Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  ‘Newbie?’ she asks.

  I nod.

  ‘I’m Beth,’ she says, offering her hand.

  I shake it. ‘Lauren.’

  ‘You’re looking a little under the weather there, darl.’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Don’t be. They’re humans just like you and me.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘Oh, darls. I’ve probably slept with most of them.’ Her laugh is raucous, and I can’t help but smile. ‘Only joshin’. This’ll be my tenth show with this company. Started in my early twenties. Once it’s in your blood, there’s no going back. Where’s your music?’

  ‘Oh, crap. I forgot it. Can’t I just sing without it?’

  She smiles. ‘What are you singing?’

  ‘Umm, “I Dreamed a Dream”.’

  Beth nods. ‘Tell you what. If you get called in first, you can borrow my libretto.’ She holds up a whole book of music.

  A door opens, someone exits, and the next victim is called. The process continues with the same routine: muffled talking for a couple of minutes, the piano starts up, then singing. So far two people have sung my song. A third is singing it now, and she sounds really good. There’s more muffled talking, then the door opens. The girl’s face is blank as she leaves.

  Finally, the guy at the door calls my name. God, are they going to want to hear that song again? I hope they don’t ask me to sing something else because it’s the only one I’ve learned.

  Beth hands me her libretto. ‘Here you go, darl.’

  I jerk to my feet like a school kid reporting for roll call. My coat falls to the floor. The guy sitting next to me picks it up.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Chookas,’ Beth calls.

  Chookas? What the hell is that? ‘You too,’ I say, just in case it’s some weird blessing.

  Inside, the room is cavernous and musty. There’s a woman and two men sitting at a trestle table. The door guy takes my clipboard and music, then tells me to stand a few metres in front of the trestle table where there’s a bit of black tape on the floor. X marks the spot. There’s no microphone. How is my voice going to carry?

  For a moment, I stare at the tape, wondering whether to stand in front or behind it. I look up, and it’s like I’m on The Voice, and these are my judges.

  ‘So, Lauren, you’d like to audition for the role of Fantine?’

  I nod mutely. Why am I here? I’m kidding myself.

  ‘Okay. It’s says here you’re currently singing in lounges, bars, that sort of thing? Any musical theatre experience?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Lauren, if you’re going to be on stage, you’re going to have to speak at some point. We need to hear your voice.’

  ‘Yes,’ I blurt. ‘I’m a singer.’

  They laugh. I cringe. Idiot.

  ‘Okay, Lauren. Let Carol know when you’re ready.’

  ‘Okay. Umm, just to warn you, I’m getting a cold ... so my voice isn’t that—’

  ‘Just do your best.’

  I turn to look at the pianist. To her credit, her expression doesn’t say, ‘not another Fantine wannabe’. She smiles. I try to smile back. Please get me out of here. The intro starts. I suck in the biggest breath, nearly cough up my lungs, then try again at a gentler pace.

  My left leg is shaking, and a nerve in my cheek twitches. I’m sure my first note is flat, but I push through, getting stronger with each line. It sounds okay; my voice is clear and reverberates off the walls. I’m getting it down, word for word, when suddenly there’s a sharp, dry patch in my throat that catches. No matter how much I swallow, it won’t go away. I cough and try to sing again but end up coughing more.

  The two guys are murmuring to each other. The woman is looking at her notes. I have no idea what to do next. Carol comes over and hands me the sheet music. Her voice is gentle.

  ‘Good job. Tough break, hey? There’s a water fountain outside, if you need it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I point to the door, still clearing my throat. ‘Do I go now?’

  She smiles. ‘Just wait a moment, dear.’

  The panel are still chatting. I’m straining to hear but can’t. I look around the room. The wooden floors are scuffed, portraits of people posed in costumes line the walls – people I should probably know, if I want to be in theatre – and an exit sign flickers over a fire escape at the far end. Ha. I should make a run for it.

  ‘Lauren?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘That’s all thank you. We’ll let you know.’

  ~

  I arrive at the 7-Eleven late and get yelled at. I’m on final notice.

