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

by Matthew Turner

  "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."

  24th 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.

  I didn't sleep a great deal; in the beginning, due to excitement, but then, later, because of an anxious dread. The morning broke in somber mood, with hushed voices and carefully chosen words. Danii was sick in the toilet, my job to hold her hair and block out the horrendous sounds escaping her. Ethan barely spoke at all, and Wil didn't bounce and dance. We were no longer adventurous adventurers; rather, scared little children who couldn't decide between the fear of going forward or turning back.

  At some point, we made our way to the airstrip, went through all the necessary ins and outs, and climbed into the heavy bodysuits that weigh down my shoulders now. It's been hours since we left our rooms, but the entire period is a blur, not because of headaches or my forgetful ways, but the perfect balance of excitement and fear.

  Jumping out of a plane is a quite ridiculous activity to partake in. Not only that, but to hand over large sums of money is verging on irrational. Regardless, this is something I assumed I'd one day do, often talking about it in my younger years. I suppose I assumed it would become another broken promise I could look back on with longing and regret.

  I won't grow old and I won't look back on anything, and although the idea of leaping—or, more than likely, stumbling—out of a plane in a few minutes' time is far from calming, it's nice knowing I'll tackle another wish.

  The monotonous roar continues as I gawp aimlessly in front. I can do little other than that, as I'm strapped to a guy named Macca, and the strange leather helmet blocks out most of my periphery. My hand is wrapped around Danii's, and although I can't see her face, I predict it's full of terror. I can see Ethan's, and although I wouldn't describe it as ridden with fear, I would suggest it's worried and tense. Wil, on the other hand, smiles his most manic offering. I can't hear a word he says, but he chatters away, assumingly to the unfortunate skydiver strapped to his back.

  I'm not sure what I expected on the ride up, but I suppose I hoped for greater comfort than this: an empty shell with no real seats, no real door, and no paint covering the metal walls. Less a plane and more a flying pedalo, although so far so good as it continues to rise, which I suppose is its one and only duty.

  Because of my sparse periphery, I cannot see a great deal outside, merely a sliver of ground and sky as we twist and circle upward. The houses are no more, instead replaced with a patchwork of fields and coastline. We're not as high as when flying from one country to another, but this feels higher than I've ever been before. There is no above, only what's below.

  The tedious roar of the engine is broken as the voice from behind mutters something and taps my shoulder. I have no idea what he's saying, but as Wil and his accompanied guide shuffle forward, I assume it's time to leave. A rumble fills my stomach, and a harsh taste rises up my throat, and although I'm not sure whether it was myself or Danii who initiated it, our hand-holding is now hand-squeezing.

  The unfortunate skydiver struggles
to his feet and jiggles Wil until his feet hang over the open void leading out into the gaping abyss. Wil twists his neck, widens his smile, and shouts inaudibly before disappearing over the edge. My breathing holds firm and my fist tightens further around Danii's. Macca is on the move, and as such, so am I, and for the first time I see Danii, and her face is as I thought—alive with terror.

  I still feel bad for my uncontrollable outburst. I keep trying to apologise to her, but she won't hear it. "We're both sorry," she says. "Let's move on from it. Please." Right now, she glows, and fear suits her fine. The pale tint to her usually sun-soaked skin is elegant, and the burst of colour from her wide open eyes is more noticeable than ever. Her lip quivers and her childlike mouth melts my insides. She's trying to smile and be brave, but she can't control her shaking lips.

  Macca's on the move again, taking me away from her, but not before I blow her a kiss and mime the word, love.

  Knowing Danii's my final image before falling from grace is pleasant, and in an instant, I'm where Wil was, facing the open void as the very meaning of existence screams out in all directions. Already, the wind attacks my cheeks, and the noise from the engine is replaced by the lively gusts of 16,000-foot winds.

  "Are you ready?" Macca shouts, an inch from my ear.

  I nod. He positions the goggles around my eyes and works me into position, and as he warned at the base, I hang free over the edge of the plane: no legs on ground, no clinging on, simply strapped to a stranger and waiting for him to execute his plunge.

  This is the moment I've been dreading. I assumed my insides would fail me and nerves would take control, but hanging free like this is the most peaceful I've ever been. He said it would only last a few seconds, but I want more. The world is beautiful. The sea is bright and the land rich. In the distance are the mountains we worked our way up yesterday, and beyond them, the ranging vineyards with purple and green and dark red grapes.

  Wellington is somewhere in the distance, as too is Australia and Cambodia and Tibet and Europe. York is just over the horizon, and my parents are at home watching TV or reading a good book. My past is out there somewhere, all my memories and good times and bad. The future, too, hangs in the distance, on a thread and ready to welcome me. Maybe this is heaven. Maybe being high and peering down like this is all the heaven we need. This is freedom. This is glee. This is life.

  I want to hang like this forever, but then, suddenly, I fall and my stomach is in my throat, but quickly, I adapt, and I'm not falling at all. I'm simply laying down on a bed of air and wind. I'm a cloud up here, not a boy or a man or a human at all. We're not falling; we're existing in another parallel.

  I didn't expect this. I anticipated an up-and-down ride like a rollercoaster or turbulence in a plane, but it isn't at all. The wind pounds my cheeks, but it isn't painful or uncomfortable, it's refreshing. My insides are calm and limbs are light. I'm falling but not. I'm flying and free.

