“I’d like to propose a toast to our dear Matilda.” He raises his fractured glass in my direction. “Even though you look like a supermodel who got lost on her way to Coachella—” he pauses in dramatic anticipation of the laughter that follows, even from me because his assessment of my style is hilarious, “—we still love you. You’re kind, kooky, clever, and impossibly cool. Our merry band of misfits wouldn’t be the same without you. I know I speak for everyone when I say that we’re blessed to have you in our lives, however long they may be.”
We lose him for a moment as he stares off into the distance and I know he’s thinking about his twin brother, Beau, who died of Leukemia not long after my dad passed away. Unfortunately, knowing when people will die doesn’t stop serious accidents, injuries, and illnesses. Beau had fought off Leukemia once before, when they were small children. But when the second diagnosis was made, everyone only had to look above his head and see the limited amount of time he had left to know the outcome probably wouldn’t be good. Of course, they couldn’t be sure it would be the Leukemia that would kill him, he could have been hit by a car or something, but it was likely.
Blaise has 71 years, 10 months, 35 days, 11 minutes and 56 seconds left to live without his other half, which must be unbearable. He rarely talks about his brother, but I know he wears the invisible scars of his absence. He’s even more obsessed than I am with the concept of time, or rather the lack of it.
As we all exchange worried and sympathetic glances, I notice Jacob give Blaise a sad smile in solidarity. Jacob’s older brother, Benjamin, committed Lover’s Suicide with his dying wife several years ago, which was a huge shock to his close-knit family. Even though there was a sixteen-year age gap between them and Jake was only seven when it happened, my heart still breaks for him and his family. We hear about it all the time on the news and it’s romanticized in TV shows, but before Jacob, I’d never known anyone who has been affected by it in real life. Blaise gives a solemn shrug back at him as we all avert our eyes, granting them both a moment to mourn their fallen brothers.
Without warning, Blaise shakes himself out of his grief and comes back to us as if he never left. The group is empathetic enough to participate in his charismatic charade even though we all see through it. “Happy Birthday, Woodstock!” he cheers, using his personal nickname for me, which I secretly love. This sets of a chorus of ‘happy birthdays’ from the rest of the gang and a tuneless rendition of the classic jingle with that painful high note near the end that only opera singers and bats can reach.
I stand up and twirl, giving a mock bow.
“How do you say, ‘happy birthday’ in Norwegian?” Jacob asks once I sit back down, his face full of curiosity. He’s obsessed with all things Nordic and has asked me about the Norwegian translation of almost everything since he found out I spoke the language. However, at least in this talented group of Spanish, Japanese, Gaelic, and French speakers, my linguistic skills aren’t strange. Poor Jacob is the only one among us who doesn’t speak at least one other language fluently.
“Gratulerer med dagen,” I tell him which leads to a hilarious five minutes in which everyone tries to replicate my words and wrap their tongues around the unusual pronunciation. If my grandmother could hear my friends desecrating her mother tongue, she’d be horrified, but I love it.
It’s then my turn to try and say it in the languages my friends speak, which sounds better to me, but I’m sure is just as bad to them as their efforts at Norwegian were to my ears.
Still, the beauty is in the attempt. Bad friends try to change you, good friends accept your differences, while true friends embrace and celebrate them. Watching this circle of clowns, I know I’ve made the truest of friends. I’m glad I didn’t settle for anything less.
Once we pay the bill and say goodbye to the bemused and relieved restaurant staff, we all jumble into Jacob’s dad’s people carrier, ready for the twenty-minute drive downtown to see Tristan’s exhibition.
We have the time of our lives on the drive over, singing and dancing along to the radio like we’re members of the world’s worst pop band. Even introverted Erin joins in with the craziness during an intense sing-off with the boys.
It’s the most perfect of times.
We’re young. And we’re free. And we’re alive. The ultimate trifecta.
One of those moments when I wish I could be young forever. Not just stop time for a second, but for an eternity. The old paradox that youth is wasted on the young is not true for us. Neither my friends nor I take our youth for granted. In fact, all of the young people I know are all too aware that someday soon time and gravity won’t be on their side anymore.
And we can do nothing about it. So the young do the only thing they can do. They live, and they love, and they dance, and they sing; they dream, and they scheme; they ponder, and they plan. Like there’s no tomorrow. For tomorrow brings us one day closer to the inevitable and one day further from the impossible.
And being young is all about achieving the impossible. At least believing you can. The old mistake, our denial for ignorance, our immaturity for irresponsibility. We understand the rules of life; we just don’t want to play by them.
Not yet. Not today. Not tonight. Because tonight is a good night to be young and alive.
As we arrive at the gallery where Tristan’s exhibition is being held, I’m overcome with nervous excitement on his behalf. I’ve only seen flashes of his genius whenever he wants to show it to me, or he’s been working on something in my presence, so I can’t wait to see the sum of incredible parts.
We clamber out of the car as Jacob tries to find a spot to park.
Blaise whistles. “Wow. Look at all of these people. Thor is kind of a big deal.” We all laugh at his nickname for Tristan.
“Thor?” I ask, giggling.
