TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (27 page)

Continuing its pounding, the rain drained me of warmth. I walked up a hill and down another, and before long, found myself at the near-empty harbour.
 

"Where are we going tonight?" said a voice from under an umbrella, walking quickly towards me. "No way, we can't go there again," continued the smarmy tone, just a few feet away.
 

Hands in pockets and wet to the core, I continued to stride, no plans to move out of this careless stranger's way. '
Why should I move?
' I thought. '
He can
!'

"Hey, watch where you're going!" he said, his umbrella clattering into my head and spilling to the ground. "You hear me, buddy?" he continued.

"Are you kidding me?" I yelled. "How about you get your head out of that umbrella and watch where you're going...
buddy
."

"Whatever, asshole," he said, brushing down his suit jacket.

Clenching my fists, the angry surge ate me alive. I squared my shoulders and prepared to battle and fight and hold my ground, but then, from nowhere, the rain stopped in an instant. The grey clouds weren't as grim, and a few slivers of sunlight crept through an opening here and an opening there. "Yeah, whatever," I said, walking off and shaking my head, fists still taut.

People change during an illness like mine. Their body turns on them and transforms them into a stranger. It happened to the man in the waiting room, whose wife changed until she no longer felt like his wife. Was it sudden? Did she see it coming? Did he? Or did she wake up one morning and
feel
different?

Turning the corner and spotting the hostel, I quicken my step—left foot squelching, right foot squishing.
 

I can't imagine changing, but how can I control it? I don't wish to lose my memory, either, but I barely remember the flight to Wellington, the entire day reminiscent of a hazy and drunken night: Ethan, Wil, and me at the bar toasting with a tumbler of whiskey each; Danii on my knee in the departure lounge as The Beatles jingled in the background, although I can't recall the song; a movie on the plane starring Zach Braff, but the name of it... or the plot... or who his character was... I have no idea. I'm sure these are memories, but they could be dreams. It's so hard to differentiate between the two.
 

Climbing the hostel steps, I push open the heavy door and am met by a wall of cold, air-conditioned air as it attacks my sodden skin. I rush to the elevator and stab the button, eager to rise high and home.
 

Entering our simple room of two bunk beds and a cheap set of drawers, Ethan and Danii are mid conversation by the window. They're both warm and dry: Ethan in a cozy-looking sweater with Pink Floyd written in large text across the chest; Danii in a baggy yellow t-shirt that I think once belonged to me. I'm miserable and wet and tingle all over, whereas they're not, and the angry surge rises once more.

"Hey, sweetie. Where have you been? We were beginning to worry," Danii asks, hopping off the window's edge.

"Walking. I just needed a walk, that's all."

"Jesus, you're soaked. Come here," she says, striding over and offering me a towel. "I didn't even realise it was raining."

"Yeah."

"Well, don't worry. You'll be dry soon," she continues, hugging me and kissing my cheek, but for once her touch isn't enough. "Ethan was telling me about the time you were chased by a farmer," she says, turning to Ethan and laughing. "You've never told me that story."

"Yeah," I mumble. "Good times."

Drying my hair, and pulling on a new pair of pants and a thick shirt, I lean on the wall and watch Danii and Ethan continue their chatter. Usually Danii's laugh is enough to break the worst of my moods, her smile a delight I cannot fight. But it doesn't work its magic now, her giggle or her lips or her soothing tones. The tingle remains. My bitterness continues to prod and probe.
 

"Gentleman," Wil says, bursting through the door in a multitude of red: dark red shirt, faded pink chinos, and maroon loafers with a hole at the front. "I have the greatest idea of all the great ideas. Why, this idea will cement this journey, be the peak of our lives, and make or break our minds."

Sighing, I sit on the bottom bunk and place my head in my hands.

"I seriously doubt it," says Ethan.

"Oh, Ethan, m'boy, this isn't any old idea, but
the
idea. This idea will change us forever. Why, this idea–"

"Just get on with it." Danii says, sitting next to me and planting her hand on my thigh.

