Emilia
On the day of my twenty-first birthday, I received the most important call of my life. It wasn’t the traditional “happy birthday!” call from a grandparent or sibling. It was a call worth multitudes more. Something that would change my life forever. In the summer of 2015, I left Scotland for work in British Columbia. I don’t recall what drove my intense desire to work abroad in Canada for the summer. ‘Course being Scottish and growing up on the hills, I had a special connection to nature. But I can’t quite remember why I chose B.C. of all places. Whatever the reason, I spent four months planting trees around the province for pay. It was the most enriching experience I’ve ever had. But it wouldn’t have been the same without Matthew. Matthew was a bit weird, really. He was shy, a bit timid and outside of work he didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. But he was a good friend. Actually, he was more than a friend. He was charming, remarkably handsome and incredibly well-spoken, even if a bit odd. He was the kind of guy who you’d feel okay sharing your deepest, darkest secrets with. The kind of guy you’d take to see your mother. The kind of guy I envisioned spending the rest of my life with. But I never thought leaving Matthew, a man oblivious to my true feelings toward him, would put such a strain on my heart.
It had been a year and six months since we last spoke. Actually to be exact, one year six months and twenty-three days. Not that I had been counting or anything. In the three years that followed my departure from B.C., there was never a day when I didn’t think of him. Sometimes you meet a person and it’s just plain for all to see that the two of you are meant to be together. But I never knew Matthew felt the same way; until I turned twenty-one.
Matthew
The day I turned twenty-one was the day I found out I had cancer.
“Is it serious?” were the first words I asked, trying to stay level-headed. The doctor told me it was the rarest form of cancer he’d ever encountered and that I likely wouldn’t last three months. At least, that’s what I heard through all the spinning of the world around me. Immediately, I thought of all I wouldn’t be able to do – all that I wouldn’t be able to accomplish. I knew my life was over.
My parents died when I was thirteen. My aunt and I had a good relationship, but living with her was never the same. When I heard the news, I hadn’t even seen my aunt in over a year. So I wandered around, completely clueless as to where to go or who to tell. I had a few friends who I considered ‘good friends’ but I didn’t have anyone to call my ‘best friend.’ Except for Emilia, who I worked with in the summer of 2015. She had come all the way from Scotland just to plant trees for the summer. Somehow she ended up becoming my best (and only) friend. We were quite different, but we also shared some striking similarities – most notably awkwardness. The day we met, she told me she had been named after a waitress. I found that quite amusing, as I had been named after a pianist, who probably was no more famous than the waitress. She asked me if I watched Game of Thrones and when I said yes, she asked if I wanted to watch it with her sometime. We never ended up going through with it. That was my fault, really. I was uncomfortable bringing friends home. My aunt would have allowed it, but after everything she had done for me, I never wanted to impose.
I was stupid not to notice it. I suffered from severe migraines and my throat had been aching for months. Yet I never bothered to see a doctor.
“I’ll get better.” I said anytime someone questioned my awful, horrible cough. By the time I sought a diagnosis, it had already spread to my lungs. On the night of my twenty-first birthday, cramped up in the tiny hospital bed, I tried to view my rotting life from the perspective of an outsider. I asked myself what I would do if someone told me I had three months left to live. It was my actual situation, but I wanted to look at it from the perspective of someone who didn’t have a terminal illness. I always wanted to marry and have children. I always wanted to travel the world. I always, desperately, wanted to see Emilia again.
That same night, I booked my flight. I would go to Scotland, I would see Emilia, and I would make the most of the life I had left to live.
Emilia
Your twenties are supposed to be a time to figure out what to do with the rest of your life. Yet somehow I was stuck working on my grandfather’s farm. It was actually the best job I’ve ever had. His farm sat on top of these wicked rolling hills. A kind of fluorescent green, glowing in any form of sunlight, they spread for miles. The hills were beautiful, really. I didn’t want to be there for the rest of my life, but it served its purpose at the time. My job at the farm involved herding the sheep, making the tea, and mowing the grass. My grandfather did pretty much everything else as long as I tended to those tasks, particularly the sheep. I don’t think he trusted me with the cattle to be honest. Most days I ended up slacking a bit and drinking pumpkin tea in my grandfather’s hut. I think he meant it to be a sort of work office, but it ended up being where I spent all my time whenever I wasn’t working. It was where I slept, where I ate, even where I watched football. I never worked inside the hut. It was solely a place for relaxation and solitude. Not that I had a particularly stressful job; but even those living a life of leisure need time for themselves.
