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

by Matthew Turner

  "Yeah, we'll have to do something for it..." He tapers off. "And your mum. She's..."

  "A wreck?"

  He nods. "Have you spoken to her much?"

  "A little. It's hard. She wants me near her all of the time, but we hardly say anything. We've had some nice conversations, a few we've needed to have for a long time now. It's nice, but being around her is hard." Finally, her face the moment I confessed my news no longer haunts me, only, I'd do anything to have it back. The new lingering image is of her at the airport, the moment she saw me walk into the arrivals lounge.

  "She's just glad to have you back."

  "I know." I push my fingers through my hair and arch my neck. "It's just too hard. Every time I close my eyes, I see her in the airport, knees buckling and clinging to my dad. Every time it's quiet, I hear her gargled cries."

  "I know. It was horrible, but she's just glad to have you back."

  "I did that to her. Me!" I say, dismissing his words. "Each day she must have waited for the phone to ring. The dreaded—"

  "Don't, Dante.”

  "And her hug. She's never hugged me like that. It was like her entire body reached inside me—"

  "Dante! Don't do this to yourself. She would have gone through the same had you stayed."

  I face him, my cousin, the same old Ethan, but with longer hair and a layer of stubble. "Yeah. I suppose."

  "She loves you, and she's just glad you’re back. That moment at the airport was horrible, I agree, but it was only a single moment. Don't let it be a defining one."

  Closing my eyes, I nod. "You're right. It's a shame my memory didn't steal that away from me, isn't it?"

  He laughs again. "Sure is, mate. It sure is." Standing up, he takes a picture off of my windowsill, of me and my father when I was four-years-old. "How about your dad?" he asks, looking out of the window.

  "He's okay. We had a good chat on the way to the specialist, and for once, it wasn't about music or sport. It was nice. Weird, but nice."

  "That's good," he says placing the picture down. "I'm glad the two of you spoke. I know you've always found it hard to open up to your parents. It's nice knowing you get a final chance at that."

  "Yeah... long overdue, but like they say, better late than never." Struggling to my feet, I stand beside him, Ethan offering his arm for support. My legs are like jelly, shaking and quivering under my weight. The specialist said I should move into the hospital, but really, what's the point? "Anyway, how are you? Don't think its gone unnoticed that you should be at work right now."

  "I'm supposed be the observant one. Not you."

  "Don't change the subject."

  I catch his smile in the window's reflection. "Let's just say life's a little stranger these days."

  "Don't tell me Ethan Knight's famous routine is no more," I say, slumping on the window's ledge.

  "Didn't you want me to be more flexible?"

  "Only if that's what you want."

  "I don't know what I want. All I know is my desk doesn't feel quite so safe anymore. I mean, yesterday, I didn't do a damn thing. Seriously, I just stared at my computer screen all day. I had a huge pile of work to get on with, but it meant nothing. All those days spent working and dedicating myself to a sensible routine, when it can all be taken away at a moment’s notice. We think we're indestructible. That it won't happen to us. But it can, and it does. And I'm not saying I want to be like Wil, but I don't think I can go back to being me, either."

  "You've only just come home from an exhausting journey. Did you expect things to be normal straight away?"

  "No, it's not that. I'm tired, sure, but there's more to it."

  "Give it time. You'll make sense out of it soon. You always do."

  "Time... yeah, I've plenty of that." He looks at me immediately, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I'm sorry. Jesus, I don't know what I was thinking."

  "Mate, it's fine," I say, grabbing his shoulder. "I know how hard these last few months have been for you. But you'll be okay."

  "I know. It just isn't fair. None of this. I'm not ready to lose you. Not yet."

  He hugs me, wrapping me up in a tight embrace. "Yeah, me neither. Me neither."

  "Are you sure the specialist couldn't do anything?" he asks, his face smothered by my hair.

  I laugh, because I don't want to cry. "No, I think we're past science. All we need is a little miraculous intervention."

  "Is that all? Oh, we should be good then."

  I laugh again. "Yeah, right?"

