Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  ‘And those people in those magazines?’ he says. ‘They’re not real talents. They’re sensation seekers, ready to do anything for publicity. You don’t need to do that if you’re solid in what you do. Your work speaks for itself.’

  ‘Yeah, but I’m not solid.’

  He looks at me then, his eyes intense. I think he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. The truth. That he’s wrong about me. I want to look away but can’t.

  ‘You will be. Trust me. More solid than any over-produced, throw-away, one-hit-wonder wannabe.’

  Oh, god. It’s only now I realise how much I care about what he thinks. ‘Stop. You’re embarrassing me.’

  He grabs my hand and gives me one of his killer smiles. I melt. If this were a movie, I’d throw my arms around his neck and lose myself in his ... his ... I don’t know what. But I would. He’s still silently watching me, and I’m sitting here trying not to imagine his kiss on my mouth and his hands on my body.

  The spell is broken when he returns my hand to my lap. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you home before we do something stupid.’

  As he makes to stand, I grab his arm. He sits again, waiting for me to speak, but I can’t get my words out. I’m staring dumbly thinking: Do something stupid. Do it.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks.

  ‘Do you know what you really want?’

  He studies my eyes. If he can’t read what’s going on in them, he must be blind. I’m waiting, both hopeful and afraid that I might or might not end up getting what I’m pushing for.

  ‘We can’t always have what we want,’ he says.

  ‘Hang on, that’s not what you just said. You said, “if you believe”. Why doesn’t that apply to you?’

  ‘Because I’m choosing to be your manager right now.’

  ‘And if I don’t want to be managed?’

  He hesitates. Why won’t he admit his feelings?

  He stands, hands in pockets. ‘Come on. Let’s not ruin it.’

  You just did.

  We head back to the car, without my arm through his. Did we just lose something that was almost real? A piece of my heart is back there on the bench and every step we take, it’s further away. Soon there’ll be no hope of retrieving it.

  We drive in silence until we pull up outside my apartment. He clears his throat and fiddles with the car keys, stalling. I’m half hoping he’ll insist on walking me to the door. Maybe even stay. I’m on the verge of asking if he’d like a coffee, when he shoots me down.

  ‘I’m going to make it easy for you,’ he says. ‘I’ll find someone else to do the cruise gig with. It’s not fair on you to deal with all this pressure. When I get back, we can figure things out.’

  Click. He’s turned the lock in that slammed door, and he’s walking away with the key. I pretend to study the silver studs on my shoulder bag, pressing my thumb into each one, working my way around the strap. Images of white sand, palm trees and warm water I’ll never feel, slipping away. I’m gutted.

  ‘You know what?’ I say, ‘I just realised I still don’t have a passport.’

  ‘Well, that’s that then. I’ll get a mate to fill in with you at the casino, so you don’t lose any gigs while I’m away. It’ll be a good experience for you – working with someone besides me.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds good.’ It doesn’t.

  ‘So, we’re okay?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You do what you gotta do. I’ll be fine. I’m going to take my tired butt upstairs. Night.’ I brave a quick peck on his cheek. ‘Thanks for today.’

  ‘Night,’ he says. There’s doubt in his voice.

  As I step outside the car, the air is much cooler. For a second, I think about pulling on my cardigan. But wrapping myself in bird poo wool isn’t appealing. I hurry to the footpath. Harry winds down his window and yells.

  ‘Call me if you need anything. With Snap, I mean.’

  I wave.

  The apartment feels cold and shrunken, without Snap. Like a loaf of bread that’s been left in the freezer too long. The kettle lid is broken and rattles as the steam begins to rise. Snap’s been meaning to buy a new one for ages. I should have got off my lazy butt and done it myself. How much do I rely on him?

  I lie on my bed and sip hot chocolate in the fuzzy light of my portable telly, hoping my body will hurry up and realise it’s time to sleep. Now that it can, it won’t, and all I’m thinking about is how to recapture a moment that never happened: the feel of Harry’s lips on mine, the warmth of his breath, the taste of him.

  My phone vibrates on my bedside table. I’ve forgotten to turn the sound back on after the hospital. It’s Harry.

