TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (25 page)

"I am very sorry," he says after a few seconds.

"It's okay. I suppose I'm coming to terms with it. At least, I should be, anyway."

"How long have you known?"

"A couple of months?"

"They given you much time?"

"Not really. I suppose my innings are nearly up, as you'd say."

He nods, slow and steady. "I take it that's why you're here? Travelling, I presume?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"Good lad. We were already old when Sally first found out, but we tried to see as much as we could. It opened up a whole new world. A peek into another life, I suppose. We'd brought up two wonderful children, you see, and did all the things you're supposed to do: kept good and honest jobs, bought a house, always paid our bills on time. It's all we ever wanted. But as soon as we found out..." he trails off and looks to the sky once more. "Yes, it certainly makes you appreciate everything around you."

"Yeah..." I sigh, the word barely audible.

"Are you in pain?"

I glance at his hair again, realising my own will never turn that colour. I always imagined my hair like my father's: grey and silky and thick. "Yes and no. It's a brain tumour, so I get headaches, and my memory suffers. And sometimes I get these seizures, which aren't fun, but most days I'm okay."

"Silver linings. All you can really hope for during such circumstances."

"Yeah. I suppose."

"Do you travel on your own?"

"No. There are four of us."

"That's good."

"Yeah. It's been wonderful, in fact. Hard, but wonderful."

"And, how are they coping?"

I look around the not so empty square, a gentle flow of bodies now wondering through it. "Okay, I think. My girlfriend and best friend aren't on speaking terms, so that's not good. And yesterday, I had one of those seizures, and it seems to have shaken everyone. I can't remember any of it, but I can tell it was bad." I look him in the eye. "I'm glad I don't remember, but in a way... I wish I did."

"If God decides to take a moment like that away from you, it's for good reason."

I laugh under my breath. "You believe in God?"

He nods, rubbing his palms together and stretching his fingers.
 

"Despite everything with your wife?"

An ever so slight smile creeps from the corner of his mouth. "It was because of what happened to my wife that I found Him at all. We both did, in fact."

"But aren't you angry?" I say, shaking my head. "How can you believe in someone that takes so much?"

His smile softens. "In the beginning we went because we thought we had to. It's what you do when you have nothing else, right? You pray. You beg. And at first I hated it. I went to Him, kneeled before Him, and begged Him. All I wanted to do was curse His name, but if praying offered even the slightest bit of hope, I'd do it every day.
 

"After a while, the hate disappeared. I actually began to enjoy it, and going to Church placed smiles on both mine and Sally's faces. It's such a stressful process you go through—and your girlfriend and friends feel the exact same pain, trust me—and praying cleansed us. It made an impossible journey somewhat possible. And I don't know if there's a heaven and hell, and I have no idea if she looks down on us right now. I don't think you need to believe in that in order to believe in God. You just need to believe in more than you can see. If you believe that, you can find comfort."

I slump, the pain in my shoulders continuing to devour. "Yeah, I suppose that's what it's all about. I guess that's what this trip is about."

"And, have you found comfort on your travels?"

"I don't think so," I mutter, a tingle attacking the corner of each eye.

"It's different for everybody, young man. So long as you find it—"

"What if I don't? What if this is it for me? I'm as scared today as when this journey began, but I want to let go of the fear. I don't want to die as I cling to the edge, picturing nothing but regret and sadness. I want to be at peace. I want to be ready." The tingle transforms into a tremble, my vision glassing over and blurring under a watery film.

He places his hand on my arm, no doubt the same hand he used to comfort his wife with.

"I'm trying to enjoy what I've got left," I say, wiping my face. "And I try to embrace each day, but the fear is always there. It haunts me at night. It walks alongside me on lonesome strolls like this one. And instead of embracing all of the
lasts
I've already experienced, and all the ones that remain, I'm terrified of them. I mean, today I will have my final haircut. Such a simple errand, but for me, it holds so much significance. Once it's done, that's it. Another
last
conquered.

"It's not like a first, where you tick it off with pride. Once a
last
is gone, that's it. And the worst part of it, I have no idea when they'll come. Have I bought my final pair of shoes? Have I run for the final time? When will be the last time I eat a muffin? Or enjoy a really good cup of coffee? What about my final kiss with Danii? Or my final hug with my mother? Has that one already come and gone? Should I mourn over it, or pray I get another opportunity?"

He places his other hand on my arm.

"I've never owned a tailored suit," I continue. "I've never stayed up all night with Danii, just so we could watch the sun rise. I've never driven a fancy car. I've never had a son, although I dreamed I did. I keep thinking about the boy I'll never meet, and all the
firsts
we'll never experience together." I slump further, my entire upper body a weight I can't handle. "We just take so much for granted. Songs... books... shops... people... everything. Every tiny little thing we do, and have ever done, matters. But we take so much of it for granted. Until it's too late and nothing but fear and longing remains. And this, all of this," I say, placing my hands over my forehead, "terrifies me. I'm just not ready for it to end. I want to be, but I'm not, and I fear I never will."

More bodies stride past us. It's getting busy. Danii will be up now. She'll worry and stress. I should have left a note. I should be with her.
 

"Dante," Jeff says, removing both his hands from my arm. "It's okay to be scared. It's okay not to be ready. Finding peace and comfort isn't black and white. Shortly before Sally died, she told me something. We were sitting on this very bench in fact, eating our Sunday sandwiches on a glorious and sunny day. I remember how busy it was, but it felt like just the two of us. She told me, 'Jeff, I don't want to die. I will miss you too much, and I will miss days like this one. But I am also happy. I appreciate everything I've done and seen and experienced more now than I ever have done. And if it takes dying to truly appreciate you, and our children, and our lives together, then I suppose that's okay. Still, I'd rather not die.'