"Ah, yes, of course, no doubt you want to hear it so you can shoot it down. Your strongest skill, of course. Well, that and failing to change the people you apparently love."

She tightens her grip around my leg. "Get on with it,
Wilbur
."

"Hmmm, okay, gentlemen, I was walking and talking, as I do, when I saw a certain advertisement for a certain adventure on the South Island. It involves flying high and falling fast."

Ethan laughs, sitting on the cheap set of wooden draws. "You mean skydiving?"

"I sure do, Ethan, m'boy."

"Wil, you're afraid of heights. Do you understand what skydiving entails?"

Marching on the spot, Wil releases his wild and uncontrollable grin. "This is a journey of confrontation, m'boy. What better way to tackle one's fear than to jump from as high as a man can go?"

"I don't know," Ethan says. "I don't think you've thought—"

"It's a stupid idea," Danii interrupts, still holding my leg.

"Ah yes, of course it is. What a shock, the one who wasn't invited has an issue with my great idea. I don't recall asking your opinion, old missy. If I did, I would have said gentlemen and wench, but I did not, so shall not require your input."

"Screw you, Wil. Just because I'm the only one who says no to your nonsense.”

"It's the only word you know when it comes to me, you stupid little girl.”

"Watch how you speak to me. I'm not one of your sluts."

"That you are not. Much worse–"

"Ahhhh, shut up!" I scream, as three shocked faces snap to mine.

I'm a lion roaring, a volcano erupting, a vacuum exploding in all directions. It's this morning's frustration, the weeks of pointless arguing, the months of fear and worry, and a lifetime of saying nothing. This is a fuck you to Uluru, for tempting me with relief, but not taking it away; it's a fuck you to Tibet and its guilt ridden ways; a fuck you to the beaches and winding roads and empty deserts and calming seas, because what have you given me? I'm still dying. I still hurt. I remain confused and hopeless, and each day another aspect of who I am is stolen. Another memory. Another chunk of familiarity. Another wish, and another day.
 

Three shocked faces remain, but they're the same faces I've always known. Why don't they grow old like mine? Why don't they change and deteriorate by the day? Why do they keep a certain glow, whilst I turn pale and yellow and bruised? What have I done to deserve all of this? What have they done not to?

"Shut up, the both of you," I shout, standing up and pushing past Wil. "I'm sick of it. I'm sick and tired of the arguments and snide comments. Wil," I say, squaring up to him like I should have done to the stranger from earlier. "How dare you speak to her like that. All you've ever done is insult the girl I love. Why? What sort of cruel, horrible person does that? You say you're my friend, but all you've ever done is fill me with doubt. Seducing and manipulating me into being more like you, but all you are is a sorry and pitiful excuse for a human being." Taking another step towards him, I prod his chest with a tensed finger.

"And Danii," I say, barging past Wil and looking down to where she sits. "What's going on with you? At the time I need you the most, all you do is argue with him? I fucking need you, for god's sake. Does this help me? Does it make you feel better stooping down to his level, the level you've always told me you wouldn't give the time of day? I mean, all you have to do is wait a few more weeks and you can cause all the drama you like and never see Wil again, or me for that—"

"That's enough, Dante," Ethan says, slamming his hand against the chest of drawers.

I don't look away, staring at Danii as she shakes and quivers, her eyes glistening and teeth chattering.

"You need to calm down," Ethan continues, walking over and grabbing my arm.

I don't look away from her, one deep breath followed by another, imprisoned by anger and hate. This isn't me. I'm losing control of who I am, another crossroads staring back, but if the wrong path is taken now, that's it. I become like the man in the waiting room's wife. I'll change forever, unable to return.
 

Taking a deep breath, I can't budge the anger, for all I see are the faces of doctors and nurses who couldn't help me.

I take another, but the hate remains, because why shouldn't I hate when this happens to me but nobody else?

