Henry Hamlet's Heart

by Rhiannon Wilde

  Thud thud thud.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I yell back.

  ‘Have you asked him yet?’

  ‘We’re not really – I mean …’

  ‘HENRY! You’re going to have to talk to him eventually!’

  I run through it rapidly in my head. Whether I can message him. What it would mean if I did.

  ‘Hello?’ Mum shouts. ‘I can ring him, if you want.’

  ‘No! I’ll just text him.’

  ‘Too late, already dialled.’

  ‘MUM!’

  I jump up and race downstairs.

  Mum hands me the receiver with a meddling look in her eye.

  I frantically wave her away, then clear my throat. ‘Hello?’

  Pause.

  ‘Hey.’

  It’s physical, what happens when I hear his voice. It sounds different, but also – exactly exactly the same. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second before ploughing on.

  ‘Um. Sorry about Mum ringing you – I was going to text.’

  ‘No, it’s—’

  ‘How are you?’ I ask.

  ‘Fine. You?’

  ‘Yeah. Bit hectic at the moment.’

  ‘I bet. How’s Iris going?’

  ‘Bridezilla. She’s driving Mum mad.’

  We’re quiet for a moment.

  Strangers.

  ‘So, it’s nine o’clock on Saturday?’ he says after another pause.

  ‘You’re coming?’

  I can almost hear him rolling his eyes. ‘I said I’d do the photos.’

  ‘I know, I just thought maybe—’

  ‘I’ll see you there, Hamlet,’ he says, and hangs up.

  Gran gets ready at our place on the big day. After weeks of obsessing over each and every detail, she’s uncharacteristically calm when the moment comes. She puts on a yellow dress and red lipstick, and piles her hair on top of her head.

  ‘There,’ she says, surveying the final effect in the mirror. Her long sleeves trail along the floor. ‘Now for mimosas.’

  I mix the orange juice and champagne dutifully.

  ‘Have one with me,’ she says. ‘Make it a double.’

  I make a second one for myself. Because he’s going to be there today, I only add a dash of juice to the champagne.

  We sit in the armchairs by the window in the front room, watching the day bloom clear and sunny. Nature’s turning it on for Gran – colour slashing across the flower bushes and light rubbing everything into high definition.

  She downs her drink.

  ‘How you feeling?’ I ask.

  ‘Grand, love. Just grand.’

  ‘No second thoughts?’

  ‘Not a one.’ Her champagne-y eyes home in on me. ‘You, though,’ she says, ‘are sad.’

  I lean forward and grab some chips off the table, shovelling them into my mouth. ‘I’m fine.’

  She tilts her head to the side, scanning my face for ages. ‘It was love, wasn’t it?’ she finally says. ‘You and him. It must have been.’

  I clench my chip-dusted fingers into a ball. ‘Me and who?’

  Gran just reaches both hands up around her eyes and mimes holding a camera. Click.

  (It’s too hot in here. Why can’t I have a father who believes in air conditioning?)

  ‘Past tense being the operative,’ I say a few moments later. ‘It didn’t work out.’

  Gran grabs my wrist. Her eyes go mistier and I prepare for the worst, but her voice is soft. ‘It’s the greatest honour, you know, love. To have your heart broken.’

  I stare down at the familiar wrinkles of her hand, blinking hard. Her first wedding ring winks elegant gold.

  ‘You reckon?’

  She nods. ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  Gran’s eyes are far away. ‘Broken-hearted people live the hardest.’

  I consider her words for a moment. I feel like maybe she’s thinking about her own lost love, Pa. I’m thinking: I hope she’s right.

  ‘What are you two doing!?’ Mum demands, crashing through the door with a bouquet in each hand. ‘We have to go – now. Henry, you’re not even dressed!’

  ‘I wish you’d relax, Bill,’ Gran says calmly. ‘You’ve done a wonderful job. All this flapping around is futile – what will be, will be. Have a mimosa.’

  ‘What—’

  ‘You look really beautiful, Mum,’ I cut in, taking the bouquets off her.