  ‘Okay?’ he asks.

  I nod, then realise I need to answer. ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘I’m worried we’re not on the same page,’ he says.

  ‘No?’

  ‘I’m not dumping you ... from the music. I’m not giving up on you. You know that don’t you?’

  ‘Yeah. Well, no ... I wasn’t sure.’

  ‘You’re not dumped.’

  I close my eyes. Here’s the fatigue I’ve been waiting for. My hand trembles so much I can hardly keep the phone pressed to my ear.

  ‘Still there?’ he asks.

  ‘Just.’

  ‘Okay. I wanted to make sure you’re alright and ... I thought ... if you want to stay at my apartment while I’m away, to be closer to Snap at the hospital, you can.’

  ‘That’s really nice of you.’

  ‘Sleep on it,’ he says.

  ‘K.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Flip side.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t remember.’

  I pause. ‘Yes, I do.’ And I smile because we still have our song.

  ~

  It’s been over a week. The linoleum floor muffles my steps, and murmurs from televisions and visitors’ voices drift into the hallway. As I pass one room, the stink of disinfectant and faeces hits me. I gag. Imagine being so old or sick you can’t even make it to the toilet. Awful. Humiliating. It makes me wonder if Mum is at that stage now. I can’t think about that.

  Here it is: room 30B. It’s right opposite a nurses’ station – so they can keep an eye on him, I suppose. I pause and give a querying look to the duty nurse as I point to Snap’s room.

  She nods and smiles, seems to recognise me. ‘He’s still comatose, but you can talk to him.’

  The curtains are partially drawn across the window. They do that in the mornings, so the sunlight doesn’t hit his face. The bed next to his is empty, and I briefly wonder if the old man who occupied it the past few days made it home to his family or ... not. I step forward quietly and move to Snap’s side. God, he looks like death: his skull is all bandages; his face gaunt, pale as the sheets he’s lying on. There’s a breathing tube taped to his mouth. I thought I could handle this, but I can’t. I’m scared as hell.

  I sit, the vinyl chair creaking, and I worry the noise might wake him. That’s a stupid thought. I want him to wake up. ‘Snap?’ I pick up his hand. It’s cold and dry. What do I say? ‘How are you?’ seems ridiculous. I should tell him everything’s going to be okay. The nurses say that words do get through, even if a comatose patient can’t answer, somewhere deep inside, they hear you.

  I don’t know if everything will be okay, though. I wish he’d wake up and smack me for worrying. ‘Get a grip, girl,’ he’d say. ‘I’m not dying.’ And I’d say, ‘You freakin’ better not be.’

  It’s weird. He doesn’t look unconscious. He looks as though he’s sleeping. Then again, what does unconscious look like? What’s the difference? Are we unconscious when we sleep?

  ‘Hey,’ I whisper. ‘I found your phone, so I called a couple of your friends. They said they would visit. And ... don’t be angry, but I called your gran. I know, I know, you said she doesn’t care but, well, her number was still in your phone, so I figured you
haven’t written her off. And, you know, sometimes people change and ... she’s family. Someone should know what’s happened to you. I mean ... if you don’t pull through ... someone needs to ...’ I take a breath. This is not going in the direction I planned. Positive. Be positive.

  ‘So, here’s a bonus: I didn’t call your dad. I figured, wheelchair or not, he’d be able to whoop your butt with you out cold, so ... no dad. But anyway, your gran didn’t answer. I’ll keep trying. If she fobs me off, well, too bad. But she’s family, you know? She has to care.’

  I sit and wait. And wait. The shadows in the room move slowly as the sun arcs into afternoon. The soft thud and hiss of Snap’s ventilator mesmerises me, while the padding and squeaking of nurses’ rubber-soled shoes, the beeping of call buttons and drift of passing conversations all fade into the background.

  At some stage, a tight, heavy thing builds inside me. I think it’s fury. Yes, it is. I’m so freakin’ angry because this didn’t need to happen. I didn’t ask Snap to interfere. I’d already walked away from the pub. Forgotten about it. Why should I have to deal with the Bobs and Samuels of the world? I don’t have that sort of power. I wish I did, but I don’t. And now look – for eight days my precious friend’s been in some space I can’t reach, and he may never, ever wake up.

