“Have you eaten yet?”
“No, Mommy’s making pamcakes. They’re not as good as Daddy’s were, though,” he whispers the last part with a conspiring smile.
A strange part of me is glad he still remembers what my dad’s pancakes tasted like. Two years is a long time to a small child. Eating them for over a decade is the only reason they’re indelibly etched into my taste buds and sensory memory; otherwise, I would be in danger of forgetting too. I’d made sure I took down the recipe from my dad before he died but it just doesn’t taste the same. Nothing is the same.
“That’s not nice, Osky, she’s trying her hardest to cook you your favorite food. You should be grateful you’re having pancakes at all, okay?”
“Sowwy, Tilly,” he says, chastened.
“That’s okay, bubs, what are you watching?”
At this, he brightens and launches into a lengthy explanation about his favorite cartoon. The fact he’s even allowed to watch television is another example of how much progress my mom has made over the past two years.
She’s lightened up a lot and is much more relaxed about things that before would have made her panic and try to control everything. Case in point with the pancakes. She’s gone from complaining about their nutritional content, to making them every weekend and upholding the tradition.
I leave Oscar and head into the kitchen, walking up to my mother and embracing her from behind before resting my head on her shoulder. “Morning, Mamma.”
“Morning, darling. How are you? Did you sleep well?”
“I had a bit of a restless night, though I’m not sure why. You?”
“I got a few hours in.” That’s her tactfully truthful way of revealing she still doesn’t sleep well without my father next to her.
A few months ago, in a moment of heartbreaking honesty, she admitted that she often turns the pillow on my father’s ‘side’ lengthways and spritzes it with a little of his cologne so that she has something to cuddle at night. She said the emptiness in her arms reminded her of his absence in the space where he should have been. I guess your muscles remember as much as your mind.
I turn my head and kiss her cheek in understanding before changing the subject. “So what are you up to today?”
“Nothing much,” she says stacking a plate of fluffy golden pancakes and bringing it over to where I’m perched on the breakfast counter. “Osky wanted to go to the zoo, so I thought I’d take him for a while this afternoon. Do you want to come?”
I look up to see her wincing in horror as I drown my breakfast in fresh fruit and maple syrup.
Some things are still the same.
“I would love to, you know how excited I become at the zoo, but I agreed to spend the day with Tristan.”
“I see,” is all she says, with an all-knowing, motherly smile. As if she holds the secrets to the universe inside her mind and is amused at us clueless mortals. “Well, have a nice time.”
“Thanks, you too. Make sure to take pictures of Oscar by the penguins.”
She laughs with me, thinking of my little brother’s obsession with the flightless birds. For a short while, he insisted we called him ‘Oskypenguin,’ which I sometimes still do. It’s a family joke like smiling ‘small,’ ‘medium,’ and ‘large,’ which is how he used to measure his happiness levels.
I love those moments that just belong solely to a small group of people. Moments born out of a bond. Jokes, looks, and memories shared between couples and confidants that remind you, you don’t always walk through this loneliest of worlds alone.
After I wash my plate and say goodbye to mom and Osc, I hop into my car and begin the hour drive up into the mountains. As the vivid landscape whizzes past my windows, I allow myself to be awed by the blurred beauty of my surroundings.
The varied views California offers is unmatched, in my biased opinion. What other state presents you with snow-capped mountains, salty seas, beautiful beaches, dense forests, frenetic cities, and lush wilderness? How fortunate am I to live on an idyllic meadow, equidistant to the beach and the bustling city? California attracts the lovers of life and the different kind of dreamers to their east coastal counterparts. It’s my favorite place in the world.
I hum along to the radio as I wait in the inevitable traffic, one of the only things I would change about living here. We all have places to be, but we’re going nowhere fast. Even the most driven amongst us live our lives in the slow lane. And Heaven help you if you don’t own a car. Living in California is an exercise in patience.
