Transition

Hannah, I can tell, is nervous.

We walk slowly through Marcus's backyard. The sun is bright above us, light spinning down through the gaps between the clouds as they filter past. It is a big yard; about two or three acres, stretching on and on and on, impossibly far until the land simply stops. There is no fence, no divide. But then, it doesn't need one. At the edge of the property is a cliff that curves in a lazy arc halfway around our little suburb. When we were younger, Marc and I would walk, agonisingly slowly, to the edge. At the most, it would take us an hour of picking over the land, making sure I had my footing. Sometimes, Marc's dad, Richard, would have to come out and get us, because I got so tired walking that I could not walk back. We had no way to contact him, so we would wait, Marc and I, sitting near the edge of the cliff; we never sat too close, because Marc was always scared of falling. But we'd watch the water crash against the rocks, and listen to the wind as it tore through our hair, and we would wait for him to come. And then Richard would emerge from the trees and lift me into his arms with a soft sentence, usually growled: "You kids shouldn't come out this far," he'd say, but the words were fond, and he would often have a small trace of a smile on his face.

As the years went on, that man disappeared a little more day by day. It was the death of his parents that made him this way, I think; Marc and Olivia never really knew them, as they lived far away, but mum has told me that Richard and his parents had always been close, on the phone at least every second day. I cannot imagine what losing one parent could do to a person, let alone losing both. I can understand how he shrank back from the world, hid inside of himself, though it makes me sad.

Marc always wanted to be like his dad. He also hated small parts of him; the part that favoured the needless, ceaseless killing of the trees on their property. It was probably the grief that led him to do it. At least that was his outlet, rather than his family. Regardless, I miss the man who would carry me home and smile at his son's senseless chatter. They hardly talk at all now.

Dead and dying trees lie around us, littering the ground like the carelessly thrown toys of a giant. They seem specifically placed to inhibit my easy movement across the earth, but I don't mind having to find ways around them and, at times, over them. It is slow, but it is peaceful.

I stop in front of a tree and Hannah hops over the trunk. She stops, and then turns around, and I can tell that in the face of her nerves I am an afterthought, and it makes me want to smile, but I hide it. "Do you need a hand?" she asks, biting her lip. I nod. She is so frightened of hurting me, when she offers her hand, that, for once, my grip seems strong.

"Thanks," I say, as I lean on her, stepping down to the ground.

She lets go of my hand and walks beside me. She steps forwards, then realises she is going too fast, and slows down, stopping completely. She does not know how to adjust her stride to suit mine, and it is making her fidget, and she is so worried about how to deal with this situation that she is not realising that she is the one creating it.

"Hannah," I say, as she skips ahead, reminding me of a deer, skittish and quick. She turns, red hair flying, eyes wide.

"Is something wrong? Are you ok? Do you want me to get Marc?" She looks ready to run.

I hold up my hand as I settle down on a fallen tree trunk, and then drop it to the bark at my side. It is rough and uneven, comforting, beneath my skin. "No, I'm good. Just need a break." Marc left us about five minutes ago, saying he was going to get 'drinks.' Really, I know he left us together to bond, or something of the like. He is too honest to be subtle.

Hannah shuffles her feet. Twists her fingers together. Looks at me, and then looks away. "What's wrong?" I ask, abruptly.

She looks at me, her eyes widening further. "What do you mean?" she asks. She seems vastly different from the confident, fiery girl that Marcus described to me. But perhaps I am unsettling her. I have that effect on people. I look at her for a moment, and she sighs and takes a seat, a little further down on the trunk of the fallen tree. She turns her body to face me, twisting her fingers together in her lap. "I'm sorry. I don't... I don't know how to deal with this."

"Because I'm sick," I say, understanding.

She starts to shake her head, but I don't look away, and she nods slightly. "That, and also the fact that Marc's known you for so long. You're his best friend, and the way he talks about you... He loves you. And I want you to like me, because it's so important to him, but also because, from what I've heard, you're amazing. And you're such a big part of his life, an enormous part. And I feel so small in comparison. And I'm talking too much. And I'm stuffing everything up. And I'm sorry. I'll stop talking now."

I smile a little and look out at the graveyard of trees; of lost hopes and dreams; a place of grief and pain and loss, for someone else, but happiness, for me. I think about how strange it is, that a single place can mean so many different things to different people. For Richard, it is a gallery of grief; Linda, his wife, likes to pretend it does not exist, as she has not known pain like we have. It's not wrong or unfeeling of her; she is like most people, in that. For Marc, this is a place of childhood memories, of lengthy discussions and a time when we were simply allowed to get lost in a place that seemed to have its own standard of time. For Olive, it is a place of spiders and creatures; a simple dislike of the rawness of nature keeps her inside. And, for me, this is another world. A sacred place that is important to me because it is important to others. Like the ceiling of my room, it is cluttered; each tree a fallen dream; a broken hope; a bleeding sorrow. It is like me. It is broken and true. It does not hide a single thing.