  Pushing away, he takes a deep breath and holds my arm. Already I miss his warmth. "Has Wil been around yet?"

  "Nope."

  "I swear, if he doesn't come soon—"

  "He won't. We've said goodbye."

  "That's bullshit.”

  "No, mate. It isn't. He needs to lose himself in his own little world right now. He needs his art."

  "He needs to be here with his best friend."

  I shake my head. "A guy like Wilbur Day doesn't say goodbye. One day he simply disappears." I sit back down on the bed, my legs throbbing and stomach churning. "Promise me you'll look after him,"

  "Maybe I will if he comes and—"

  "Ethan, promise me."

  He sighs. "You know I will."

  Nodding, I lay back and look up towards the plain beige ceiling. "Do you know something? I don't think I've ever painted this celling. You know what that means, right?"

  "What?" he asks, sitting beside me, the mattress shuddering under his weight.

  "It's one of the first things I'll ever have seen. Little baby Dante, staring up and wondering what the hell everything is."

  He grabs my wrist and squeezes.

  "I can't believe I won't get to meet him," I say, tears willing themselves forward. "It's insane to love someone so much. To love them when they don't yet exist. To love him when you'll never meet him."

  "Dante..."

  "Promise me you'll look after him, too."

  "You don't even have to ask."

  "And Danii... and mum and dad. I know it isn't fair to ask you to be strong whilst everyone else falls apart, but please, Ethan—"

  "Dante, I'll look after everyone. I promise. You don't need to worry. As for your baby, I'm so—"

  "He's going to be wonderful, isn't he?" I say, with a genuine smile. "And Danii will be such a great mum. And you'll be a great uncle, too. He'll love you so much. There'll be so much love around him. So much."

  "Of course," he says, shifting further onto the bed. "How is Danii?"

  "Yeah, she's fine. So strong and amazing. He'll have the best mother anyone could wish for."

  "Of course. She'll be perfect."

  "Help me up," I say, waving my arms.

  "Jesus, you're high maintenance these days."

  I laugh, each chuckle a painful luxury I'll soon lose forever. "There has to be some perks to resembling Darth Sidious."

  "Oh come on," Ethan says, guiding me up and into a sitting position. "He's not nearly as pale as you."

  "You charming son of a bitch."

  "You know I love you," he says, winking. My cousin, now a winker. Who would have guessed. "Anyway, when did you find out the sex of the baby?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You keep saying, him. You're having a little boy?"

  "Do I?"

  "Yeah. Did you find out already?"

  "No, not for a while yet."

  He stares at me like only he can, another luxury I'll soon lose. "Okay."

  Closing my eyes, I picture his face. It's nice to have one final secret.

  15th March—York:

  Recommended Listening:

  Falling Slowly—Glen Hansard

  I And Love And You—The Avett Brothers

  I'm a creature of the night, a vampire, a ghost. I sit in my parents' kitchen at an ungodly hour, sitting in the dark as the hum of the fridge rattles and rumbles. It's the only sound other than the occasional creak or cracking. This is an old house, a building with secrets a
nd occupants other than me: scattering mice and sleepless nightlife.

  I'm one of them now, in the darkened room that usually smells of home cooked food. Only the red dot from the TV screen glows, and a few neon numbers from the oven door, but I see everything. I'm nocturnal and ready, ready for whatever. Although this isn't true, because I'm full with fear. I'm scared to rest, not only for the things I may miss, but that it may bring the end. If I'm awake, I'm living. If I sleep, I may never do so again.

  The stairs in the living room creak under pressure. I'm alone, but soon I won't be. Whoever belongs to the moving feet is fine by me. Is it a hug from my mother? A boyish chat with my father? An embrace from the girl I love?

  "Not tired?" Danii asks, pulling out a chair and taking a seat, letting out a large yawn as she drops.

  "Exhausted."

  She smiles, blinking slow and settling into the uncomfortable dining room chair. "Sleeping isn't easy at the moment, is it?"

