Magnolias don't Die

by AJ Collins

  Harry’s watching. He shoves his hands in his pockets. ‘I gotta check my emails while it’s quiet down there. Might be a while. Don’t wait up for me.’ He grabs the room key and heads out. Not even a goodnight kiss.

  What the hell? Was that the world’s most devastating brush-off or what? I grab a book, punch my pillows into comfort and slump back. I read the same paragraph four times, then slap the book down and put my earbuds in, listen to music – loud, crashy stuff. It’s not the same. The happiness fairy has done a runner. Magic carpet ride over. Joy no longer courses through my veins and muscles, speaking to me in a language I can only feel, not comprehend. I turn the music off, lie still, just breathing, the grumble of the ship’s engine far below in the belly of the vessel.

  I wake up in the dark. It’s around 5.30 am. Harry’s bunk is empty, so I snap the main light on. The room is clean, my clothes are folded on a chair, and my make-up is tucked away in the bathroom. What a dork. A sweet, sweet dork.

  22. Latency

  I dress in shorts and a t-shirt, wash my face, dampen and scrape my hair back, then wander up to the top deck. It’s a hazy dawn, but the clouds have relented, and we’re going to have a clear day. In between gusts of wind, the air is warm and sticky with salt. Only a couple of other early birds are up: an older couple in tracksuits, jogging laps of the walking track.

  In the distance is the voluptuous silhouette of a large island. Port Vila. It’s the first stop on this trip where the ship can actually dock. That means we’ll get a whole day off the ship. Until now, at the smaller islands, we’ve had to wait for all the other passengers to board tenders before we could get off – the non-perks of being entertainers. Still, chilling, swimming and flaking on an island beach for half a day each stop has been such a hard life. It’s just a shame that today I feel as if I’m dragging around the ship’s anchor instead of my body.

  I find Harry sitting alone in the main eatery. His hands are wrapped around a coffee mug. He doesn’t see me approaching – he’s looking out the window at the endless green swells. There’s a seagull clinging to the railing outside, its feathers ruffled in the wind. That’s something that surprises me about the ship – it’s so windy, all the time. Makes sense I guess, with the ship constantly in motion. I had expected day after day of sun, blue skies and gentle breezes. But you have to find yourself a sheltered sun lounge if you don’t want a bad hair day, every day.

  The hot breakfast buffet isn’t ready yet, so I grab a muffin and a juice. Thank god for food 24-7. Harry eyes me as I sit, then returns his gaze to the window.

  ‘We’ll be hitting Port Vila pretty soon,’ he says. ‘We should do some sightseeing. There’s a waterfall worth visiting. The stream is this pale-green milky colour that collects in pools. We can swim.’

  ‘Don’t go chasing waterfalls ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I break my muffin apart and offer him a piece. He refuses. ‘Have you been to bed at all?’ I ask through my mouthful.

  He shrugs. ‘A bit.’

  The muffin sticks in my throat as I swallow. I take a gulp of juice. Harry is now fixated on his coffee. His eyes are puffy and red-rimmed. One of them twitches when he blinks.

  ‘Is it something I’ve done?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know. You tell me.’ He holds my gaze.

  Oh shit. I’m in trouble. ‘What?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. What?’

  He sighs and picks up his cup. It’s empty. He puts it back down. ‘Forget it.’

  I scrape at the crust of muffin stuck to the wrapper, it gathers under my nail, and I have to suck it off. Did I do something stupid last night?

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ he says.

  ‘What’s to understand?’

  ‘First you crack it because some guy tries to help you off a stool—’

  ‘That guy was a dick.’ Well, I remember that.

  ‘Then you come back all wired and flirty, sitting on guys’ knees and pinching drinks like you’re some crazy cabaret show. I don’t get it. What’s going on with you?’

  ‘I what?’

  He stares at me. Hard. He’s serious.

  ‘I don’t remember that. I mean, I remember having a great time but ...’

  ‘Did you take something?’ he asks. ‘Tell me the truth.’

  I can’t look at him. ‘I might have drunk a bit too much, but—’

  ‘You know what? Maybe this is a mistake.’

  My skin tingles with dread.

