TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story)

by Matthew Turner

  Big Jet Plane—Angus & Julia Stone

  I've always found airports mysterious. They are, quite frankly, no different from any other busy aspect of modern life, with shops and rules and frantic bodies pushing past one another. However, there's something strangely unique about these micro metropolises.

  Sitting in a coffee shop at an airport is different to sitting in one anywhere else, as is walking into a shop or settling down with a book. Families that pass are not families, they're nomads awaiting adventure; couples aren't couples but two lovers on the verge of their first romantic trip; men in suits aren't mere workers, but important folk off to close million-dollar deals. Airports are part of the everyday, but somehow overshadow it.

  I'm part of this strange microcosm right now, living in the everyday but not. Behind is a wall of glass separating me from a fleet of planes and a rather long runway. The little boy to my right doesn't lean on the room-sized window and peer outside, he inhales what's beyond it. There's a buzz of adrenaline in the air and a constant hum of ambient noise. But again, it's not simply wayward sound, it's unbridled adventure and hope.

  Hope... an overused word of late, but one I finally understand.

  It's been two weeks since I finally decided to live. Time since has been a blur, full of exciting and terrifying tasks. Booking flights and spending money without rational thought was fun, but confessing my decision to my parents wasn't. In some ways, this occasion was harder, for it was my own choice, not one delivered by fate. It's hard to make them understand, but recently I can't stop thinking about one of my early morning appointments in Manchester.

  I'm unsure who the specialist was, or where on this journey it took place, but I do remember the near empty waiting room, and I most certainly remember the encounter: his shaking fingers; his desperation; a peek into my future.

  It was early, so early the nurses and doctors were still arriving, whipping off their jackets and unveiling their white uniforms. My sleepy eyes ached, not only from the lack of sleep, but the process of tests and relaying my story and how I felt and what I knew, and did I understand this, and am I aware of the risks?

  Keeping my gaze on the floor, I was aware of a nearby man, striding back and forth and picking up magazines before dropping them on an empty chair. My fidgety fingers scratched my thighs, and the tension in my neck clung tight to each fibre of muscle. I didn't look up. I couldn't look up. I knew if I did, this strange man would talk to me. He had an aura about him, a desperation of needing to unburden his troubles.

  "I hate appointments at this time," he said, ending the silence. "Waiting rooms, at this time, freak me out." He said this time like it had another meaning.

  I didn't look up. "Yeah, a little chilling."

  "It's my wife, you see," he blurted. "She prefers to do this stuff early in the day. So she doesn't have to worry all afternoon, you know? At least, she used to, anyway."

  I raised my head for the first time, following his black trousers up to where his white shirt tucked beneath the waistline. The plastic cup in his fingers shook. "The worrying is tough. I imagine it's just as bad for you," I said, honing in on his face: stubble surrounding his mouth and jawline, messy hair flopping over his forehead.

  "Yeah, it's tough. Still, worse for her, right?"

  "Yeah." His erratic blinking unnerved me. He looked on the verge of breaking, literally falling apart on the waiting room floor. I'd read articles online and blog posts and forums, but this was the first—and only—occasion I've spoken to someone going through the same torture as me.

  "You want to sit down?" I asked.

  "No, no, thank you. I prefer to stand."

  "How long..." I didn't know how to finish my sentence. "I mean, has she been going through this long?"

  He laughed, although it was more like a cough. "You could say that. It's been years. We caught it early, so everyone was confident it'd be fine. I suppose it was, in the beginning. I mean, it was horrible, but the treatments worked, you know? But every time we thought we'd beaten it..." he sighed. "I can't decide whether these last few years have spun by or crawled along."

  "I'm sorry. Is she..."

  "Oh no. She's getting worse. These last few months have been horrible. Worse than ever. I mean, I've imagined some bad shit over the years, but nothing as bad as this." His shaking fingers proved too much for the cup, it slipping from his grasp and spilling some of its water. "Christ, I'm sorry. You don't need to hear my problems. You're... you've got your own worries right now."

  "No, it's fine." Although he was right, I did. And I didn't want to hear any of it, but at the same time, I felt like I needed to.

  "How far along are you?" he asked.

