The Counting-Downers

by A. J. Compton

  “You want to do something fun?”

  “Yeah!” He straightens and squeals in that contagious, excited and trusting way that only four-year-olds can.

  “How about we go for a swim?”

  “Yeah! I love swinnin’. Daddy showeded me how and now I don’t need no arm bands!” He brags.

  “Really, buddy?” I do my best to look the suitable amount of impressed even though I know he still needs armbands. My chest aches for a moment that my dad won’t be the one to teach him how to swim without them, but I don’t dwell. I decide I’ll take on that job.

  “That’s amazing. You’ll have to show me some time. But how about we just stay on the beach and have a water fight today?”

  “Yeah! Water fight!” he shrieks, wriggling with impatience to be set down.

  Placing him on the soft sand, I take off his tiny dress shoes, black socks, baby blazer, and unbutton his white shirt to reveal the t-shirt underneath. Rolling up his toddler tuxedo trousers, I roll my eyes at my mom’s funeral outfit for him, before toeing off my boots and taking off my jacket.

  Grasping his hand, we take the few steps toward the shore. “You ready?” I ask him.

  “Yeah!” he shouts his favorite word making me laugh before I reach down and flick water at him. He yells in delight before cupping his baby hands and launching a tidal wave of salt water straight at my face.

  And once again, we’re laughing.

  And smiling. And loving. And living.

  Most and best of all, we’re living, my baby brother and I.

  For today, for ourselves, for each other, for my dad.

  We laugh, and we splash, and we shout, and we scream.

  Then we do it some more.

  We’re in full view of everyone at the funeral, but I don’t care. And neither does he.

  Once we’re drenched from head to toe and all laughed out, I scoop him up so he sits on my sea-soaked shoulders.

  We’re quiet as we stare out at the watered horizon for a moment.

  Out of nowhere, Oscar stretches his arms up skyward, causing me to wobble backward before regaining my balance.

  “What are you doing, Osky?”

  “Trying to reach Daddy,” he informs me, making my already shattered heart break into even smaller fragments than I thought possible.

  I don’t know what to do or say, but I know this is his way of trying to open up to me so I can help him make sense of his grief.

  So I clear my throat and try my best.

  “I miss him very much, do you?”

  “Yeah, I mist him a lot, Tilly.” My heart clutches at the heavy melancholy in his voice.

  “That’s understandable, bub. And it’s okay to be sad and miss him. But you have Mommy. And me. And you can come to us whenever you’re upset about Daddy, and we can talk about him and cuddle as much as you want, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We can help each other whenever we’re sad. Daddy loved us both very much, you know that, right?”

  “I know. He said I was his pwince and you was the pwincess.”

  “He did, huh?”

  “Yep! And he said that when the king went away, the pwince was in charge and had to give the queen and pwincess lots of cuddles and giggles so they wasn’t sad no more.”

  Swallowing past the lump in my throat at the words my father used to prepare him for his death, I bring my brother down off my shoulders, and tickle him, making him chuckle.

  “That sounds like a fantastic plan, Prince Oscar, but it works both ways. The queen and princess also have to give the prince as many cuddles and giggles as he needs whenever he misses the king, okay?”

  “Okay, Pwincess Tilly,” he says, kissing my cheek before wrapping his chubby arms around my neck and tucking his head under my chin.

  I guess this is one of those times.

  This time the benevolent prince permits me to kiss him on his head before squeezing him close to me.

  Lost, we both silently look out to the sea, drowning in quiet grief and contemplation.

  A FEW MINUTES after our saltwater confessions, I carry Oscar and our clothes back to the car we came in. Always prepared for everything except the death of her soulmate, my mom has packed a bag full of things to pacify, entertain, and redress Oscar should he become entangled in mischief. Unlike with me, she knows him well.

  Opening the trunk of my mother’s silver hybrid SUV to retrieve the bag, my lips twitch in happiness at the fact my dad received his wish.

  He’d made it clear he didn’t want a hearse or an over-the-top spectacle for his funeral. Just a small, casual gathering of friends and family who came to say goodbye and watch his ashes be scattered across the wind.

  As in life, so in death.

  Despite being a hugely successful and respected environmental lawyer, my dad inhaled and exhaled the essence of California. He was laid-back, carefree, and calm. He moved with the times, the winds, and the sea. My father believed with fervency in working to live, rather than living to work. And best of all, he practiced what he preached.

  Looking back with an almost-adult appreciation for hard work, I don’t know how he did it. I’m sure there were days when he was stressed or busy and needed to bring work home with him, but if he did, I never saw it. He always had or made time for us.

  That’s a funny expression, to make time. Like we can somehow manufacture the infinitely finite.

  Just one of the many ways humans attempt to construct an illusion of control over their lives.

  I forget who said, maybe H. Jackson Brown Jr., “Don’t say you don't have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Helen Keller, Pasteur, Michelangelo, Mother Teresa, Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, and Albert Einstein.”

  We all have the same amount of time to spend every day, unless it’s your last. Final days are a bit unpredictable.

  But aside from that, we each have twenty-four hours.

  1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds. Every day for the rest of your days.