  10. Circumspect

  The sparkly dress hangs as if it’s been tailored for the ridiculously tall and impossibly thin mannequin on the pedestal.

  ‘It’ll look amazing on you,’ the salesgirl says. She’s been following me around, suggesting bits of clothing that maybe a fifteen-year-old would wear.

  ‘Amazing isn’t my thing,’ I tell her.

  Besides, I suspect she would say a baggy t-shirt that’s been rolling about on my bedroom floor for a week would look amazing on me – if it made her a dollar.

  ‘It’s vintage,’ she says.

  ‘What? Second-hand?’ How can something used cost a hundred and eighty freakin’ dollars?

  ‘Vintage design,’ she says unblinking.

  She’s good. She has this way of communicating her superiority without being obvious. There must be some special school that slinky, blonde-tressed salesgirls attend to learn this Zen kind of put-down. Who knew? Snap would. I wish he were here with me. Why won’t he wake up? I can’t do this fast lane without him.

  I sigh. ‘Okay, what the hell. Nothing else seems as if it’ll fit.’

  ‘Great.’ She looks me up and down in a glance. ‘Size twelve.’

  Her tone doesn’t leave room for argument. I eye her sideways. How does she do that?

  She flips through the rack and whips out a dress. ‘I’ll put it in the fitting boutique, shall I?’

  She pronounces ‘boutique’ with an emphasis on the ‘que’, like ‘boutiquay’. Maybe not ‘quay’, more like ‘kah’, ‘boutikah’. What is that, anyway? Code for tiny, little upright coffin with surround mirrors that make you look taller and slimmer than you really are, until you try the dress on again in your bedroom and go WTF?!!! Did I grow a spare tyre on my way home?

  ‘Special occasion?’ the salesgirl asks.

  ‘Mmm.’ I can’t be bothered explaining.

  ‘Oh, where are you going?’

  Damn her. I explain: I’m a singer, blah blah blah, and we’ve got our first gig in the casino’s Ruby Room tonight. I don’t tell her I’m super excited because the casino’s entertainment manager has promoted us so quickly, or that I’m sad too because it’s my last gig with Harry before he leaves for the South Pacific.

  The salesgirl is buzzed and promises to bring her friends along to see me, obviously unaware it’s a restricted room, and she and her dinky little friends will have fat chance of gaining entry. Weird, now it should be my turn to feel superior. But I don’t. Instead, I smile and try to sound sufficiently grateful for her help so that she’ll leave me alone with the dress.

  It’s a little tricky to get on, and the sequins scratch my arms when I zip up. I look in the mirror and OMG. She’s right. The dress looks freakin’ amazing. Just enough cleavage, just enough of a split in the side, and the perfect red for the Ruby Room.

  ~

  It’s crazy busy here. Apparently, weeknights at the casino are no different from weekends. I guess school nights are irrelevant to high rollers. The décor is a cut above the Starlight Lounge: all crystal chandeliers, lush red carpets and velvety chairs, but that’s as far as the ruby theme applies.

  Harry waves when he sees me. I dump my gig bag on the stage and take my jacket off. He whistles, then grins.

  I look all innocent eyes at him. ‘What?’ I know exactly what, but I want to hear it anyway.

  ‘You look stunning.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I don’t even blush.

  We kick off with a few standards and Harry is right: no-one much pays attention. They’re too focused on the roulette and poker tables, which look as if they might be made of real wood — rosewood or mahogany? — not that plastic-looking stuff. The crowd is different. I’m not sure if it’s the scotch, martinis and champagne instead of beer, or if it’s a general nonchalance. As long as we get some of those generous tips Harry mentioned, I’ll be a happy girl.

  Our performance is smooth tonight. I’ve only glitched a couple of times, and it didn’t even faze me. Must be the shot of vodka I took at home. Or being tired from the 7-Eleven. Or an attitude adjustment after spending hours this week sitting and holding Snap’s hand — nothing like the prospect of death to make you wake up to yourself. Priorities.