Out of all the days I sat in that hut, I’ll never forget the day of my twenty-first birthday. ‘Course it resembled any other day. I drank pumpkin tea, played myself (and won) at checkers and watched a football match, this one Hearts vs. Hibernian. But this was no ordinary day. No. On this day, the telephone rang. I nearly had a heart attack! I was so frightened by the sound, like the maddening call of a rook, that I nearly knocked over the game of checkers. We couldn’t afford caller ID, which wasn’t an issue, because no one ever rang. My mother would call on occasion, but only when she desperately needed something. So anytime the phone rang, my heart couldn’t help but jump. I repaired my heart back to normal with deep breaths and a whiff of the pumpkin tea I had been brewing. I didn’t think it would be anyone important. Some telemarketer probably has the wrong number, I thought. But I didn’t want to miss out on the tiniest possibility that something, someone important could be on the other end.
“Hello?” I asked, my heart still panting.
“Oh uh, hi Emilia,” A man said on the other end of the line. “Happy Birthday!”
I had no idea who would be calling to wish me a ‘Happy Birthday.’ The man sounded nothing like my grandfather and surely my mother would have told me if she had acquired a cold that made her sound like a man. “Thanks!” I said, trying to hide my hesitance. “Who’s this?”
Matthew
Emilia was the only friend that genuinely cared for me. She was the only friend that would mourn over me. And that made her the perfect solution. There was so much excitement bursting through my veins that I didn’t even bother to pack up all my stuff when the hospital released me. I grabbed my medication, a few other important items, including a postcard with Emilia’s address she gave to me in 2015 (I never got around to replying back to her) and booked the first flight I could find. I didn’t tell Emilia I was coming until a layover in London. I’m not sure what I would have done if she had been out of the country. But I wanted to force myself to go on an adventure regardless of her response. As I picked up the phone, I remembered. Her birthday was exactly a week after mine. Her birthday was today.
“Oh uh, it’s Matthew. Matthew Nortel.”
There was a crashing sound, as if she let the phone drop. She fell silent.
The phone felt like a hot cloth through my sweaty palms. More was riding on this moment than I’d imagined. What would happen if she turned me down? Would I still visit Scotland? Would I stay in London? Where would I go? Who would I see? I scrambled to remember if I had any other friends living in Europe, until I remembered I didn’t even have a friend in Vancouver. And then the way she said ‘Hello,’ left my tongue twisted in a knot. She had an incredible Scottish accent. I had always been attracted to her. Her long auburn hair and daring blue eyes had me lost on more than one occasion.
“Are you serious?!” She yelled. “How are you?! It’s so nice of you to call me! How have you been? I’ve been thinking about you lot a lately.” She was clearly scatter-brained. I took a few seconds to conjure up the right response.
“I’ve been thinking about you too,” I replied. “Are you doing anything special for your birthday?”
“Mother said she might take me into town for dinner.” She replied. “There’s a lovely pub not too far away that I quite like. What are you up to?”
She hadn’t a clue of the right thing to say. I didn’t mind that. I hadn’t a clue either.
“That sounds nice. I’m actually um…I’m in London.”
“You’re in London?!”
“Yes. There’s um, something I need to tell you, um, in person if that’d be alright…”
“Alright?!” She shouted. “That’d be fantastic! Where can I meet you?” She reached for her keys and purse. I stared down at the postcard. “Oh, um, would your farm be alright?”
“Um, YES! This is going to be the best birthday ever!”
“I might not…g-get in until tomorrow, unfortunately.”
“When should I expect you?” She said. It sounded like she was dancing.
“Um, mid-morning.”
“Are you sure you’re okay making your way to my farm? Do you have the address?”
