The Counting-Downers (20 page)

My mom and Oscar both love Tristan. It turns out mom had met him several times when dad was representing his grandfather and my parents had taken Tristan and his grandfather out to dinner to celebrate winning the case. This all happened during the summer of my sixteenth year while I was working on a turtle conservation project in Costa Rica.

I had an incredible and unforgettable time but it’s so weird that I missed meeting someone who is now so crucial to my life by only a handful of days. All Tristan said with a shrug when I told him was that,
“It wasn’t our time.”

Not one to dwell on the
what ifs
and
why nots
, he may not care but I just find things like that so fascinating. How many destinies rest on a matter of minutes? Two seconds too early and you miss bumping into the potential love of your life, two minutes too late leaving the house and you’re hit by a car crossing the road. The power time has over our lives never fails to amaze and alarm me.

Regardless, now that it
is
‘our time,’ Mom is glad we’re friends. She says she always thought we’d get along. Although she accompanied her words with an awkward wink and a knowing smile in my direction, which Tristan saw and laughed about, making the moment awkward beyond belief. He also has a great relationship with Osky.

Now the only man in a house full of women, I think my little brother relishes the male company Tristan brings, something he used to have with my dad. My mom and I try our hardest to compensate for everything my dad brought to Oscar’s life that he now might be missing, but we’re not able to grow penises. Something I’m grateful for. That would be the ultimate in awkward.

They’ve only been around each other a few times, but Oscar took to Tristan right away and it’s adorable to see how much my baby brother already looks up to my best friend. He studies and tries to copy his mannerisms and asks about him all the time when he’s not there. I love that two of the most important men in my life get along so well. Tristan’s great with him. He has endless energy and patience, which you need with rambunctious boys of Oscar’s age.

My idle eyes wander over the meadow, basking in its beauty. It always fills me with wonder that for something so still, it’s so full of life. From the flowers at my feet, to the grass through my fingers, to the tops of the trees that stretch like giants into the sky. Minimal movement masquerades a field of a thousand living things.

No wonder I believed it was the perfect place for fairies to hide in when I was younger. I smile at the memory of wishing on dandelions and going on ‘fairy hunts’ with my dad in this same patch, scared but safe with his hand clutching mine.
‘Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.’
How true Roald Dahl’s words were, and still are, to me.

Re-joining the present, I watch with humor as Tristan chomps into the last of his watermelon slice, causing a river of juice to spill onto his burnt orange polo top and terracotta red shorts. Laughter spills from my lips, causing him to look up in embarrassment before he flicks the depleted slice in my direction, wetting my face with the last remaining droplets, and causing me to shriek with surprise.

As I look down to check if any pink droplets have stained my white dress, he springs to a stand and makes his escape. I follow and chase him to exact my revenge, the stopwatch slamming against my chest with every hurried step and heavy breath.

With the sweltering sun looking down on us with scorched amusement, we are nothing but overgrown children in the overgrown grass, running barefoot through a meadow, playing and laughing like we have no cares in the world or responsibilities in our lives. For the briefest of seconds we don’t. And it’s glorious. And it’s us. And it’s
ours
.

After successfully evading me, Tristan heads for the shelter and shade of the treehouse, with me close behind, laughing through my empty threats. I follow him up the rope ladder and slump into a chair in the corner, trying and failing to catch my breath as he tries to do the same on the bed.

“I will get you back, so watch your back.” I pant, irritated when he just laughs. “I mean it! I’ll strike when you least expect it.” At this, his face displays a suitable amount of fear, which pleases me.

Once we can breathe again, Tristan sits up from his sprawled position and sits sideways on the bed with his back against the wall. He pats the space next to him in invitation.

“You sure you want to take that risk?”

“You make me want to take chances.”

