The Counting-Downers (30 page)

But the sounds aren’t the worst. The worst are the feelings. As if it is still happening, I experience the scrape of my bare skin across the tarmac as I landed, the explosive pain in my right arm as it broke in two places, and worst of all, my stomach remembers with crystal clarity, the unfamiliar feeling of weightlessness as I soared through the air like a bird.

I was always envious of birds. I longed for the ability to fly as my superpower.

Be careful what you wish for.

I just can’t get over it. How we could go from happy and laughing, to hanging onto life by the worn down whites of our fingernails. You hear that life can change in the blink of an eye, but you don’t fully comprehend the truth behind the sentiment until it’s your eyes that have blinked from a scene of joy to one of devastation. If only we could see life through the eyes of others. Then we would understand. How I wish I were still ignorant.

The last thing I remember, before darkness descended, was being face down on the ground. Tristan was a few feet away, and even though he was unconscious, his bloodied face was turned toward me with his arm outstretched in my direction as if seeking me out. I looked down to see my broken arm was doing the same. We were far away yet almost close enough. Almost always, always almost. I’d like to think it means something that we flew apart, but landed together, subconsciously reaching for each other even in the face of oblivion.

It’s funny because I’m always armed with a profound and meaningful quote for every situation, but no amount of words will soothe me right now. What a time to realize that sometimes words aren’t enough. And what are prayers but words infused with hope and desperation? Right now, my beloved words feel futile.

What I find paradoxical is that I’m so numb, and at the same time, I’ve never
felt
more. Shock, horror, sadness, desperation, despair, fear, regret, anguish, and anger all fight with each other for dominance.

But the guilt wins. A numbing sense of guilt, deeper than the ocean, that Tristan took the majority of the impact, shielding and protecting me even on instinct. We used to joke about how I lived life with my head in the clouds.
‘My little balloon,’
he’d call me.
‘You’ll have to come back down to earth sometimes
.
But don’t worry; I’ll always catch you when you fall.’
I guess he lived up to his promise. He’s always been a man of his word.

But who’ll catch me if he doesn’t regain consciousness?

And even then, will I ever want to fly or float again?

Right now, I’m well and truly grounded. Not only that, I’m sinking. Despair is pulling me deeper into the earth like quicksand. I sink with every second of silence.

As if I am being suffocated by an avalanche of sand, I begin gasping for air. Darkness encroaches on my vision as my frantic heart beats out of control.

“She’s having a panic attack!” I hear Blaise yell through the ringing in my ears.

At once, I’m surrounded by people when all I need is space. But I can’t move the words past the imaginary chokehold on my throat. Thankfully, Blaise knows what to say and do.

“Everyone needs to take a step back. Crowding her will only make it worse.”

The authority in his voice and his imposing size makes everyone listen and make a reluctant retreat to their seats in the waiting room, casting me surreptitious glances full of anxiety.

“Hey, Woodstock?” he croons like a snake charmer, bringing my unfocused and dilated gaze to his bourbon browns. “I need you to breathe for me okay?” Somehow, he understands the furious shake of my head to mean that I can’t. “Sure, you can. I know you think you’re dying, but I promise you, you’re not. I just need you to breathe. Come on, do it with me. In for me, out for you. In for me, out for you. That’s good, keep going…”

The chokehold loosens a fraction, but it’s not enough. I’m suffocating in my own sadness. He sees this and moves onto his next tactic. “Okay, Coachella, let’s try this. Stand up for me.” He takes my hand and pulling me to my feet. “Now, let’s do jumping jacks.”

Blaise laughs at my bewildered expression, and ignores the worried looks of our friends behind him.

“Blaise…” a voice says in warning, I think it’s Maia.

“Trust me; I know what I’m doing. I’m no stranger to these,” he whispers the last part under his breath so that only I can hear. Shaking off the doubt of our friends, he bends his knees to meet my eyes and swallows my free hand in his large one.