  He clears his throat. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t—’

  ‘Morning.’ It’s more of a bellow than a greeting. We both turn towards the sliding glass doors leading to the outer deck. It’s the couple who were jogging. Now I recognise them as the Americans from last night. ‘Well, would you look who it is,’ the guy says. He’s bear-like, tall and broad, with curly grey chest hairs escaping over the top of his tracksuit zip.

  ‘Mikey,’ Harry says.

  Mikey heads straight for us and holds out his giant mitt, all pudgy and thick, as if it’s made of donuts. Harry’s delicate musician’s hand disappears inside it. ‘Didn’t think musos got out of bed before midday,’ he says.

  Harry turns on the charm, chuckling. ‘It’s a myth. Don’t you believe it.’

  ‘Not in my day.’ Mikey winks at me. ‘Booze, sex and rock ‘n’ roll, hey?’

  I manage a tense smile.

  ‘Mind if we join you?’ he asks.

  God, please no. I flash a look at Harry, but Mikey is already pulling out a chair for his wife.

  Harry shrugs. ‘Lauren, you remember Mikey and Marcy, don’t you? From last night?’

  Is he testing me? I return his glare. ‘Sure.’

  Their hair looks as though they’ve both just rolled out of bed. Marcy runs a hand through hers to flatten it. ‘Phew, bit blowy out there. But gotta get our jog in, hail or shine ...’

  She prattles on, but I’m not listening. I’m still smarting from Harry’s words, and I need to escape so I can do some thinking. ‘Excuse me. There’s a muffin over there with my name on it.’

  ‘I’ll join you, honey,’ Marcy says. ‘Gotta get some eggs into us. And bacon. You Aussies know how to do a good breakfast. But maple syrup, that’s what I’m missing – the real stuff, not that flavoured gunk.’

  Damn. I was hoping to take my muffin back to the cabin. She links her arm through mine and pulls me along. Where does she get off being so confident? Haven’t people on this ship heard of personal space?

  At the buffet counter, a chef is adding a giant bowl of Bircher muesli to the rows of packet cereals and plates of cold meats and cheeses. There’s a hiss of frying coming from the galley. ‘Eggs on yet?’ she asks.

  ‘I can prepare some for you, madam. What would you like?’ His white uniform is crisp, not a speck on it.

  Marcy orders two serves of fried eggs, sunny-side up, sausages, bacon and pancakes. Geez, does she eat like this every day? Why isn’t she the size of a barn? She elbows me. ‘Madam? Did you hear that? Haven’t been called that since my brothel days.’ She unzips her tracksuit a little and uses the sides of her arms to squeeze her boobs together. They make a weathered and wrinkly cleavage. ‘Whaddya reckon? Think I’d still pass?’ She cackles. ‘Oh, look at your face,’ she says. ‘I’m joking, honey.’

  The chef acts as if he hasn’t witnessed Marcy’s boob action. ‘I’ll bring it to your table will I, madam?’

  She winks at him. ‘Honey, you can bring it to me, anytime, anywhere.’

  The poor guy nods politely and nobly heads to the kitchen.

  Marcy squeezes my shoulder and leans in close. ‘Okay, I wasn’t a hooker, but I was an exotic dancer. Wouldn’t believe it, would you?’

  My smile is genuine this time. There’s something down to earth about her. Something honest. I lean and grab a muffin. It’s sitting in my hand. I could just walk away, back to the solitude of the cabin, but I feel strangely obliged to wait with her.
>
  Maybe it’s the thought of what she’d write on her passenger feedback form: ‘Entertainer was a rude bitch’. I don’t think that’s it though. I think I actually like her. She’s intriguing. Especially the bit about being a dancer. A mostly naked dancer. I want to pick her brain about that part.

  She heads towards the coffee pots, and I follow her like a chick to a mother hen. ‘Want one? Nothing like the first pot of the day. You know sometimes they don’t even empty them as they go along? They just keep topping up the stewed leftovers. True, on my mother’s grave.’ She crosses herself with her hot pink fingernails.

  ‘No. Thanks. I’m okay.’

  ‘You know, honey. I saw what happened last night.’

  Oh shit. Am I in trouble?

  ‘You should have smacked that creep one. Back in my day, we had minders for low-lifes like that. Men weren’t allowed to lay a hand on us. If they did, they were out on their butts, probably with a black eye and broken nose.’

  I smile gratefully. I do like this woman.