I smile at the compliment and jump on the bed next to him, bumping him on my landing on purpose. Executing his trademark move whenever we find ourselves in this position, he wraps his left arm around my shoulder and brings me into his warm, damp chest for a cuddle, which I’m all too pleased to fall into. I can’t help but melt into his embrace. He kisses the top of my head in apology and all is forgiven. Not that I was mad to begin with; but even if I was, I can’t stay mad at him. And he knows it.

We’re silent for a few minutes, calming and quieting.

“This is such an incredible treehouse,” he says after a while. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It is incredible.”

“Did your dad build it himself?”

“No, if only. He was a big believer in knowing your weaknesses and he was terrible at building and handiwork. He was, however, an expert at hiring the right people to do the job. He found the perfect people to create this place. I’d just finished watching Peter Pan and wanted a treehouse hideout of my own. My dad loved to encourage our imaginations so when I told him what I wanted, he tried to make it possible. I’m sure he would have worked out a compromise, but we just happened to be lucky to already have a massive oak tree fit for the purpose already in our meadow.”

“It’s like a homey hotel room.”

I laugh at his assessment, looking around at the large space with the solid tree trunk running through the center, grounding everything around it, including me. The treehouse is big enough to fit a wooden chair, a beanbag, a small desk, and a single bed, with lots of space left to walk around and play. A wooden box of Oscar’s toys sits in the corner. Intricate carvings of the characters of Peter Pan are etched into the far left wall, flying without wings through the imaginary night. Textured throws, a sheepskin rug, and fluffy pillows relax the alpine look, with soft fairy lights illuminating the whole room at night. It’s a shabby chic shrine to my childhood and I love it.

“Oscar loves it here. Almost as much as I do,” I tell him, resting my head on his shoulder, which he holds in place with his own.

“I can see why.”

I think about the last time he was up here drawing the cherished sketch that is now on my bedroom wall. For some reason this leads my thoughts in the direction of the paintings and sketches of me, which were in his recent exhibition and where they’ve ended up.

“You know, I just realized that I’m going to be on strangers’ walls?”

“What?” He splutters, laughing. “That has to be the strangest segue in the history of conversation.”

“No, it makes total sense.”

“How?”

“Well, I was thinking about how the last time you were in this treehouse, you drew that incredible image of me, Oscar, and my dad, right?” I sit up and look at him to make sure he’s following.

“Right.”

“Well, that sketch is now in a frame on my bedroom wall.”

He smiles at this, happy I hold it so dear.

“So then I started thinking about all the paintings of me in the Matilda shrine, otherwise known as your exhibition.” If I’m not mistaken, he blushes beneath his tan at my teasing. “Every single one of them sold out, which is amazing—and I’m so pleased for you—but it’s also a bit creepy because I’m going to be on strangers’ walls.”

Finally understanding my thought process, he laughs, his whole body shaking with amusement.

“Don’t laugh.” I laugh. “It’s not funny.”

“It is. I’d never thought of that. Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Baby Bear.” His expression is apologetic. “Well, if it helps, no one at the event looked unnaturally creepy.”

“Good to know.”

“Plus, if you think about it, it’s kind of your legacy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, not to be unnecessarily morbid, but unless they’re burnt, ripped, or smashed, those sketches and paintings of you are going to be around long after you’re gone. They’ll be handed down to generations, or sold off at garage sales, but your likeness will live on. You should be thanking me. I’ve made you immortal.”

I give him a playful shove at his joke. “Whatever. Although I do like the idea of it being part of my legacy. I’ve never given much thought to what my legacy will be.”

“Me neither.”

“Maybe we should do it now.”

“How do you mean?”

“Think about our legacies. What would you want to leave behind? When you die, what would you have wanted to contribute to the world? What would you want your gravestone to say or people to say about you at your funeral?”

“That’s a lot of questions, Baby Bear.”

“Start somewhere.”

“You’re so bossy.”

At my unimpressed look, he sighs and closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall in brief contemplation before opening them again once he has his answer.

“I guess that I would want to leave hundreds of pieces of art behind. Things people treasured. Art that impacted their lives so much when alive, that they regretted not being able to take it with them when they died.