  The air is fresh and clean and exhilarating. I didn't think I would experience the air of Tibet or Uluru again, but here it is, more intense and powerful than ever. This is true tranquility, the kind the birds live with, the kind I've looked up at and dreamed about and wished I was part of. I'm one of them, finally. I'm high and gliding with abundant freedom. I see the sunrise at Uluru again. I feel that aura once more. I'm sitting at the foot of the Potala Palace, gaping up in awe with guilt and the desire to be better. All around me is honest and beautiful. There's no makeup up here presenting life in a different light. This is as a woman wakes in the morning, vulnerable and transparent. You cannot understand love until you see how honest it is, and you cannot appreciate life until you see it like this.

  The land below approaches fast, the fields larger now and more distinct. In a few minutes, the trees will be trees, the houses, houses, and the beaches full of sunbathers and chairs and other gifts we're accustomed to. I don't want it. I want to remain here and look down on a patchwork quilt of greens and yellows and dirty browns. I want to see the blue with wisps of white dotted through, and the mountains that jut upward and cast shadows and patterns that can't be seen from the ground.

  I'm mesmerised by everything below, and although I hear the whoops and shouts from Macca, they're nowhere near me. I'm alone up here, I'm free and on my own. This is how I want to depart, not in my sleep one night, going to bed like any other and lying helplessly as life slips away. I want to go out with a bang as the ground rushes towards me and reaches, pulling, bringing me towards the light. What better way to leave this strange and wonderful world than to crash into it at such speed. I won't open up and slow myself down and try and survive, I'll bundle up into a ball or tense into a straight and narrow arrow, screaming through the air, screeching through the sky, and then, just before I hit terra firma, I'll close my eyes, say goodbye to colour, and hang on to my final memory.

  Alas, the chute will open. I have life left to live, and though it's short and fleeting, I have more memories to muster and more love to offer. I'm a bird for now, but falling closer to manhood. Maybe freedom will remain this time. Maybe I can finally accept acceptance. Where Tibet and Uluru and all other places failed, maybe falling from the heavens will succeed and help guide me into what's next. Maybe I finally understand, or maybe I finally will.

  The approaching earth is blocked from view as the skydiving cameraman is in front with lens in face and thumb held high. I'm dazed and unaware of what's happening, but I snap back and see Danii just behind him, attached to her faithful companion and waving like a child, no longer fearful or with dread.

  She's beautiful out here, even though she's some distance away and I can't make out her full features. I don't need to. I know every inch of her face. I've touched it with finger and lips and tongue and nose. I understand every groove and imperfection, and because of this, I love her. I know her honesty like nobody else. She's as life is right now: transparent.

  I wave and beam towards the camera, and join the fun and playful ways. The fields are larger now, the patchwork quilt opening up. We're still falling and the wind pounds my face and rushes through my fingers. I open them up as wide as they can go and push my arms down. Closing my fingers tight, I tense, and my arms snap back. I repeat the process again and again and again, flapping my wings and edging closer to a birdlike life.

  Danii is closer and I reach for her, tensing my arm and shoulder and fingertips. I cannot reach her, but it doesn't matter because we're watching each other and living this together. Strands of stray locks flap and convulse in the wind as they escape her helmet. The anxiety and fret from the plane isn't only gone, it's banished for forever. It's impossible to fear anything right now.

  I wish I had done this years ago, because if I had, I may have lived a life with no regrets. I would have met the dreadful news with a shrug of shoulders, knowing I've done what I need to do and been the man I could and should be. I can't imagine going back to anything else after this. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  My eyes lock on Danii, but suddenly she's gone, a quick jerk sending her high above. I search for her and a moment of fear engulfs me, but before I can dwell, I'm pulled upward myself, the straps digging into my collarbones. For a second, it's pain, but soon it's gone and we're falling once more. It's slower, but the ground still races towards me. I'm still flying... gliding... free after all these years of imprisonment.

  The details of Motueka take shape, no longer a patchwork of fields and mazy buildings. The roads are roads and the finer touches of the beach are clear. Below and to my right is a glittering white orb that I assume is Wil. He's been there all along, falling at the same speed and seeing what I see, but I forgot about him—I forgot about everyone and everything. Except Danii. Except us.

  She's closer and I try to reach out to her, but I can't. Soon, we'll be on the ground and I'll embrace her and whisper in her ear and kiss her smooth skin. I must tell her I love her, and although she already knows, I fear I can't say it enough. I love her for the past and the final days we share.
I love her for her love and how she's shown me colours and lights I never thought possible. I love her for now and sharing this freedom with me.

  I'm no higher than a rollercoaster now, but I don't want it to end. I'm a terrible two-year-old, kicking and flipping his feet and causing a scene. I'm pleading with my dad at the playground. "Please, just one more slide, Daddy," I say, arching up and amazed at how tall and powerful he is. "Just one more slide, Daddy. Please." Tears bulge and roll down my chubby cheeks smeared in chocolate. I didn't want our time at the playground to end, and I don't want my time up here to end either. I don't want any of this to end.

  The fresh air isn't as fresh, and the cool tingle in the back of my throat is no more. Already life is returning to normal, but what is normal? What do I have to return to?

  The ground continues to reach for me, and me, it. My outstretched right arm is taut and trembling, each muscle tight and firm. My longest finger points and reaches and stretches a little further, just a little further. I'm reaching for something I don't want, but the ground seduces me. I can't stay up here no matter how much I fight and plead. The ground's grip is too tight, and although I don't want it, I can't dangle on the edge any longer: knowing what rests around the corner, worrying about each step, imagining the various pains and agonies and that which I can't envision. I wish I could remain high and free, but I can't.

  I'm as high as a bus and it's over, but I can't watch... I won't. Tightening my lids and blocking every morsel of light out, I breathe deep: in and out, in and out, in... in... in some more... and then out... out again... pushing my lungs further and further. It's very quiet. A strange peace. I'm empty and full, and then, everything is loud and bright, and I want to go back.