Coasting

by Ben Karwan

  ‘My agent contacted the casting directors and managed to book me an audition. Initial contact was made over Skype and I had to travel for a call back.’

  Marjolijn’s acting must be phenomenal. I mean, her singing is brilliant but I’d have thought local productions would seek local talent. But as soon as I think it, I realise that presumptions like that are no better than the prejudices we saw on the night we met her. I’m the worst.

  Our food arrives soon after that and the conversation remains Marjolijn-centred.

  ‘Why did you learn so many languages?’ I ask, hoping it’s not a rude question. ‘I haven’t got the patience.’

  ‘Most people in the Netherlands grow up learning English,’ she says, swallowing a mouthful of her salad. ‘There are more who speak both Dutch and English than there are monolinguals. But I never learned languages for the sake of the language.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asks Elliot.

  ‘Language is a means of communication. I have no interest in German in essence, but I am interested in global travel and meeting people. It is lazy for me to expect everybody to speak Dutch or English. True, many people in Germany also speak English, but I like the flexibility to socialise with my German friends and not be a lexical hindrance. Language is one of the most powerful and unique tools we possess as humans.’

  Marjolijn tells us about her global travels and all the countries she has visited. I don’t really understand how she had the time to do it all. I’m also fascinated – I thought even going to Queensland was a big deal but by my age Marjolijn had visited fourteen countries. She says she prides herself on having friends on every continent in the world, which I think is a lot more impressive than it sounds.

  The curtain for Marjolijn’s performance rises at seven-thirty. Elliot and I arrive at the theatre just before seven, wearing the exact same clothes we wore to our dance competition, because we didn’t exactly bring a tonne of formal wear.

  The theatre is smaller than I expected. I’ve never seen a live show before, so I expected a large building that drew a lot of attention to itself but it’s a reasonably small building that I would’ve missed if not for Elliot pointing out the Next to Normal poster in the window.

  A small crowd has gathered in the foyer, waiting for the doors to open. Ushers in white business shirts and black vests stand guarding the auditorium. Several identical flyers hang along the walls listing the cast for the evening.

  The role of Diana will be played by Marjolijn Jacobse this evening, due to the illness of Rosie Watson.

  Illness seems to be a lie, since Marjolijn knew well in advance that she’d be performing. Perhaps it’s just easier than a full explanation.

  From what I can gather, the principal performers for the other roles are all present. Several audience members grumble about having paid for an understudy show.

  I fork over twenty dollars for a program at one of the stalls and lean against the wall, hugging the program to my chest.

  The doors open at seven and an usher leads us to our seats. In the front row. Our tickets say ‘Stalls: Row A’ but I hadn’t thought about what that means so I wasn’t expecting front-row seats.

  ‘Enjoy the show,’ says the usher.

  We’re perhaps two spots from the centre of the row. The red cushioned seats are the type that fold themselves up when nobody is sitting on them.

  I flick through the program and find the cast profiles. The principals all have extensive, full-page biographies, but Marjolijn’s is only a couple of sentences:

  Marjolijn Jacobse – Diana (understudy). Marjolijn has previously performed the role of Diana in Scheveningen and has had several other roles in both Dutch and German productions. The Australian touring company is excited to welcome her onboard to perform in her third language.

  ‘Understudies surely have the hardest role,’ I say to Elliot, while the rest of the audience filters in.

  ‘Why’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘Obviously they’re damn good to get cast in the first place, but even in the foyer I heard people grumbling about seeing the understudy and not the principal performer – and the show hasn’t even started. Especially when there’s a big name in the lead role, people automatically get this idea in their heads that they’re only the understudy and expect a worse performance. I guess it just seems a little unfair that they have to face all the usual pressures of a performance, as well as an audience who is expecting it to be sub-par.’

  ‘I guess,’ he says. ‘An understudy would have to perform really well for people to accept they’re good. It would be an interesting experiment to see how differently people rated identical performances, based on whether they were told it was the lead or the understudy performing.’