“I’d like to have at least one of my pieces in a world famous gallery somewhere. It might just be a dream, but it would be amazing to know generations of art-lovers would come from all over the world just to witness the tiny piece of my soul that I’d left behind in pencil or paint.

“I’d love to be so successful that I’m able to set up some kind of art charity, something that helps kids in deprived areas get into art, or ones with health issues to improve with art therapy.”

He glances at me, I assume for validation, which I provide with a small smile and an encouraging nod. I’m enraptured by his passion and his dreams. He’s coming alive in front of my eyes.

“I’d like to leave behind a legacy of good. Like your dad. He helped hundreds of people in a hundred different ways. Whether it was with a kind word, or a good deed. I’d like to have affected people like that. Something that brightened their day that meant they went on to brighten someone else’s. You can never measure the impact of a good deed, but just knowing I’ve done some good would be enough.

“And I guess on a more selfish note, I’d like a few kids to carry on my legacy.”

“You want kids?” I ask, shocked and thinking about the 25 years, 6 months, 6 days, 18 hours, 11 minutes, 34 seconds he has left. My heart breaks just that bit further at the idea that even if he has kids, he won’t have that much time to spend with them. He’ll never meet any of his grandchildren.

“Yeah, I’d love one or two. What about you?”

The truth is I’m not sure I want children for the exact situation an unknowing Tristan finds himself in. I don’t know how long I have left, but I don’t want to bring a child into this world only to abandon them. It’s not that I don’t love children, I do. I love Oscar with my life. And I know I would love my own kids with the same fervency.

Even just thinking about the idea of having children makes me love my hypothetical ones, who don’t exist. I would love them so much that I wouldn’t want to leave them without me in a world full of pain and suffering. But I’m not sure I can say all of this to Tristan, and I don’t want to reveal my biggest fear to him in this moment so I settle for, “Maybe.”

Having seen the demonstration of my maternal skills with Oscar, he seems confused and a little…disappointed at my answer. But he doesn’t push. And I love him for it. I love him.

“So what about your legacy, Tilda? What do you want to leave behind in the world?”

I pushed him to think about it seriously, so it’s only fair that I do the same. I allow myself to think about the day that I no longer exist. Because it’s inevitable. Still, it seems impossible that one day I’ll be nothing but ash and bone, lingering in the memories of those I loved and left until they themselves are no more.

“I want to leave my mark,” I tell him, choking up for some reason. I clear my tear-clogged throat and try again. “Like you, I want to leave behind a legacy of kind words, touched hearts, good deeds, and wonderful memories.

“I know I sound ridiculous, but I want to inspire people to be their best selves, their
true
selves. Maybe not on a global scale, I don’t know if I’ll ever do anything to have that kind of influence, but in my tiny world. Those who know me, those who love me. I want to have made them want to stand up for themselves and go after their dreams.”

“You’re already doing that.”

“Thanks. I’d like to do it for the rest of my life. I’d like to teach Oscar things that he would carry with him forever. I want to teach by example and have him look up to me. I’d love to leave behind elements of myself within him. Both concrete stuff like teaching him to tie his laces, and intangible things like showing him how to be courageous. To teach him the
difference
between fearlessness and courageousness, because they aren’t the same. I want to pass on everything my dad taught me. To do my best to make sure Oscar grows up knowing all about my dad and feeling close to him in spirit.

“I’d love to be able to take care of my mom in her old age. To support her with Oscar and take away some of her stresses and burdens. I’m not sure how I’d do that, but it would be an amazing legacy. It’s what my dad would have wanted.” Like he did with me, I glance over to find a sad Tristan looking at me with support. It gives me the strength I need to continue.

“And I’d love to do some kind of charity work. Not the kind that’s more about the individual volunteering than the cause, but one that actually makes a difference. I know there’ll always be suffering and injustice, but I guess I just want to leave my small corner of the world better than when I joined it.”

“That’s a beautiful list, Baby Bear.”