I’m left breathless by his admission which so accurately reflects my pain and guilt that as time passes, my father is becoming an afterthought.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty though.”
“No?” My tone is skeptical even to my ears.
“Definitely not. Not only would they not want it, but also it’s not physically possible to have their deaths at the forefront of your mind all day every day. Making space for other things is the brain’s way of coping and making sure you continue to live, not just survive.”
At my dubious expression, he clarifies his thoughts.
“I mean, I guess it’s technically possible to have your mind stuck on morbid repeat, but it’s not healthy. Those stuck in that crippling thought loop are nothing but prisoners of war at the mercy of depression and grief. If you don’t or can’t make room, you might as well have died along with that person. We have to make room. Thinking of other things doesn’t mean that we’ve forgotten them.”
My body trembles with the desperation to believe him. I’m scared to hope he’s telling the truth. That wherever my dad is, he doesn’t feel abandoned and disappointed in me ‘making room,’ as Tristan calls it. That in fact, he’s the opposite of those things. He’s proud of me for living and starting to enjoy life for more than one minute, one hour, and one day at a time.
I know deep down he’s right. It goes back to my revelation a while ago that I would never leave my dad behind because he was always with me. Even if he isn’t constantly in my mind, he’s forever in my heart.
However, guilt is one of those emotions, much like sadness, that is hard to control. As much as you wish you could, you can’t just ‘snap out of it.’ It’s easier said than done. But with Tristan’s support, I decide to work on accepting it. My list of works in progress is growing by the minute.
“Thanks,” I tell him. It’s not enough, but it’s all I can think to say.
“I didn’t do anything but tell the truth.”
“Well, thanks anyway.”
“You’re welcome.”
I’m aware that so far, this reunion has been emotionally heavy, and I’m keen to lighten the mood, so I change the subject from dead parents to the fact that we’re very much alive. “So, what have you been up to these past two years?” I ask him.
He laughs at my abrupt gear shift and lack of tact. “You want the whole 730 days accounted for in minute detail, or just the quick summary?”
“The quick summary will do for now.”
“As you wish. Well, let’s see. Since the last time I saw you, I’ve inhaled and exhaled a few million times, I’ve eaten hundreds of meals, and slept for thousands of hours.”
“What are the chances?” I gasp in mock surprise. “Me too.”
“We’re accumulating quite the number of coincidences today, aren’t we, Baby Bear?”
“That we are, Goldilocks.”
“So did anything else of note happen in what sounds like a fascinating few years?”
At last, he answers my question, his smile sobering in an instant. “My grandfather died last year, which took me the better part of eight months to come to terms with. Other than that, I’ve just been trying to make a career out of my art, painting and sketching to take a break from my grief, painting and sketching because of my grief. You know how it is.”
I do. I’m saddened to hear about his grandfather and the pain behind his pupils now makes sense. I remember him being a bit evasive when I’d asked about him all those days ago. Maybe his grandfather was dying even then.
I know we’re all dying, but you know what I mean. Tristan knew it was coming but this world we live in, where we know when people are going to be taken from us, forces us all into a state of long goodbyes.
Even those who don’t die from long terminal illness but in their sleep or on impact in an accident get a long goodbye. I wonder, not for the first time, what it would be like not to have these numbers above our heads.
What it would be like not to know the number of your loved ones. To have them wrenched from you without a long goodbye or any kind of goodbye at all. A world where your lifespan doesn’t dictate your occupation, causing soldiers to die in war instead of only the ones with long lives being recruited or sent into the field like they are now. They can still get injured, but they won’t die. Military applicants with shorter life spans are given the excuse of failing the physical tests, or told that their skills are better suited away from the frontline, but everyone knows the truth, even if it can’t be explicitly said. The worst-kept, unspoken secret of our time.
Is it a blessing or a curse that we know the when but never the how? Is ignorance bliss when it comes to death? Or are we the lucky ones?
Despite asking myself these questions a million times, I’m still not sure of the answer. I don’t think I ever will be. And there’s no point anyway because it is what it is. That clock-less world doesn’t exist. For better or worse, we’re stuck in this one, giving and receiving long goodbyes.
“Really sucks about your grandfather,” I tell him, hoping he remembers our conversation from two years ago and doesn’t just think I’m being insensitive.
He gives a relieved breath and smiles at me. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then I’m glad I didn’t disappoint. And it truly does suck.”
“That it does.”
“I hope this doesn’t sound insensitive, but do you have any other family?”
He gives a melancholic laugh that isn’t a laugh at all. “No, it’s just me now. I’m on my own.”
My heart breaks for him. Not many people make it to adulthood without experiencing death. By the time they reach our age, several members of their family have already died. But being an only child and losing your parents and grandparents, must be tough.
I’m not sure what to say to comfort him, or if he even wants me to comfort him at all. He wasn’t searching for sympathy, just stating a fact.