  ~

  I knew it. I should have waited another half-hour to have my shower, but I thought I could wing it. I’ve just rinsed the shampoo from my hair, and here’s Harry calling. He always rings the landline around this time. He hasn’t figured out how to dial my mobile from the ship’s phone – too many pre-codes. He tried for three days in a row, but he kept getting some foreign-sounding dude who didn’t speak a word of English but was really eager to chat. Harry said on the third attempt, the guy put his wife on the line, and she sounded pretty pissed off. I suggested it could have been two o’clock in the morning wherever they were.

  So here I am, running down the hallway to the kitchen, wrapped in a towel, my hair dripping.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hello, you. You sound a bit snuffly.’

  The line is crackly, but hearing his voice is like a shot of chocolate to my veins, sweet and satisfying. ‘Yeah, got a cold. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Same, same. You?’

  Mr Pink is winding himself between my feet, leaving bits of fur on my ankles. I slip onto a kitchen stool and lift my feet onto the rungs. ‘Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.’

  ‘Let’s hear the bad first.’

  ‘I did that audition.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  Harry is silent for a moment. ‘Come on. Couldn’t be that bad.’

  I screw up my face at the memory of my humiliation. ‘Yeah, it was. I stuffed up. Big time. You know what? I don’t think theatre’s for me. They were nice and all, but they don’t even have microphones. And I was so freakin’ nervous. I’d rather just work with you.’

  Harry laughs.

  Mr Pink is licking water off the top of my foot. His tongue is scratchy. ‘Get off.’ I shoo him away.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not you. The cat.’

  ‘Ah. Okay. Sorry to hear that. But I’m sure it wasn’t that bad. You always underestimate yourself. It’s part of your charm.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Still, I smile because it’s him.

  We chat about Snap for a while, then he says, ‘So, anyway, I’ve got some news that’ll hopefully make you feel better.’

  There’s excitement in his voice. I perk up. ‘What?’

  ‘How do you feel about joining me for two weeks? Around twelve days actually.’

  ‘Serious?’

  ‘Yep.’

  He tells me Tash, the girl he’s been working with, can’t handle the sea. ‘I kept telling her to take Travacalm, but she’s one of those hippy types, you know, ginger tablets, herbal tea. It ended up costing her a couple of hundred bucks for a nausea injection last night. She was first off the ship this morning. Flying home from Noumea. I’m working solo the rest of this leg.’

  ‘You’re really talking me into this glamorous South Pacific life,’ I say, picturing myself hanging over a rail, spewing my heart out. I’ve never been in a dinghy let alone a massive cruise ship.

  Harry picks up on my doubt. ‘You’ll be fine. Besides, only one way to find out. There’s still twelve days left on this leg. See if you can get yourself well and get a fast-tracked passport.’

  ‘Wow. Okay. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Oh, one more thing,’ he adds. ‘Do you feel comfortable sharing a cabin with me? I’m sha
ring with a couple of other guys at the moment and Tash was sharing with another girl. We can do that too, or we can get our own cabin. Bunk beds. Up to you. No pressure.’

  ‘With you,’ I answer without thinking too much. A stranger doesn’t appeal.

  ‘Cool.’

  He fills me in on all the basics I’ll need, and I make a quick list. ‘And don’t forget the Travacalm. And some earplugs if you want any sleep,’ he finishes.

  ‘You better keep a barf bag ready, just in case.’

  He laughs. ‘Miss you.’

  I smile. Those two words are like a hug. ‘Me too.’

  I hang up feeling as if I’ve just won something amazing for nothing. Twelve days in the South Pacific. Oh shit, I’m going to have to quit the 7-Eleven. No way will my boss give me the time off. Tough. I was thinking of quitting anyway.

  I sit and recount the conversation, to commit this moment to memory, see if I missed anything important. Sharing a cabin? I’ve been keeping so busy I haven’t let myself think about our last encounter. Deep breath. Don’t go there. I’ll have my own bunk, my own space to retreat to. It’ll be fine. Think of something else.

  And it occurs to me that I forgot to tell Harry the good news: Snap is coming home early.

  17. Impasse

  ‘Shooot!’ Snap drawls the word as he drops his keys for the second time. I’m impressed by how much his diction has improved the last couple of weeks. If he didn’t get stuck on his vowels, he’d be rocking it.