  I feel bad for Marjolijn for the next twenty minutes, until the lights dim and a voice-over reminds us to turn off all mobile phones, that there’s to be no recording or photography, blah, blah, blah. Then the prelude begins, the curtains open and everybody falls silent.

  Marjolijn plays Diana, a woman suffering from bipolar disorder, and it’s truly terrifying how convincing she is.

  The cast all adopt American accents for the show, though I can still hear the traces of Dutch in Marjolijn’s voice. I’m not sure if that’s because it’s obvious or because I know her.

  The music is very different to what I expected. My knowledge of the score came from listening to Teddy sing it and, just from listening to his voice, it was tough to pick up that many of the songs have a rock edge to them. I expected more of a feel-good Mary Poppins-type quality.

  I’m really beginning to enjoy the show and settling into who all the characters are. Marjolijn’s acting breaks my heart. I almost forget that she doesn’t actually have bipolar disorder. I sit in stunned silence as she sings a song called ‘You Don’t Know’. Her voice is powerful, crisp and pure. Perhaps it’s her acting, perhaps it’s the more sophisticated sound system, or perhaps she was saving her voice in Byron Bay, but that performance was nothing compared to this. Her voice fills the entire theatre and I almost die. Elliot audibly gasps and I feel physically forced into my seat by her voice. I’m frozen in position. She’s furious. She’s passionate. Her performance is so vulnerable, so … human.

  As the curtains close for the intermission, the audience climb to their feet, giving a standing ovation for a full two minutes. I may have deafened Elliot with my cheering but I don’t particularly care.

  The houselights illuminate the auditorium, which is filled with the sounds of excited chatter and movement as people filter out for a drink or a bathroom break.

  While I’m focusing on Marjolijn’s performance, her cast mates are just as good. By my count, there are six actors in total. They all have such brilliant voices and I’m amazed at the amount of talent that exists in the world. I’m also amazed that these performers are able to get up on stage and do what they love.

  ‘Do you need a drink or anything?’ I ask Elliot, standing to my feet.

  ‘Nah, I’m good. Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘I’m just going to pee.’

  ‘I trust you can do that alone,’ he says.

  A decent queue has formed for the bathroom and it takes nearly ten minutes before I reach the front. As I weave back through the foyer, I overhear many compliments for Marjolijn.

  ‘Why is she only the understudy?’

  ‘She’s remarkably good. Very convincing.’

  ‘Yes. According to the program, she’s performed shows in two other languages. Very impressive.’

  ‘I’ll have to come and see the principal actress if the understudy is this good.’

  Strangely, my lips form a smile of pride. I don’t really know Marjolijn but I really like her and it feels like hearing praise for a friend.

  Act Two is just as impressive as the first. I think my favourite song in the second act is called ‘How Could I Ever Forget?’ There’s so much passion and emotion that you just can’t help but believe every word Marjolijn sings.<
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  Along with the majority of the audience, I cry for most of the act. He won’t admit it but I’m sure I even spot Elliot subtly wipe away a tear or two.

  After the curtain call (Marjolijn receives the largest applause of the entire cast), we head into the warm evening to wait by the stage door, hoping to talk to Marjolijn.

  ‘I guess Teddy is onto something with his theatre obsession,’ says Elliot as we wait.

  ‘I know. That was amazing. So much talent – from all of them, not just from Marjolijn.’

  The show was emotionally draining but also funny in all the right places – funny enough to relieve the tension but not so funny as to undermine the seriousness of the mental health issues that it represents. It was so honest.

  The door swings open and Marjolijn, along with the rest of her cast mates, appears, waving and greeting the waiting fans.

  We shake the hands of the three actors who pass us first and congratulate them on a stellar performance.

  Marjolijn spots us and comes straight over. ‘Jennifer, Elliot, I am so glad you made it.’ Her Dutch accent sounds a lot more pronounced now that I’ve heard the American accent she put on for the last two hours.

