Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  He crinkles his nose. ‘Iiiced VoVos or noth-th-th-thing.’

  ‘Princess.’

  I squeeze his hand.

  It’s around eleven-thirty. The rain has stopped. Harry must have gone to bed and left the hall light on for me. His suitcase is sitting just inside the front door. I hang up my jacket and look down the corridor. His door is open, and there’s a soft glow coming from his beside lamp.

  I stand in his doorway and whisper, ‘Harry? Are you awake?’

  He doesn’t respond. He’s lying on his stomach, head resting on one arm. I should turn his lamp off. I slip off my shoes and pad over to his bed. He sighs and rolls onto his side. The sheet falls away to his hip, revealing the strength of his wide chest, the honey blond hair on his arms, his narrow waist. Beautiful. It’s so tempting to reach over and touch his skin, to trace the slope of his shoulder down to his hip, feel the structure of his bones and muscles underneath. I don’t. He looks vulnerable, and I’m a creep for watching him without his knowledge. I click his lamp off, pull his door closed and head back down the hall to take a shower.

  The pelting water feels good, the night’s tension oozing away. I squeeze my eyes shut and let the water spray on my face, my hair, my shoulders. I soap my body, enjoying the slipperiness on my skin, on my breasts. And I think of Harry, imagining him pressing me up against the shower wall, his hands gripping my waist, his mouth on mine, then slipping down to my neck, kissing me where he did earlier tonight, on that tender spot that made me shiver, his hands sliding lower.

  Suddenly, it’s Samuel in my head. The smell of him, the heaviness of him, the grunts and ugliness of that night. I pull my arms to my chest, tight, protective, nausea returning. Why is my memory betraying me? That night is supposed to be buried. Deep. Is this what’s going to happen now? Every time I get close to someone?

  I spin the hot water tap off and brace myself as the shock of the cold water drains away the nightmare. Shivering, I turn the hot back on, waiting for my body to stop shaking. Eventually I get out, wrap myself in a towel and sit on the side of the bath. I need to get a grip. This is my body. My life. Maybe there’s only one way forward.

  Harry is oblivious to me standing next to his bed. I drop my towel, lift his bedcovers and ease in beside him.

  He stirs. ‘What—’

  ‘Shhh.’

  We lie there, side by side, breathing in the almost-dark. Each one of my heartbeats punctuates a second. Thud. Thud. Thud. We’re so still I wonder if Harry’s fallen asleep again.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he whispers. ‘I thought you didn’t—’

  ‘I changed my mind. Is that okay?’

  I reach for his face, my fingertips landing on the smoothness of his forehead, then running down to the roughness of his cheek and beard. He shifts, and I catch the glimmer of his eyes. It’s weird, the presence of someone else’s body, warm, so close. Weird ... and terrifying.

  Harry pulls back, takes my hand. ‘Maybe we should talk first.’

  ‘Can you just hold me?’ My voice breaks. ‘Please?’

  He props himself up and leans to turn on his lamp.

  ‘No! Leave it off.’

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s nothing ... I just need you to hold me.’

  ‘Lauren—’

  ‘Please?’

  His weight shifts, and I lift my head so he can push an arm under me. My hair catches under his elbow. ‘Ow.’ Even my laugh is tense.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  He strokes my face. ‘Is it Snap?’

  I shake my head. ‘He’s fine.’

  I can’t say any more. If I speak, a torrent of words will bleed me dry. The muscles in my throat contract. It hurts. Can a person die from keeping so much inside?

  I should tell him. Everything. Just let it out. Let it breathe. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? It was something that happened to me. It isn’t who I am now. It wasn’t my fault. Maybe telling him, telling anyone, might make it go away. Like bursting a blister ... all that’s inside let loose, and the pressure gone.

  But what if he’s revolted by it? Or worse, what if he feels sorry for me? I couldn’t bear to see sympathy in his eyes, for him to treat me like something broken, something too delicate to live an ordinary life.

  I can’t think about it. Not now. Not with Harry so close.

