The Counting-Downers (17 page)

“Really?” He beams, his body deflating in relief that I don’t hate the gift.

“Absolutely.”

“You know if you keep it running like that, you’re going to have to change the batteries regularly?”

“I don’t care. I love it.”

“You haven’t even seen the best bit yet.” He bounces with excitement, reaching for the stopwatch again and turning it over in my open palm.

When I realize what he’s referring to, I suck air into my lungs. I don’t know what I was expecting, but looking at the words he’s had engraved, I don’t know how I could have expected any different. There, on the back of his grandfather’s treasured antique stopwatch, he’s had engraved especially for me, especially for us:

‘It always comes back to T.I.M.E.

Make it yours. Make it count.’

And then, I’m not just crying, I’m sobbing.

My face wets, my shoulders shake, and water runs through my splayed fingers.

But I’m
happy
. And touched. And
blessed
.

Blessed to have this extraordinary man in my life who
understands
me. This amazing man, who cares about me enough to give me the gift of time. To empower me with the tools to
make my own
.

The same man who is staring at me in fear, concern, and bemusement.

“You’re my best friend, you know that right?” I tell him through my tears.

He smiles at this, shaking his head at my antics, before looping his arm around my neck and bringing me into his chest for a hug. I love how tactile he has become, it’s like he craves touch. I wrap my free arm around his waist as he kisses the top of my head. “And you’re mine.”

And it’s this moment. In my best friend’s arms, with the sun in the sky, life in my blood, and magic in the air, that I reach between us, press pause, and make the moment ours.

“SO HE BOUGHT you a watch. What’s the big deal?” a confused Blaise asks, causing all the women at the table to groan at his obtuseness.

“Not just any watch, his
grandfather’s
watch. And it’s not the watch that’s the most important part—he gave her the
gift of time
,” Erin explains in her soft Irish lilt. Her glorious voice is so melodic that I could listen to it all day. Sometimes my untrained American ears have to concentrate hard to understand what she’s saying, but she could recite the alphabet and I’d still be enchanted.

“It’s so romantic,” Maia says on a wistful sigh.

At this, Blaise and Jacob give each other a look that needs no translation. If that look were a word, it would be “Women.”

With a full stop. And an eye roll.

“I’m pretty sure you can’t give someone the gift of time. Who does Trist think he is? God? Gandalf?”

“Dumbledore?” a helpful Jacob adds. At this, the boys both burst into laughter, congratulating each other on their incredible wit while the rest of us sit straight-faced, straining not to smile.

“Plus you guys aren’t together,” Jacob states once he’s settled, looking at me for confirmation, which I give with a nod. “So how can it be romantic?”

“You don’t have to be with someone for a gesture to be romantic.”

“I’m pretty sure you do,” Blaise says, laughing again.

Maia throws her hands in the air. “I give up! If you two still don’t get it, you never will.”

“Fine by me.”

“And me.”

We women give each other a look that roughly translates to “Men.”

With a full stop. And an eye roll.

Then we change the subject to topics their simple minds can comprehend.

All joking aside, I’ve had a brilliant evening with my new friends. Conversation has flowed, raucous laughter has been shared, and our bond has been made even stronger than it was before we walked into this amazing Korean restaurant, which Jacob recommended.

As an exasperated Maia shows Blaise the correct way to hold chopsticks for the fifth time, I allow myself to fade to the periphery of the conversation, taking a step back to resume the familiar role of observer, rather than participant. However, I’m no longer on the outside looking in, but on the
inside looking around
. This new vantage point makes all the difference. It’s amazing how a change of perspective can change a life.

As I absorb the animated faces and excitable gestures of this group to which I belong, I take a moment to be grateful. For once, I don’t think about what I’ve lost and who isn’t here, I center myself in the now, and focus on those who are present. I take comfort in the fact that everyone around the table has at least fifty years left to live.

My stopwatch is resting in its new home around my neck on top of the flowing black chiffon top I’m wearing. I’ve paired it with my best black skinny jeans and heels, which I rarely wear. It complements the beautiful small eighteen-karat gold dream catcher earrings that my mom presented me with earlier, which I’m proud to showcase.

I don’t have many people in my life, but the ones that are here know me well. Trying to do something different, I have more makeup on than usual, and my hair is in a sophisticated up-do with French braids that my mom helped me with before I left for dinner.

I don’t feel any older or wiser, but I am more content than I’ve been in a long time. My dad always said happiness was fleeting;
contentment
is what we should strive for. Happiness will come and go. It’s foolish to pursue it, as so many do, and believe it will be lasting. Even though bad things may still happen and not every day will be a good one, contentment is the underlying sense of calm and bliss that you experience when you put your life into perspective and focus on your blessings instead of your inadequacies and misfortunes.

My dad argued that happiness was so often tied to material things. How often do you hear people saying,
“I will be happy when I get/I do/I achieve…”
Contentment focuses on your spiritual rather than material well-being. It comes from within, not external sources.

Basking in my current contentment, I know that this is a moment worth immersing myself in, so without anyone noticing and spoiling the moment with mockery, I reach for the stopwatch button and press pause. As is to be expected of young artists, we’ve taken dozens of photographs between us tonight, but right now, I try to capture everything with my soul.

After a while, the noise I’d blocked out while time was suspended starts to filter back in. Lights become brighter, voices louder, and my senses are once again overloaded and on alert. Pressing the button on the clock to allow
my
time to flow back into
real
time, I re-join the conversation and laughter without difficulty.

A couple of minutes later, Blaise interrupts our discussions by hitting his knife on his glass of soda so hard that I worry it might break.

“Careful, muscle man,” Jacob murmurs.

Blaise ignores him and clears his throat, waiting for a hush to descend.

“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.