The Counting-Downers (13 page)

“A long time indeed. Although if I remember it right, we agreed it always comes back to time, didn’t we, Baby Bear?” he asks in reference to the phrase he’d written so long ago on the back of the treasure of a lifetime, which now has pride of place in a frame above the desk in my room. “Maybe now is our time.”

I understand what he means and yet I don’t. Like my soul understands something my brain doesn’t, my brow valleys even as I find myself replying, “Maybe it is.”

He smiles at this, as if knowing a secret I’m not yet privy to.

“I hope so. You going to take a seat? As glad as I am for this coincidence, I’m sure the one in a billion chance of running into me isn’t why you’re here?” he asks with a self-deprecating smile. He picks up whatever is on the bench next to him and shifts left so both of us can sit down and stare out at the sea.

I only hesitate for a second before walking the remaining few steps and joining him on my father’s bench. I’m not sure why I pause. It’s as if I know that if I go toward him, I’ll be walking forward in more ways than one. Even though I’m not quite sure what all of those ways are.

As I sit, I realize the items next to him were his sketchpad and a small palette of watercolors, which are now resting on his lap and to the left of him. He’s painted an incredible version of the sunset. I guess we both had the same idea to capture the infinitely intangible.

“That’s amazing.” I nod my head toward the painting.

“Thanks.”

“I had the same idea, though mine takes less skill,” I say, holding up the camera around my neck.

“Not necessarily. Something tells me you’re an incredible photographer.” I blush behind my natural tan.

“Thanks. I’m a work in progress. My dream is to become a professional photographer. I’m currently going to school for it.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

“Whereabouts?”

“Um, Bilde,” I tell him. My tone is almost embarrassed even though it’s something I should be proud of, something I
am
proud of.

Before he can stop them, his eyebrows raise in surprise at the mention of the world-renowned art college. “Well then, I’m certain you’re an incredible photographer.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just smile and soak in the sunset.

“I can leave if you want to be alone with your dad?”

I’m touched at his thoughtfulness and understanding. But even though I had come here with the intention of being alone, I’m happy to remain in his presence and don’t mind his intrusion.

“No, that’s fine. Thanks for the offer though.”

“You’re sure?”

I nod in confirmation. “I’m sure.”

“Okay.”

We’re both quiet for a moment, but it’s not awkward or strained. It just is. That’s the best kind of silence, when it’s not anything but itself.

“Do you come here often?” I ask him, breaching the quiet. I wonder if this is his first time here or if he’s been coming over the years like I have, crossing my path but never on it.

He goes to answer and then pauses as if he’s just heard what I’ve asked him. His face fills with amusement and he raises a questioning eyebrow at me, causing momentary confusion. Unsure of myself, I repeat my words in my head, trying to work out what was so funny about what I said that prevents him from giving me a straight answer.

Then I get the joke.

And even though it’s not that funny, suddenly we’re both laughing with the good kind of tears in our eyes just like that day almost on this very spot two years ago.

“That wasn’t a come on, I promise,” I tell him, through residual laughter once we’ve both calmed down.

“You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“That’s a shame.”

For a moment, I’m thrown off by his serious expression, but then he smiles, breaking the tension and I smile too, once again nothing but a mirror to his emotions.

“Trust me, you’d know if it was.” I give him an impish nudge. “Plus, I’d like to think I could do better than lazy lines and exhausted clichés.”

“I’m sure you could.”

“So have you been to this bench before?” I rephrase with care, causing him to see through my attempt with a smirk.

I’m thankful that he plays along this time. “Yes, I come here all the time. It’s a great spot for working through thoughts and issues, or just
being
, you know?”

“I do know,” I tell him, and I do. I’m sure it has more to do with the location of the bench rather than any lingering traces of my father’s spirit, but it’s fitting that the best person I knew to go to for advice would have a spot in his honor that helps those seeking guidance.

“I guess it goes without saying that you come here a lot?”

“Yes, all the time. As you said, it’s a great spot for just
being
. Plus it has the added element for me of feeling close to my dad.” He didn’t ask, and I’m not sure why I feel compelled to tell, but I find myself confessing to him.

“I come here whenever I need one of his hugs or pieces of wisdom,” I tell him. “Or when I feel myself forgetting him,” I whisper the last line, revealing my most shameful secret to this relative stranger.

His knowing nod is without judgment or comment and somehow I’m
safe
in his silent support. With both of his parents dead, I’m sure he understands what I mean better than most.

“It’s tough when you stop being able to picture their faces with clarity isn’t it? Or when you find yourself thinking about them every other day or every few days, instead of every day like you used to.

“And then you’ll be doing something simple like getting dressed or taking out the trash, and you’ll
remember
. You feel like you’re betraying them by being too happy to remember to be sad, too preoccupied living to remember that they’re dead. Then you‘re suffocated by shame and self-loathing for letting them slip from your mind for even a single second.”

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 reappearance, 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.”