"You don't need to be so nervous," I tell her. "Marc talks about you, too. And he likes you. A lot." Her hands, in her lap, still as I speak. "He told me about how you met." She opens her mouth, and then closes it.

"You two must talk a lot," she says, finally.

I laugh a little. "There's not much else I can do." She looks at me, as if unsure whether or not it is alright to smile. She must decide that it's fine, because she does, and it lights up her face, and I am glad that she is becoming more comfortable with me because this is what Marc wants. And I think I like her; she seems nice, and interesting, beneath her nerves.

"He doesn't talk much, usually," she tells me, a little reluctant, her voice slow and nervous. "Well, he does. But not about important things."

"Marcus is full of contradictions," I say, and she smiles wider. "Disagree with him as often as you can. He doesn't realise how smart he is, but when you can get him to that place, where he's hardly thinking before he speaks..." I trail off, and my smile widens, too. "Well, there's something there. He doesn't know it, but there's something, something different." I can feel words building up inside of me, and I let them out, because I need to, I cannot hold them back. "He talks most here, I've noticed. Or at the edge of the cliff. Not too close, because he's afraid of heights, even if he won't admit it, but close enough so you can see rocks at the bottom. In the dark, as well. You'd be surprised what he says. The most important things you will ever hear will be said in the dark."

Hannah pulls her hair over one shoulder and tucks it behind her ear. "That was very wise," she says.

I smile and stand. "I am a very wise person." She stands, and offers her hand to me, a little less unsure than before.

"Do you need help?" she asks.

I don't, but I take her hand. "Thanks," I say.

"No problem," she replies. And we walk out through the trees again, towards the edge of the property. And, as we talk, slowly heading towards the cliffs, I feel the tension between us ease. And think that, maybe, I may be adding a new person to the list of those I care about. And it makes me both happy and sad, because now there is one more person to miss me when I'm gone.

Hannah looks down, over the edge of the cliff, a little away from me. I sit on the grass, farther back, leaning against a tree. Her hair, a bright scarlet, whips in the wind. She told me that, when she was younger, she went through a phase of self-denial in the form of names. She made everyone call her 'Scarlet' because she thought it suited her hair, and she wanted a cooler name than Hannah. I understand, a little. But then, I was named for my looks; for the silvery colour of my hair and eyes. For my disconcertingly pale complexion. My name is what I am, and I am my name.

I hear footsteps before I see the owner of the sound, but I stay still; I'd know Marcus anywhere. I feel him lean down, over the tree; feel his breath stirring my hair. "You think I'm smart?" he asks, his voice deep and a little breathless from running through the trees.

I roll my eyes. "It's not polite to eavesdrop, Marcus," I say reproachfully. He steps over the tree trunk and sits beside me, stretching out his long legs so that they are parallel to mine. His eyes track to Hannah, tall and thin, her hair startlingly bright against the grey of the clouds; she almost looks like a strange type of tree, a Japanese maple, beautiful and resplendent in the scattering rays of sunlight.

I lean against him, feeling his warmth even through my jacket, and he slips his arm around my shoulders. "Thanks," he says.

"For what?" I ask.

"For trying. For talking to her."

"I don't really have to try, Marc. She's easy to like." His lips quirk into a small smile at my words, which grows into a grin as Hannah turns, sees him, and makes her way to where we sit. Marc pulls up his knees, slightly, and holds a hand out to her; when she takes it, he pulls her down, and she settles herself between his legs, her back against his chest. He wraps his free arm around her and leans his chin on her shoulder.

"Hey," she says. He curls his fingers around her side and smiles wider, and the sight of the two of them makes me happy. "What are we talking about?"

"You," Marc says.

Hannah looks at me, raising her eyebrows slightly. "Really?"

"Yes," I say. "I was telling Marcus how much I like you."

Hannah smiles and tilts her head back, resting one of her hands on Marcus's knee, as if he is a human armchair. "You're so honest," she says. "Doesn't it get tiring?"

I shrug. It doesn't really make a difference when you're tired all the time, I almost say. But that will make her uncomfortable, so I say nothing. I listen to them speak, about the trees and the sky and the weather and an assignment they have, and someone called James, who they don't like. And then they fall silent, and we all stare at the sky, and the way that the clouds shift across the sun.

I imagine the picture the three of us make: me leaning against Marc's side, and Hannah against his chest; he with an arm around each of us, holding us together like the metaphorical glue of our little trio.

And I think about Hannah, calling me honest, and about how she is right; I am honest. But she is also wrong. Because I am honest with everyone but myself. And that is the problem. Because I am so used to lying to myself, about what is right and what is wrong, what I want and what I need and what I should not have, that I don't know what to do any more.

"Marc, can I use your phone?" Marcus looks at me for a second before taking it from his pocket and passing it to me. Slowly, I stand, the phone in my grasp, and make my way to the edge of the cliff. I sit a little away from it, and the wind softly ruffles my hair. I am far enough away that they cannot hear me, but not too far for Marcus to worry, like he always does.