  "Oh, my case is pretty rare. So... There's not much time." I didn't want to elaborate. I was sick and tired of relaying my story over and over.

  "I'm sorry. It's a cruel process."

  "Do you mind me asking..." I hesitated a few seconds, choosing my words carefully. "What makes it worse now?" He seemed to deflate right then, literally shrink before my eyes.

  Pushing his hand through his hair, he leant on the wall. "She's changed. The truth is, she isn't my wife anymore, and I know that sounds awful, but she isn't. I still love her, but..." He moved off the wall and paced a few steps to my left. "It wouldn't be so bad, but we have two kids. She thinks I'm trying to steal them away from her, so she takes them from school and creates these lies about me. She actually called the police last week and said I tried to kill her."

  I stood up. "That's awful, I'm—"

  "It's the tumour, you see. She's not the same person. Her mother makes it worse, too. She can't believe her daughter would change like that, so she believes her." He shook his head. "No, that's not right, I don't think she actually believes her, but she feels like she has to. Does that make sense?"

  I nodded

  "Her mother's in there with her now. I have to come in a separate car these days. She refuses to be around me, but I can't not be here, can I? She's my wife. The mother of my children. I love her, but..."

  "It's fine, I understand," I said. "Like you say, it's a cruel process. I can't imagine going through it for so long."

  It was his turn to nod. "God, I'm sorry. I don't even know you, and here I am—"

  "It's fine, honestly. I understand." And I did. I did understand. Part of me wanted to unload all my issues on him, too. "I hope she pulls through it. Becomes your wife again. Like you say, it's the tumour. Not her."

  Another nod, but as he moved to speak, a figure behind him spoke. "Mr King. We're ready for you."

  We exchanged a desperate and hopeless look, and I never saw him again. At the time, I tried to push the encounter into the back of my mind, but as I made my decision to leave and travel, the memory came forward and refused to let go.

  I shared the story with Ethan, hoping it would help him understand.

  "What if I become like his wife," I said. "I can't put my parents through that."

  "You won't—"

  "You don't know that. Nobody does. I know my headaches are getting worse, and everyone's sure my memory will be affected at some point, but to what extent, who knows. I may have seizures. I may turn on those I love. I may become erratic and paranoid. The pain may become so unbearable, I scream. I may look different. I may be different. The facts are, I may not be Dante for much longer. I may be gone long before I die."

  "And if you do, we'll be here for you."

  "Ethan, I can't put my parents through that. I can't put you through it. I don't want to. If I stay, I'll waste away. I might live longer, but to what extent? What will a few months mean if I become a paranoid mess and try to hurt those I love?"

  "And this is why you need to stay. Here, you have people to keep you safe. Out there... you have nobody."

  I held firm. Stubborn. "No, I need to go. I'm sorry. I know you don't understand, but I have to do this."

  Each day since has been a battle. I don't blame my parents or Ethan for trying to change my mind,
and I don't expect them to understand, but I need them to respect it's a decision only I can make.

  I refuse to see out my days with procedures that offer nothing but empty hope; procedures that may change me to a point I'm no longer me. This so-called hope will forever exist as long as there's someone to offer it, but it only matters if I believe it, and in all honesty, I don't. The hope of finally living the life I should have done long ago? Well, that's a hope I can comprehend.

  Still, I can't rid the guilt: my mother's crying image consumes me for most of the day; the empty look in my father's stare devours me; the shock and sadness from colleagues and once-upon-a-friends, and vaguely familiar strangers as I confirm the dreadful news. The deluge of pity and I'm sorrys sickens me, and the thought of going through it month after month is something I cannot bear. The other side of this airport is full of unknowns, but it houses people who don't know my pain. For now, this is enough.

  Closing my eyes, I allow my other senses to heighten. The smell of muffins and bagels is close, and the playful sound of children laughing is near, as well. Soon, I'll be on a plane with monotonous hums and icy air, but now I remain in an exciting and vibrant environment. There's a family to my left discussing what they'll do on their first night in Tenerife, and a couple to my right who'll join me in Paris, although I'm sure their plans are different to my own.