“Well, even though I’ve spoken to you for a total of twenty minutes over two years, you have me if you’d like?”
As I offer, I realize just how genuine it is. I’m here for him if he needs a friend. It sounds weird, but it’s as if he’s always been a part of my life, and vice versa. For an almost complete stranger, my offer of friendship doesn’t feel weird; it feels right.
He gives me one of those intense stares that speaks right to my soul and seems to suspend time. “I’d very much like,” he tells me with a serious expression. For a brief moment, I wonder if we’re talking about friendship, and then he smiles and I let go of the idea as quickly as it came.
“I’m here for you too, if you’d like me to be?” he asks, and I’m sure I’m imagining the flash of insecurity which passes over his features.
“I’d very much like.” I mirror his words just as I do his emotions.
“Well then, friend, we better exchange numbers this time and not leave things up to Fate.” He gestures for my phone, which is peeking out of my jacket pocket. I pull it out and hand it to him so he can type in his number. I watch as he calls himself from my phone so that he also has mine.
“Is that what we did last time? Leave things up to Fate?” I ask him, taking back my phone that he’s holding out. I laugh when I see that he’s entered his number under the name ‘Goldilocks.’ A small jolt of electricity sparks in me at the thought that he’s entered my name in his phone as ‘Baby Bear,’ which I know he has without even looking. We barely know each other, but we’re already sharing secrets in the form of private jokes and terms of endearment.
“Absolutely. Looks like the gamble paid off.” He winks, referring to our reunion.
“Seems like a risky strategy.”
“Fortune favors the brave,” is all he says in return.
“So how come we didn’t exchange numbers the last time?” I press, for once unsatisfied with vague philosophy. It bothered me at the time and now he’s made a reappe
arance, so have those confused and dissatisfied feelings I had about how our last meeting ended.
He shrugs. “The timing wasn’t right.”
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know if I can explain it. It’s less something I can put into words, more of a feeling. The timing just seemed wrong. There was too much going on. I hope this doesn’t sound creepy, but that day at the funeral, I felt like I knew you. And when I realized that I didn’t, I had to, as if it were part of my destiny; if you believe in such a thing.”
“I do.”
“I’m not even sure I do, but it’s the only way I can describe it. You think I’m insane, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t.” I try to reassure him, but he still doesn’t look convinced.
“Anyway, destiny and counting clocks aside, I just have a good sense for these things. Some people are good judges of character; I’m a good judge of timing. I can tell when something is about to happen.
“With us, I sensed something was supposed to happen, just not yet. Your dad had just died, and my grandfather was dying and needed me. The timing just wasn’t right. As I said earlier, maybe now it is.”
“Maybe,” I mumble, stunned at his confession and courage.
“God, you do think I’m insane don’t you? You’re going to revoke your offer for friendship aren’t you?”
His teasing is exactly what I need to break me out of my stupor and lighten the mood. “The terms and conditions still stand, but anymore talk of destiny and our contract will come under review,” I say, following it up with a smile so he knows I’m not being serious.
“I can live with that.”
“It truly does always come back to time, doesn’t it?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“It does.”
“I hate that word. It has too much power over people’s lives.”
“What word, time?”
“Yes, it’s my least favorite four-letter word. Maybe my least favorite word of all the ones in the dictionary.”
“Out of curiosity, what are some of the others?” he asks, amused.
“My least favorite four-letter words or least favorite words overall?”
“There’s more than one list? Is there a list for different numbered words? Like lists for your least favorite three and six-letter words?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that accusation,” I tell him.
He laughs that infectious laugh I remember, causing me to chuckle too. That he’s laughing with me, not at me, makes all the difference.
“I want to hear these lists at some point; for now, just tell me a few of your other least favorite words of any length.”
“Okay, but you can’t laugh.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“Were you ever a scout?”
“No, but I’m channeling one right now.”
I chuckle as his posture straightens and he tries his best to school his expression into one of seriousness and responsibility.
“Convincing. Okay, some of my least favorite words include, but are not limited to: squelch, cringe, moist, phlegm, egg, cackle, and…oh yeah! Panini.”
“Panini?” He tries and fails to contain his laughter. It makes its successful bid for freedom and escapes out of his lips.
That sets me off and then we’re both laughing. Until our sides ache, our eyes water, and our lungs protest.
And then we laugh some more.
Eventually as the sky turns dusky and the sea windy, we calm.
“I like lists,” I say in my defense.
“Noted. Well, back to your original point, you shouldn’t hate the word time.”
“I shouldn’t?”
“No, not when it’s made up of the best four letters in the world.”
“What’s so special about T, I, M, and E?” I ask him, bemused.
“They’re the first letters of Tristan Isaacs and Matilda Evans.” That potent look is back in his eyes, all traces of humor gone.
And for the third time tonight, Tristan has said something that leaves my mouth open and causes the hair on the back of my neck to rise. I never learned his surname years ago, so I didn’t realize that it was Isaacs.