  I wait, holding my breath. Finally, he kisses me. His tongue warm, still a little salty, beard soft, grazing my skin. My hand rests on his chest, fingers brushing the few coarse hairs that curl there. I have the strangest sensation of floating, like I’m losing myself. He’s still kissing me, and I press myself against him, waiting for that feeling to return – the one from earlier: the longing, the physical needing. It should be part of this. And ... I want to feel it. But then he reaches for my butt cheek, pulls my hips to his, and his hardness is there, between us, pressing against my thigh.

  I freeze. Can’t move. Can’t breathe.

  I want to scream, but my throat has closed. I’m looking up at Harry, above me, his face concerned. He’s speaking, but I can’t hear him. Now he’s shaking me, tapping my cheek and ... I’m back.

  ‘Lauren? What’s wrong?’ he’s saying. ‘What happened? You scared me.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I look down at my nakedness, throw my hands over my face. The shame. The excruciating shame. I can’t face him. Can’t face it.

  ~

  It’s just after 6 am. Harry is in the shower. He’ll be leaving to catch his plane for the cruise soon. I could stay here, in my own bed. Hide. Like I did last night, when he followed me and knocked on my door, calling to me. And I told him to go away, I was fine.

  Will he try to come in now? Try to talk to me? It’ll be better if I get up and make some coffee. Pretend like nothing’s happened.

  But he’s leaving. Six weeks. I can’t let him go without explaining. It wouldn’t be fair. And if I don’t, it’ll be even more awkward when he comes back. Maybe he’ll just think I’m a nutcase and leave me be. I could live with that. But I know he’s smarter than that. Kinder.

  I roll over under my doona. There’s a clunk at the window, and Mr Pink comes wandering in. He jumps onto my bed, his heavy paws sinking into my stomach as he strolls up to nuzzle my nose.

  I’ll stay here. It’ll be easier.

  But then I hear Harry turn the water off. The dull clunk of the shower door. The memory of my own shower last night returns. Why is it all coming back now? I want it to go away. Leave me alone. It’s done with.

  Mr Pink is kneading my stomach. I wait for him to stop, to step off me, turn his three circles, then settle by my side. He doesn’t. He keeps kneading.

  Okay. Coffee. It’s always the answer.

  ~

  I stand with arms crossed at the kitchen sink, looking out the window, waiting for the coffee machine to do its gurgly thing. It’s raining again.

  ‘Morning.’

  The thud of Harry’s carry bag on the floor makes me jump. I keep my back to him, shoulders tense. ‘Morning. Coffee?’

  ‘No time. I’ll get some at the airport.’ He comes up behind me. ‘Lauren?’ He touches my shoulder. ‘You okay?’

  I swallow, turn, and before I know it, I’m pressing myself onto his chest, sniffling. He hugs me, and it’s exactly what I need. Face buried, I mumble. ‘I am now.’

  He doesn’t say anything, just holds me until I’m ready to let go. I want to stay here. All day. But he has to leave. When I eventually pull away, he releases me, and I reach for some paper towel to wipe my nose, then stand back, arms crossed again. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  He’s frowning, fringe hanging in front of his worried eyes. Beautiful eyes. I want to reach up, brush his hair aside, but instead I curl my fingers, pull my arms tighter. Awkward. He obviously doesn’t know what to say and neither do I.

  ‘Want to talk?’

  I shake my head. ‘Later. You have to go.
Can’t miss your plane.’

  ‘I feel bad leaving you like this. I was really worried about you last night.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’m okay. I promise. I need to work through some stuff. It’s not you. I just need to ... take things slower, you know?’

  ‘K,’ he says. ‘We can do that.’ Then as an afterthought he adds, ‘How’s Snap?’

  I brighten and manage a smile that’s not an effort. ‘Doing well. He’s awake, eating, talking ... well, slurring for now. The doctor says there’s a good chance of a full recovery, but we have to wait and see.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  ‘Yep.’

  Another awkward moment before Harry bridges the silence. ‘Listen, you know how I mentioned Freda last night? I was thinking ... she studied law before she became an artist. She might have some useful contacts for Snap. I mean if he wants to press charges against Bob, now that he’s—’

  I clear my throat. ‘Sure. That would be great. I don’t know what he wants to do yet, but I’ll follow up with her.’

  ‘She’s good to talk to,’ he adds.