  We’re working through the same set list as last time, when Harry angles his head, trying to direct my gaze to someone in the crowd. I’m looking but not seeing. I keep singing, and looking, because he seems agitated that I’m not getting it.

  ‘What?’ I whisper during his solo.

  He shakes his head, unable to talk and play lead break at the same time. Then it’s my turn to sing again. It’d be comical if it weren’t so frustrating.

  ‘Joe Davidson,’ he manages to whisper.

  Like I’m supposed to know who that is. Then it clicks: Solway Records – the company Harry does session work for. Oh crap. I’m not ready for this. It’s only our second gig. What was Harry thinking? Suddenly my confidence takes a U-turn, and I’m a sea of tight muscles.

  It’s his turn to solo again. I stand close to him and hiss. ‘Tonight? Why?’

  ‘I didn’t invite him.’

  ‘So how?’

  ‘Dunno. Do the new one,’ he says. And it takes me a moment to realise he’s transitioned into an original song we’ve been working on. I glare. Thanks for the warning.

  I try not to look panicked as I search for the lyrics on my iPad. Got them.

  As I sing, I scan the crowd, seeing if anyone particular is paying attention. There he is ... maybe? Towards the back of the room, a guy leaning against a pillar, watching us. He’s got that middle-aged, paunch-bald thing going on. He must be the only person in the room without a drink; both his hands are tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. I stumble on a phrase. Crap. I flick my eyes back to my iPad, trying not to look obvious. At least the bit I made up rhymed with the previous line. It’s an original. Who’s gonna know?

  We finish the song and switch back to our normal repertoire. Joe, if it is actually him, keeps staring. My squirm-factor slides up a notch. My dress is clinging in all the wrong places. Sweat prickles my scalp. But he must like us. He’s not smiling or anything, but he’s still there. He stays for the start of the next song.

  I’ve got to get this under control. Show him we have the talent he’s looking for. My singing isn’t the problem. I’m rockin’ every song. It’s what to do with my body that throws me. I need some dance lessons, something that’ll give me physical confidence. I attempt a slinky move and think I actually pull it off. There’s only fifteen minutes left before we finish our set and get to talk with him. I’m filled with excitement ... and dread. I can imagine the three of us cosied up in a booth, Harry and Joe exchanging testosterone and me s
ipping a vodka martini, smiling stupidly every now and then, unable to verbalise my horror and enthusiasm at being considered for a recording project.

  He’s on the move. Maybe he’s getting a drink? Nope. He saunters right past the bar and out of the room. I deflate. Why the hell couldn’t he stay for another few minutes? All that anticipation for nothing. As soon as Harry and I finish up, I crack it.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  Harry moves towards the bar, and I follow, desperate to voice my annoyance. ‘He just walked off.’

  ‘So? No-one said there was going to be a meeting. He dropped in of his own volition. He didn’t have to.’

  ‘Yeah but ...’ My shoulders slump as I slide onto a bar stool. ‘I mean, why not at least wave or something?’

  ‘Why? He’s not the queen. You’ve done two gigs and you’re expecting royal treatment? He doesn’t know you from a bar of soap. Maybe you need to lower your expectations a little.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Language.’

  Crap. Okay, I’m a diva. But this industry is ... I hate it and love it at the same time. Is that normal? How do entertainers survive without going crazy? No wonder so many of the brilliant ones die young. It scares me that maybe I want this more than I realise.

  Tomorrow, I’ll come down from my lofty high and everything will be mundane again. Then I’ll visit Snap and remind myself what the real world is like.

  ~

  Freaking hell. Harry’s knock on the car window gives me a start. I’ve been sitting in here, in Snap’s car, pondering whether I’m making the right move. It seems like a good idea. I mean Harry’s apartment is nice and cushy with Foxtel and central heating. Who wouldn’t like that? But it’s Harry’s place. And we’ll be sharing it for a couple of days before he leaves – his idea – so I can get comfortable with how his stuff works. I mean a washing machine is a washing machine isn’t it? It’s not like it’s What does this button do? Boom!

  I wind down the window, and he leans on the doorframe. ‘Who taught you to park?’

  ‘Snap. Why?’

  ‘Well ... parallel means ... never mind. I thought you were coming a couple of hours ago?’