  He bends to retrieve his keys, then bites his lip in concentration as he tries to feed the key into the lock again. I retrieve a tissue and wipe my tender red nose. This would all be a hell of a lot easier if he’d just use his right hand, but he won’t. ‘Rehab says the more I uuuse left side, the better.’ I keep my mouth shut, fighting the instinct to help him. Let him be. If determination alone will get that door open, Snap will succeed.

  Finally, the lock turns, and he pushes the door open. I bend to grab his carry case, but he whacks the back of my head.

  ‘Stop baaaybeeeing meee.’

  ‘Fine! You do it.’ I step back, more miffed at myself than him. Leave him be.

  I’m glad I prepared the apartment before I brought him home — a good spring clean, the blinds are all up, there’s autumn sunshine. Even the little pot plant I bought for the kitchen bench has managed to hang onto its tiny white buds. They’re unfurling now, reminding me of the buds on his gran’s magnolia tree. Beginnings. At least I thought they were.

  ‘Niiice,’ Snap says, leaning his cane against the bench and taking a few stiff steps on his own, his left leg still a bit draggy. ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘Impatiens. Impatient patient.’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, wishing I really had thought of that. ‘I’ve scheduled some of your friends to drop by every couple of days. There’s a list on the bench so you know who’s coming when.’

  I wait for his usual grumble about how he doesn’t want people fussing over him, but he surprises me. ‘Ta.’ He eases himself onto the couch and checks out his Zen garden. He may not have full control of his features, but I know a look of disgust when I see one.

  I grimace. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I did my best.’ I sneeze. ‘Sorry about that too.’

  He leans forward and grasps the tiny rake with his good hand, sifting the sand to his liking. I sit opposite him, and a flashback of him slumping in his chair, his tea spilling in his lap, hits me. He sees my face, and his expression softens.

  ‘S’okaaay.’ The right side of his face is tense as he concentrates, the left looks saggy, like his brow might slide down and puddle onto his chin. ‘Yooou don’t have tooo staaay. Go home. Rest.’

  It’s excruciating waiting for him to get his vowels out. I swing my legs over the arm of my easy chair, trying to look as if I’m settling in. ‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got nowhere to be a few hours. I’m on late shift.’

  He shrugs. ‘Teee?’

  ‘Sure.’ I swing my legs back, ready to get up, but he waves me off.

  ‘Sit.’ He pushes himself off the couch. ‘Soooner I show I’m okaaay, soooner I get rid of yooou.’

  ‘A girl never felt so welcome.’

  ‘Poor pet. Can’t blaaame meee for missing your cruuuise this time.’

  I twist to look over the back of my chair. ‘Is that what you think? That I blame you?’

  He stops halfway to the kitchen bench. ‘Just saaaying I can manage. Yooou gotta dooo your own thing now. No excuuuses.’

  I’m floored. I’d never thought of him lying unconscious in a hospital bed as an excuse. Does he mean I was looking for a way to get out of the cruise with Harry? No way. I wanted to go. But who else was going to stay by his side? His sometimes-friends? I watch his face, trying to determine if he’s just being tetchy.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m definitely going this time. Whether you cark it or not. Five days and I’m outta here.’

  He laughs. ‘That’s myyyy girl.’

  But the thought won’t leave me alone. Is he saying I chickened out? I think I’ve been freakin’ brave. I haven’t fallen apart. Much. No, look at him. He must be scared. It’s huge coming home again.

  Outside, beyond the glass door, dead leaves are scattered on the balcony. I should have swept those up. I look around the lounge for anything else I might have missed. The blank television screen is dusty. I shiver. The room feels lifeless, as if the energy was sucked out when they took Snap out on the stretcher, as if our apartment’s personality has to start all over again along with Snap’s poor body. I wish he’d come with me to Harry’s. Just for a few days. But he won’t. He wants to find his feet on his own. He doesn’t even want me here.

  I watch him in the kitchen, on the other side of the island bench, and I ponder how long it will take me to reach him if he drops the steaming kettle on himself, or smashes a cup, or slips over.

  He catches my eye and pauses to shake his head. ‘Don’t dooo that.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pity. I can feeel it from heeer.’

  ‘Oh, please. As if.’ I try to think of a smart-arse response, but it won’t come.

  ‘Yooou can dooo better than that,’ he drawls. ‘I can handle it.’