  ‘Thanks, Hen.’ She sighs, distracted but only just. She shoots one last exasperated look at Gran. ‘Five minutes, you two! I mean it.’

  I drive us to the church in Dad’s car. Gran’s quiet the whole way into the city. She just stares serenely out the tinted window while Mum worries aloud about every detail one last time.

  We pull up outside the old church – a sandy brick number framed by fig trees with tall spires cutting into the sky.

  Mum steps out of the car first, holding the hem of her pink dress off the ground. She really is beautiful. I open Gran’s door and help her out; her hand is warm and dry in mine.

  People are milling around outside – Gran’s friends from bridge, neighbours, Marigold’s relatives from Sweden. Gran lets go of my hand after a minute and walks fearlessly inside ahead of us.

  Mum and I wait at the entrance for Dad and Marigold. Gran immediately starts chatting with the celebrant, a balding guy in a three-piece suit who blushes under her attention.

  I’m wearing the same navy-blue jacket and skinny tie I wore to Dad’s gallery show last year. It’s cool, but a little tight in the shoulders. I worry, for the thousandth time, that it makes my head look overly large.

  ‘What time is it?’ Mum asks anxiously.

  I check my watch. ‘Five to nine.’

  I peek ahead of us at her masterpiece. There’s sheer material draped around the backs of the wooden pews, candles in candelabras at the end of each row. Roses in every colour are bunched, woven, strewn and hung on every surface, draping the room in sweet.

  Marigold should be here any minute.

  Mum sucks in a breath. ‘I hope your father finds it okay.’

  He’s only ‘my father’ when Mum thinks he’s poised to monumentally screw up.

  ‘He was here yesterday for the rehearsal,’ I point out.

  She ignores me. ‘What if he takes a wrong turn and goes over the bridge? What if he ends up in Coorparoo?’

  ‘Then he’ll turn around.’

  Mum looks aghast, as though a more appropriate response would have been, ‘Well, then we’ll all die.’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask. ‘You look kind of …’

  She stares at the altar blankly. ‘I quit my job yesterday.’

  My eyes pop.

  ‘Stepped down, technically,’ she clarifies, looking at me apprehensively. ‘But, yes.’

  ‘Wow. That’s …’ I chew my lip. ‘That’s big.’

  Mum drops her shoulders and switches her bouquet to the other hand. ‘I love my work, Hen, you know I do, but lately I’ve just needed balance. Between it and the other three loves of my life. Dad and I have stuff we want to do, you know? And maybe I’m not cut out for being at home, maybe I’ll miss work or be bored or realise I actually hate cooking, but I at least want to try … Oh, what do you think?’

  Mum’s eyes are wide blue worlds, waiting for my opinion.

  (When I was really small, I used to think you could see everything in them.)

  ‘I think you’re gonna be absolutely fine.’

  She drags me into a sudden fierce hug, rose thorns poking my shoulder.

  ‘I knew there was a reason I loved you.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I smile. ‘Just the one, though.’

  The others arrive exactly three minutes late. Mum looks about ready to go nuclear, but takes her plac
e up at the altar.

  Marigold walks down the aisle in silver suit pants and a billowy blouse that’s untucked at the back, with black shoes I want to borrow. She carries a big bouquet the same as Gran’s.

  I cry. We all do. Dad is the worst; the videographer has to lean over at one point and hiss for him to be quiet.

  Gran talks of love and loss and the fluidity of life; Marigold makes good-natured jokes at Gran’s expense before telling her she’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen.

  I get up and shakily recite the Rilke quote. In the end, I went with the one he chose, about adjoining souls and love being an exercise in protecting each other’s solitude. I’ve rehearsed the shit out of it, but I can still feel the words while I’m saying them.

  I look for him, then. I can’t help it.

  My eyes scan the crowd, coming up empty at first … and then they snag on his.

  He’s wearing gabardine pants with a black jacket over the top, which makes his gold hair lucent in comparison.