  ‘Uh huh.’ I know what he’s saying.

  ‘And this,’ he reaches on top of the fridge, finds a piece of cut-out newspaper and shows it to me. ‘It’s an audition notice for a stage show.’

  ‘But—’

  He presses it into my hand. ‘Just look at it. Okay? I’d love to stay and argue with you, because I know you want to, but it’s a good idea to explore all bases. A recording deal may never come through. It’s good to spread your wings. Try different things. You can’t sit around like some princess waiting for her fairy godmother to fly in on a broom. Speaking of flying, I gotta.’

  He’s pauses, as though he’s wants to say something more.

  I know what he needs. ‘We’re okay. We’ll talk when you get back. About everything.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Sure.’

  I take his shoulders, spin him around and give him a push. ‘Anyway, you’re getting your fairies and witches confused. Go on. Get out of here. Up, up and away with you.’

  He grabs his carry bag, and I follow him down the hallway. It’s freezing outside. I pull my dressing gown closer. He’s still hesitating, suitcase in hand, as if he’s unable to find his words.

  ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I got a bit emotional is all. I shouldn’t have ...’ I take a breath, smile brightly. ‘We’ll talk. I promise. I’m okay. And we’re all good.’ I reach up, kiss his cheek. Everything – my fear, my longing, my need for him to understand and not push – is showing in my eyes. I know it.

  He leans in and kisses my forehead, then grabs me tight, squeezing. ‘Take care of you.’ He heads off down the landing, turning back to smile before he slips around the corner towards the lift.

  I listen to the receding rumble of his suitcase wheels, then close the door. There’s an immediate sense of emptiness to the apartment, so I fetch my coffee and go in search of Mr Pink. I find him dozing on the lounge where the sun is filtering through the blinds. Cheeky thing thinks he can take over the house now that the boss is gone. I sit and pet him. He hardly stirs. Comfortable. Confident. I could learn from him.

  What do cats think about?

  Thinking. It’s a dangerous thing. ‘But we won’t go there, will we, Mr Pink?’

  ‘Murr.’

  ‘No need to dig up old stuff, good and buried, hey?’ Still, my mind edges there.

  I wanted to be with Harry. Why wouldn’t my body let me? I refuse to believe that one night out of all my years – one horrible night – could still be affecting me so much. That’s just stupid. It must have been first-time nerves. Because it was a first. Samuel doesn’t count. That wasn’t the same thing. And Harry would never, ever ...

  I mean, what’s there to stress about? I’m not being blamed for the house fire anymore. Never was, turns out. So, everything is fine. It should be a relief. But it’s not. And I’m thinking it’s the guilt, the tension, that’s been keeping me afloat all this time. So now I’m in freefall. Everything has changed, and my mind is still catching up. That makes so much sense. That’s what last night was all about – nothing to do with Samuel after all. God. What a relief.

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ I tell Mr Pink. ‘We’ve sorted it.’

  I look about the room. It’s going to be weird, having the place to myself. Even though I’ve been in every room in the apartment now, I’ve never pried. It didn’t feel right. It doesn’t now, but the temptation is there, to open drawers, sneak peeks at Harry’s private things. I should resist. He trusts me. And trust is so fragile.

  14. Frangible

  Intimidated is the word, I think.

  Outside the café window, I watch Freda moving between tables, serving the breakfast crowd and connecting effortlessly. Confident as. Is that a result of her special talent? She’s still wearing the little peasant handkerchief thing on her head, looking girlish.

  As if sensing my presence, she looks up and catches me staring. She smiles and waves me inside, moving towards the door. Now I have no choice. ‘Come, come,’ she says. ‘I will take a break. We can have coffee. Or hot chocolate. You prefer chocolate?’

  We sit in the same window booth as last time. ‘Lucky seat,’ she says.

  I smile, unsure of what she means.

  ‘Love birds’ seat,’ she adds.

  Huh. Maybe she’s not so astute after all.

  ‘You and Harry. You are living together now, yes?’

  I’m not really paying attention; I’m mesmerised by her smoky eyes and thick accent. ‘Um, no. I’m minding his apartment.’

  She smiles as if she’s indulging a child in a lie. ‘Call it what you want.’