“Thor. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen the resemblance before. I’d think it even if I wasn’t gay, but the man looks like a Nordic God.”
“You know Thor isn’t real right?”
“Um, yes,” he says, gesturing sarcastically toward the gallery, “he is.”
Our laughter is hysterical at this point. I know it’s often a front for his pain and insecurities, but Blaise is one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. Without even trying. But he does try. So hard. Too hard. I hate that he relies on humor as a source of external validation. I want him to see that he’s perfect just as he is. To me, to all of our friends, he’s perfect.
“Okay, Comicon.” I tangle my fingers with his. “Let’s go and support our favorite superhero.” He cheers at this as we all head inside. I’d arranged with Tristan’s mentor, Pierre, to put our names on the guest list without Tristan’s knowledge, so we’re able to skip the queue that’s formed. Once we step inside the sleek building, an impeccably dressed hostess greets us, handing out programs about the exhibition.
“Good evening, welcome to Freedom by Tristan Isaacs. Are you familiar with the artist? He’s an incredible talent who’s sure to be a star. This is his first solo exhibition but it’s guaranteed not be his last.” She sounds like she’s reading from a memorized script, which she no doubt is.
I think I nod in return but I’m not sure. I’m too busy looking around for Tristan while trying to soak everything into my senses. This is incredible. All of these people gathered to support, celebrate, and size up my new best friend. He’s achieving his lifelong dream, while aspiring to achieve more.
That’s the thing about dreams. As long as hope lives in your heart, you can never settle for one. Once you achieve a dream, new ones are created as a result. You can spend your life chasing them. The lucky find themselves dreaming about things they once never thought possible. Gazing around this room, I just know, sure as the sun will rise and set tomorrow, Tristan will be one of the lucky ones.
Eager to find him and look at his art properly, I drag my friends away from the woman, who I think may still be talking about the direction we should take around the space.
“W
ell that was rude.”
“I know. I’ll find her and apologize later.”
“Ha. I didn’t mean you were rude, I meant she was. She looked at us from her pedestal as if we were commoners who’d crashed a royal party. She thought we were too young and too poor to be here.”
“Forget her. Let’s go and find Thor.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Um, Matilda?” Erin asks in a voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear her. I glance back at her to see she has the program open and is frowning at whatever’s she’s reading.
“Mmm?”
“Did Tristan tell you what this exhibition was about?”
“No, all I know is that it’s a mix of sketches, watercolors, and oil paintings. He’s incredibly versatile.”
“But he didn’t talk about the subject of the paintings?”
“No, why?” I ask, unsure about where her line of inquiry is headed. But before she can answer, Blaise halts, causing me to stumble back into him.
“Um, that’s why, Woodstock.” He points to one of the paintings on the wall.
I follow the direction of his finger and find it’s my turn to come to an abrupt stop as I stare unblinking, unbreathing at a stunningly lifelike painting of…myself.
In the watercolor, I’m upside down, laughing in the middle of a cartwheel along the beach. Despite the effects of gravity, it’s undoubtedly me immortalized behind the gilt frame. The resemblance is unmistakable.
I remember this moment. It was a few weeks ago and I’d challenged him to a cartwheel contest. The only problem was that he didn’t know how to do one, so I tried to teach him. It had been a catastrophe, but we’d had so much fun failing. I can’t believe he not only painted a picture of me but also included it in the most important exhibition of his career.
As if reading my thoughts, Maia interrupts. “It’s not just that painting, Til.” I close the mouth that’s open in shock before my gaze lands on the sketch behind her of my face in profile, my long daisy-filled braid taking up most of the frame, with a flower behind my ear. My expression is wistful and longing as I stare at whatever is beyond the canvas boundaries.
I’m too stunned to speak. My head whips back and forth, left and right, as I see image upon image, moment upon moment, of me, of us, and of the things that represent our connection. And whatever freedom means to him. I walk around the gallery in a daze, Blaise stupefied and silent by my side as I look at various paintings and sketches of me…
Laughing. Dancing. Singing. Smiling. Thinking. Dreaming. Seeing. Being.
Living.
Truly, deeply, freely.
In the rare images my likeness is absent from, I’m still present in the form of flowers and treehouses, clocks and shells, sunsets and the sea.
And in the center of it all, with his back to me, is Tristan talking to a prospective buyer or critic about a painted replica of my meadow. The image behind him is painted in vivid, intricate, perfectly recreated detail. Not a blade of grass is out of place.
As if sensing my presence, Tristan turns his head in my direction and jerks once he meets my eyes.
Shocked, nervous, guilty, blues meet shocked, confused, watery, greens.
And even though we’re surrounded by hundreds of people, now this room only contains two.
Detached, I feel Blaise reach for my stopwatch and say, “You definitely need a pause.” But I can’t tear my gaze away from Tristan’s. He seems more anxious with every second that he can’t make out my expression, which is understandable, as I don’t even know how I feel right now. He excuses himself from the wiry man he was talking to, and makes his way over to me.
“Hi.”
“Hey.”
We always seem to find our way back here with these two inadequate words.
“Tilda… I… um… what are you doing here?”