  (And I just … Why does he have to look like that in a suit?)

  He holds my gaze for a moment too long and my throat aches. I swallow, and look away.

  When the simple ceremony is over, their glasses clink together on the kiss. Gran dips Marigold down so low she almost snaps her in half. Goldie blushes when she jolts back upright. She shakes her head reprovingly, but her smile is huge.

  Outside, the sun is bright and fierce over our heads. Mum marshals us together in the small garden for family photos, pulling Len along behind her.

  When he lifts up his camera, I grit my teeth, settling in for the worst.

  Len snaps some pictures of the happy couple before waving us all in to stand fanned around them. Briskly and without making eye contact, he directs me to stand with Mum and Gran, Gran and Goldie, Dad and Ham.

  He’s careful and clinical, but being under his lens feels like touching. There’s a ring on his index finger I haven’t seen before. I’m trying so hard to not to stare at him again that I probably look constipated in every single shot.

  We finally pile into the car to head to the reception, ferrying across to the riverside restaurant owned by an old friend of Marigold’s.

  It’s sparsely decorated, filled with ornate light fixtures and long tables arranged around wide windows with a sweeping view of the bridge. The appetisers are already out by the time we arrive. Ham makes a beeline for them immediately, stuffing two sausage rolls in his cheeks.

  I can feel Len in my periphery, taking candids of guests by the bar on the opposite wall. I follow Ham, and load my plate with enough spring rolls to feed a small family.

  I find my seat at the bridal table next to Mum and plant myself down, then commence eating my feelings.

  At Gran’s request, there aren’t any speeches (she made the grave mistake of having an open mic at her first wedding). The cake is cut early, and the bar tab runs for the entire party.

  By four o’clock, everyone is quite merry, including Gran, who holds Goldie hostage waltzing for a solid hour. The dance floor quickly becomes packed – Mum and Dad break it down to ‘Greased Lightnin’’, and Ham joins them for a hideously loud ‘Nutbush’.

  I eat my fancy brownie dejectedly. I’ve always enjoyed weddings – the sense of promise that comes from them, witnessing lurve up colourful close. It used to give me hope that one day I’d understand what they were all going on about.

  Turns out, weddings are intolerable when you actually are in love. Hopelessly unrequitedly so, anyway.

  All the happy couples seem to be rubbing their joy in my face like proverbial sandpaper.

  I bump into Len when I get up to get more cake. He’s holding a rum and Coke and talking to a leggy graduate student of Gran’s. I ignore both of them, and the lightning bolt in my chest.

  I sit back down, eat more chocolate buttercream, and chase it with wine.

  I’m three glasses and another brownie deep before I notice he’s still talking to her. They’ve floated outside, him smiling slow and pausing every now and then to take more candids.

  After a while, I stand up and mill around the edge of the dance floor. The DJ’s taking requests. I manage to walk straight towards him, looking over my shoulder again at the snap of Len’s ringed finger on the shutter button.

  I take a deep breath that’s at severe risk of becoming a burp, and ask for ‘Lucky You’ by The National, just to be a dick.

  I regret it almost immediately, because: a) I remember with painful clarity the last time he and I listened to it, one earbud each; and b) Gran materialises out of the ether and shouts, ‘Young people music!’

  She hurtles towards me before I can get away.

  ‘My favourite grandson, the one who never has any fun,’ Gran slurs. ‘Come and dance, Henry!’

  Goldie appears to still have her wits about her at least. She shushes Gran, squeezing her hand reproachfully. ‘Come on, Ris – how about we go and peek at the guest book?’

  ‘Look – Lennon’s fun.’ Gran points at him, eyes still on me and lit with mischief. ‘Dance with him.’

  The first verse rolls into being. I turn around; sure enough, he’s standing by the cake table changing lenses. His face tells me he’s heard every word.

  I will the floor to open up underneath me. ‘Gran, I don’t—’

  ‘Dance!’ she orders.

  I widen my eyes at her, I know what you’re doing, but she just giggles.