  ‘Honey?’ She takes my chin and makes me look her in the eye. ‘Don’t you let creeps like that ruin your night. You tell them what’s what. And if management gives you any grief you tell them to speak to Marcy. Mikey and I are regulars on this ship. We’ll set them straight.’

  Ironically, it occurs to me that she’s touching me without my permission right now. And I question the way she harassed that chef. But her words fill me with grit.

  I grin. ‘Thanks, Mum.’

  ‘Cheeky.’

  She pours her coffee and holds up the pot to check if I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t.

  ‘Marcy? Can I ask you something?’

  She returns the coffee pot, then focuses her full attention on me. She has the most beautiful green eyes. They see right through me. Just like a real mum.

  ‘Honey? Why so sad?’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I swallow. ‘What I want to know is ... how did you cope with all those men looking at you? I mean, perving at your body? When I’m up there I just want to hide. Because I know what they might be thinking.’

  Marcy sighs, moves over to a booth and sits. ‘Come here, honey.’ She pats the seat next to her. I glance over at Harry. He looks deep in conversation with Mikey. I sit next to Marcy, and she turns to face me. She lifts my hand, and I’m surprised when she places it on my own breast. ‘Who does this belong to?’ she asks.

  I frown. Is this a game? ‘Me.’

  ‘Correct.’

  She moves my hand to my stomach. ‘Who does this belong to?’

  ‘Me.’

  My leg. ‘Me.’

  My hair. ‘Me.’

  When she moves it to rest on my crotch, I blush.

  ‘They’re just body parts, right? Your body parts. You were born with them. You own them. They’re beautiful. You should be proud of them. Love them.’

  I nod. Easier said than done.

  She continues. ‘You own the stage when you get up there, too. You have a right to be there. Yes?’

  I nod again. But ... Do I?

  ‘Well, if you own the stage and you own your body parts, you’re the one in control and no matter what—’

  ‘But they’re looking at me that way.’

  ‘Lauren, what goes on inside other people’s heads is none of your business. You can’t control what people think. You can only control how they interact with you. Set boundaries.’

  ‘But that guy touched me.’

  ‘Yes, I know. He was a creep.’

  I wait for her to continue but she’s just looking at me. That’s it? Seriously? ‘So ... what? I should just get over it?

  ‘This isn’t about last night. Am I right?’

  Her smile is sad. For me. I can’t stand it. This giant lump suddenly fills my throat. I glance back at the coffee machine. Maybe I want some after all.

  ‘Lauren?’

  I turn back.

  ‘How long are you going to play victim?’

  ‘What?’

  She looks at me hard, and I so much want to look away, but I can’t. ‘Whatever he did to you, whoever “he” is, it shouldn’t have happened. Who was he, Lauren? Someone older? Someone you trusted?’

  I nod. Blink. Tears are a nanosecond away.

  ‘Breathe,’ she says.

  And I do, I suck in air as if it’s the last I’ll ever have, hold it deep in my chest.

  ‘That’s it. Let it go now, slowly.’

  She waits for me to exhale. It takes me a while. My throat is so constricted.

  ‘You resent him.’

  I nod again. There’s no chance of speaking right now.

  ‘Maybe even loved him?’

  Did I?

  ‘What he did was terrible?’

  I purse my lips. Tight. Biting down the terror in my chest.

  ‘But honey, you can’t change that. Nothing you do can change it. It was awful and it happened. What you can change is riding that victim train and getting people on board with you. The longer you ride it, the longer you keep giving him your power.’

  Now I speak ‘cos I’m so freaking angry. ‘I never—’

  ‘I know, I know,’ she says. ‘You think I’m blaming you now.’

  Isn’t she?

  ‘But you know in your heart, you’re the only one who can change now. Because holding hurt in makes it worse, makes it fester. And if you don’t let it go, you’ll never be the wonderful, courageous, beautiful person you were meant to be.’

  Oh god, don’t.

  ‘You gotta focus on the people that matter now. Okay? I want you to do two things – for yourself, not for me. I want you to find someone you can open up to.’ She glances over to Harry. ‘Whoever they are, you need to be a brave girl and take a leap of faith. Because if you don’t ... well, you’re always going to feel ashamed, or angry, or scared. And you and I both know ...’ she pauses to stroke my cheek, ‘self-medicating doesn’t work.’

