no matter how hard I try to hold onto these pleasant moments throughout the day, time races by, in slow motion. A truth I cannot outrun. I am tricked by moments. I once told my mother, “Live the moment.” Advice offered to salvage her venture toward happiness. But then she retold it to me, as if wise in her old age, forgetting that it was
me
she’d heard it from. Forgetting it was
I
she once claimed gave her all the happiness she needed.
If time could stand still, if the moments are truly all that matter, then why can’t we stop the clock when our children are born, when happiness is sewn into our seams? I can’t live life just appreciating moments. I can’t let time pass me by without anything to show for it. I don’t want to reach that point in life when dreams become small and meaningless and unattainable, when small needs become embellished, and ardent passions no longer inspire a fleeting thought. I don’t want to live my life and then realize I have nothing and can never attempt to get what I want again.
Alex starts to snore like a lawnmower’s engine. I need to pull us out of this rut. Alex and I need to figure out what is going on between us—or finish it, so we can move on with our lives. We cannot keep going like this. But how do you heal something that isn’t open to being healed? And how do you find the strength to keep trying to change something when your changes keep getting thrown back in your face?
Why can’t relationships be like a job? Work is work. Work is simple. When you have to get something done at work, you schedule a deadline and then you meet it. Object achieved. No ums and ahs, wondering how, when, why. You just do it.
I roll over and slip my arm around Alex’s waist. I put my hand down the front of his boxers, in the hope that a little sexual contact might bring us closer together. But without moving an inch, Alex says, “Just because I took you to see Patti Smith, doesn’t mean I forgive you.”
Forgive me? For what?
I pull my hand away, without a word. As I roll onto my back, the wrinkling sound of the duvet reverberates through the room. I close my eyes and focus on the bed linen caressing my body. But tonight it doesn’t feel very soft.
Six
As I open my mouth to yawn, my lips disengage like Velcro. The bedroom window is ajar. Our avocado-green cotton curtains flutter in a brief warm zephyr. I cock my head. I listen. If I were a cat, my ears would twitch as I interpret the time through the rhythm of traffic sounds below—a few swift travelling sighs, but no horns, or beeping garbage trucks yet.
It’s quiet for a Saturday morning, so it must be early. My hand reaches for the mobile phone on the bedside table like an uncoordinated sea lion’s flipper. It’s only 7:30 and Alex has already gotten out of bed. I sometimes wonder whether he avoids waking me on purpose—to be alone. I’ve tried myself, but failed.
Saturdays for Alex are just as busy as every other day, if not more so—especially if he has an event planned for the evening. But as far as I can remember, he should be free tonight. Maybe Heather can look after Tessa so we can finish that conversation. Perhaps if we have the opportunity to vociferously disgrace each other like two squabbling Tasmanian Devils, we’ll end up having a civilized chat. Right or wrong, it always works that way.
I prop pillows up behind me and lever my cumbersome and languid body backward against the head board. Pushing my knotted hair out of my face and rubbing sharp sleep from my eyes, I wonder what Tessa is up to. It’s supposed to be my day off today from work and from care giving. Alex promised he’d entertain Tessa on his own so that I could have at least one day every other week with no responsibilities calling for my immediate attention. We did, however, organize this six days ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has forgotten, because all I can hear is Alex’s muffled aggressive Greek shouting and his thick heavy footsteps pacing back and forth.
“I’ve ridden
all
around Exarchia and I can’t see even
one
fucking poster for The Incredible String Band … Where?
Where
have you stuck them? … Don’t you fucking lie to me, you— What? That’s bullshit!”
“Papa—”
“Not now sweetie, go play with your dolls.”
Tessa’s complying feet trot back to her bedroom. She mumbles something I can’t make out and then something ricochets off her wall.
I get up and put on my white terrycloth robe. It smells like mold; week-old damp cloth. I thought Alex said he’d washed them. Or perhaps he just washed
his
.
I shuffle into my flip flops and make my way to the kitchen. But instead of heading straight for the percolator to make a coffee, I’m confronted with a Coco Pop tip. Along with Tessa’s half-eaten Coco Pop, muesli and strawberry yoghurt concoction is a scattered mixture of cereal all over the table and floor. Again. He left Tessa to fend for herself—again.
I grab the brush and pan from under the sink. My head throbs from front to back like a pendulum as I bend over—a blatant reminder that my stress is not going to dwindle merely because it is the weekend. Weekend stress is like your airline losing your luggage on the way to a secluded holiday resort. When you arrive, you still want to enjoy yourself, to relax, but you can’t. Want to take a swim? Well, sorry, you’ll have to swim in your skanky underwear.
Once I clean up the mess, and prepare coffee, I walk by Tessa’s bedroom to make sure she isn’t sulking. Of course she’s not sulking, she is cutting off her favorite doll’s hair.
I contemplate trying to stop her, fearing a possible scissor hazard mostly, but then decide against it when I realize she’s cutting away from herself like I taught her. An odd grin contorts her face as if she’s been possessed by Chucky. Is she enjoying it? It’s either that, or she’s using it as a voodoo doll to exonerate her frustration toward Alex for dismissing her.
Hmm
. Like grandmother, like mother, like daughter.
I grab the morning paper Alex left on the small mahogany table in the hall and make my way into the lounge where Alex is texting on his phone, facing toward the balcony.
“Morning,” I gurgle, rattling the paper about, trying to turn it inside out at the Holiday Packages section.
Alex raises his brow and hand in reply without making eye contact. Every time Alex ignores me I experience a brief moment of asphyxiation, as if I’ve poked my head into a room of smoke. Despite this, I say to myself,
Don’t let it bother you. It’s your day. And you’re not going to let anyone ruin it for you. Sit back. Relax. Read a book. Treat yourself to a proper coffee from down the street. Take the dog for a walk in the park. Collect some pinecones. Make some decorations with Tessa. Remove your mind from this rotten routine.
I sit on the couch crossing my legs like a child on the floor at kindergarten, imaginary earplugs in place, and tongue in position to inadvertently slip out of the side of my mouth when I see something interesting while scanning the Holiday Packages section—a habit I haven’t been able to kick since my mother’s newfound career as a travel agent. I like to snoop. To see the prices of the packages she scores commission from. It gives me an idea of what kind of money she’s making. And how much I’m not.
How did everything turn out so good for her? Whatever happened to karma?
Alex puts his phone in the back pocket of his tailored black pants, spreads his legs apart like a bouncer, and crosses his arms in front of the Ramones logo on his T-shirt.
“Clothes on the line. Pasta on the stove. Do something about it. You know I hate things lying around when I’ve got business to do,” he says in a tone so cold I can hardly recognize his voice. He turns his back to me and gazes out of the window. He pulls his phone from his pocket—again—and begins to type. Click, click, click on the keypad like boiled candy against teeth.
Who is he constantly messaging?