“Come on, I’ve never known you to turn down an adventure, don’t start on me now. One of the many things I love about you is that you’re up for anything. Even if it doesn’t make sense you do it ‘just because’ and go with the flow. Where’s that free spirit now?”

I want to tell him it’s in the middle of the road, lying between unswept fragments of glass and metal, but I still can’t speak. Plus he said those magic words, almost as if my father used him as a conduit to deliver a message to me. I’ve never told Blaise about that memory. Right now, I’ll cling to any sign, any symbol that seems to tell me everything will be okay. I’m hallucinating meaning.

“Woodstock, I’m serious. Jumping jacks. Now. I know you have only one good arm but spread out your non-broken wing. Do it with me and let’s count. One, two… that’s it, there’s my girl… three, four… I need you to count with me… five, six… louder, that’s better… seven, eight… look at us embarrassing ourselves in a waiting room… nine… this is why I love us… ten… ah, she’s laughing again… eleven, twelve, okay let’s try for twenty… thirteen, fourteen… my sporting days are behind me and this is bringing back traumatic memories of drills… fifteen, sixteen… the things I do for you, Woodstock, only you… seventeen… okay you count the last three, nice and loud. That’s it. Good job. Welcome back.”

“Thank you,” I say as my head collides with his chest in a tight side hug, careful of my broken arm between us. Overwhelming gratitude sweeps through me for the air that is refilling my lungs.

“Always.” He wraps his arms around me and rests his chin on my head. It’s a position I’ve held with Tristan many times before, which makes me remember why we’re here. But Blaise’s towering height and bulging muscles make me safe in a situation that has me unsettled. He’s my protector by default, but I love him all the same. More than that, I
need
him.

I’m used to being unflappable. Putting everything in its proper context, seeing the bigger picture, never worrying about things I can’t control. But right now, no bigger picture exists. I can’t see outside of myself, or outside of this sterile waiting room into the wide world beyond the windows. I can’t try to work out how this happening to Tristan and me could be part of some predestined plan which benefits humanity.

It’s easy to believe that everything happens for a reason. Until the thing that happens isn’t good. And it happens to you. Until it’s
you
that develops cancer, or
your
parents who die, or
your
house that burns down. All of a sudden, Fate and Karma don’t seem so attractive.

Who wants to hear they’re disposable to the world at large, no matter how true it may be? You may be everything to your small world of family and friends, but you’re just a drop in the ocean to everyone else who’ll soon forget about you, if they ever knew of you at all.

No terminal patient wants to hear that their death is ‘part of a plan’ they won’t live to see carried out. None of us want to be a footnote in the story of the world. We want a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter. We want to be the main protagonists, not extras hidden away at the back of the set, never seen, heard, or remembered.

And although that’s the reality for most people, probably myself and Tristan included, I just can’t face it right now. In my mind at the moment, my world at home and the world at large are one and the same.

As far as I’m concerned, everyone outside the blinding white walls of this hospital is anxious as they wait on pins and needles for news of Tristan’s condition. Everyone is scared; everyone is grieving in anticipation. I can’t deal with the prospect that, for billions of people bar the six in this room, life is carrying on as usual, as if the course of mine isn’t hanging in the precarious balance.

I look up to see I’m sitting in Blaise’s lap. I’m not sure how I made it here, but I’m grateful. I have neither the will nor the energy to support myself right now, even in something as simple as sitting up or standing alone.

My eyes wander around the room at the reddened and hollow eyes of my friends and family. Maia and Erin sit opposite me on the other side of the room, holding hands for support and giving me sad smiles. I don’t know if it’s the smiles or the sadness that I can’t bear. My mom sits two chairs down on my other side. She dropped Oscar off to stay with a friend and came straight to the hospital as soon as she heard about the accident. She’s been right by my side for the past two days. Jacob has been in and out while he dog-sits Leo.

I think about my life before these amazing people entered it, and how it could have been just my mom and me in this waiting room if I hadn’t met them. It’s almost enough to make me a firm believer in Fate again, but not quite.