How eerie, how bizarre, how coincidental, that our initials should spell the word TIME? This chance fact seems greater than us, greater than this moment, greater than the seemingly random choices our parents made many years ago. Only Tristan, this virtual stranger who I feel I’ve known my whole life, could turn an ordinary word that I despise into something extraordinary. Just like him.
All of a sudden, a thought comes to me; and his words on the back of that sketch he’d done for me takes on a whole new meaning. “It always comes back to T.I.M.E.,” he’d written. At the time, I’d thought he’d capitalized and punctuated the letters of the last word to emphasize its importance, but now I’m not so sure.
What if it was a double entendre? What if the Tristan of two years ago was telling me it would always come back to Tristan Isaacs and Matilda Evans? That this moment would always come, the two of us destined to reunite no matter how much time separates us. He’d said he had a good sense of timing, but this is too spooky to be true. My dad never believed in coincidences, and neither do I.
“It always comes back to T.I.M.E.,” I whisper under my breath, still stunned by the revelation.
He wasn’t meant to hear it, but he does. He smiles in acknowledgement of the direction of my thoughts, confirming my suspicion that he knew the phrase we coined had a double meaning that was special to only us. “It always comes back to T.I.M.E.,” he repeats.
“Wow.”
“I know.”
As with everything in life, the universe has taken its time to reveal another piece of the puzzle known as life. As this particular piece falls into place, it’s clear to both of us that more pieces involving the two of us will one day reveal themselves before connecting to it in ways we can’t yet quite comprehend.
All in good time.
Though it has not always been, time is being good to us right now.
So with nothing else to say, my fated friend and I sit side by side in silent awe, watching the last of the sun sink into the sea.
TRISTAN AND I have been hanging out for two weeks, and we’ve become fast friends. I’ve spoken to or seen him almost every day now that college has ended for the summer. It’s funny how you can become closer to some people in days than to others you’ve known for years. We just connect on both a shallow and deeper level.
Over the years, I’ve realized it’s okay to have the superficial connections, the people you’d go for a drink or shopping with, or text on occasion but wouldn’t tell your secrets to.
It’s also important to have people who you can turn to and lean on during your darkest days, but often those people aren’t always the ones we’d think to do the more surface things with.
Tristan and I can do both. We talk about everything and nothing. The frivolous and the philosophical. The dark and the light.
Over the past two weeks, we’ve been spending a lot of time at the beach and the bench, chatting about school and art, life and loss. Sometimes we’ll go for a swim or race each other down the beach, but oftentimes we’ll just sit in silence, him sketching, and me taking photographs. Sometimes I take secret photos of him sketching. It’s fascinating to see him lost in his own world even though he’s physically present. His tongue slips out of the corner of his mouth and his brow furrows in concentration. It’s adorable.
My dad always used to say, you could tell a lot about a person by how they handled silence. I never understood it until now. Whenever it falls soundless between us, the moment is always comfortable. We’re both so secure in ourselves and in our connection that neither of us needs to fill the silence with meaningless noise, or to speak just for the sake of speaking.
What I like about him is that he chooses his words with care. He thinks before he speaks, observes before he participates.
I’m much more impulsive and
carefree. I say whatever is on my mind whereas you can tell that Tristan is thinking a lot more than he’s saying about any given situation. It can be frustrating and a bit unnerving, but I also admire his cautiousness. We’re more different than we are alike, but somehow it seems to work and we balance each other out well.
I’ve lost all track of time with the onset of summer. Today is a Sunday and Tristan has invited me over to his cabin for a change of scenery. Dressed in my high-rise black jeans, and yellow sunflower crop top, I make a spontaneous decision to make a daisy chain headband instead of my regular look of placing the fresh flowers into my braid. Variety is the spice of life, after all.
Satisfied my hair looks okay, I lace up my dirty, white Chucks and grab a cream cardigan in case the weather turns cold later, though, as we head into June and the temperatures near the eighties, I doubt it.
I head downstairs and into the family room, where my now six year-old brother is lying on his stomach, his little legs swinging out behind him as he watches Sunday morning cartoons on television. He turns his head at the sound of my approach and jumps to his feet, running up to give me a hug.
I love that he’s not yet too old and too cool for cuddles, though I know that time is fast approaching, which makes me sad. His shaggy platinum curls are falling in his eyes; I push them back with my fingers, a pointless pursuit as they only flop right back down. I make a note to take him to have it cut. My mom is doing great with him, but as a single parent now, some of the small things have to be sacrificed so that she can take care of the big things.
“Hey, bub, how are you today?”
“Good.”
“Have you been up long?”
“No.”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Kitchen.”
I know he’s not a morning person but sometimes I fear the monosyllabic male teen years have come extra early, stripping my previously loquacious brother of his communication skills.
The Counting-Downers Page 9