"People talk about finding peace, Dante, but it isn't as simple as waking up one day and being ready. How can you ever be ready to leave those you love? Sally was scared until the bitter end. She was never ready to let go, but she did, eventually, accept her fate. She learned to appreciate everything and everyone, and in doing so, discovered an element of peace. It will be different for you. But I honestly believe you will find something. It may not be what you expected, but I do believe you'll find something resembling peace. I'm just so sorry you have to search for it at such a young age."

I nod, looking towards the ground. "Yeah."

Placing his hand on my arm again, he stands and casts me in a shadow. "In my experience, you need to be alone now. But don't you worry, this bench is a fantastic listener. I'm more than happy to let you borrow it for a few hours." I look up and catch his smile, the wrinkles surrounding his eyes and cheeks. "Just remember all the good times, and all those amazing things you've achieved. It's easy to dwell on the bad, and the missed opportunities. But fight the urge as best you can. Because trust me, you've done more good on this planet than you will ever know."

"Thank you, Jeff," I say. I want to say more, but I can't. Everything inside of me is heavy and weighs me down. I'm stuck, paralysed, glued to this bench.

Hiding his hair beneath his hat, he turns and walks among the ever growing crowd of commuting busy-bodies. "Oh," he says, stopping and turning around. "There's a fantastic barber a few streets away. Bill is his name. A lovely man." And with a gentle smile, he twists and is gone.

14
^th
February—Uluru:

Recommended Listening:

Tarnation—Max Avery Lichtenstein

London—James Newton Howard

Time—Hans Zimmer

Adagio in D Minor—John Murphy

Curling my toes in the dusty red grains, I sit alone in the dark, a gentle breeze roaming around my ankles and showering my legs in a thin layer of maroon-desert sand. With a deep breath, I savour the fresh air that only this time of morning can conjure. The sun has yet to rise and leave its mark. Right now, the air is cool, tingly, and almost alive.

Filling my lungs with as much as they can take, I'm wide awake. Each day my muscles ache further, feel more damaged and torn. But here, during this moment, they breathe new life. They stretch and reach, tingling and seeming to sigh. I'm still broken, exhausted, and tinkering on the edge, but sitting before Uluru mere minutes before sunrise is a grander potion than any doctor can remedy.

Taking another deep breath, I focus on the panoramic horizon peeking back, the boundary between sky and earth blurred in to the other. The breeze is slight but holds an icy chill, roaming between my red shorts and under my purple vest. They're no match for such desert morning conditions, but I don't simply wish to see the sun rise high above a red rock I've long admired, I need to experience it; all of it: its taste, its smell, its touch.

This very sight used to adorn my wall, my younger self wondering what it was, and why it existed, and how it would feel sitting before it as the sun climbed high. I'm not sure why, but just as certain songs soothe a soul, the image of Uluru at sunrise has always calmed me. It's like counting to ten or taking a few deep breaths or strangling a spongy object into a tight ball.

The closer we crept here, through one outback town after another, the butterflies flapping around my stomach intensified. It started with a whisper, an excitable nervousness similar to when we first landed in Australia. But the closer we came, excitement drained from me, displaced by worry. An apprehension that this place I've forever longed for would be like Tibet: strange, eerie, and draining.

Although this site itself is somewhat miraculous, I know it holds no magic or miracle. It's another physical location on a map, that's all. I know this. I do. It won't cure me or lift the haze of confusion. I can't expect any more from here than I have of Oia or Koh Rong or Rome. Despite this, I do. I don't want to, but I do. This place is special to me, like certain stories or smells are.

The sky is a touch brighter now, a clear navy presence above the ever-so-lighter black. There's still no detail in the madness, but an occasional silhouette of a bush or tree dots the landscape.
 

My head throbs, but this icy air soothes it. I thought the air in Tibet was fresh, but not even its high altitude kick comes close to the desert's early morning bite. Sighing, I rub my hands over the dusty red grains, picking it up in heaps and letting it slip through my fingers.
 

"Don't be like Tibet," I say, my words the first thing I've heard all morning, other than the wind and my feet dragging through the sand. I stretch my neck back and look up, all the way to where the sky remains rich with darkness. Only a few minutes ago a billion stars looked down on me. Now, only a few dozen persist.

I'm not sure what I expect exactly, but I expect something... at least, I hope for something. We've travelled so far and been through so much, yet I don't feel to have grown. Each time I tackle a lifelong wish like this, or The Great Ocean Road, or the Eiffel Tower at night, I should rid some of my burden. That's the whole reason for this journey, after all. To purge regret and replace it with living.

I feel happy for a while, but that's not enough. So far all I've experienced are rollercoaster rides and adrenaline filled bursts: on top of the world for a minute... an hour... a day... but it never lasts. I don't want momentary highs, I need to finally make sense out of this... out of me... out of everything. At the time, I didn't think I expected anything from Tibet, but in hindsight I
 
did. I wanted a magical kingdom to pass on some of its enchantment to me, enough to understand or let go or do whatever it is I need to do to finally be at peace.

But I keep thinking about Sally and Jeff, and how she never completely loosened her grip. Does anyone? Is Jeff right? Is it impossible to accept death and say goodbye to those you love? If true, what's the point of this trip? It's the reason I'm in front of Uluru right now. I want to let go of fear and be brave, and in part I expect this glorious red rock to provide it, because it's provided so much tranquility in the past.

It's getting light fast now, a tipping point reached. Tufts of clouds appear in the lighter sky, although they've probably been there all along. The trees and bushes are no longer silhouettes, but familiar life forms. The rock I treasure is no longer black, but brown.