“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 y
our 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.”
“Thanks, so was yours.” Without either of us realizing, our hands became entwined at some point in the conversation, as if they sought out each other for comfort. He seems to notice our joined hands at the same time I do, but neither of us moves. We’re both quiet in contemplation. Hope and melancholy mingle in the air, creating a bittersweet atmosphere that reflects our moods.
Out of nowhere, I have an idea that has excitement running through me and causes me to grab his arm. “Let’s make them real lists.”
“What do you mean?”
“We should create legacy lists. We’ve just talked about what we want our legacies to be, but we need to take the steps to make them a reality while we’re alive. Our legacies aren’t just going to happen by themselves.”
“So you mean like a bucket list?”
“No, not like a bucket list at all. I mean, I’m making the idea up as I go along, but I see a bucket list as more of things you want to do before you die. Bucket lists are great, and you know I love lists, but most of the time, they’re inherently selfish. Legacy lists aren’t about you. They’re about the people and the world you’ll be leaving behind.”
“So what exactly would a ‘legacy list’ look like?”
Inspired, I jump off the bed and rush over to the wooden desk in the far corner. Opening one of the draws, I pull out a sheet of paper, two red and blue pencils, and a notepad to rest everything on. I make my way back to a bemused Tristan.
“Laugh all you want, but you’re witnessing genius in the making right here.”
“Carry on.”
“Okay, so,” I say, writing ‘Matilda and Tristan’s Legacy List’ at the top in my best writing, elbowing Tristan when he snorts at my actions. “You can be red, I’ll be blue.”
“Any reason why?”
“Because I said so.”
“Good enough.”
“As I was saying.” I refocus the conversation, picking up the blue pencil. “I’d said that I wanted to teach Oscar things, so I write, ‘Teach Oscar five life skills.” I explain, doing just that.
“Now it’s your turn. You wanted to make art that people wanted to own and treasure so write a rough number of how many pieces of art you’d like to sell over a lifetime.” I hand him the red pen, watching as he writes ‘Sell at least two hundred paintings that are so good, people want to keep them forever.’ He hands the sheet back to me.
“Your go.”
“I wouldn’t mind living forever in a few more of your paintings.” I smile at my joke, writing down ‘Live forever in ten of Tristan’s paintings.’
“You’re already in more than ten.” He points out, referring to the fifteen in his exhibition.
“Today is the starting date. Anything before this doesn’t make it onto the list.”
“I forgot how serious you are about lists.”
“They’re the rules.”
“I didn’t realize you had any respect for rules.”
He has me there. “You’re right. I don’t.” I laugh.
“You know, if you thought my paintings were bad, you’re probably on hundreds of people’s walls and albums in the background of their photos.”
My eyes widen as I think about the amount of times I’ve walked behind someone taking a photograph, and the amount of people who always ended up in my holiday shots. “Oh, my God, that is so creepy.”
His laughter booms and bounces off the wood. “I can’t believe you as a photographer have never thought of it. I always wonder how many photo frames I’m stuck in around the world. Just a casual passerby to people’s memories. Captured and immortalized even though I’m nameless. Talk about a legacy.”
For some reason, I find this idea both fascinating and hilarious. “You know what we should do?” I warm to the idea as it forms in my mind.
“What?”
“We should try and be in as many photos as possible from today on.”
“You mean like photobombing people?” He chuckles.
“I mean exactly like photobombing. Some we can make look like accident and just stroll through the back of the frame, others we can pull silly faces or gestures so that when people have them printed, they’ll notice.”
“I know you’re still old school and prefer to shoot with prehistoric film, but you know digital cameras will hinder our fun, right? People will look back, see our stupid faces, and delete the photo before it ever makes it to print.”
“Some, not all. I’m willing to take my chances. So are you in or out?”
He pretends to think about this for all of one second. “I’m in.”
“Good. We’ll need a different color for an action on the list that applies to both of us.” I head over to the desk and pull out a green pencil. He watches, unable to control his laughter as I write, ‘Walk in the background of at least one hundred photos’ in green pencil.
And so it goes. I make sure to ‘pause’ our time and capture this moment I don’t want to ever end.
Tristan and I spend the afternoon thinking about the world we will one day leave behind. We sit side-by-side, scribing ways to make our mark, as the sun shifts in the sky and begins its daily descent.
And over shared laughter, announced dreams, and unspoken fears, we make a list. One we hope will change the lives we’ll touch for the better, and maybe make us better people along the way.
“DID YOU SEE his face?”
“I know, he’s so happy.”
It’s been just over a week since we created the legacy list and Tristan and I have just carried out another random act of kindness.
The saying that there’s no such thing as an unselfish deed is true because every time we do something to brighten someone’s day, it always ends up brightening my own.
From the
size of his smile and the depth of his dimples, I know Tristan is benefitting from our actions too.
So far, our random acts of kindness have ranged from the small, like anonymously buying a coffee for someone and complimenting a stranger on their dress, to what we’ve just done, which is putting money in a nearly expired parking meter.
The car owner has just come out to top it up and realized that the balance is much higher than it should be. Seeing his expression go from bewildered, to delighted, to relieved makes it worth every cent.
Before we carried out our first kindness, Tristan had this amazing idea to leave behind a packet of forget-me-not seeds at every event to signify that it was part of our legacy.
Watching from our hiding spot behind a nearby bush as our latest recipient bends down to pick up the seed packet on the ground beneath the meter and smile as he straightens, makes me jump up and down with childish glee. Tristan stiffens behind me as my movements cause me to brush up against him several times. I smile to myself at his reaction.
As the man looks around the parking lot again, trying to find whom to thank, we retreat further into the bushes, away from view. Tristan’s minty breath tickles my ear as he leans over my shoulder, causing tingles along my spine.
“Um, if you’re out there, thank you!” the random man shouts to the invisible silence, before pocketing the seeds and retreating inside.
Once I’m sure he’s gone, I spin around and jump into Tristan’s unsuspecting arms, causing him to stumble backward before he tightens his arms around me and lowers his head into my loose hair.
“We did it!”
He lowers me to the ground and looks into my eyes with a seriousness that doesn’t match the moment.
“Yes, we did.”
Hypnotized, I stare back, unblinking and unable to move as he leans forward, inch by inch.
Time seems to freeze without me even pressing the button on my stopwatch.
A loud bang as a car splutters into the lot has us jumping apart like children caught stealing from the cookie jar. The moment shatters, time restarts, and Tristan can no longer meet my eyes.
The Counting-Downers Page 14
