7th March—Christchurch:
Recommended Listening:
Heartbeats—Jose Gonzalez
Shield Your Eyes—Dry The River
Pretty Face—Soley
All I want—Kodaline
The striking heat is no more, but comfort is still found in the sunshine. The day grows old, the evening ready to step forward, but the low sun refuses to budge, much of Hagley Park still in luscious light.
It reminds me of home, a simpler time when myself, Ethan, and Wil would sit in one of York's parks and cling to summer with drinks and chatter. Dog walkers and brisk joggers and young couples holding onto a younger life would surround us in a hopeful summer mood. A darker, colder, wetter time awaits, but for a little longer, the locals of Christchurch are outside and enjoying what's left. They're living for now, the hell with tomorrow, and the mood is hopeful and warm.
Sitting on a plain red blanket that Danii found in the hostel, the four of us stretch out and fill all four of its corners. She leans on my chest, her elbow on top of my thighs. Her weight restricts my breathing, but it's nice. It reminds me of what rests inside her. The sun shines directly on my face, the soothing rays kissing my neck and massaging my aching forehead. I've swallowed countless pills over the last few months, but they hold nothing on this luscious sun.
Ethan lies on his stomach, relaxed and sprawled out, his cheek resting on his forearm as a book sits beyond it. Wil is surprisingly still, cross-legged and gazing at the groups who have lasted the afternoon and settle down for the evening.
The trees' shadows grow and stretch and distort, reaching far across the grassy park and almost casting the entire area in dim light. The remaining revellers do not care, not so long as a smidgen of sun remains. We're couples leant against one another, kissing and hugging and stroking fingers through hair; we're groups of friends playing cricket and throwing frisbees, holding on to youth and freedom; we're families cooking meat on a fire and sharing platters of desserts and drinks; we're dreamers and readers and eternal schemers.
These strangers don't know I'm near the end. They're unaware that at this very moment, a headache pounds the inside of my skull. The pills don't help as much anymore. The respite they offer is minimal, but I'm so accustomed to the headaches that sometimes I forget one's even occurring. Once upon a time on this journey, the headaches held a monopoly, but no more. It shares its discomfort with nausea, muscles that feel like they've been dipped in acid, and skin so tender to touch it almost tears away from the bone. Still, no seizures of late, which is nice, although I fear my body is too tired and broken to shake and gyrate. If it did, it would more than likely bring the end with it.
Despite the pain, and how worthless it's made me, the worst part of this whole demise remains my wayward memory. Earlier this morning, I picked up my backpack and searched for my wallet. "Danii, have you seen my wallet?" I asked, panic surging through my veins. I could hear the stress in my voice, all broken and squeaky.
Danii and I looked all over. Ethan joined in. Wil tried to help. All along, it was in my jacket pocket. I had put it there myself earlier this morning, maybe last night at some point. I can't remember doing it. "Don't worry, sweetie," Danii said.
But I do worry. I miss the lost memories and stolen chunks of time. They're mine. They belong to me. I shouldn't have to give them up or let them go. This tumour has already taken enough.
"Got your eye on someone?" I ask Wil, eager to take my attention from the inner turmoil and angst.
Looking away from our blanket, he sways a little, hesitating before turning to face me and the rest of the group. "No, no, Dante, m'lad, merely gazing at this glorious scene. What a good idea this was. I must say, thank you, Danii."
She grips my right thigh. "So that's what that sounds like?"
"And what would that be, old one n and two i's?"
"The infamous Wil thank you."
He meets these words with a wild grin, jumping to his knees and swatting my foot. "Yes, yes, quite rare it is, too."
The shadows lining the boundary of our sunny island edge a little closer, the park losing another group as the frisbee throwers depart to the outskirts. The laughter and joy is dying, the songs from the birds more prominent, and The Kinks singing from a nearby speaker.