I gazed at the postcard shaking in my hand. 87 Westhill Way.
“Was it something Westhill Way?” I asked, trying not to sound like I had kept the postcard.
“Yeah! Eighty-seven. Good memory, you.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll be there.” I said coolly, smiling through my teeth.
“Perfect! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I, um, yes. See you tomorrow. Happy Birthday Emilia.”
Emilia
Is it too good to be true? I didn’t want to get my hopes up, in case someone had seen the calendar in my room and thought it would be funny to play a prank. But I couldn’t help but be excited. It didn’t even matter that mother never came to take me out for dinner. For once I didn’t have a care in the world. I went into a frenzy of decorating and redecorating, trying to make everything perfect for Matthew. The next day, I decorated the room in balloons and candles and put out the leftover strawberry cake I made for myself the day before. I quite liked balloons, but mother always thought they were a waste of money. As some sort of twisted rebellion, I made it a tradition of going out and buying balloons for myself on my birthday. As luck would have it this year, they now had two purposes!
No one else ever made me nervous like Matthew. I would always laugh at the girls in books who would bite their lip in front of boys. Then one day I realized I had been doing it too. I don’t think Matthew noticed, but some of the other tree planters must’ve.
My mind raced a thousand miles per hour as I lit each and every candle inside the hut, each with their own feint smell of pumpkin. Would he like my new hair? Would he still be as handsome as before? Would he be even handsomer and now be too good for someone my level? Did my ass look good in these jeans? Would he have a beard, or worse, a mustache? Would he think I’m a mess for all the clothes I have all over the floor? I decided to clean up the clothes on the floor. Better safe than sorry, I thought. Later, I took down the calendar with all the red ‘X’s’ – the one counting the days since we last spoke. Then around mid-morning, after I had finished my second cup of tea, someone knocked on the door.
Matthew
I thought I was nervous when I phoned her in London, but nothing compared to turning up at her door. Even the glowing green hills behind her tiny brown hut didn’t do enough to calm my nerves. I’d say the fluorescent green was unlike anything I’d ever seen. But the view on the postcard just so happened to be identical. When she opened the door, I had to double-check that it was really her. Her hair had changed. Now wavy black, flowing down to the core of her spine. When she wrapped her arms around my back, I knew it was her. She had a very distinctive hug. She gripped very tightly and unintentionally dug her nails into the spine of the back. As she held me, I couldn’t help but be fixated on her hair.
“I missed you so much!”
“I like your hair,” I said. She finally let go, allowing me to recover my breath.
“Mother says it’s hereditary. The waves that is.” She felt her hair. Without even touching it, I could sense the softness. “I never thought I’d get them like hers, but I quite like the way it looks.”
She ushered me inside. It smelt delicious – like a pumpkin farm, without any pumpkins.
“I love the colour,” I said as she turned on another light.
“Thanks! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with a hat before.”
“Oh, right. It’s um…it’s um…well, I’ll get to that. Did you have a good birthday?”
“One of the best. ‘Course I got no presents. And the only person I saw was my grandfather. But it had its moments.”
“I don’t believe I’ve met your grandfather.”
“Would you like to? Oh, you must meet him! Think he’s taking a nap right now, but after?”
I nodded. “That would be nice.”
“Cake?” She offered.
“I probably shouldn’t. Although it does look delicious.”
“Checkers?” She asked, as she dug out an old wooden checkers board. “Would you beat me again for old time’s sake?” She knelt in what looked like an uncomfortable position on the floor, and dumped the pieces onto a brown coffee table.
“I haven’t had anyone to play with in years. My grandfather’s not really one for quality family time. Prefers his alone time mostly.”
“Him and I might get along then.” I joked, taking a seat on a green couch in front of her.
“Didn’t you have something to tell me?” She moved her first piece up the board.
“Oh, um, yes. I um, well…what would you do if you were told…if you were told you had…three months to live?”
Her eyes widened. “I’d like to think I’d make the most of it. Why? Is that…”
“I um, I feel the same way. Which is why I’m here. Because I…I have cancer and…and I wanted to see you.”
