The Counting-Downers

by A. J. Compton

  “It’s fine; I get it.” His expression tells me he understands more than he says. “I live with my maternal grandfather. We live near the forest where there are several threatened species. We own the land but we’ve kept a distance to allow them to live in peace. It’s a beautiful spot. A few years ago, some developers tried to persuade us to sell, and when that failed, they tried to force us.

  “They wanted to knock down our house and build a luxury resort on the land, which would encroach onto the forest and destroy the habitat of all the animals that live there. Your dad took on the case pro bono to fight them and helped us save it. He helped my grandfather keep the home he’s lived in for over fifty years and saved hundreds of animals. We owe him so much.”

  The familiar surge of pride I experience whenever I hear about my dad and how much he helped people hits me. He was incredible and often worked without charging a fee to help people win cases he believed in. To know that this boy is sitting next to me right now because of my dad, makes me sense his presence. Tristan and his grandfather are part of my dad’s legacy in their own way.

  “That’s amazing. I’m glad he could help; that sounds like him. Is your grandfather here today as well?”

  At this innocuous question, his face falls into a serious, sad expression. “No, unfortunately, he couldn’t make it. In fact,” he says, looking down at his watch, “I’m going to have to leave soon to check in with him.”

  “Oh, okay.” That strange feeling overtakes me again. Even though this is our first conversation, and even though I’ve had more entertaining and meaningful conversations in my life, I don’t want to stop talking to him.

  With his head bent to look at his watch, I take in the countdown clock above his head for the first time. I don’t know why I hadn’t looked at it before and I’m not sure how to feel about what I see. He has 27 years, 8 months, 16 days, 14 hours, 11 minutes, and 49 seconds left to live. On the surface, that seems like a lot of time, but in reality that time will run out faster than he can prepare for.

  “How old are you?” I blurt out.

  “Twenty. You?”

  “Nineteen.”

  I watch his gaze wander up above my head and I wonder if he’s doing the same thing I am. Trying to work out the math to calculate how long I may have with him, to get to know him, to explore this extraordinary connection we have. I’m usually happy to live in blissful ignorance, and have made peace with the idea that my time will run out whenever it’s meant to and not a moment before or after.

  But this is one of those rare times when I can’t help wishing I knew what my own number was and if it was compatible with his. For all I know, I may die before him. Knowing my number, my dad still gave me advice about marriage before he died, so I hope that means I have at least a few more years.

  But what if we started something and, seven years later, I died while he had to go on for another twenty years? I wouldn’t want to be in a similar situation to my parents. My mom still has almost forty years left to live without my father.

  I work out that Tristan will be about forty-seven when he dies. Almost the same age as my dad. Chills erupt on my skin at the eerie similarities. Forty-seven is a strange age to die. On the one hand, you’ve lived through a lot - childhood, adolescence, careers, marriage, maybe even children. On the other, you’re still missing out on so much living—retirement, anniversaries, your children’s marriages, and future grandchildren.

  Deciding now isn’t the time to think about him dying when we haven’t even established if we want to be a part of each other’s lives, however long they may be, I stash that thought away for later.

  “Do you go to college?” I ask him, eager for any information I can gather about him.

  “No, it wasn’t for me. You?”

  “No, I didn’t apply anywhere as I wanted to spend the past year with my dad, then take some time to grieve and adjust to life without him. I didn’t want to be away from home for most of his final year, so I made an excuse that I needed a year off from studying. I think he knew the real reason, but he let me get away with it.”

  “Do you think you’ll apply anywhere for this coming year?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything right now. I just need a bit of time to figure things out.”

  “It always comes back to time in the end, doesn’t it?” he asks, leaving me wide-eyed and stunned that he’s voiced a thought I’ve had so often.

  “Yeah, it does,” is all I can think to say back. It’s not enough though, I want him to know the extent of our connection, to help me work out this thing I can’t explain. “You read my mind. I’ve had that thought so many times.”

  He just smiles at this, as if he’s known all along that our thinking is aligned. “I guess we’re surfing the same wavelength, Baby Bear,” he says with another one of his intense looks, which say more than words ever could.

  Again, I look away and break the spell.

  The connection severed, he twists to the side and picks up a sketchpad I hadn’t realized was on the floor next to him. I watch confused as he flips a few pages back and forth, catching a brief glimpse on one page of what looks like the meadow below us, but I can’t be certain. Towards the end, he finds the page he’s looking for and tears it out. Turning it over before I can take a good look at it, he scribbles something on the back with the pencil that was sitting in the sketchbook’s spiral.

  Bringing his legs in, he stands up and, still clutching the page in his left hand, puts the sketchbook into a black rucksack, which I also hadn’t noticed, before slinging it over his shoulder.

  “I have to go.” His voice is heavy with regret. “But this is for you.” He holds out the sketch for me to take. When I look down at it, I’m frozen in shock and awe. I think I stop breathing for a moment.

  “You… you did this?” I ask him, unable to move my gaze from the page.

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “Just after the funeral. I had to capture it. Do you like it?”