  An announcement ding-dongs, a commotion of rolling suitcases follows. I'm in the middle of a world much grander than my own, and for the first time in six weeks, I'm somewhat relaxed. With a deep breath, I lose myself in the smell of baked goods, practically tasting the iced batter on the tip of my tongue. In front of me is a couple of friends talking about a third; a playful tone in their chatter.

  'Wait,' I think, something about this final conversation familiar. Opening my eyes, I understand why. "What? What are you two doing here?" I ask, undecided on anger, shock, or relief.

  "Dante, m'lad, you didn't think we would let you do this all on your lonesome, did you? I mean, please, you can say you're fine, but a face rarely lies," says Wil, leaning back with his hands cupped on his lap.

  "But... but, you both have jobs and... I can't ask you to leave all that because... and anyway what about–"

  "Not all of this is about you," says Ethan, resting his elbows on his knees. He says nothing for a few seconds, peering at me and allowing the words to settle. "This is something you have to do. I'm trying to understand that, but in doing so, you're taking a huge risk. I know you already know this, and I don't want to guilt-trip you, but leaving... it's destroying your parents, especially your mother. They need us to be here, and we do, too. Like I say, this isn't all about you, so the sooner you accept that, the sooner we can all move on."

  Weeks of suppressed guilt and emotion bundles its way forward, my eyes heavy in an instant, a quiver in my cheeks rising upward. I want to cry, but not here, especially in front of these two.

  "I know, mate, but..." I bite my thumb. "Look, I can't begin to describe what I'm feeling right now. I'm aware who I'm hurting, and this is exactly why I didn't want anyone to come to the airport. I can't say goodbye as my mother cries and my dad silently pleads. I can't stand the thought of you two being here, either, because I know how selfish I'm being and the pain I'm causing. I have to do this, though, and I need to do it on my own." I sigh. "Ethan, you have a job you love, and Wil, you have your exhibition soon. You can't just walk away from your lives."

  "Well, sir, I don't recall you asking anything from us, so in a way, you're not. As for the exhibition, well, it should be a rather enjoyable night—oh, I was going to invite Mr. Adams, you know, our art teacher from yesteryear, in a bid to show him I'm not a complete waste of oxygen—and, well, yes, anyway, it'll be a good night, but there are many more to come. My art today will be there tomorrow, but this, an adventure with you... that is now. I must take it. We must all take it."

  I shake my head and turn to Ethan. He's devouring me in silence like he often does. There's no structure in travelling, and there's no routine. For Ethan to travel, he must leave behind his job and house and bubble-like ecosystem. For most, this is bliss, but for Ethan, it's torture. "Ethan, mate—"

  "I know what you're going to say and don't worry. I've thought this through. Yes, it'll be hard, but I don't care. I'm scared, but we're all scared, and like I keep saying, this isn't all about you. We all have stuff to deal with right now." He looks away as he says the word stuff.

  I nod, because I don't know what else I can do. I hate them being here, but I'm relieved to see their faces. I kept making promises that I would return in time to say goodbye, but I don't know this. I hope and pray that my body will warn me, but one day, it may simply end.

  Alive one moment, not the next.

  "Right, well, now that's sorted," says Wil, sitting next to me. He cranes his elbow around my neck and points off into the distance. "M'lad, this is going to be an adventure to end all adventures. Consider us hobbits on a quest of enlightenment, and although we search for nothing in particular, we will find what we find and treasure it all the same. Let us make the best of the good days and avoid the bad ones with blind bliss, agree?"

  I nod again, the feel of his tapping fingers a relief against my aching neck.

  "Also, let us get a few things off of our chests. First of all, we've been in cahoots with your parents for a couple of weeks now. The simple fact of the matter is this: none of us were ever going to let you do this on your own, okay?" He's on his feet, moving his arms and clicking his fingers. "Secondly, Ethan and I have made a promise to make sure you return home to the shire. You may kick and you may scream, but if we feel the time has come—although let's face it: Ethan is the one to make the final call, because I... well, yes—we shall drug you and paralyse you and force you onto a plane. Fight all you wish, but it will do you little good."

  He kneels below me now, gazing upwards as his blue eyes catch the excessive fluorescent lighting. "Do you agree, King-ston?"