  Already, she’s making me pissy, stirring an impulse to explain, defend myself. ‘Just until he gets back. From his cruise.’

  Her expression doesn’t change. ‘Lauren,’ she says, ‘why don’t you let life be? Go with the flow, as they say. It’s much easier to accept what is. Less energy. More joy.’

  I give her a sideways look. ‘What is this? Dr Phil?’

  She holds up her hands. ‘Okay, we can pretend if you like.’

  God, she’s so annoying. It’s like she already knows what’s in my soul, already knows my secrets, and she’s waiting – with the endless patience of a trickle of water weathering a mountain – for me to know it too. And would that be such a bad thing? A tiny, hopeful corner of my mind sparks. But another part, an overwhelming part, says if I even nudge the stone blocking the entrance to that cave, a darkness of memories will unfurl and swallow me. I can’t risk it. ‘I’m not pretending.’

  She stands. ‘Something to eat?’

  I nod. Any distraction will do. ‘The muffins look good.’

  She leaves and my mind stews. Now that I know I’m not being blamed for the house fire, there’s no reason I can’t go back home to visit Mum. Poor Mum. I picture her, still sitting in that chintz chair, staring out the window. Staring, staring. She hardly knew who I was back then. How is she now? Would it be upsetting for her to see me again? Has she aged even more? And Mary with her cankles – I can’t help smiling. Her back porch. The fruit trees and overripe tomatoes. And bam! She’s rushing around the side of the house, Samuel’s suicide letter in hand. My stomach cramps as the cold stone stirs.

  Freda returns with our food and drinks. I tuck in as if I’m starved. If I don’t, she’ll pick up on my energy and start asking more questions. ‘I haven’t got around to stocking Harry’s fridge yet,’ I tell her. ‘You’d think working in a 7-Eleven I’d be rolling in food, but my boss doesn’t give us any staff discounts. Miser.’

  ‘So, are you in love with my little brother?’

  I blink. Say what you think, why don’t you? I take a sip of hot chocolate to deflect my surprise. She’s not going to give up, so I hit back. ‘I don’t know. Love isn’t on my agenda at the moment.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘Lauren.’

  The way she says my name, just the one word, carries s
o much weight, I’m compelled to answer. Truthfully. ‘I like him. A lot.’

  ‘Good,’ she says. ‘You said on the phone you need some help? Yes?’

  I nod. ‘Not me. My friend, Snap. You met him a week or so ago. He needs some legal advice, you know? Or contacts in the legal world or something.’

  She listens as I relay the situation: how Snap is thinking of pressing charges against Bob, how the police say Bob wants to press charges against Snap, how there were no witnesses to his bashing, and now Snap might be permanently disabled. I pause. ‘What do you think?’

  Her face is blank. ‘You haven’t said what the argument was about.’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘I don’t know. Is it?’

  And here’s that creepy feeling again, that she does know. How do you protect yourself against someone like this? I cross my arms. ‘Okay, how do you do that?’

  She doesn’t even try to pretend. ‘It’s not what you think. I’m not special, there’s no magic here.’

  ‘Then how?’

  It’s her turn to reveal something. She tells me about her childhood in Romania, in the early nineties, growing up in an orphanage. ‘I was lucky,’ she says. ‘I was eight when my parents died. Old enough to own my spirit.’

  I think of my dad dying and my mum being so ill. I’m on the verge of telling her we have something in common, but I suspect she already knows. I press my lips together.

  ‘I learned quickly,’ she continues. ‘Get smart or get starved, or sick, or dead.’ She describes removing clothing from children who had died overnight. Their small bodies limp in her hands. The rows and rows of babies growing into unsocialised children with vacant eyes, incapable of speech. ‘I would not be like them. I would not let that place break me. I watched. I learned. People are not difficult to read.’ Her eyes look far away, as if she’s back there.

  ‘But I spent four years in that horror, until Harry’s parents rescued me. All the Westerners, they wanted babies, babies, babies. But Harry’s parents, they were different. They knew my chances were none – a twelve-year-old girl who could not forget or pretend she had no other life. And I was twice as lucky. Romania changed the adoption laws soon after and less help came.’