  "No..." I don't know what to say to her. So much has been said, but I could never utter enough. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

  "You mean sitting here silently in the dark? No, sweetie, you didn't."

  She's so innocent and effortless with her beauty. It's the middle of the night, she's only just woken up, and she's tired and red-eyed and droopy all over, but still, I'm in love. I love her as much now as I do when she's in a long, flowing gown or brightly coloured dress or slim-fitting suit that exposes all her beauty. Her hair is as perfect at this hour as it is in the magical beach light. Her lips are luscious, too bountiful not to be attached to my own, licking and pressing and working a frenzy.

  I'm tired, but never too tired for her. I ache all over but will go through any pain necessary if it means rolling around with her under me, on top of me, part of me. Her gentle touch may bruise me, and her ever so slight weight may suffocate, but so long as I'm with her, I'm fine.

  "You look beautiful," I say, stroking her wrist.

  "Shut up," she laughs. "You're insane."

  "Nope, just lucky."

  She sighs, but says nothing.

  "How's our perfect little bundle?" I ask, standing up and crouching on the floor next to her chair. "Can I?" I ask, my hand hovering above her stomach, our son.

  Nodding, she grabs my hand and places it on her firm, taut, perfect tummy; her own palm tightly encased over mine.

  "Our little bundle is perfect, although I've felt sick as a dog all evening."

  "Is that why you're awake?"

  "No, I'm awake because you weren't next to me."

  "So I did wake you."

  She smiles.

  The faint hum of the fridge hovers above us as the room falls into a near silence. I watch her watch her feet, her fingers playing with the loose strands that have fallen from her ponytail. The wayward curls wave in front of her arched neck, catching the top of her ear after each twist and turn.

  "How do you feel?" she asks without moving. "I mean... I don't know what I mean."

  I take my hand away from our son's temporary home and slide it up and down her arm, the same one twisting locks of hair into curls—faster and faster with each turn. "It's okay. I'm okay, too."

  Looking up, she stops her twisting and stares at me, unblinking and desperate, and then, from nowhere, her lips break and a terrifying cry escapes. Her red eyes are no longer tired, they stream with tears. Her hand drops heavily to her lap and her shoulders slump. My hand is still on her arm, but it's doing nothing; the whole moment has taken me by surprise. This is days of pent-up emotion, weeks of emotional strain, months of complete and utter torment streaming down her cheeks and shaking its way through her body. She needs this. I need this. We need this, and so does our son.

  "I'm sorry," she splutters. "Hardly what you need right now. Me, breaking down at three o'clock in the morning."

  "Danii," I say, cupping her cheeks in my palms. "I wish people would stop worrying about whether I need it or not. We're all going through this."

  "I know, but we should be enjoying our time together. Not crying."

  "As long as it's time spent with you." I smile, hoping it might lighten the mood, but instantly I regret it. The mood's fine as it is.

  "I'm going to miss you so much," she splutters some more. "And the waiting and not knowing..." she sighs. "Every time I fall asleep or leave the room, I worry it's the last time I'll see you, and I don't know why, but it seems real here—like it wasn't whilst we travelled—like we were always going to return home, so as long as we kept moving, everything would be fine. But now we're back..."

  "You feel hopeless?"

  "Yeah." She nods.

  "Me too." I pick myself up from the ground and struggle into the equally uncomfortable chair next to her.

  "I want to enjoy every second, but I can't because I'm scared," she says. "Every time I see you, I want to kiss you and make love to you and cry all at the same time. I don't want to take you away from your parents, though, or stop you from living. Christ, I feel like I'm practically referring to you in the past tense, and it makes me sick. And part of me wants this to end now so I can erupt into mourning. So I can lay in bed for days and cry and cry and cry until there's nothing left to cry. And I'm sorry, because I know that's awful and weak and despicable. But you're the father of my child, and this fucking world is taking you away from me—from us." Her tears stop, her cheeks crimson red. "It just isn't fair!" she continues through gritted teeth, pounding her fist on the kitchen table.

