Magnolias don't Die
Page 20
I lean on the fence, taking in the debris of my past.
‘Okay?’ Harry asks.
‘Yep.’
I’d always pictured myself hyperventilating at this point. I’m not. I open the creaky gate. Push through. Past the remnants of foundations, Mum’s cement tubs. I point. ‘Mum’s swing chair was there. We spent hours watching the stars.’
Down by the back fence, the fruit trees have survived. They’re all winter-bare except for the lemon tree. It’s flourishing, white sweet-scented blossoms unfurling and a few fallen fruits at its base. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mary’s been watering it – it’s the only piece of yard with a decent patch of grass. We head over and sit beneath it.
‘There’s nothing left,’ I murmur.
‘Well, you did a bloody good job,’ he says.
‘What?’ I look at him, shocked, then laugh. And we laugh together until my stomach hurts and tears run.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says.
‘For what?’
‘For ... everything. For this. For you. For us. For what he did to you.’
I nod. ‘Me too.’
I tug up a bit of couch grass and rub it between my fingers. ‘He was all I had left, with you gone, Mum gone ... well, her mind, at least. I trusted him. I think that’s what I don’t know if I can forgive. The trust.’
Harry’s knee is resting against mine. I like it there. He puts an arm around me, and I lean back into him. It’s nice. A sad nice.
‘It’s funny,’ I say. ‘As much as I’ve tried not to think about it, to block it out, there’s something I remember. When Samuel was ... on top of me, I could see the mantelpiece, and there was Mum’s ceramic vase with its little cherubs on either side. It had a crack running up its centre from when I’d knocked it over as a kid. Dad glued it back together. I don’t know why I noticed it. Maybe it was the glow from Samuel’s digital clock. And ... well ... the cherubs on the vase were smiling down at me, as if to say it doesn’t matter, we all get broken at some point.’
Harry’s quiet. He doesn’t know what to say.
‘Are we broken?’ I ask.
‘I’m not sure,’ he says slowly.
‘Do you think we could find some glue to fix us? Put us back together like Humpty Dumpty?’
‘They couldn’t put Humpty back together again.’
‘Bad analogy.’
‘Very.’
We’re quiet for a while. A beetle appears near my foot, struggling through the blades of grass.
Harry shifts. ‘I’m confused. I thought you didn’t want ... us.’
I turn to him. ‘Us? No, no, not us. It’s the music I don’t think I can do. I want us. I just ... wasn’t sure if you wanted us ... without the music.’
‘Oh.’
I can look him in the eye now. Now that he knows everything. Everything. He seems older than back in February when he grinned at me in Bob’s bar. Did I do that? Is that what love does to people?
I speak slowly, clearly. ‘I. Want. Us.’
He nods, leans in. And here is the kiss. The one that feels like home. The one that makes me want to fold myself up into something tiny and hop into his shirt pocket so he can carry me around near his heart always.
He pulls back, and there it is at last — I’m the girl who makes him smile.
‘There’s one more thing,’ I say, then lean forward and reach into my back pocket. Samuel’s letter. I hold it in my lap, looking at the worn envelope. Déjà vu.
‘It’s lost its power,’ I murmur. ‘I can’t believe it. I’ve been letting this stupid piece of paper hold me hostage. I thought as long as I didn’t open it, I was the one with the power. Because he couldn’t say sorry.’
‘Are you going to read it now?’
‘I don’t know. What’s the point? Nothing will change if I do.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. I still think you should.’
I sniff. ‘I noticed there’s a new plaque outside the post office. It’s dedicated to Samuel.’
‘Yeah? How do you feel about that?’
‘Spell ambivalent.’
He squeezes me. ‘You’re allowed to say it sucks.’
‘Okay. It sucks.’
He chuckles.
I say it louder. ‘It sucks. SUCKS!’
‘Feel better?’
‘Not really.’
I stand up and reach into my other pocket.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Finishing this.’ I show him the lighter.
‘Oh shit.’ Harry scrambles to his feet and backs off, but he’s laughing. ‘Let me get a safe distance.’
I straighten out the envelope and flick the lighter. The paper catches and flares.
‘Samuel Barnes,’ I yell. ‘You lonely, sad, drunk, pathetic man. I forgive you. You hear me? I don’t care what your letter says. I forgive you. Not for you. For me.’
I hold the burning envelope, charred pieces fluttering, becoming airborne, ashes rising, then floating back to earth.
