The Counting-Downers (10 page)

CLOYING TENSION FLOWS in the air as I help my mom clear away the final remnants of the day in silence, suffocating me and slowing my movements.

My grandmother, who still wouldn’t talk to or look at me, retired to her guesthouse on the edge of the property not long after I finished tucking Oscar in for his bedtime. I don’t know if it was because she was born and raised in a frosty climate, but my grandmother is the queen of freezing people out. She’s a master at the Scandinavian ‘tough love’ approach to parenting and life.

She still lives in the quaint Californian fishing village of Morro Bay where my father had grown up. Making the voyage across the ocean in the sixties, after changing their surname to something more ‘American’ sounding, my grandparents had settled in the idyllic coastal town as they said it reminded them of their own childhoods in Norway. Every day they opened the windows and let in the fresh scents of seawater, ocean breeze, and nostalgia.

Though I’ve never been to Norway, summer visits to the bay mean I have my own childhood memories of whale watching and kayaking. Even after my dad had moved out and my paternal grandfather had died, my obstinate
Farmor
refused to move in with us until, in her words, she was ‘unfunctionably senile.’ I told her that wasn’t a word. Or a thing. In any language. Needless to say, that didn’t go down well.

It was temporary, but after years of persuading, she had come to stay with us to spend time with my dad during his last few months under the guise of ‘builders’ remodeling her property. My grandmother is many things; stubborn, strong, strict, and
scary
, but a good liar isn’t one of them.

Although he never said anything, I’m sure from the shrewd smile he gave her as she explained her predicament that Dad knew her true motivations for coming to stay. As her long-standing feud with the mailman attests to, my grandmother would never let anyone onto her property, let alone unsupervised.

He was amazing like that, my dad. Not only did he have a great sense of humor, but he
humored
people.

Even though at present she was emitting an aura of ice every time I was in the vicinity, I could do with my grandmother acting as a buffer between my mother and me right now. The unbearable silence is becoming awkward and everything is once again back in its proper place so I don’t even have anything to occupy my hands or distract my mind with.

I don’t want this gulf between us at all, or for it to become any wider than it already is. It’s not what my dad would have wanted. But still, I can’t help the sensation of precariously straddling two tectonic plates, which could shift at any moment, causing an earthquake of epic proportions.

I wonder if my mom feels the same. I also wonder if maybe we
need
that earthquake. If maybe one or both of us
needs
to go off the emotional Richter scale into unparalleled honesty. To speak our true thoughts and pray that not only will love survive the devastated aftershocks, but new life can grow in its wake.

Maybe there’s such a thing as being
too
still,
too
calm,
too
quiet,
and too
polite. Too much of too little. Too much of nothing. We are both saying everything except what we want to say. All the words and emotions my mother refuses to set free are bubbling just under the surface of her composure.

And if I’m being honest, the unbearable heat from my own thoughts and words unspoken is oppressive. Something has to give; otherwise, we will both erupt, scalding each other and ourselves in burns and ash.

Clearing my throat, I gather up the courage to break the silence. “Uh, Mom…”

But I don’t get any further than that, halted by her hand outstretched in the universal sign for ‘stop talking.’ Taken aback, my mouth pops closed as I eat air.

“Not right now, okay? I just…can’t right now.”

With that, she bends down to pick up her heels, which she had kicked off to clean the house, and makes her ascent up the left split staircase toward her bedroom without a backward glance.

I stare at the space where she stood for a minute or so, unsure of myself and of what to do. The house, once filled with light and laughter, has never been so dark and quiet. Now, the only sounds are my discordant breaths and the timely ticking of the antique white grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

Deciding that the best thing is just to go to sleep and try to speed up the process of welcoming tomorrow. I turn off the light in the living room and hallway before making my way up the right staircase to my room.

As I make it through the other side of my sanctuary, I turn on the light and lean back against the door, taking a deep breath. Exhaling, my gaze travels around my safe place. I know most teenagers would say this, but I love my room. I am the most and best of myself within these four walls.

Much like myself, my bedroom has seen many evolutions over the years. From the hummingbirds and butterflies of my nursery, to the princess pink of my toddler years, to the purple paradise of my pre-teen years, to the short-lived gothic rebellion of fourteen-years-old, which we don’t speak of, every version of me is written on its walls.

I’m a firm believer that people leave behind their energy, long after they’ve left a place. It’s why some houses seem haunted while others appear to be the happiest of homes. Taking it all in, the thrum of the energy of all the Matildas past flow through me. This room has seen it all. Heartbreak and happiness, playtime and sleep time, princesses and puberty, sleepovers and secrets, dancing and days off from school. Its current evolution is its best yet, but I guess you always think that at the time.

Regardless of whether
this
is the best version of me, this room reflects whoever I am right now. The walls are white, like most of this house, but it’s saved from sterility by the splashes of color that flood every available surface. On the wall opposite my deliciously large four-poster bed is a huge and colorful flower, complete with petals and a long stem that starts at the bottom left hand corner of the wall. The flower is comprised of photographs. Some are family ones, others of my friends and childhood, or favorite places.

Photography is my favorite art form by far, and I hope to one day become a successful photographer, depending on how much time I have.

My photo wall grounds and centers me in a way I can’t quite explain. Not only is it evocative and nostalgic, but it also reminds me why I love life and who I should live it for. Whenever I have a bad day, I spend time looking at each of the photographs and bringing the frozen moment to life in my mind.