I distract myself by glancing into the car in front of me, where what looks like a middle-aged couple seems to be arguing. I’m always fascinated by the idea of journeys. I’d love to know the stories of everyone in the cars that surround me. Who are they? Where have they been? Where are they going? Traffic jams are the perfect place for people-watching.
A few minutes later, things begin to move and the disgruntled pair takes the next exit to the rest of their lives and disappears from my view, leaving a mystery behind in their wake.
After another half hour, the GPS leads me up into the forest. The car shakes its way through the jagged earth, jolting me beneath my seatbelt and making me wish I’d bought my mom’s SUV. When I reach my destination, I jump out of my VW Beetle and take in my surroundings.
It’s beautiful, even magical. Like something out of a Grimm Brother’s fairy tale. Another surge of pride swells within me that my dad was able to save such a stunning spot from the menace of developers who would dare try to improve upon perfection and only end up destroying it.
Forests in this corner of the world tend to be arid and sparse. This is anything but. The woods are lush and alive. Trees encase and overshadow me. I’m humbled and overwhelmed at their magnitude, and much like standing under skyscrapers in New York, I am reminded of my small role in this world full of giants. I’m nothing but a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things.
Tristan’s cabin sits in a spacious clearing, away from the dense woodland and the precious wildlife it protects. It’s much larger than I thought it would be, quaint but isolated. I didn’t see any other houses on my way up here.
It makes me realize what an enchanting but lonely childhood Tristan must have had growing up here with only his grandfather and the woodland creatures for company. Much like my meadow, this environment fosters imagination. Writers would pay exorbitant amounts to use this as a retreat.
As I smile and think about the adventures he must have had here, Tristan makes his way outside. Walking forward, I meet him halfway. He looks great in a simple gravel grey t-shirt, which clings to his form, a pair of dark wash jeans, and his hiking boots.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
I wrap my arms around his waist in greeting, and try not to take it personally, as he stiffens before relaxing into the embrace and covering my arms with his.
I’ve noticed he does this a lot, as if he’s not used to the contact. I would respect his personal space if I sensed for a second that he hated being touched, but something tells me that isn’t what is going on.
I can’t quite describe it, but it’s more like he’s unfamiliar with hugs instead of opposed to them. It’s taking him less time to become comfortable with the contact every time we do this, which confirms my suspicions. I love a project, so I’m determined to have Tristan cuddling in no time. Success will come when it becomes second nature to him.
Breaking away before it becomes awkward, I smile up at him. “Thanks for inviting me up here; it’s so beautiful.”
“Thanks for coming, Baby Bear; it’s so great to have you here.”
“I can’t imagine you get many visitors, it’s so hidden!”
His soft smile becomes brittle and I fear I’ve said the wrong thing. He speaks before I can backtrack over my insensitive reminder of his loneliness. “No, I don’t, which makes today extra-special. Come in.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” I say in a terrible faux-upper class English accent, trying to m
ake him laugh. It works and I know we’re okay.
“Can I make you anything to drink?”
“Water would be great, thanks.” I look around the kitchen that the front door opens into. It’s rustic and charming. A handful of photographs scatter the walls. One in particular catches my eye and I walk up to it for closer inspection. “Is this your grandfather?” I ask him, looking at the sepia-toned, attractive man in his army uniform. He resembles Tristan so much that it’s almost frightening.
“Yeah,” he says, coming up behind me without warning and making me jump.
“He’s handsome. Looks so much like you.”
“Did you just call me handsome?”
Unashamed, I laugh. “Indirectly, I guess so.”
I think he was expecting me to be embarrassed because he snorts in surprise. “Well, thank you. And yes, he was.”
“It’s a great photo. You must have been so proud of him.”
“I still am.”
I wince in apology at my use of the past tense. His answering smile shows me that he understands and forgives me.
“Here.” He hands me my water. “We can go upstairs and relax in my studio if you’d like?”
