Luck of the Titanic

by Stacey Lee

When you live with someone whose mistress is the bottle, you say your goodbyes long before they depart.

I imagine how Jamie will take the news. He may play things casual, but I’ll throw my arms around him and squeeze the casual out.

Ten decks in all, home to two thousand passengers. Jamie, will I ever find you? I sniff, on the verge of falling into the pity pit.

The scowling man snorts. “Your only job here is to stay out of trouble.” Now, that is a man’s voice. It’s not heavy on the bass notes, but it exudes a quiet authority. Unlike the lads with their easy tongues, he speaks his English carefully, like a cat choosing where to put his paws on a slippery rail.

“This is so typical. Plans always half-baked.”

well-dressed people drift around upholstered furniture like exotic fish around blue coral, attended to by plainer fish in uniform grey and black. A woman slips off her fur coat and dumps it on her reedy maid, who nearly spills the wineglasses she is holding. Don’t I remember those tedious days of being a human coatrack and side table?

This is the perfect hideout. Mum raised me not to tell fibs, but if Ba were here, he would be cackling with glee.

Don’t spend too long looking behind you, or you’ll miss out on what’s ahead,

I pick out the emotions knitting in me like loose threads: anger at his carelessness, guilt that I wasn’t there, and sadness for the things he will never see, like elephants. And all of these seasoned with relief that he will no longer have to suffer.

As far as I’m concerned, the best way to counter bad luck is to make some luck of your own. “Something’s always going to happen.”

“There are many ways to make music. You do not need a drum to drum. Just like you can smile without smiling, and cry without crying.”

“There is a saying: If you always give, you will always have.

hope goodwill is like bay leaves, where just a few are enough to flavor a whole pot of stew.

Life is a balancing act, and the better you get at juggling, the better you get at living. You could be killed walking down the street, but you don’t let that fear stop you. You just practice until the fear is no longer part of the equation.

We know Fong’s grief, the kind that freezes you in space and time. The kind that blindfolds you, then hangs you over a wire, with no idea how deep the drop is or how much farther you must walk to get to the end. Neither of us spoke for a week after Mum died. It was as if talking meant progress and progress meant she was part of the past. That was something neither of us could accept.