Bad days happened in between the photographs, as they always do, because people rarely capture the bad moments on film.

But for me, the photographs serve the purpose of reminding me that even though life happened between one shot and the next, things became better enough to take the following shot. Things will always become better, the sun will always shine again, and life will one day be good enough again for you to take another photograph.

My second favorite feature of my room is the wall behind my bed, opposite the flower photographs. My quote wall was my dad’s idea. He’d always say these sagacious and inspirational lines or phrases that came from his mind or ones wiser, and I always forgot to write them down.

Around the time I was thinking of redecorating again, I mentioned to my dad that I needed to buy a book so I could make a note of every life-affirming quote or lyric I heard, and he suggested writing them on my wall instead. He got me like that.

So in the different colors of the rainbow, painted in a mix of my curly and my dad’s jagged handwriting, are incredible pieces of advice from some of the world’s most perceptive people.

Several spaces are blank, but I have leftover paint in one of my closets for future words that may speak to my soul. In light of recent events, it means even more than it did before to have dad’s words immortalized in color and air.

The rest of my room speaks to my inner flower child. Fairy lights in the shape of a daisy chain hang over my window opposite the door, which looks out onto the garden and meadow when the golden drapes are open.

While on the opposite wall by the door is a huge bookcase full of everything I ever need to escape reality for a little while: books, CDs, DVDs, and my cameras. They’re all I need.

I didn’t want a clock in my room. I can’t stand the tick tick ticking. It stops me from sleeping.

Heading over to one of my bedside tables, which doubles as a chest of drawers, I pull out my sleep shorts and one of my dad’s old t-shirts that I stole from my parent’s room a few weeks ago. It’s nothing special, just plain grey, but it still smells like him, and I’m dreading the day when it needs to be washed and the water takes my dad away with it.

I’ve only been wearing it sparingly for that reason, but today is one of those days when I need to be surrounded by my dad. It’s the closest I’ll get to one of his comforting and protective hugs for the rest of my life.

My dad’s hugs were like a force field, shielding me from reality and all that’s bad in the world. I can’t believe I’ll never be able to experience one again. It’s the smallest things you take for granted that end up being the things you miss the most.

Never being hugged by my dad again is a depressing thought, so I try not to dwell on it as it can easily drag me under when I’ve been doing so well today. Placing the clothes on my bed, I remove the flowers from my hair. They don’t make a sound as I rest them on the table before undoing my long braid and running my fingers through it so that it ripples in oceanic waves which glide down my back and crest around my waist.

I head to my en-suite bathroom to finish my nightly routine. I’m extremely low maintenance, so usually there’s little to no makeup to take off and it’s just a case of a quick shower, changing into my pajamas, and brushing my teeth before I’m done for the day.

As I switch the light off in my bathroom, I realize I’m a little thirsty, so I head downstairs to get some water before going to bed. My room is directly above the kitchen at the back of the house, so the two rooms share the same stunning view of the garden that only provides a coquettish hint at the meadow beyond.

Leaning back on the kitchen island, I gaze out at the darkness through the window as I allow the refreshing liquid to chill my throat on its descent. Because I’m thinking about everything and nothing, it takes me a while before I realize that the back deck light is on.

Once I’ve finished with my drink, I rinse it and put the glass away before heading toward the window and leaning around the kitchen dining table, which looks out over the garden, to the see if anyone is on the porch, or whether the light was left on by mistake.

My brain struggles to make sense of the strange figure in a baggy man’s t-shirt and ill-fitting sweatpants with messy shoulder length blonde hair and vacant eyes. It takes me a good minute to realize that it’s my normally unflappable mother. She seems unraveled and I am unsettled.

As ridiculous as it sounds, it’s one of those moments when you realize your parents are human. You know what I mean. We all talk about how children think their parents are omniscient and invincible; then the children grow up and realize they aren’t. But I don’t think that’s true.

In theory we learn that our parents are fallible and don’t have all of the answers, but I don’t think we ever truly acknowledge this in practice. It’s why adults still come to their parents for advice, or become shocked when they become frail and elderly. On some level, we still see our parents as different to us: better, stronger, wiser.

My mom is the definition of strength. I struggle to remember a time when she’s let me see her weakened. Now I’m confronted with it, and I don’t know how to handle it.

I’m sure she’s only out in an open space because she thinks everyone is asleep and I’m also sure she’d prefer me to go up to my room and pretend I’d never seen her at less than her best, but for some reason, I can’t leave. I’m drawn to her. Moth to flame. Like the lowering of her defenses has lowered mine at the same time. She’s vulnerable, but I don’t want to attack. It makes me want to be vulnerable too, for us to be vulnerable together.

Without conscious thought, I find myself opening the back door and sitting next to my mom on the porch swing, both of us silent as we stare into the darkness.

She’s so lost in her own thoughts, maybe thinking about all the times she’s sat with my dad here, on this very swing, that it takes a while for my presence to filter through to her senses. She jumps a little as she turns to face me, as if noticing me for the first time.

Right away her hands go to her hair as she tries to smooth it down in an effort to look more presentable and put together. I reach out and grab her hand, pulling it away from her hair and down into her lap where I entangle it with mine.

I don’t want the perfect, glossy version of my mother tonight. I want this one, made up of broken mosaic pieces, shattered, lost, and exposed.

Looking down at our entwined fingers, she takes in a shaky breath as if she understands this, squeezing my hand once she comes to some kind of acceptance.