sing the Drunken Sailor song, to which they can’t remember the words, even though they had just sung it at Bank. What do you do with a drunken sailor is all they know.
And weigh-HEY up she rises
Weigh-HEY up she rises . . .
They stand, they sit, they slouch, they slump, finally they slide to the floor and lie on their backs, covered by the nastiest scratchiest blankets, and slur their dreams to the ceiling. They wish they could see the stars. They wish the bloody blankets were better. Americans gave us these blankets, Mia says. Would it have killed them to make them softer? It’s like covering ourselves with sandpaper.
They wish it weren’t so cold.
She wishes she had the magic power to not need food. He wishes he had the power of two extra arms, and she says if you’re going to be asking for extra anything, are you sure you want it to be arms, and with a small smile he says yes because elsewhere he already has the superpower, and with her own small smile she says she wishes she could know it again.
They wish their bodies weren’t all busted up. They ooze blood out of their wounds and live inside their regret.
She wishes she could reverse time.
Trust me, he says, reversing time is not all it’s cracked up to be.
She wishes they didn’t only live once.
Trust me, he says, living more than once is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Rolling up his sleeve, Mia touches the tattoos on the inside of his arm, touches her own name in a small script right at his wrist, whispers it in a drunken purr. Mia, Mia . . .
Are these the girls you’ve loved before?
Yes, he slurs back. These are the girls I’ve loved before.
She giggles, like she thought of something incredible. Jules, have you noticed how all of them are a devi—deri—devivative—derirative—devirative of my own name, of Maria?
What do you know, Julian says. I hadn’t noticed that until you pointed it out just now.
I want me to be there, too, she says. But as Maria.
The name of a fervent prayer, he says.
That’s right.
I loved a girl named Maria, he sings, and smiles.
That’s right! I want to be above Shae and ASH. But in big letters. Huge. Like this MIRABELLE.
Okay, he says. You will be. He closes his eyes.
Shae is not Maria.
It is. It was Mary-Margaret.
ASH is not Maria.
No. ASH is Ashton. He was my friend.
Must’ve been a good friend to end up on your arm, all ridged and raised like that.
He was. He was my brother. He died.
Don’t cry, Jules. Can you sit up and cheer up? Let’s have another round. Drink and sing to me about the girls you’ve loved before.
They can’t sit up or cheer up. They’re drowning in whiskey.
What are the dots for? She runs her finger over one set of columns, then the other, touches the dots by MIRABELLE’s name. He doesn’t answer her, and she doesn’t follow up.
Which one of them killed a man in cold blood, she asks. No, don’t tell me that either. I don’t want to know. Rather . . . how do you atone for something like that? Do you atone for it?
You do, he says. Your body is the price. Your soul is the price.
Mia is quiet. Did she atone for it? she asks haltingly.
I think she did, yes.
Tell me about the first, tell me about this other Mia. Was she nicer than me?
It’s not another Mia, he wants to say. There is only one. She was not nicer than you. Sometimes she went by a fake name, Julian says. By Josephine. Josephine Collins.
Oh, I quite like that name, Mia says.
I liked it, too.
But Mia is better, right? She smiles.
Of course.
Bloody right. Where did you meet her?
She was up on a stage.
Like me?
Just like you.
Did she love you?
I don’t know, he replies. I thought she did. But she didn’t love me true. She wasn’t true to me. She kept secrets, Julian says. I could taste them on her lips. But I didn’t want to see.
How about a poem for Josephine? A short one, like a haiku.