  Marigold mouths ‘sorry’ at me, and pulls Gran away.

  When I look up, Len’s got one hand burrowed in his pocket, and he’s holding the other out to me.

  I glare at it, arms still folded. ‘What are you doing? No.’

  ‘Come on,’ he says in an echo of a hundred other times from another life. His gaze is tipsy. ‘Let’s have some fun.’

  I roll my eyes but take his hand, because I’m nothing if not pathetic.

  We fumble for position, Matt Berninger singing us in, until I’ve got one claw-hand clamped awkwardly on his bicep. Len slides his hand to the small of my back. We’re standing so far apart it’s hard to move.

  ‘You’re gonna have to come closer,’ he murmurs.

  I check if anyone’s looking. It’s getting late; just us and half-a-dozen elderly couples on the dance floor. The other guests sat at their gossamer tables are royally plastered. Mum and Ham are asleep in their chairs. I sigh and give in, closing the gap between us.

  He brings our hands up gently, his left and my right.

  When we touch, it’s fireworks rattling in a cage even though there’s no matches left. His face tightens like he feels it too.

  ‘We don’t have to,’ I say. ‘If you don’t want. Gran’s gone.’

  He tightens his grip. ‘Don’t be dumb.’

  I can feel each of his fingers splayed out on my back.

  ‘I just meant—’

  ‘Relax. I want to.’

  (What does that mean?)

  The chorus crashes in, and then we’re dancing.

  He takes the lead easily, stepping us around in a square by the window. Somehow, he manages to keep me from getting tripped up by my feet. We move together, swaying gently.

  His torso’s warm against mine. I feel him take in a deep breath before he leans into me fully. I close my eyes and take his weight.

  The last few weeks disappear. My world shrinks to a tinkling musical bridge. The lights on the Story Bridge switch from blue to red to green on the river outside.

  After a while I let my cheek rest against his hair, because why not, if this is the only time I’ll ever get to dance with him?

  The song crescendos around us. I do my best to breathe unobtrusively, wanting to prolong the spell.

  His nose nudges along my shirt collar and up to my neck. He rests there, inhaling, and what?

  This is seriousl
y passing even my threshold for PDAs, but I don’t move.

  Len shifts slightly until his lips are pressed against my skin, just below my ear.

  Once. Twice. It’s so soft I’m not sure it happened.

  My hand tightens in his. I think: bastard. I think: do it again.

  Then he steps back, gently setting my arms down by my sides.

  He stares at me for so long I don’t know how my face doesn’t burst open. His eyes are foggy, like he’s dreaming and unsure whether to wake up or see it through.

  The song’s over.

  I reach out a hand to him. But he’s walking away, and I’m watching him go. Wondering if either of us will even remember this in the morning.

  25

  Any delusions I’ve harboured about being over him disappear completely. I go into full Bella-Swan-in-New-Moon wallowing.

  I look for him.

  Constantly.

  (Even more than before, now that our days of being in the same place are numbered.)

  I don’t talk to him, though.

  From what I can tell, he’s still spending most of his time in the art room working on his final project. I don’t even see him at lunch, except occasionally just after the bell’s gone, striding across the grass with a frame tucked under each arm.

  I know he’s gunning for the gallery show, but it feels like a worrying level of dedication for someone who’s supposed to be ‘fine’.

  The countdown to graduation hits single digits in what seems the blink of an eye. People always say that, but it’s true. I don’t know where the last six months – or twelve years – have gone, but they are, and so are we. Almost.

  We won’t find out our final exam results until the holidays, and uni offers aren’t until January, so we’re all caught in this teetering limbo, staring over the edge at whatever’s next.

  The end comes nothing like I thought it would. I always pictured it differently when I thought of finishing school. I thought I’d be older, wiser, with the next ten years of my life planned out in meticulous detail.

  (I pictured us together.)

  The last week is the fastest. It’s stiflingly hot, the aeroplane-like hum of air conditioners a constant backing track while our teachers rack their brains for things for us to do.