Stroking the back of my ear, Danii rolls onto her knees next to Wil. Her purple flowered sundress contrasts Wil's yellow chinos and faded pink shirt. The two of them are so colourful compared to Ethan and me. They're flowers to our grass. We're the boring leaves of summer, green and plain and all the same. Danii and Wil are the leaves of autumn: crisp and colourful and unique.
"We need to go home," I say, sudden and off subject. I've wanted to say it all day, but for some reason been wary to do so.
Wil gapes as Ethan remains calm and steady.
"I'm glad I've shared every second of this with you," I continue. "I'm sorry I tried to do it on my own, and I'm thankful you wouldn't let me. I know it's been tough, but it's been wonderful, too. I hope all three of you can take something from this. Something good, because I don't want you to remember this as a journey built on misfortune. It's more than that, especially since... since." I pause and smile at Danii. "Danii's pregnant, guys."
Wil's gape transforms into shock or awe or complete bamboozlement. He turns to Ethan, who joins him with an uncharacteristic concern.
"Oh... kah... ay," says Ethan, breaking the hesitant, still air. "I can't say I was expecting that, but I guess it's... good news, right?"
In unison, they look from Danii to me and back. She nods and holds her stomach, Wil leaping to his feet and bringing an energetic vibe to the red blanket.
"Oh my, oh my, what wonderful news this is. Why, we shall soon have a miniature Dante, a true boyish boy with childish charm and dreamy delight." He hovers over me, grabbing my hand and shaking it. Twisting on the spot, and nearly falling on Danii, he wraps his arms around her. "Tonight we shall toast—except you, Miss Danii—although I'm sure the rest of us will make up for your dryness." He moves to Ethan, tapping his shoulders and urging him upwards.
"It really is something," he says, struggling to his feet like a man much older. His tone is cautious, no doubt sensing my deeper feelings. The news is grand, but it's tainted with certain regret. Ethan knows this. He's already inside my thoughts.
"And of course we shall go home," Wil says, leaping off of the blanket and walking around its edge. "Yes, yes, the time is now. We've trekked an impressive trek, but all grand tales must come to an end. Ethan," he says, pointing with an outstretched arm and taut fingertip. "You've succeeded in your quest, good man."
Laughing, Ethan offers me his outspread hand. "Your mum will be delighted."
I stand and plant my palm on his shoulder. Even though we needn't have worried telling Ethan and Wil, for some reason, we did. I sense we all fear going home because we know what it represents. It isn't just the end of the journey, but an end to the journey.
"Right, Danii," says Ethan. "Let's get you back to the hostel and into the warmth. Will you help me book our flights home?"
"Of course I will. We can't leave it up to these two, can we?" she says.
Paying no attention, Will waves his arms and kicks out his legs. He's on the blanket but not, skipping and patting arms and hugging whatever limb he can grab ahold of.
"How about you two head back?" I say. "I think Wil needs to burn off some energy. What do you say, mate? Walk with me?"
*
**
The sun is sparse now, the park lost in a jungle of shadows as each tree fades into one another. It's met with a chill and a ticklish breeze, the prematurely fallen leaves dancing among it. The world around is still green, but it doesn't hold the same vibrancy as it did a few weeks ago. The smell of smoke and cooking sausage wavers, but not as strong as it once did.
"I cannot believe it, Dante, m'lad. You've created life, you crazy lunatic." He hesitates before his next words. "We will make sure he or she knows you. Knows how amazing
a father you would have been. And with that, I shall say no more."
I nod, thankful for his sparse overview. I move slowly along the concrete path, each footstep a struggle as my muscles tighten and bones hum. Where Wil practically wears nothing, I'm wrapped in a thick jumper and windproof jacket, but still I shiver from tip-to-toe.
"Lovely day for such brilliant news, also. Lovely day indeed."
"What about you?" I ask, eager to edge the subject away from the one thing I've thought nothing about for days. "You're going home. Back to real life. What the hell does Wilbur Day do now?"
"Oh, I don't know. I'll more than likely go back to my usual ways. Art needs to be made. Craziness must be conjured. Yes, I can't see things changing a great deal."
"Really? I thought you might continue to travel."