  "I agree," I mutter with a smirk, for I am relieved. Whatever hope the airport offered before, is now tenfold. "Ethan, how the hell are you going to cope? Travellers don't shave every day and set out their clothes the night before. We're going to live in squalor at times. Have you seriously thought this through?"

  For the entire time I speak, he stares without a blink, continuing it for few further seconds, but then, from nowhere, a smile appears. "If you can battle a tumour, I can overlook a few silly quirks."

  I nod, gazing into his flaky blue eyes, which are so lifeless compared to Wil's. I love Wil, but his erratic ways make it difficult to rely on. My cousin, on the other hand, is always right where I need him.

  "Thanks guys," I say, looking at Ethan again, his blonde hair almost ginger in this light. "Your pale-ass skin will burn to a crisp. Have you got enough sunscreen?"

  "Please," he huffs. "I have an entire bag of the stuff."

  Nodding, I inhale and enjoy the smell of muffins once more. A few minutes ago I was alone, an unknown adventure ahead of me. It's still unknown, but no longer lonesome.

  3rd November—Paris:

  Recommended Listening:

  Love Will Tear Us Apart—Nouvelle Vague

  Celebrate—Dark Dark Dark

  La Foule—Martha Wainwright

  The Pretty Girls—Ed Harcourt

  Today began with a striking pain, a pain much worse than previous days. It tingled to life on opening my eyes, the light burning into a bright, blinding flash. This is it, I thought. This is the end. It took weeks rather than months, but apparently, life hasn't finished with me yet, because despite the throbbing sensation lasting over an hour, it subsided and crept back to where it came from, hopefully never to return, but unfortunately, more than likely, merely waiting until tomorrow.

  I'm growing used to the headaches, and the pills help, but those initial few seconds are a torture I wouldn't wish upon anyone. Clinging to the sheets and balling my fists, I grind my teeth and force my head into the pillow and shake and
sweat and do everything I can to keep the pain inside. I don't want Ethan and Wil to hear it. I don't want them to share my anguish... not yet.

  A change of scenery has done little to the encroaching tumour, but the beautiful streets of Paris makes it easier to forget, or at the very least to push to one side. We've done little in the first few days of this adventure built on demise, simply walked, ate, and drank. We're tourists and nothing more. Looked down upon by locals and eyed with sinister greed by shopkeepers, buskers, and thieves alike.

  Walking beneath the Eiffel Tower's girders is a sight I'll take with me, its criss-crossing beams that reach all the way to infinity; the Louvre, too, flush with masterpieces around every corner. So much culture and beauty, and so much of it is lost on a man like me. But Wil... this is his home. As I rounded one of the Louvre's many nooks and crannies, I came across him, stood frozen in front of a large painting. He didn't move an inch: no flicking fingers... no swaying legs... no scuttling eyes or run-on sentences. Silence. Nothing. Peace.

  "You should have come here years ago," I eventually said.

  He didn't move. "Yes. Agreed, Dante. Agreed."

  We've ventured into Paris as tourists, but I'm okay with this. I only have one chance to walk these streets, and I need to see the images I've grown up with: a giant arch; a glass pyramid; a small, faded piece of Liberty. I'll only see these here, no place else. Some of the streets remind me of York, but the sights... no, they're unique.

  Notre Dame, for instance, is similar to the Cathedral back home, but yesterday, as I stood in its shadows, I was overcome with emotion. Gazing deep into its structure and devouring each gargoyle decoration, I imagined what it would be like to believe in the words spoken within it. I'm not religious, never have been, but now, with so much uncertainty and fear, a something to believe in... for it to guide me and remain by my side... I wonder what it would be like to understand.

  The thought kept me awake last night, but eventually I drifted off before awaking this morning ahead of my comrades—although I suspect Wil hasn't slept since we first checked in. As I lay in bed waiting for the pain to dissolve, Wil brought the room to life at sunrise, skipping out of bed and dashing towards the window, pulling the curtain and filling the room with bright, soothing sunshine. The change from York to here has been minimal until today. A degree or two warmer, maybe, but the same clouds above. Today is a playful contrast, the flawless sky peeking over the rooftops, not a disturbance throughout its still state.