TICK to the TOCK (A Coming-of-Age Story) (29 page)

Tipping my head backwards, I look up to where the clouds dance in and amongst the mountaintops. They're still green for the most part, but the very peaks are awash with crystal white and sparkling ice. I wonder how fresh it is up there. I wonder if it can live up to the falling sky, because down here it certainly can't. I've been forever spoiled because nothing will taste as fresh as the air up there, nothing will be as refreshing and soothing, and nothing will mirror the crisp feel on my cheeks and all. Compared to most places on Earth, this is bliss, but my mind is corrupted.
 

I walk hand in hand with Danii as we tackle Author's Pass alone. We awoke, as usual, as a party of four, but today we're destined to be separate: in part so Danii and I can enjoy a romantic stroll and do what lovers do, but the larger, more unspoken reason, is because I cannot keep pace with the wills and wants of others.

Ethan and Wil climb higher, doing what young minds and young bodies do, climbing up to higher peaks and more dangerous climates. They're trying to relive the thrill of falling from 16,000 feet, whereas I'm defeated by the rising-out-of-bed struggle. Where they climb, I stroll. Where they live, I merely watch with eager and envious eyes: longing, clinging on.

My body has reached a wall of some kind, a wall an older man would no doubt have hit many weeks ago. The sleepless nights, the endless worry, the unrelenting throb and pain and torture alike. This entire journey has been painful, but the last few days have aged me thirty years.
 

Each day I wake up with a new bruise, the slightest of bumps darkening my skin with purples and blues. My pale and blotchy skin hangs from me, my red-stricken eyes shattered by insomnia and the drugs and the pain and the knowing of what rests around the corner. My muscles no longer ache, but physically throb each and every moment. Walking hurts. Resting hurts. The simple act of breathing has become a painful one.
 

Maybe the highs of falling from the heavens was the final straw, or maybe I've simply reached my limit, or maybe, just maybe, the time is near and this is my way of finally accepting that which awaits me. I cling to life like the yellow singed grass before me, but where it rejuvenates with a new season—first succumbing to the snow and frost before growing anew and rising high with fresh colour—this is my final one.

But despite all of this, memories keep crawling forward and reminding me of what once was. It's like a part of my brain provides life as the other steals time and energy. Not all, but most of these wanders include Danii. One time, we stood silently watching the river in York, leaning against the iron railings and enjoying the fading summer sunshine sparkle against the muggy water. It was the summer before we broke up, and life between us wasn't good, but on this evening, it was lovely.

The careful lapping of the river splish-splashed in my ears, but out of the corner of my eye, I stalked her. She wore chunky, rimmed sunglasses, engrossed by the river, I'm sure. The sunlight did amazing tricks with her hair, and her skin shone, shadows falling over part of her cheek and running down her nose.

Her short skirt flapped in the breeze and her yellow t-shirt hung, drowning her body but somehow complementing it. Our silence was due to our demise, but it was during moments like these I was able to gather my thoughts and allow love to thrive.

Leaning on the old iron railings, we stood there for some time, watching the sun fall below the buildings and the glimmer and sparkle of the water disappear. We didn't say a word, but I took all of her in. I thought about the words I couldn't say, secretly battling my stubborn nonsense. It's hard not to regret how I was... how we were... but there are so many amazing moments to focus on, that settling on the negative flashes seems worthless and unworthy.

Readjusting my hand around Danii's, I rub my thumb into her palm and smile to myself. As strong as the fresh smell around us is, I'm still met by her transfixing aroma of coconut and honey, and more importantly, the smell of her: a scent I've never been able to fully hone in on. It's unlike any other, it's hers and hers alone. She should bottle it up, but I hope she never does. It's mine and hers and ours.

"You okay?" I ask, still stroking the palm peeking through the bottom of her heavy jacket sleeve. "You're a little quiet."

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine," she says, somewhat hesitantly. "I'm... fine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Are you warm enough?"

"Dante, you've asked me that five times already."

"Oh, sorry..." I look away. My skin feels heavy.

Closing her eyes, she sighs. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"It's fine."

The single cloud in the sky passes the sun and casts a dark shadow across the valley below. The mountainside is awash with light, as are parts of the winding river bed, but a light's been turned off around us and changed the mood with it.

"Let's sit here," she says with a sudden stop. "I think this is the right place."

"The right place for what?"

She pulls me down, bundling her head into my shoulder as soon as I land. The ground is chilly and a little damp, and the wind is strong amongst the lifeless grass. My left side is warm from her, but the right is exposed and aches. My body handles the cold with difficulty now, despite the layers of waterproof material and wool-lined fabric. I've aged a thousand years, not thirty.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" I say.

"Yeah."

"I mean, it's no jumping from a plane, but still pretty good. Especially since I'm here with you."

S
he says nothing.

"You warm enough?" I ask. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She lifts her head suddenly. "Are you?"

"I'm fine. Tired, but fine."

She nods and stares at me, through me, and out into the vast nature behind. Her arm begins to shake and upper lip quiver.

"I'm pregnant, Dante," she says, closing her eyes, exhaling, and loosening her grip all at once.

I startle a breath, letting go of her hand and sinking closer to the ground. I notice my heartbeat now, heavy in my chest. For a few seconds, time seems to slow: Danii's flowing hair, her blinking eyes, her twitching nose. It's in slow motion, and all I hear is
thud thud thud
.

"You're... you're pregnant?" I ask.

She nods, her twitching nose and quivering lips out of control.

"You're pregnant," I say, a smile warming my cheeks. "Are you okay?"

She nods, smiling now, but still her nose twitches.