I’m not stupid. I’m aware forgiveness isn’t that simple. It will ebb and flow. Maybe there’ll be times when I’ll regret this ... this letting go. Times when I’ll want to claw back my anger. Those times will pass. Right now, I need this unburdening.
Soon the flame is reaching my fingers, so I drop the remainder on the grass and glance up at the lemon tree. I choose a large, juicy fruit and snap it off its branch. I dig a hole in the peel, then squeeze juice over the smouldering cinders.
‘What are you doing?’
Samuel would get it. ‘Spell congruous.’
My beautiful, beautiful girl
What have I done?
Damaged you beyond
Repair and now I leave
The coward that I am
Forgive me.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Where to start? This feels like sorting out a seating plan at a wedding – who do I sit upfront, in the middle, up the back? Hell, I’m just going to toss names up the in air and see where they land.
Chris Collins, my supplier of cat food, sanity and mortgage payments. One day, I’ll upgrade your ute and buy us that dream home in Port Douglas. Love you and our bunnies to bits. You are my rock.
My RMIT PWE buddies who have stayed in touch via our Chicken Writers group and become the most amazing and generous of friends: Kathryn Moore, Jo Burnell, Connie Spanos, Ara Sarafian. You all give an abundance of love, time and patience. You are a lesson in endurance when I rail against feedback. You are my personal cheer squad who support me as I whine, wine and write. You must all be a little crazy.
Nikki Bielinski, Sylvia Goudie, Adam VanLangenberg, Tim Byrne, Deborah Vanderwerp, Hutch Stevens. Each of you have helped me along this bumpy ride, if not on this book, then as a developing writer.
Nicole Hayes thank you for your friendship, generosity and years of guidance in your workshops, and for taking time out from your crazy busy schedule to read my manuscript. Melissa Manning bless you for your endless encouragement, belief, support and advice when you were so deep in your own work and should have been focused on yourself.
RMIT and TAFE PWE tutors and classmates. Thank you for your knowledge and generosity when I returned to study, vulnerable and not knowing know how much I didn’t know.
Stuart Reedy and the Phoenix Park Writers group, for the camaraderie and endless weeks, years of workshopping. Stuart, I could always feel you believed in me. Marisa Pintado of Hardie Grant and Melanie Ostell, you probably don’t know how much your time and encouragement meant.
Sally Hetherington thanks for your help with the original artwork way back when. Sorry, I couldn’t keep my fingers out, but you know you love me. Elizabeth Stevens, you are a star. Thanks for the selfpub hand-holding.
Ari Gershevitch, Geraldine Stallard, Andrew Pelechaty, Ruth Van Gramberg, Sally Odgers, Theresa Bonn, Lana Collins, Joe Pryke, for your fresh eyes on my manuscript in its various forms. Ena Makaus, for getting me hooked on writing in the first place. Who knew where that first TA
FE class, ‘Find Your Inner Voice’, would lead?
My AJC Publishing editors, beta reading team, and editing mentor Wendy Monaghan: without your professionalism and dedication, I wouldn’t have the time to write at all.
And finally, me, because I freakin’ did it. Now where’s the wine and chocolate? And if you have helped me in any way, and I’ve forgotten to mention you, I’m terribly sorry. Blame it on Clusterfluff* fallout.
* https://www.ajcollins.com.au/category/aj-collins-my-brain-tumour-blog/
HELPLINES
Australian support links and phone numbers
Lifeline: crisis support, suicide
https://www.lifeline.org.au
Ph. 13 11 14
Kids helpline: children & teens
https://kidshelpline.com.au
1800 55 1800
Beyond Blue: crisis support service
https://www.beyondblue.org.au
1300 22 4636
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Robyn Slavin Portrait Photographer
AJ Collins is a Melbourne-based fiction author. A recipient of first prize and several commendations for the Monash WordFest awards, AJ has been published in various short story anthologies and magazines and was awarded a place at Hardcopy 2018 in Canberra, a national professional development program for writers. Her work has also been read on Radio Queensland.
AJ graduated from RMIT’s Professional Writing and Editing Associate Degree in 2014 and has since established a successful editing and publishing business, AJC Publishing.
Previous to this, AJ had an eclectic career from managing commercial mortgages, to working in a legal tribunal, to fronting her own function band for over twenty years.
A one-time devotee of adrenaline sports, including bungee jumping, skydiving, parasailing, sky-walking, sky-jumping, and volcano climbing, AJ is now happy to be settled at home with her hubby and two fur-kids, writing her adventures instead of living them.
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Magnolias don't Die (Coming Soon)