  ‘I’m so glad you invited us,’ I say. ‘That was so good. No, it was amazing!’

  ‘You are too kind,’ she says. The crowd is still buzzing, wanting their turn meeting the actress. ‘I must move on. But please, use my telephone number. I hope to stay in contact.’ She beams and continues on, meeting fans.

  The sheer level of happiness around the theatre tonight is ridiculous. Marjolijn is doing what she loves and making a bunch of other people happy in the process. The idea of being able to do that is incredible.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Elliot is already up when I wake the next morning, which is a rarity. My immediate thought is that I have overslept, but it’s only five am.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says from the couch. ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘Really well,’ I say. The adrenaline from the show wore off before we were even back in the room last night and I crashed almost immediately. ‘Why are we awake so early?’

  Elliot shrugs. ‘I just woke up. Excitement of heading home, I guess.’

  I get up and start to get ready. When I reach for my water bottle, I notice a black scrawl on the inside of my left forearm, taking up perhaps seven inches.

  ‘Really?’ I sigh.

  ‘Told you I’d pay you back,’ he says with a grin.

  ‘Sharpie?’

  He holds up the pen in confirmation.

  ‘As annoying as you are, I have to give credit where credit is due – this is damn neat.’ And it is. The ‘Jennifer’ inked onto my arm is in perfect cursive, though Elliot doesn’t usually have neat handwriting.

  The grin is still on his face. ‘Some of my best work, I’d say.’

  I shake my head at him and head into the bathroom. I strip my clothes off and jump in the shower. On the floor is a bottle of liquid soap. I squeeze a dollop onto my right hand and lather it into my forearm. I cover the tattoo with thick white foam. I wipe it with a washcloth, running it under the flow of water, but my name is still there. A little more furiously, I scrub again, but still the Sharpie persists.

  After ten minutes I give up, turn the taps off and dry myself. Pulling my clothes on, I leave the bathroom to see his knowing grin staring at me.

  ‘How’d you go?’

  ‘You’re an arsewipe,’ I say. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Tattoo gun,’ he says simply. ‘Never coming off.’

  I give him a Look of Doom.

  ‘You’re getting too good at that,’ he says.

  I hold my gaze.

  ‘Fine. I covered it in baby powder and hairspray. Should last a month.’

  ‘I have to walk around with my own name on my arm for a month?’

  ‘Told you – it’s payback.’

  I know it’s all in good fun and I absolutely deserve it but it’s still slightly annoying because a) my prank had been over within ten minutes, b) his will be marked on my body for a month and c) I’m not convinced I have the creativity to top him.

  But, it seems, Elliot is not as bright as he thought. A quick Google search tells me that with some baby oil my ‘tattoo’ will easily wipe away.

  I may have found a method to remove the ink but I still need a payback …

  Since it’s our last morning in Sydney, we decide to go to the beach early and make the entire nine-hour drive home after our swim.

  Vincent is probably feeling slightly neglected, so we use him to get to Bondi Beach. We arrive around seven and easily find a park. The beach itself is relatively quiet, probably because it’s so early.

  We unload our towels from Vincent and lie in the sun. I ask Elliot to do my sunscreen again.

  After an hour of sunbathing, we get into the water. We only go deep enough for the water to brush my waist while I squat. Heavy grey clouds roll across the sky, concealing the sun.

  ‘Maybe this is why there’s nobody here,’ says Elliot, nodding at the sky. ‘They checked the weather forecast.’

  ‘Scared of a bit of rain, Carter?’ I ask, shifting my hands around just below the water surface to maintain my balance. ‘Worried you might get wet?’

  He digs his palms into the sand for support and kicks me in the shoulder. It isn’t hard but it’s enough to throw me off balance. My backside hits the sand and I sit with an exaggerated frown. With water splashing my face, I cross my arms. ‘That was rude.’

  ‘You’re rude.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you anymore,’ I say, and scramble to my feet. Running in water is no easy task but regardless, I take off back towards the shore, Elliot in pursuit. The sky opens up and warm, sticky rain falls.