“Sure, sounds great. You know how much I love your art.”
He leads me up the stairs and opens the first door on the right. Stepping inside Tristan’s studio, I’m disappointed to see all of the canvases turned against the wall, hiding them from view. The faint scent of oil and turpentine lingers in the air and the room is a beautiful mess.
A large paint-spattered sheet covers the floor underneath an empty easel that faces a large window overlooking the forest. There are smudges of color on the wooden walls and flat surfaces. Brushes, paint tubes, and papers cover the desk in the corner.
I sit down on the couch, which is against the opposite wall. My gaze falls on the three photo frames sitting on the coffee table in front of me.
One photo is of a stunning couple who I’m certain are his parents. In the image, their arms are wrapped tightly around each other as they smile toward the camera in what looks like diving gear. They look young, happy, and incredibly in love.
The next photo is of a miniature Tristan standing next to his grandfather who rests a proud hand on the small boy’s shoulder. His grandfather’s smile is more stoic than Tristan’s beaming one, but you can sense the strong bond between them.
The final photo is of a teenage Tristan and a dark haired man I don’t recognize.
“Who’s this?” I ask him, picking up the frame as he sits next to me.
“My art mentor, Pierre.”
“You have a mentor?”
“I do. It’s a long story spanning several generations; but the short version is that my grandfather and his dad fought together in Vietnam. My grandfather saved his dad, so Pierre’s family felt indebted to us. Even after his dad died, Pierre visited often. He’s an art professor at Bilde, actually.”
“Really?”
“Yes, but he teaches fine art, so I doubt your paths would have crossed. He’s well respected in the art world and had a semi-successful career as a painter, but he didn’t do as well as he’d have liked. He’s the one who bought me my first painting set one Christmas when I was about nine. I don’t think he expected anything to come of it, but when he saw the paintings I did with it, he took a serious interest in me. He thought I had real talent.”
“You do.”
“Thanks.” He blushes, looking down to avoid my eyes. “Anyway, from then on, he would visit more often, bringing me art supplies and teaching me techniques. My grandfather was supportive but knew nothing about art so he couldn’t help as much as he would have liked.
“Pierre tried hard to persuade me to go to Bilde, but leaving my grandfather in his condition was out of the question, so he continued to mentor me in his spare time. He’s crazy busy so he doesn’t come up here often, but we speak on the phone every week and I meet up with him whenever I’m in the city. Now that I’m pursuing art as a career, he’s become more of a manager than mentor.”
“That’s cool. I’m glad you have him.” I mean it. I get the impression Tristan doesn’t have many people in his life, especially since his grandfather has died. At least with Pierre and me, he has two.
“Thanks, me too. I’d love you to meet him one day. Maybe you can go for coffee on campus once school starts back up in the fall. You two would get on.”
“You think?”
“Definitely. He’s an over-thinker like you.”
“Hey!”
“It’s not a bad thing.” He raises his hands in surrender as we both laugh. I look around the room again, taking it all in. My eyes settle on the canvases against the wall.
“So how come the paintings are covered? Can I see them?” Panic flickers in his face at my question and excited tone, which confuses me.
“Um…those are…um…they’re…well, they’re…”
I place my hand on his arm to halt his rambling discomfort. The light golden hairs on his forearm tickle my palm. He stares down at my hand on his arm with an expression I can’t quite figure out.
“It’s okay. I get it. You don’t have to show me if they aren’t ready.”
At my words, he sags in relief, making me smirk at his artistic sensitivity and perfectionism.
“Thanks.”
“De nada.”
After we get over the momentary awkwardness, we have a great time talking and learning more about each other. When your soul feels like it knows someone on a profound and deep level, it almost seems unnecessary to have to learn all of the basic things, the little facts that make up the whole.
Without knowing a thing about him, I get him, and vice versa. You don’t have to know someone to understand them. But it helps.