  “It’s…it’s everything,” I tell him as my voice cracks on the last words full of unshed tears and emotion that are threating to flow over the surface. I’d rather stare at the sketch, but I lift my watery eyes to his relieved ones. “You’re incredible; this is incredible. Thank you. Thank you,” I say before my eyes swing back down to look at Tristan’s incredible sketch of my brother and me playing in the sea today.

  The level of detail is breathtaking. He is awe-inspiringly talented. I wish I had the words to tell him how much this image, this moment, he’s captured and immortalized in lead, means to me; but all coherent thought has been suspended with emotion the only thing left in its wake.

  In the sketch, which is so precise it could very well be a black and white photo, I’m swinging Oscar around gazing adoringly up at him, as he looks down at me with glee. You can tell that we are the only thing that exists for each other in that moment.

  The connection between my baby brother and me threatens to jump off the page, straight into the soul of the observer. You can almost hear the sound of our laughter; feel the depth of our love. The raging sea beneath my toes provides the perfect backdrop to our delight. He’s captured everything, every strand of my hair, every wisp of wind.

  And the very best part is that standing in the distance along the shore, his smiling face watching us with pride, is an exquisitely exact image of my dad.

  Somehow, Tristan knew he was there.

  They say you can’t take your possessions with you when you die. I want to be buried with this sketch, to carry it with me always, in this lifetime and all the ones that follow.

  “I will treasure this forever,” I say with nothing but truth.

  “I’m glad, Baby Bear.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile as he hesitates again before squeezing my shoulder. “It was a pleasure meeting you properly, Matilda Evans, and sharing your favorite place in the world. I very much hope our paths cross again soon. I have a feeling they will,” he says before
swinging his legs backwards out of the treehouse and resting them on the rope ladder.

  And before I can even say goodbye, he’s gone. At the sound of his feet thudding on the ground, I lean over to see him give me a salute, before he turns and walks away through the meadow, never looking back.

  I’m so preoccupied looking at the drawing that it takes me a while to realize that I never took his contact information. I have no way of ensuring I see him again, and he didn’t give me any. I don’t even know his last name. A crushing sense of disappointment floods me.

  While he’s given me priceless memories, I can’t shake the feeling that I was destined to get more from him. More of what, I don’t know. More memories, I suppose. Today felt like the first day of a lifetime of memories featuring Tristan, not the only day.

  Maybe I was wrong. Dad always used to say that people come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Maybe Tristan was a reason, not a lifetime. Maybe this sketch was the purpose of our meeting. Dissatisfaction needles me at the thought.

  It’s then I remember that he wrote something on the back of the sketch. Turning it over, I see that he’s written in his bold masculine handwriting, “It always comes back to T.I.M.E.” and nothing else.

  I stare at it for the longest while, trying to decipher whether any hidden meaning exists. I know on the surface it’s referring to our conversation earlier, but a part of me thinks there’s a deeper meaning to it that I’m failing to comprehend.

  Or maybe I just want to read more into it than there is. Maybe I want his words to imply something to validate the connection I felt. Either way, he isn’t here to explain it to me, and he might never be again, so it’s pointless to try to work out the riddle that is Tristan.

  The treehouse has a single bed in the corner, and a quick nap is sounding good to me right now. Swinging my legs inside, I stand up and walk over to the bed, placing the treasured sketch on the desk nearby with my jacket on top so that it doesn’t blow away with the wind.

  Lying down on the bed in the sky, I close my eyes as images of the day flit through my mind like the flashes of a camera. My last thought as I fall asleep is of a talented boy with blue eyes and a dimpled smile who for a brief moment felt like my forever.

  MY FEET HIT the ground as I jump out of my truck and shut the door with an echoing thud. Taking a moment to steady myself, I breathe in the fresh alpine air. These moments are never long enough, but I relish them. More than that, I need them to be able to cope with what is facing me inside that double-story log cabin.

  Guilt prickles for needing some time away from my grandfather every now and then. Enjoying that time makes me feel even worse. More than I need time, he needs me. Now, more than ever. But sometimes I threaten to sink into the soil under the burden and pressure.

  I don’t bother questioning whether I’m strong enough. I am because I have to be. It’s as simple as that. At the direction of my thoughts, I laugh without humor. Simple. When has anything, ever, been simple?

  The drapes twitch as a familiar face peeks out to investigate the sound. Sighing, I make my way inside as stray stones crunch beneath my shoes. Freya, my grandfather’s nurse, beams as I walk into the cabin, locking the door behind me.

  Freya is a class act. She’s in her thirties and has a family of her own, but she comes every day for a few hours to look after my grandfather. Her presence is especially helpful on days like today when I need to go out and leave him behind for his own good.

  Most of the time though, only my grandfather and I are here. Just the two of us. Although he’s physically present, my real grandfather mentally disappeared several years ago, so I’m well-acquainted with loneliness.

  I used to be his sole caregiver; but after he took a turn for the terrible, I was forced to use some of the inheritance I received from my parents to hire help. Now I’m just the primary caregiver. Taking the demotion from sole to primary giver and admitting defeat was hard.