I scroll through Marc's contacts til I find the right one, and then I press call and hold the phone to my ear. For a moment, I worry that the wind is too loud for him to hear me, but then the phone is answered, and I say, "Hello," and his voice comes through the line in response.

"Syl?" Tom says.

"Yeah. I borrowed Marc's phone."

"Oh," he says, and we are quiet for a moment. Then: "Where are you? I can hear wind."

"In Marc's backyard, on a cliff."

"Not too close to the edge, I hope," Tom says.

"No, not too close," I tell him.

"How's the weather?" he asks.

"It's a little cloudy, but the sun's pushing through," I say.

"How picturesque," he says. I make a small noise, agreeing. "So," he says. "What's wrong?"

I am unsure, for a moment. I wonder if I should ask Olivia about this, instead. But no. I can't. I don't know why, but I can't. Tom is somehow easier to talk to, about this.

"I'm confused," I tell him.

"About Lance," he fills in, and I start, surprised.

"How do you know?"

He laughs, and the sound is soft and honest and comforting. "Syl, he can't keep his eyes off you. You're in a room, and you're the only thing he sees. When he looks at you..." He trails off a little. "This is going to sound so sappy and sentimental, but I'm a romantic. The guy's in love with you, Syl. A five year old could see it. Heck, an unborn foetus could see it, it's that obvious." I laugh a little at the notion of a foetus being able to see anything, but that's rather beside the point.

"He loves you, Syl, so what's the problem?" I can hear a strange sound, and I puzzle over it for a second before I realise it is the noise that a racket makes as it whips through the air; the sound of a ball hitting the strings and thwacking against the ground.

"Are you playing tennis, on the phone?" I ask, a little incredulous.

"As a matter of fact, I am. But don't change the subject," he says pleasantly. His voice is a little distant, and I hear him swearing softly, but then his voice comes back, breathless, as if he was running. Which he probably was. "So, what's wrong? What's confusing you?"

I sigh and push my hair over my shoulder, but the wind whips it back into my face. I close my eyes and let nature do as it will. "I don't know what to do about it."

I hear feet hitting the ground, and Tom yelling excitedly at his opponent: "Yes! You owe me twenty, Jackson!" he says loudly. Jackson swears good naturedly, and I smile a little.

"Sorry. So, you don't know what to do?" His voice is a little breathless, and I listen to the sound of his breathing as it evens out: he's finished playing, clearly. "I don't understand. Do you not feel the same way?"

"No," I say quickly. And then, "I'm not sure."

"Not sure about what? You don't know how you feel?"

"No," I say, a little frustrated. I lie back on the patchy transition of grass to rock, my feet against the solidity of the cliff, my back and head on the earth. "I know how I feel. I just... I don't think it's fair, to make someone love me when I'm always going to be leaving."

For a second, I don't think he's heard me. But then he responds. "Syl, we're all leaving." He sounds pained.

"But I'm leaving earlier than everyone else. And it isn't fair. To him, or to me."

"I know it isn't fair, but you can't be a martyr. You need to live while you have the chance. I could die today, or tomorrow, or in a year or five or twenty. But I won't stop living. I'll make the most of the days I have. And so should you."

"It's not that simple!" I pull my hand through my hair, carefully, annoyed at how I have to be careful even in my frustration: everything about me is contained, restrained.

"Isn't it?" Tom says, and immediately, I am questioning myself. "It is simple, Syl. What do you want?"

"But-"

"Just answer the question, please. What do you want?" His voice is calm and even, and I breathe deeply, open my eyes and stare up at the sky. I think of the paper in my pocket, half-covered in words that would mean nothing to some, but everything to me. I breathe in, out, in, out.

"What I can't have."

"You can have anything you want, Syl, if you're strong enough. And you're the strongest person I know." His voice is kind, and sweet, and I am so very glad that Olivia has him, that I have gotten to know him so well, because he has cut through the maelstrom of my thoughts and down to the centre. Tom is more honest than I could ever hope to be.

"What do I do?" I ask.

"You find him, and you tell him how you feel, and you make the most of what you have. Which is a lot." The clouds drift over the sun, and I count the seconds between the periods of darkness and light: one; two; five; fifteen; one.

"You're really smart, Tom. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"All the time," he says, and I can hear the easygoing grin in his voice, and imagine the smile in his warm brown eyes.

"Thanks."

"No problem. Now, you go find that boy, Sylva. Or we're going to have a very lengthy discussion."

I laugh a little. "I better go find him."

"You do that," he says. And then he hangs up.

I take the phone from my ear and put it on my stomach, folding my hands over the top of it. And I watch the light flash through my eyelids, and think about Lance. It's the easiest thing I've ever done, because he is never far from my thoughts. Because I love him. Because he loves me.

Slowly, I get up, and I give Marcus back his phone. And then I ask him to take me to the hospital.