"And why would you think that?"
"Because this life suits someone like you," I say.
"Ah yes, a guy like me..."
"Well, yeah. You are a crazy nomad, after all."
"Indeed, indeed..." He kicks a stone, his clumsy moccasins connecting with ground more than pebble. "Who knows, friend. Maybe I will travel again... somewhere down the road. I have a feeling that at the end of all of this, I will need my art, though. Inspiration often calls when you are at your lowest. Of course, you know this all too well, my pen scratching pal.”
"Yeah. Maybe you can dedicate a few of your masterpieces to me."
"Oh, Dante, they all will be."
The sound of the trees and wind and humming bees overcomes us, the soothing backdrop making the unbearable silence less torturous.
"What about your writing, m'lad? Have you been able to defeat the page of late?"
"I'm afraid not, and to be honest, I don't know if I'm physically capable anymore. I don't think my shaking fingers would be much use."
"Oh, I don't know. You never had the greatest handwriting, anyway."
I laugh. "Yeah, I suppose. I don't know, I've tried a few times, but it never seems to work. It's strange, because a journey like this should send me to the page, shouldn't it?"
"Who knows. I'm not sure such a journey follows any particular rules."
"Yeah... maybe. It's sad, though. To think I may never write again."
Pausing, he looks at me before glancing away. "Would you like to know something?" he says, his tone calm. "I went for a walk yesterday and wandered around this lovely city. I sat on a wall and pulled out my notepad and began sketching away. It's the first time on this entire journey I've done any form of artwork—drawing, writing, sculpting, music... did you know that?"
I shake my head.
"Yes, I've been in some of the most creative places this planet has to offer and drawn a blank each and every time. So, believe me, Dante, m'lad. You are not alone." Holding my arm, he faces me. "Yesterday, however, I needed to—I don't know why. Anyway, I was drawing and drawing, and then a small girl walked past—seven or eight-years-old is my guess—and let me tell you, Dante, she was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. She was exactly the kind of girl you'd hope your daughter to be: long blonde hair, an unwavering kindness, a spark of innocence that only a child possesses.
"The honest truth is, I welled up when I saw her. This girl was wonderful. Absolutely marvellous. I can only imagine how proud her parents are of her and the person she will grow up to be. I realised, though—regrettably, of course—that deep down, I hate her—that I hate all of the girls and ladies and women I cross paths with. I didn't want to hate her, but I suppose deep down, I do. I can't help but think this makes me the grandest of monsters.
"So much of my life revolves around hate. I never realised how much until this trip... until our talks... until I witnessed first hand your own demise, and how we're all so precious and fragile. I can blame my drunk of a mother and beastly father, but the truth is I've let hate rule me. And here I am, walking among the definition of beauty with the best of friends one could ever wish for—a friend who isn't only leaving us—no, stolen from us—but a father, a man who's created life—maybe a daughter just as beautiful as that girl. Will I hate her too, Dante? Will I hate your daughter because she's a girl and therefore represents pain and agony?"
He stops dead in his tracks.
"I'm sorry. For so long, I've been cruel to the woman you love. I've been cruel to so many women that I meet for no good reason. And above all, I'm sorry because I still haven't changed. I'm still enraged with hate. I trust no more now than I did a few months ago, and if this can't change me," he says, lifting his arms, "what will?"
He starts walking again, past me, fixed on a point out in front.
"I want you to know, however, my dearest friend, that I'll try. That I'll go back to York and continue to search for who I am. That I'll wake each day and think of you, remember your words and the kind soul that you are. I'll reminisce about the times you stuck up for me when you had no right to. That you were a friend when I gave so little in return. I'm so imperfect it hurts, but you make me want to be better. My biggest regret is it's taken all of this. That you've been sacrificed simply to spare me."
I step in front of him and force him to stop. "You're a good man, Wil. You're going to do amazing things—beautiful, awe-inspiring things. You say your world is filled with hate, but I don't think it is. You've grown on this trip, and I don't think it's because of me or where we've been, it's because you were ready to see beyond your fear."