  He’s done so much for me. He looked after, cared for, and supported me by himself when I had no one else and I failed him by not being able to do the same. ‘The weight of the world cannot possibly be carried on two shoulders,’ Freya always tells me. ‘You’re helping him by realizing the areas where you’re no longer helpful. Strength in numbers.’

  On bad days, which are becoming many, I cling to her words like a life raft in a storm. And at the moment, the skies are stormy indeed. I can’t remember the last time the sun shined.

  That’s not strictly true. Today, for the first time in a long time, I remembered that joy and laughter exist in the world. The sun’s rays shone down on me twice, warming the block of ice that has encased me for years. Matilda Evans is the sun. Like a personal heater, she radiates warmth and goodness. I came alive during the briefest of moments in her presence.

  I’d forgotten how good that felt. Two steps away from her, I experienced the return of the familiar chill creeping up on me and covering the bits she had begun to thaw while I was busy basking in her glow. If I had a choice, I’d be her shadow, following her everywhere in the desperate hope she’d share a bit of her light.

  Maybe one day I will be. But I know that day is not today. I’m too busy chasing and running from my own shadows to be someone else’s.

  Besides, her light doesn’t need darkness. She needs someone to help her shine even brighter, someone to stand beside her, not behind her. And right now, that person isn’t me. It won’t be for the foreseeable future.

  Not that I even allow myself to indulge in the future. I used make diligent plans for the months and years yet to come, but I find myself just taking it one second at a time. I need to live in the now. My grandfather needs me to be present, physically and mentally, even if he isn’t. Especially because he isn’t.

  Speaking of my grandfather, I let my eyes wander around the kitchen, confused when I don’t see or hear him.

  “He’s just gone for a little nap,” Freya answers my unspoken question.

  Guilt underpins my secret relief that I have a bit more time to try to become the person he needs me to be. “How has he been today?”

  Her expression tells me everything I need to know. Hesitancy. Sympathy. And pity.

  Of all of the emotions ending in y, pity is the worst. Before his brain betrayed him, my grandfather was a strong and stoic man. He wouldn’t want anyone’s pity and I don’t want it for him. The only comfort I can take is that it isn’t him she pities, but the stranger occupying my grandfather’s body.

  Or maybe I’m wrong and she pities me.

  I can’t allow that to be true, so I dismiss the thought as soon as it comes and look away from her sorrowful eyes.

  “Not good, huh?”

  “No, today isn’t one of his best, but he might have improved once he wakes up.”

  This time she’s the one who can’t look me in the eyes.

  We both know no truth or hope lives in her words.

  “Maybe.”

  “So how was the funeral?”

  I pause for a moment and think about how to describe today. I expected it to be sad, and it was; but it was also funny, and happy, and one of the best days I’ve had in a very long time. I don’t think Freya would quite understand or approve if I told her I had a great time at the funeral today.

  She’d love to hear about Matilda, but I’m not sure I want to tell her. It was special and sacred, as if what we shared today should stay a secret between us. I’m not sure Matilda felt that way, but I do. Somehow, telling Freya would be a betrayal.

  Plus, even if I wanted to tell someone about Matilda, it wouldn’t be Freya. Meeting an extraordinary girl, who makes you feel like you’re standing in the sun, is the sort of thing I imagine you tell your guy friends about, but the problem is that I don’t have any. I left all of my childhood friends behind in Michigan at the age of eight when my parents died, and I moved to California to live with my grandfather, who home-schooled me until he couldn’t, and then I taught myself.

  We live i
n a cabin in the woods off the beaten track. There are no neighbors near, and no other young people. My best and only friend used to be my grandfather, and now he’s technically no longer around. I guess it would be his married thirty-five year old nurse, or my fifty-year-old art mentor, Pierre.

  Talking to Matilda today made me feel closer to someone than I have in a long time. You know things are bad when you believe a stranger could be your soulmate. Am I that desperate for human company that I’m imagining a connection that wasn’t there? Or did I meet someone who could have been a true friend, or maybe even more, and walked away without a backward glance?

  Freya is still waiting for an answer, oblivious to my inner turmoil so I settle for a half-truth. “It was interesting. Tough to say goodbye to such a great guy, but it was also a celebration of his life, so it wasn’t completely sad.”

  “That’s good. I’m glad.”

  “Me too.”

  “Did you need anything else, sweetie? I left you some dinner in the oven, but I can stick around for a while and keep you company if you’d like? He shouldn’t wake up for another hour or two.”

  Is it terrible that I want to say yes? I would very much like for her to stay. But Freya has a life of her own. Even though this is her job and I’m paying her, guilt swamps me for keeping her away from her family to look after mine. Well, what’s left of my family anyway. She doesn’t want to give up her spare time to chat to a twenty-year-old boy.

  I don’t know what’s worse, my pride or her pity.

  “No, that’s okay. Get on home. Jason will be happy to see you.”

  Her smile is luminous at the mention of her husband, which confirms that I’m making the right decision of self-imposed isolation. What would it feel like to have someone in your life who brightened your face at the mere mention of his or her name? Unbidden, my thoughts drift to the sunray I held then let slip through my fingers. My mood is lighter just thinking about her. Maybe I can imagine what that would be like after all.