  Blush. Blush. Blush.

  ‘One day at a time. Okay? The other thing I want you to do is look up a self-defence class.’

  Finally. Something I can do.

  ‘Not just because every girl needs to be able to protect herself, but, honey, it’ll give you your power back. Trust me. Okay? You promise?’

  I nod, suddenly weighted by my lack of sleep. I’d kill to be hiding under my blankets. In the dark. Where I can process this. Where I can cry it out in private. ‘Okay,’ I croak.

  Marcy squeezes my hand. We head back to the table, and I find I can’t even bite my muffin. The café is filling up, and my head is feeling more sorry for itself by the moment. ‘I need to crash for a while,’ I mumble.

  ‘Ah, I told you,’ Mikey says. ‘You young folk have no stamina.’ He smiles at me. ‘You should eat more. You look like a sparrow,’ he says. ‘Piaf, we’ll call you.’

  I have a flash back to that film – the one with that French Marion something-or-other actress – where Piaf is small and crumpled, towards the end of the film. I think I have an inkling of how she felt.

  ‘We’ll see you in the lounge tonight, hun,’ Marcy says, getting up and pressing me to her cleavage, which she’s forgotten to zip up. Her perfume smells like the sugared icing on a Boston bun. ‘Love your work, honey. Wish I could sing like that.’ Then she whispers, ‘I’m here if you wanna talk.’

  Her tenderness makes me want to stay crushed to her. ‘Thanks,’ I murmur.

  Mikey stands, but Harry is in his way, so I’m spared a bear hug. The big guy waves. ‘Will you sing some Patsy Cline for us tonight? ‘Crazy’ is our favourite.’

  For once, I manage to subdue my cynicism and smile. ‘Sure.’

  Harry stands too. ‘I might get going too. I could do with a bit more sleep.’

  ‘I knew it,’ Mikey says. ‘Up before midday. Bound to happen.’

  ‘You got me,’ Harry says, cocking his finger like a pistol.

  We leave them as their fry-ups arrive. In the corridor, I lose my balance, bumping into the wall as the sh
ip sways. Harry tries to put an arm around my shoulder, but I shrug him off. I’m confused. He can’t tell me it’s over, then touch me like that.

  Back in the cabin, I don’t bother changing out of my clothes; I just slip my shoes off and get straight into bed. Under the covers, I press my earplugs in and, like a pissed-off Mr Pink, turn my back on Harry.

  My eyes are gritty, and I don’t think I’m going to sleep with my brain working overtime, but suddenly Harry is patting my arm.

  ‘It’s nearly eleven,’ Harry says. ‘We should probably get going if you want to see the waterfall.’

  I scrunch my eyes against the fluoro light. ‘Urgh. Do we have to?’

  ‘No. Not if you don’t want to, but it’s your only chance to see it. We’ll be moving on tonight.’

  I consider the option. We still need to sort stuff out between us. I should go. A change of scenery might make things easier. I push my legs out of bed and sit hunched, crusty. He’s already showered and dressed. I yawn, tempted to fall back into the covers.

  ‘Have you booked a tour?’ I ask. Maybe if he hasn’t, I can go back to sleep.

  ‘Don’t need to. We just bargain with a taxi driver at the port.’

  I yawn again, not moving. ‘Okay, but I’m not swimming. I can’t be bothered getting into bathers.’

  ‘Come on, snooze-a-lot.’ He tousles my hair. ‘I’ve got us a picnic lunch. Can we use your backpack? Mine’s got the towels and stuff in it.’

  Talk about a mood swing. Last I remember, he was cranky and breaking up with me, even though we’re not actually together. Or is that something else I don’t remember? I head for the bathroom. Okay, we’re going.

  Grumpy man is at the security checkpoint again. It makes me wonder if he’s a permanent fixture, like a masthead on a ship. Only he’s more of a gargoyle. We walk off the gangway right into a local market with every kind of tropical, touristy souvenir known to mankind. I grab a couple of red and yellow hibiscus leis. The synthetic blooms are fraying at the edges. I try to throw one over Harry’s head, but he ducks.

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Awww, come on, just a bit of fun, maaate,’ I slur, imitating the drunk dude from last night. Weird. How come I remember him but not what Harry says I was doing?