“He’ll be okay, Til. He has around twenty-four years left, right? It’s highly unlikely he’s going to spend all that time in a coma. You should take some comfort from that.” I hear his words, but I listen to the tremor in his voice, which tells me he’s not as confident as he’s pretending to be.

Still, there is that. The only other thing I’m taking comfort from right now aside from the safety of Blaise’s arms. When you know when someone will die, you also know when they won’t. As Blaise said, with just over twenty-four years left on his clock, the odds are in Tristan’s favor for him to awaken from the coma.

Doctors and emergency services won’t bother ‘wasting’ their time and resources on anyone with minutes or hours left. When someone phones the emergency services, the first thing they ask after receiving details of the accident and location is, ‘Do they have enough time left?’ This allows the person calling to give a yes or no answer and avoid revealing the specific amount of time in front of the injured party.

I guess it makes sense not to try resuscitating someone with two minutes left to live, or prioritizing treatment for the person with ten years rather than ten days, but that doesn’t help the family’s anguish to know all efforts have not been made. Even though your rational mind knows there’s no point and a time extension won’t be granted by whoever set the limit in the first place, you still want them to try. It still bothers me that no one called an ambulance while my dad was having a heart attack; they only did so after so they could remove the body. These cursed clocks above our heads make for an efficient but impersonal healthcare system.

In Tristan’s case, we can be almost sure he’ll wake up at some point, but it might be weeks or months, and my biggest worry is the state he’ll be in once he does. That’s something the countdown clock doesn’t tell us. What if he doesn’t remember me? Or
us
? What if he doesn’t know he’s my forever?

I have visions of him mistaking me for a nurse, or having to explain to him that all his family has died because he doesn’t remember. And what would I tell him about us? Where would I start? How would I explain the magic that exists when we’re together? It’s tough to put an emotion into words, to describe a connection your eyes can’t see but your soul feels. Would he understand if I told him his arms were my home and I’d be happy to drown to death in his eyes? Words have never failed me as much as they have in the past two days.

All of a sudden, the door to the waiting room opens and a harried doctor strides in. He looks to be in his thirties, with the faint lines around his eyes and mouth betraying the pressures of his job even as he struggles for a calm and professional demeanor.

“Matilda Evans?”

“That’s me.” My hand shakes as Blaise helps me to my feet.

“I’m Doctor Rodriguez,” he says, holding out his right hand for me to shake. If he feels my hand trembling, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “As Tristan’s next of kin, I’m just giving you an update on his current status.”

I’m his next of kin? I’m stunned. I tune out the doctor, too busy wondering when he did that. Perhaps when he had his appendix taken out a few months ago. Even though we both talk about it, Tristan is much better than I am at preparing for the worst. I’m sure he already has a will and all of his affairs in order. This situation reminds me that I should do the same. Twenty-three is not too young to have a will. From the moment you reach legal adulthood, you’re never too young. Still, being listed as his next of kin is a painful reminder that Tristan has no family left.
I’m
his family. So are the other people in this room, even though he may not think of them as such.

I tune back in to the doctor just in time to hear his last few sentences.

“…so with that in mind, the next twenty-four hours are crucial. His brain activity looks good and the swelling is decreasing, so we have hope. Of course, head injuries are notoriously unpredictable so I can’t say for sure, or what condition he’ll be in when he wakes, but all things considered, he should wake up soon. We just need to sort out a few things after his scan, but I’ll come back in a few hours to let you know when you can see him. He will only be allowed one visitor at a time for the foreseeable future. Even unconscious, we don’t want to overwhelm him.”

“I understand. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. He’s a fighter. I get the impression he has no plans to leave this world without you. He’s holding on, if for no other reason than to see you again.”

My chest caves with the impact of his words as he turns and leaves. Somehow, I know they’re true. Wherever Tristan is, locked in the deepest, darkest corner of his unconscious mind, I just know he’s fighting to come back to me. Because if the situation was reversed, I’d be doing the same. Only this time, he’s the one fighting while I have no fight left in me and no tears left to cry. I’m all out.