“I think there’s another surprise we should talk about first.” My voice sounds croaky to my own ears.
He winces and tries to make a joke out of it. “Happy birthday?”
“Try again.”
“Til…” He sighs. “I didn’t… you said… I thought…”
He tries again. “Look, do you want to go somewhere and talk? I need to say things; things you need to hear. Please.”
I nod as he takes my arm and leads me away from my friends. I’m so entranced I don’t even look back at them. We walk toward the back of the gallery and out through the fire escape into a small garden area. My skin prickles with the cooling night air. Tristan releases me and rests his back on the metal railing. He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.
“I know you’re shocked, but I’m so happy you’re here,” is the first thing he says.
I may still be trying to process my emotions about the exhibition, but of this one thing, I am sure. “Me too,” I tell him, and he exhales a relieved breath.
With every thumping heartbeat, I find myself thawing and coming back to life. “Soooo… pretty much your entire exhibition is about me.”
Nervous laughter forces its way out of his mouth at my teasing, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know. Are you angry?”
I think about this for a second. My thoughts and emotions are collecting themselves with each passing second now that the shock is wearing off. “No, not at all.”
His whole body slumps with utter relief; and it does something to me to know how much my opinion and feelings matter to him, how much they affect him.
“I’m shocked, surprised, and stunned, but not angry. How can I be? You did the artist’s equivalent of writing a song or book about me. I’m someone’s muse. I’m touched.”
“You don’t think it’s creepy?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s definitely a little creepy.”
He laughs and straightens, opening his arms for a hug, which I glide into, needing the calming reassurance his presence brings. I think he needs it too. Tristan wraps the open sides of his suit jacket around me and I burrow further into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, and resting my head over his heart.
He emanates an intoxicating, rugged scent of pine, rainwater, and spice. Tristan kisses the top of my head before resting his cheek on it, swaying us like reeds in the gentle summer breeze. We stand there for a while, locked in each other. Basking in the calm of the night in contrast to the chaos within the nearby walls.
“I should explain,” he says after a while, breaking our embrace.
“Go for it.”
“Exhibitions work best with a single concept in mind, so I was given the brief of ‘freedom.’”
“Okay. I still don’t see what that has to do with the shrine to all things Matilda in there.” I joke, pointing toward to building and faint conversation we can still hear.
“I’d get there if you stop interrupting me.”
“Hey! I didn’t interrupt.” He just gives me a pointed look, as if to say, ‘You just did.’ I receive a lot of those looks from people.
“Fine. Carry on. But get there faster!”
He chuckles before continuing. “So Pierre and I were talking about the idea of freedom, what it means to different people, different cultures. How it applies to different situations.
“I didn’t realize that there are so many different kind of freedoms. There’s physical freedom, like being released from imprisonment or entrapment, but also emotional, mental, political, economic, social, and spiritual freedom.”
He looks at me to see if I’m following and continues with my encouraging nod.
“Sometimes we’re inhibited by others, and sometimes we’re the only thing standing between ourselves and liberty. There’s being free in theory, and free in practice. Some people believe themselves to be free, while others would think that same group oppressed.
“Freedom can be singular or plural. You can be free in one area, and not in another. Physically free, but mentally repressed, spiritually free but economically restricted. All of us are trapped in some way.
“I think there a
re only a handful of people who are free in all things and all situations.”
He pauses his impassioned outburst to look at me before lowering his voice to a whisper. “It may not be true, but to me, you’re one of those people.”
“Me?” I’m shocked. I didn’t think that would be the destination of his fervent train of thought.
“Yes, you. See, that’s what I mean. To me, you’re the freest person I’ve ever met, but you don’t see yourself that way.”
“I guess… I mean I’ve never thought about it.”
“I think too much.”
I laugh at this. “You do. I thought I was bad.”
“How do you see yourself as repressed?”
“How do you see me as free?”
“Because I see you.” It takes me a second to realize that he doesn’t plan to elaborate.
“That’s how you see me?” I ask, motioning toward the building.
“All that and more.”
I’m not sure what to say back to that. “I’m flattered. I didn’t realize anyone was looking that closely. You’ve seen something in me I’m not sure anyone else does, least of all myself.”
“Everyone sees it. It’s impossible not to look closely at you. You glow freedom; it escapes out of your pores. Even your freedom is free. It’s contagious.” At my skeptical expression, he elaborates.
“Your freedom is in the sound of your laughter, the light in your eyes, the width of your smile, the words that leave your mouth, and every move you make. You’re free, Tilda. You’re not fighting to be, or pretending to be, you just are. I didn’t realize freedom had a look and a sound until I met you.”
“Even if that were true, what makes me freer than anyone else?”
“If I knew, I would bottle it, sell it, and use it on myself.” He smiles at his joke before continuing on a sigh.
“I don’t know. I mean many of your freedoms are down to luck and circumstance; but I’m not focusing on those when I say that you’re free. It’s more your state of mind. Like you don’t give yourself any other options. You don’t let anything or anyone cage you, including yourself. You’d make a prison into a home and draw flowers on the walls.”
The Counting-Downers Page 12