I breathe and breathe and breathe again, each tainted with pain, but I don't take my eyes off of Danii's. She returns the stare, and finally, submits to tears, each drop rolling down her cheek and towards her wonderful and wide lips. I'm the cause of these tears. I've been the cause of so many.
 

Holding a breath in my lungs, I close my eyes and block out the light. I picture my mother, and imagine her face at the airport as I finally return home. I remember
him
, and the dream that never was, his unmoving gaze and moonlit glow. I envision Danii, but void of tears. She smiles and laughs, and every dimple on her dimple-filled face is on show. I can't lose her. I can't lose me.

Stumbling and wobbling, Ethan's grip keeps me firm and upright. Danii stands and wraps me in her arms, pulling my face into her hair and squeezing tight. "I'm so sorry," I splutter, fighting my own tears now.

"No, I'm sorry," she says, stroking my hair between her slim fingertips.

"I shouldn't have said—"

"Shhh," she whispers. "It's okay. Everything will be okay."

"I don't know what happened—"

"Shhh, it's okay."

The room goes silent, my heavy breathing the only sound.
 

"And Wil," I say, unravelling myself from Danii's arms. "I shouldn't have said..."

"Dante, please, say no more. You were, as you always are, right. We've been acting like children at a time you need adults. I'm sorry, good man. Please, forgive me."

I nod, biting my upper lip and looking down to the grubby floor.

"Danii," Wil continues, rubbing his feet on the ancient carpet. "I must apologise to you, too. Dante is correct. I've always spoken ill of you. I shouldn't say the words I say. You deserve far better, because you are a good girl. A top girl. Quite possibly, the finest of girls. I hope you can forgive me, and I hope beyond hope, we can leave the past where it belongs. Our future is finite, and I think we're all beginning to realise how precious that is."

Looking up, I focus on Danii as she smiles and strokes her hand down Wil's arm. "I'm sorry, too. And for everything I've said to you in the past..." she says, trailing off.

"Oh Daniella, do not say another word. A line has been drawn. We now stand on the other side of it."

Nodding, she reaches for my hand and pushes her fingers in-between my own. "And I think you might be right," she says. "Skydiving sounds like a lot of fun."

"Really?" asks Wil, his fidgety fingers tapping his thigh.

"Really."

"Oh my oh my, ladies and gents. Let's fly high and fall from the heavens. What says you, Ethan?"

Shrugging his shoulders, he leans against the bed. "Sure, why not."

"Perfect, perfect. What about you, Dante m'lad? Will you fall with us? We can only do this together. The four of us or none at all."

Peering over him and out of the window, I search the grey Wellington sky. "Yeah," I say. "Let's do it."

24
^th
February—14,000 Feet Above Motueka:

Recommended Listening:

The Boxer—Jerry Douglas

Rebellion Lies—Arcade Fire

Hoppipolla—Sigur Ros

The unrelenting roar of the engine verges on painful, but in many ways, this is the quietest time I've known. There's too much noise, so much so it drowns itself out until nothing is heard at all.

Twenty-four hours ago, we travelled through an eclectic range of landscapes: one moment, at sea, rumbling from one island to the other, surrounded by light blues and dark blues and the rocky spectacle of the carefully crafted coast; then in port, surrounded by boats and a quiet coastal town of quaint beauty and unrelenting tedium; then along a straight road cutting through wine country, with its row after row after row of grapey vines; then up the winding road of a mountain side, twisting and circling and higher and higher up to the peak, and then down and down until its plateau at the bottom, which brought us to Motueka, the town currently resting some 14,000 feet below as we ride high in this small, claustrophobic, and tin-like plane.

Yesterday, we were on top of the world, four adventurous adventurers living life on the edge. We drove forward to a place that would take us high before setting us free. We'd acquaint gravity and risk all for no other reason than to live and embark. We were talkative and excited and drank deep into the night.