He tries to pass me, but I don't let him.
"You're not a hateful person, Wil. You're just scared like everyone else. You have scars that you need to overcome. You're not a monster. You're just human. And I'm sorry I've not been there for you more in the past. You've opened up to me on this trip, and I fear I've let you down. You shared a version of yourself I never knew existed, but we've been friends for so long... I should have known. I should have known about your mother, and if something happened between you and your father—"
"Stop right there, Dante, m'lad. You've always been there for me. Not sharing certain aspects of who I am had nothing to do with you or Ethan. It was my choice to live in darkness. Do not apologise or doubt yourself."
"Then on this trip. I could have listened more. Finally, you let me in, and all I've done is lose patience and—"
"Ah Dante, stop. I assure you, your help throughout this journey has been more than I ever could wish for."
I move to speak, but he cocks his head to the right, seeming to plead with me to say no more. I never thought there was much to understand regarding my mysterious friend. I assumed he was a strange enigma with even stranger ways, and all the while, whilst I envied him and placed him on a pedestal, we shared the same doubts and fears as no doubt most people carry around with them. I no longer envy him, but I no longer pity or am frustrated by him, either. He's Wil. And he's beautiful. A beautiful, frantic, wonderful mess.
"I'm going to miss you, Dante... so very much," he says. "I will do you proud, though. I will do your child proud."
I hug him like I never have before. A type of hug I usually reserve for Danii. "How about you do yourself proud?" I whisper in his ear.
"Yes," he says, pushing away from me and smiling that ridiculous smile of his. "Yes! I will. I will."
It's still light, but the sun is nowhere to be seen. We're engulfed in one large shadow, each patch of grass and strip of pathway covered in the shade from trees and fallen sun. A small pile of leaves rests near my foot, each one an array of faded tones. They're vibrant and colourful like Wil. My best friend. Someone I think I finally understand. At least, somebody I accept for being who he is.
12th March—York:
Recommended Listening:
Ho Hey—The Lumnineers
Look At Miss Ohio—Gillian Welch
Never Play—Emily & The Woods
Riverside—Agnes Obel
When I consider all of the minutes in my life, it's this room that's probably experienced the most of them. I spent my childhood here, playing with toys and sleeping until late.
It's where my father read The Little Prince, and the home of my mother's late night lullabies. If I could only choose a single home, it would be this small and familiar room. For so long I dreamed of escaping it, but now, I cannot bring myself to leave. Why did I move out whilst studying at the University literally down the road? Why did I move into a flat I couldn't afford, when this haven of memories was here all along?
It's only been a few days since we landed in Manchester, but it feels much longer. England is in flux, as it always is at this time of year. Venturing outside is a lottery: leave without an umbrella and it's bound to rain; wear a heavy jacket and the sun says hello; travel light, and that's right, the wind picks up and chills your core. Of course, I'm forever wrapped in layers now. Sun or no sun, I'm cold. Pills or no pills, I throb. Food or no food, I vomit.
"Hey, can I come in?" asks Ethan, teetering on the edge of my room and the hallway. "Your mum said you were up here."
"Sure. Come in. Sorry if it's a little warm," I say, pointing towards the portable heater blowing in the corner.
"As long as you’re comfortable."
"I'm great, mate. Never felt better." He looks at me with his usual intensity, but he can't battle the smile breaking through.
"Yeah. I was going to say you look fantastic."
"I'm going for the pale vampire look. What do you think?"
"Love it. And the bags under your eyes?"
"Yep. Next season's big fashion statement."
He laughs. "Oh man, this is horrible. I feel guilty enough without you making me laugh."
"The time for guilt has long since passed, cousin."
He nods and sits down next to me, my old bed creaking under his weight. "Seriously though, do you feel okay?"
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
I roll my eyes, my relentless cousin still acting like a father. "Yes dad, I'm fine. Some days are worse than others, but today isn't too bad. I am looking forward to my one final good day, though. From what I hear, it's rather marvellous."
TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) Page 22