"How long? How long have you known?"

"I took a test a few days ago, but I've suspected for a week now."

Grabbing her hand, I push my fingers into the gaps left by hers, squeezing hard and stealing her warmth. "But you're okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I think we're both fine."

I glance down to her tummy. "I'm sorry, I should have known," I say, looking her in the eye. "You've been so quiet these last few days. I should have known something was wrong. I mean, there are signs, right? How couldn't I notice. I'm sorry. I should have—"

"It's okay," she cuts in. "I needed a few days to get my head around everything. I've been hiding it the best I can."

"I see," I say, a gust of wind creeping under my jacket. "And have you? Got your head around it, I mean?"

She nods, her eyes glassy and twinkling.

I think about the dream. About
him
. "Are we happy?"

"Yeah, we're happy." The thin layer of mascara coating her incredible browns smudges and mixes with her tears, but it doesn't prevent their impact. Not on me. Not now. Not always.

"You're going to be an amazing mother."

Streaming down either cheek, her tears transform into heavy sobs.

"Come here," I say, bundling her up in my arms. As the sound of her cries surround us, I think of Brisbane, about the dream too real to be a dream. It couldn't be any more than an unconscious fantasy, but it felt so real then, and it's felt so real since. I don't know our son grows within Danii right now, but at the same time, I do. In some form that makes no sense whatsoever, I've met him. I've held him.

Pulling her away from my chest, I stare into her eyes and damn the water rolling down her cheeks. "I'm sorry you have to do this on your own."

Struggling out of my grip, she shakes her head. "Don't. Don't be sorry. Never be sorry ever again."

And she hugs me, burying her face as far into the nook of my neck as she can. "I love you," she whispers, but I say nothing in reply.

I remember his cot, and how he laid in it, staring up at me in silent awe. I should tell Danii all about him, tell her I've kissed his cheek and stroked his hand and been in the presence of our son. But how can I? It makes no sense, and I don't think it ever will, but whether it does or not, it's mine, and it must remain my own.
 

Pulling her away from my chest again, I look at her stomach. "Can I?" I ask, motioning towards her tummy.

"Of course," she says, taking my palm and placing it under her jacket, under her top, where the skin is warm.

"No, my hands are too—"

"It's okay."

Her hand over mine, we say nothing as she breathes in and out, her stomach growing and deflating over-and-over, but deep within, so small and precious, our son patiently rests.

"I love you," I say, unable to look away from the stomach I've kissed so many times before.

"I love you, too. And thank you."

"What for," I ask, gazing into her eyes once more.

"For the best gift you could ever give me."

I say nothing, the whistle of the wind picking up, and the chill growing chillier. I ache. I hurt. Bit-by-bit, I fade away and edge closer to the end. But for now, I'm at peace. We're both at peace. The three of us are, on a windy mountainside so far from home.

6
^th
March—Christchurch:

Recommended Listening:

Sarah Minor—Keaton Henson

Our Own Pretty Ways—First Aid Kit

Sound of Silence—Simon & Garfunkel

Sitting in an old shack of a coffee house, Danii and me are surrounded by wood: plain wooden walls, stained and battered; plain wooden counter, scattered with mugs; plain wooden tables, chairs, and a door. An old man sits in one corner, reading a newspaper and sipping from a dainty cup. The rich aroma of coffee fills the air, usually so tempting and delicious, but not now. Now, it turns my stomach like most smells do.
 

It's hard to eat and drink, each meal a battle. My frail body fails me, vomit arriving after most barely eaten lunches. Light headed and weak, I walk slowly from the hostel to wherever it is we're going, but I insist we go out and enjoy what's left of the sun.
 

"We should stay inside today," said Danii, this morning. I refused. It hurts to walk. It hurts to eat. It hurts to breathe and carry on, but I won't give up yet. I refuse to lay victim to the war occurring inside my brain. And although the smell of coffee turns my stomach, I savour it, because soon, I won't be able to.

Soon, I won't be able to do anything, but so many questions remain unanswered.

Will he have my eyes and smile?

Will he hold a cup like I do, or his knife in his left hand, despite being right-handed, just like me?

Will he have my hair, or will he have Danii's?

Will Ethan be okay? Will everything we've been through on this journey help him grow?

What about Wil? Will he one day trust and let good people in?

Will Ethan look after him?

Will Wil look after Danii, and help our son?

Will Danii let him? Will she be okay on her own? Without me? Without her son's father? And will she meet someone new?

Will
he,
one day, call somebody else daddy?

Will a grandson help my mother forget her dead son?

Will
he
love me, despite never hearing my voice?

It pains me that he'll never feel my touch or hear me say
I love you.
I hate that all he'll have are stories and pictures. None of this is fair, but nothing on this journey has been. The sixteenth of September took away fairness and replaced it with despair.

The clatter of cups and grinding of beans fills the room, and although Danii and I have sat opposite one another for over ten minutes, a single word has yet to be uttered. We're delaying and procrastinating and holding on for a minute longer. We've been alone more these last two days than at any other point during this trip, but fewer words are spoken on each occasion. There's so much to say. More to sort out. Ethan and Wil to tell. We need to be strong, but we aren't. We need to be brave, but we're not.

"Coffee good?" she asks, stirring her milky and creamy blend.

I laugh, clenching my fist as the echoey thud rattles within. "Yeah, it's fine."

Lifting her head, she laughs, too. "We're not very good at this, are we?"

"No. The quicker we tell Ethan, the better. He'll sort everything out for us."

She sighs, lifting her cup of still-steaming coffee to the lips I love oh, so much.