  Elliot chases me all the way to the shore and I feel his arms grab my waist as I approach ankle-deepness. He tackles me to the ground and pins both of my hands above my head with one of his, and uses the other to torture my ribs, jabbing, tickling, poking.

  I laugh and try to throw him off. I manage to pull one of my hands free but he quickly grabs it with his jabbing hand.

  ‘Jesus, you’re stronger than you look,’ he says. But I’m not strong enough to get him off. A wave crashes over us and he’s forced to stop his torture. But he’s still holding me down. We both laugh and lie there for a while, the rain falling on our faces.

  Lying wet on a sandy beach isn’t the greatest idea we’ve ever had. It takes a long time to get enough sand off so as not to bring half the beach back with us in Vincent.

  When we get back to the hotel, I find all my clothes, which have sprawled themselves across the room, and shove them into my suitcase. I collect all of my toiletries and all of the crap we bought from the tourist stores and shove them into my suitcase, too. My kitten necklace hangs from my neck and I put the stuffed kitten on top of my bag.

  My heart begins to race as I realise I’m missing something. ‘Shit,’ I say quietly. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where’s what?’ asks Elliot as I rifle through my bags, searching the pockets of every clothing item I have and undoing all my hard work of packing.

  ‘My necklace,’ I say. ‘The crucifix. I took it off to put yours on. Argh … Mum’s going to kill me.’

  ‘Just relax. She’s not going to –’

  ‘She’s going to think I’ve just thrown it away!’

  ‘I’ll buy you a new one,’ he says, and I know he means it.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ I say. ‘I mean, thank you for the offer, but Mum will still see it as me defying her again.’

  I sit on the bed with no idea how I could explain it away. Undoubtedly I prefer Elliot’s necklace, but Mother Dearest won’t understand that. She’ll find the symbolic implications of rebellion and it’ll just give her something else to throw in my face.

  Elliot sits beside me and hooks his arm around my shoulders. ‘You know,’ he says, ‘you and that necklace had a good run. Your mother bestowed it upon you as
a child and it stayed with you as you grew. But I don’t think the necklace was ever really right for you. I guess the necklace means a lot to your mum and she believes it’s the holder of all the answers. That doesn’t make it true. She needs to accept you aren’t her and let the necklace go and do its own thing.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t?’ I ask, looking into his eyes.

  ‘Then that’s her problem, isn’t it? The necklace is just a symbol. If she expects you to literally carry something around because she thinks it matters, then she’s in the wrong. You are Lauren’s daughter, it’s true, but more importantly you are Jennifer. Your own person. And you can still be a good person without a necklace, if that’s what you want.’

  That Elliot. He always knows exactly what to say. And I know he isn’t talking about the necklace.

  Walking to the car, it hits me for the first time that we’re headed back to reality. I mean, we’ve been making our way home ever since leaving the Gold Coast but we have no more planned stops, aside from those Vincent demands. It’s sad.

  I climb into the driver’s seat and Elliot calls shotgun, even though there are no other passengers. Our bags are in the back seat and I watch in the rear-view mirror as the Sydney skyline disappears over the horizon. It’s just after ten am.

  ‘Next stop: Home,’ I declare, shifting Vincent into fifth as we reach the highway. ‘Well, almost.’

  It’s slightly cooler than it was earlier this morning – only high-twenties – but the air conditioner still gets a workout to clear the humidity that lingers from the morning’s downpour.

  The radio plays a bunch of old songs we sing along to for about an hour. I take the role of Danny and Elliot plays Sandy for a phenomenal rendition of ‘Summer Nights’. I try to sing about an octave lower than my vocal folds allow and Elliot screeches in a falsetto that’s actually painful to hear.

  I’m laughing too hard to even sing the last line.

  After the song finishes Elliot turns the volume down. ‘This has been the best week of my life,’ he says. ‘No word of a lie.’