  He’s wrong; I can’t.

  He motions to me. ‘Okaaay, come get. I’m not careee-ying both.’

  ‘Now you’re being obtuse.’ I go over to him and lean across the counter. When I reach for both cups, he smacks me.

  ‘Taaake your own.’

  ‘Ow.’ I rub my hand. ‘That freakin’ hurt.’

  He smirks. ‘Ha. Yooou should seee your faaace. Loooks like a gat’s bum.’

  ‘Cat. C ... c ... cat. Yeah, well it’s not as bad as your face.’ I stare at him, horrified at my words.

  Half his face grins while the rest slumps. It’s awful to look at. ‘Not as bad as yooou in your stinky 7-Eleven clothes,’ he says.

  ‘Not as bad as you when you’re pretending to orgasm on your phone sex line.’

  He cracks up. ‘Not as bad as yooou the morning after a gig.’

  I laugh. ‘Yeah, well, shit happens. I can’t always be bothered taking make-up off at that time of the morning.’

  He joins me back in the lounge room. ‘Yooou don’t neeed make-up, honey. You’re beeeuuutiful,’ he says.

  ‘Not as beautiful as your friend in rehab. I saw him through the window at your last session.’ Snap blushes. I’ve hit gold, so I sing-song to him: ‘Someone’s got a crush. Someone’s got a crush. What’s his name?’

  Snap’s blush deepens, and he refuses to meet my eyes.

  ‘O.M.G. Is this true love?’

  ‘B ...’ he stumbles.

  ‘Bertie? Bernard? Barnaby? Beetlejuice? Bazza?’

  ‘B ... B ...’

  ‘Spit it out.’

  He laughs, his shoulders shaking with the effort. ‘Bitch.’

  ‘Ha. That’s why you love me.’

  ‘Ben.’

  ‘The Flower Pot Men!’

  ‘Well, heee’s defi
nitely a panseeey if he likes meee.’

  ‘I’m happy for you.’

  Snap smiles into his cup as he sips. The blush suits him: it gives him a look of health that’s been missing for weeks. I’m really am happy for him.

  He asks how Harry is.

  ‘He’s fine. Enjoying the cruise.’

  Snap seems satisfied with my answer. We both settle into quiet, staring at his Zen garden. It looks perfect. Every pebble and grain of sand where it should be. Don’t breathe.

  I sneeze.

  ~

  Snap looks as if he’s found nirvana in one of Freda’s burgers. He stops between bites to mop up stray sauce dribbling from his bun, not wanting to waste a drop. I guess weeks of hospital food has piqued his appetite for some truly tasty indulgence.

  I’ve settled for a large orange juice; my throat’s still raw. This bug looks as if it’s here for the long haul. Not surprising. It’s been the longest week of my life. I never knew I could cram so much into seven days – my job shifts, the audition, gigs, arranging my passport, bringing Snap home, helping him get settled with daily home help from the council – thank god he’s relented – researching disability allowances, grocery deliveries, and sorting out our share of rent and bills. There’s probably loads of other stuff neither of us has considered. At least we’ve worked our way through all the leaflets the hospital gave us.

  And hooray for my passport arriving in perfect time to join Harry. Three more days, and I’ll be out of here – sick or not.

  Snap scoots over as Freda approaches us. She’s got some news for us on Snap’s case, but her face is giving nothing away. My stomach is tight with worry. I’m sure she would have told us straight away if it was good news. Instead she insisted we eat first.

  ‘I have spoken with my lawyer friend. He says it might be difficult to prove this violence was a direct cause of your stroke. He says they might claim there could have been a pre-existing condition. In this case, you cannot win. It’s a risk.’

  For a moment, I’m thrown by her bluntness. Then I can’t help myself. ‘This is bullshit!’ I’m not pissed because of what she’s telling us, but because she’s confirmed what I already suspected through my Google searches. One major case I saw on YouTube should have been clear-cut: three bouncers knocking down a guy and restraining him – one by lying on top of him. The guy couldn’t breathe. He had a heart attack. He died. But the court case verdict? Not guilty. Why? The guy had a prior heart condition. But that’s not Snap. Snap is young. He’s healthy, was healthy, he’s fit, he takes care of himself.