The afternoon is spent walking through the woods, my arm looped through his, skin-to-skin, learning and laughing about the little things. Our middle names, broken bones, and favorite foods. As it always does, conversation flows between us and time speeds by in a haze of happiness and newfound friendship. Time with Tristan is time well spent.
As the afternoon gives way to the evening, we sit out by the lake near his property, toasting s’mores over a fire like children at camp. My cardigan is on and Tristan has put a navy lumberjack shirt on over his t-shirt. The cool evening air ripples through the trees, causing me to shuffle closer to the fire and into Tristan’s side.
While I watch the ethereal flames dance seductively to the beat of the wind, a breakthrough comes. Without any prompting from me, Tristan extends a tentative arm and reaches it over my shivering shoulders, pulling me toward his chest. He seems to be barely breathing, as if nervous of my reaction. I reassure him by wrapping my arm around his waist and resting my head above his heart.
And so, we sit. And nothing has ever felt more right. Held safely in Tristan’s warm embrace, I bask in the glow of the firelight and listen to the thumping confirmation of his vitality.
And I feel it.
The exact millisecond where something shifts and begins. New friends but old souls joined head to chest, heart to heart. Our marrow-deep connection builds and solidifies as the final flames fizzle into the dusk.
ANOTHER MONTH HAS come and gone and my birthday is tomorrow. I’m going out for dinner with my new friends from college, which I’m looking forward to.
I’m far from unpopular, but I guess I’ve been lonely for a long time. It’s only now that I have real friends that I realize just how lonely I have been.
Being liked by a lot of people and still having no true friends is a strange thing. When we were eight years old, my childhood best friend Miranda moved away to Florida with her mother when her parents divorced. We were kindred spirits and I was devastated.
But as so often happens, I got over it and all of the fervent promises to keep in touch and stay best friends forever drifted away with time and distance. Out of sight, out of mind is never truer than it is for a child. We’re still ‘friends’ on social networks,
but it’s nowhere near the same as it was way back when.
At school, I was a proud outcast. I refused to fit into the neat boxes people are so desperate to put you in at that age. I had elements of most cliques, but I was never enough of one thing to belong to any fully.
It sounds as shallow as it is, but I had the money to belong to the universally unpopular ‘popular’ crowd, but I was also nice to people and my edgy bohemian style didn’t quite blend well with their tight shirts and short skirts.
My style fit in better with the laidback Cali crowd, but I had no interest in drugs and wanted to do well in school. And so, it continued. I was too ‘mainstream’ for the alternative crowd, too ‘individual’ for the preps, too ‘introverted’ for the drama kids, and much too ‘extroverted’ for the geeks.
I bonded well with individual people who belonged to all of the aforementioned groups, but I was never one of them. Always on the outside, looking in. Liked but never belonging.
Fortunately, I didn’t mind that much. I was happy to dance to the beat of my own drum even if it meant dancing alone. I’d rather do that than change, hide, or betray my true self for the pretense of a false ‘friendship’ with people who had no interest in getting to know the real me. It’s only now that I have real friends and a ‘group’ of my own that I’m enjoying the benefits of belonging.
Even though it’s just a group of two, my friendship with Tristan has become incredibly important to me in such a short amount of time and given me such a strong sense of belonging. The Bilde crowd is also great. The nice thing is that we’re all a bunch of misfits who fit together, united by our kaleidoscopic characters.
Maia is half-Dominican, half-Japanese and flaunts her blended heritage with pride. Rebellious preacher’s son, Jacob, wants to be a tattoo artist. Irish Erin is five thousand miles from home, while buff ex-quarterback Blaise is just now accepting the lack of inherent conflict in his identity as a macho gay man who likes sports and art.
Due to the time I took off to be with my dad, they’re all a bit younger than I am except for Blaise, but age doesn’t matter when it comes to friendship. Plus they get on extremely well with Tristan, which makes things easier.
The Counting-Downers Page 10