  As I hold her, she shakes and trembles uncontrollably. She feels as fragile as my own skin, as though the slightest of touches may shatter her. In part, she's just wished me away, but I can't be angry with her, because part of me wishes the same. The waiting is unbearable, especially at this time of night. At least the pain within me is one I can grit my teeth through, but the agony of waiting has no relief. There are no pills or comforts. Time simply eats away bit-by-bit, playing with me, antagonising me, taunting me from afar.

  "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay," I say, wrapping my arms around her and shushing in her ear. "I understand. I love you. I love our son. I love every second I've spent with you, including this one, and the only thing I'm sorry about is that I was stupid enough to fight it for so long." I pull away and frame her eyes with my hands. "None of this is fair, but I also feel like the luckiest man in the world, because I found you, sweetie. I found you. You helped me understand what real love is, and I don't think everyone gets to experience that. I'm sorry I fought it for so long, and I do have regrets, I do. But this is fine, because I've let love in. I've let your love in. I'm no longer afraid of it, and you'll be such an amazing mother. All of that love, passed on to him... I'm so proud of you."

  She doesn't move. Not even an inch. She listens and takes it in. She takes me in.

  "I'm going to miss you so much," she finally says, bundling her face into my chest. It hurts, my skin tingling and on fire, but it's possibly the greatest pain I've ever known. "I will make sure our little bundle of joy knows you... knows how amazing you are. I'm just so sorry about everything, Dante. All of the fights and battles, and all of those times we hurt each other... I'm sorry."

  "Shhh, it's okay."

  "We've always had love, though. Always," she whimpers, her stilted sobs like mini coughs. "I will love you always, and so will your son or daughter. I promise. I promise they'll know how wonderful you are, and how proud they should be of their daddy."

  Tears roll down my own cheek now, not heavy sobs, but gentle streams that trickle ever so slowly. "You're going to make our son very proud, sweetie. I love you. I love him. I love us."

  Rumbling against my chest, her sobs grow heavier. I squeeze her tighter, so tight that spikes of sharp pain run up my arms and into my shoulders. I don't care, because I need to hold her and pull her into me. For as long as I can, I must protect her. For now, I must protect my family.

  "Shhh," I hush in her ear. "It'll be okay."

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry. You'
re perfect."

  "No I'm not, but okay."

  Smiling, I inhale her aroma of honey and coconut. I will miss a great deal, but few more than this.

  "Dante?" she asks.

  "Yeah?"

  "Why do you keep referring to our baby as him?"

  "Do I?"

  "Yeah."

  "Oh."

  Epilogue:

  Recommended Listening:

  Candles—Daughter

  I Will Follow You Into The Dark—Death Cab For Cutie

  I died on a Tuesday. It wasn't memorable in any way. Danii and I slumped off to bed after breaking down in the kitchen, falling asleep wrapped in each other's comfort; still, steady, at peace.

  I awoke in the morning to the sound of birds chirping for the final time. Monday began like any other, although the headache wasn’t as heavy, my stomach didn’t churn and knot quite so tight, and the aches and pains in my arms and legs tickled rather than throbbed.

  The sun shone, a wonderful York Spring day, the air warmer and sweeter to taste. I kept reading about the notion of a final good day. A day where the pain evaporates somewhat. A time close to the end, where body and mind come together and release you from your torment. I’m not sure if my final day was my final good day, but the sun did warm my face. I did have lunch with my parents, walked through the streets of York with Danii, and drank a half-pint of beer with Ethan.

  It was a lovely day, one I didn’t want to let go of, but as midnight approached, I laid in bed with Danii, and slowly, eventually, lost my grip. I didn’t feel death. There was no strange sensation or luscious light. I didn’t sense its approach, it merely took me. I do remember dreaming, though, of Danii and our son, and a holiday with my parents so long ago: on the south coast of England as we visited family I haven't seen for years. I talked football with my father as we played pitch-and-putt golf. I held my mother's hand as we ate ice cream and drank from frosty cold bottles. I ran up and down the beach on a beautiful summer's day, daring to go nearer the waves and soak my dry toes.