  You can’t make more, or give any away. But you can prioritize them for the right people or waste them on the wrong ones.

  You can’t speed time up, or slow it down. But you can enjoy yourself so much it gives the illusion of flying past you, or spend your life doing something you hate, which leaves you so unfulfilled that the minutes seem to drag by.

  The amount of time is not what makes us all different, it’s what we each choose to do with what we’re given that counts and is the true measure of a life.

  You can tell a lot about a person by how they choose to spend their time. My father chose to spend the majority of his daily allotment of time with his family. Now that family has to work out how to spend time together without him.

  Stubborn Oscar, who insisted he could dress himself, is now in the backseat trying to wriggle himself into his more comfortable backup outfit of a black, long-sleeved t-shirt and black corduroys with his baby black Converses.

  I’m not so lucky to have someone pack me a spare change of clothes, so I have to zip up my leather jacket to hide the sudden transparency of my dress.

  It’s a cloudy day, and rain threatens, but at least it’s warm, so my dress should become opaque again soon. No need to anger my mother or grandmother any further by adding indecency to inappropriateness. I’m not looking forward to that conversation later.

  As I predicted, my little brother has managed to put his head through the arm of the t-shirt, so hiding my smile, I lean in to help him out and tie up his laces. Another thing I’ll have to teach him instead of my dad.

  I’ve been debating what we should do next, whether it’s best just to take him home or go back to what’s left of the funeral.

  Although I know my father’s spirit was present and believe he wanted us to have fun in the sea, he’s now the voice inside my head, the reluctant conscience telling me in that soft way of his that I need to go back, otherwise I’ll regret it. I’m already regretting it, and I haven’t e
ven done it yet.

  Even though it’s low-key, and pointless in that it won’t bring my dad back, I somehow believe it’s important for me and Oscar in a way I can’t quite grasp right now.

  He may not understand everything that’s going on today, but I don’t want him to grow up and resent me when he realizes I kept him away from his dad’s funeral.

  Helping him out of the car, I crouch down to his level on the ground and explain, “Osky, we’re going to head back to Daddy’s funeral now. I know you were a bit bored earlier, but it’s important we go, okay?”

  His tiny forehead valleys in confusion, before he asked the word loathed by parents, teachers, and older siblings the world over, “Why?”

  What I want to say is, ‘it just is,’ but I know I can’t do that. So I try to explain as best I can. “Because when someone dies, you have a funeral for them so that you can say goodbye to them properly.”

  “But why I say ‘bye to daddy? You and mommy say he always wiv me.”

  Oh dear. Why isn’t there a philosophy book for four-year-olds? It’s ironic that my dad would have been great at handling this situation.

  “He is always with you in your heart,” I tell him, patting the area above his chest just as my father had done to me once upon a time, “but today is when he becomes an angel. Funerals are when you say goodbye to the body, not the spirit. The spirit will always be with you. And once Daddy becomes an angel, you can talk to him whenever you want. You won’t be able to see him, and he won’t reply, but he’ll be listening, okay?”

  He thinks this haphazard explanation over for a minute before nodding his acquiescence. “Okay. We go fun-reel so Daddy ‘comes an angel?”

  Giving my own ‘speaking sigh’ that tells of pure relief, I answer in the affirmative, before taking his hand and leading him back to watch my father’s final act.

  In pure and perfect irony, the very thing that conspired against us to take him away, is back on our side, if only for a while, as we arrive back just in time for the ashes to be scattered.

  My mother and grandmother are radiating hostility of nuclear proportions, and don’t even bother to look at me as I lift Oscar into my arms and take my spot beside them.

  My father had always wanted to be cremated. I guess that’s the one good thing about living under the constant specter of death; it makes you prepare for it. Well, as best as you can. Get a will in order and keep it updated, make sure your loved ones know how you feel about them, lay out your funeral plans, et cetera.

  Still, you’d be surprised at the number of people who still die unprepared. They couldn’t be more aware of their own mortality, watching the clocks ticking down above the heads of their nearest and dearest, and yet they leave behind a mess for those same people to deal with.

  Those are the kind of people who say, “If I die…” If, not when. In the hypothetical, with an ellipsis.

  But it’s when not if. In the definite, with a full stop.

  …when they die.

  …when you die.

  …when I die.

  As humans, we need to think in whens. And stop thinking in ifs.

  As the minister speaks of ashes to ashes and dust to dust, my grandmother begins to cry, and my own tears threaten.

  Then a strange thing happens.

  Someone once told me at a funeral that it was a good sign if it rained as it meant the angels were crying and welcoming the departed home. I don’t know if I believe that, but I take some comfort in the sudden onset of drizzle.

  Instead of crying, I smile.

  I welcome the light rain. The splashes on my skin are almost a sign from my dad, reminding me I’m still alive. And because of that, I need to live. He’d be furious if I died along with him, if any of us did.

  Before handing the now blessed urn to my mother, the minister says a few words about how this was my father’s favorite place on earth. My father’s actual favorite place on earth was at home with us, but this quiet corner of Ocean Beach came a close second.

  I suggested that my mother buy a contemplation bench to be placed here in my father’s honor. So he can be the silent force supporting all those who come to look outside themselves for moments of introspection. To my surprise, she agreed and thought it was a great idea.

  The bench will be installed in a few days with the italic inscription, ‘For Erik Evans,’ and then right below it his favorite lyric from Imagine by John Lennon, the one about him not being the only dreamer out there in the world.

  Mom surprised me again that day by suggesting the inscription, and it’s perfect. It means so much to me, to all of us I think, that even though he elected not to have a gravesite and ‘be trapped for eternity in a claustrophobic box,’ I’ll still have a place to visit and talk to him when I need to.

  And I will need to. But that’s in the future, this is now. And now, as it always does, the time has come. To say goodbye. Forever, or For Now, depending on what you believe.

  As graceful tears slide past her oversized sunglasses, my mother takes a deep breath and whispers something I can’t quite catch, before reaching inside for a handful of ashes and releasing them to the wind.

  I watch, mesmerized as they dance and weave, soaring and spreading out across the horizon and into the invisible unknown.

  My mother thought it might be a nice idea if everyone in our immediate family released a handful of ashes.

  I agreed, but now I’m not sure I’m ready. I’ll never be ready for this.

  Without looking in my direction, Mom holds out the silver urn for me to take.

  Putting Oscar down, I grasp it, before crouching down to his level and explaining in his ear what he has to do and why.

  In a rare moment, he looks back at me with eyes filled with maturity and understanding far above his years.

  Giving a solemn nod, he reaches his tiny hand into the urn I’m holding, clasping the most of my dad his tiny palm can hold. “I’ll mist you, Daddy,” he says looking down at his clenched palm where some ashes are already escaping.

  “You always played wiv me, and made me laugh, and made me pamcakes, and said me stories. But I know your spear-wit will be in my heart.” He glances up at me for confirmation, which I give through my unshed tears, recalling our conversation earlier. “I know you’ll be a weally good angel; say hi to Santa for me,” he says, bringing watery smiles to everyone’s faces, before he carelessly throws what’s left of my dad away with the breeze and wipes the remainder of the remains on his trouser leg.

  Ashes scattered and spread. It couldn’t have been a more appropriate goodbye.

  “That was beautiful,” I whisper in his ear, wrapping my free arm around his middle and giving him a light squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “You think he hearded me?” His bottom lip pouts and quivers with insecurity.

  Kissing his cheek, which he permits for the second time today, “I know he did,” I tell him. “He heard it, and he loved it.”

  This makes him smile and grab my mom’s hand, beaming up at her. Her face wet, she looks down at him smiling and, choking back tears, echoes my praise before casting a brief glance at me to let me know it’s my turn.

  Oh, my God, it’s my turn.

  To say goodbye. Not that there’s any good in it.

  I have to think of the last words I’ll say to the person who was my first word.

  Rising to my full height, I clutch my father’s ashes to my chest.

  Closing my eyes for a second, I conjure up an image of my father’s face, set to the backdrop of a memory of us playing together on this very spot. One day, his image will blur, but today, I still see him with perfect clarity. Crinkled eyes, smile-stretched lips, and sun-kissed skin; signs of a life filled with love, laughter, and living.

  The time has come for my tears to finally fall.

  I don’t speak them aloud, but my soul speaks all the words I won’t say.

  From behind darkened eyelids, I look at his face for the final time and he looks back
.

  And he knows. And he listens. And he smiles. And he waves.

  And then…

  He walks away.

  And I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

  Opening my eyes and taking my own handful of the man who made me whole, it seems fitting to feel some of him sift through my fingers.

  Like sowing seeds of serenity, I breathe deep, and let him go.

  I KNOW I just gave that sermon about how we all have twenty-four hours a day and can’t speed it up, but this day is never ending. I can’t wait for it to be over.

  Lucky Oscar is down for a nap, while I’m being accosted by unwanted intruders in the former sanctuary of my childhood home. If only I could crawl beneath my blanket, pull the covers over my head, and wake up when tomorrow comes.

  Instead, I’m playing the role of reluctant deputy hostess at my father’s wake. Yet another nameless face has just finished telling me how sorry they are for my loss through crumbs full of cardboard food.

  Remember when I said time was my least favorite four-letter word? Well sorry is fast becoming my least favorite five-letter one.

  Think about it. Nothing good ever precedes sorry. Has anyone ever followed up good news or a good deed with the word sorry? Exactly. You only ever say sorry when you’ve been wrong or been wronged.

  Although that’s not strictly true. An extra category of people say sorry when they’ve done nothing wrong. In my experience, these people either are British, Southern, or people speaking to the bereaved. Most of the people here are Californian, so they fall into the latter description.

  I understand death makes people speechless, that when faced with death, even the most eloquent and verbose find themselves struggling with what to say and resort to falling back on worn phrases and tired clichés in the absences of alternatives. I understand people are expressing sentiments of sympathy for the situation, rather than for any actions committed. But honestly.

  How many years has civilization been around? How many people have died in that time? Still the best we can come up with to tell the family of the deceased is ‘I’m sorry for your loss’? Unless you’re the murderer of said person, you didn’t kill them, and nor are they lost with the potential of one day being found.