I took off my hat to show her my bald scalp. Her eyes widened further and she collapsed into my arms, pressing her body against mine. I lost my breath again. And she nearly lost hers.
“If you’re not careful, three months might turn into three minutes.” I said, sort of jokingly. She began to sob.
Emilia
My heart sank into my chest. I tried to breathe, but no sound came out. The love of my life, Matthew Nortel, had just three months left to live. “I’m so sorry, Matthew,” I found the courage to say through tears. He looked at me apathetically; suggesting he wondered why the news bothered me so much.
“How long have you known?”
“Since about…last week.” He said casually, as if he was ordering a pizza.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, wiping away tears. He looked me up and down, trying not to let my tears transfer over to his blissful eyes.
“I haven’t got one.”
I clung onto him again. The news was too much. Too unbearable. I waited three years to have Matthew back in my life. And he could soon be gone forever. My mind immediately raced to my father, who passed away to cancer before my fourth birthday. If Matthew died, all I would have left would be my grandfather. ‘Course I was getting through life just fine without Matthew, but I had no idea how much he meant to me until I was forced to contemplate life without him…or without him being just a phone call away.
“Do you think…do you think I could s-stay here?”
“Yes!” I said, perhaps a bit over-excitedly. He looked surprised, rather than happy with my response. I hoped I hadn’t scared him off. It was the best idea I’d ever heard – Matthew, living with me, his obvious soulmate, for three months. I could take off work, show him the world, or at least the world of Scotland, and make the next three months the most memorable three months of his life. ‘Course, I hoped the doctor would be horribly wrong and he’d live another twenty-one years, or more.
“And your grandfather?”
I wiped away a final tear. “I don’t see why not! He’s been asking me to bring home a boy for years!”
Matthew
Her grandfather was a gentle man. No taller than five-foot-five, he strolled around the farm with the help of a walking stick. Not a walking cane…an actual stick. He was soft-spoken, well-mannered and reeked of fried fish. I didn’t mind this. The smell reminded me of my days working on a fishing vessel. But you couldn’t help but notice, or rather smell, when he entered the room.
Emilia had a deep connection with her grandfather. In fact, he was the only relative (other than her dad) that she spoke of in a positive light. I had heard plenty of horror stories about Emilia’s mother – like how she would lock Emilia in her bedroom until she finished her school work, or how she would tell Emilia to make friends with the farm animals only to slaughter them in front of her eyes. Emilia’s mother never let her get attached to things. It worked, according to her.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Her grandfather said as though some fortune teller had predicted a bald man with cancer would show up on his farm. His hut was slightly larger than Emilia’s, but the fresh smell of pumpkin had been replaced by foul fried fish.
“Grandad, this is Matthew,” Emilia said as we stepped inside.
“Matthew.” He said very softly. “I have heard wondrous things.”
I shook his hand. “Matthew’s actually just found out some really terrible news…” She began to sob again. “He was wondering if he could stay here?”
“You want to work on the farm?” Her grandfather asked.
“Sure. I’ll work without pay,” I said, thinking I had no need for money any longer. He shook his head.
“I insist, young man.”
“Well that’s nice and all but I don’t really–”
“I insist.” He said firmly. “Maybe you can take her out to a pub.” He winked.
Emilia
Matthew started work the very next day. He was quite good at herding the sheep (and looked good doing it too.) We didn’t have any border collies to guide our sheep (they were quite expensive). So we always did it ourselves. Even in a weakened state, Matthew still had quite a bit of fortitude. ‘Course part of the fun in herding sheep is helping the ones that lose track of the pack (like the little ones that get their heads caught in the fences.). Matthew was always good at dealing with those in need. But still, I had never seen someone pick up the act of herding so naturally. Perhaps he felt he had nothing to lose. Most people run around aimlessly like they’re some kind of border collie. Matthew was much more gentle. He’d stand at the top of the hill, waiting for them to collectively cooperate. Once the sheep were in order, he’d guide them up the hill simply by whistling, something I hadn’t the talent to do. The sheep liked him too. They accepted him as a member of the family right away. He fed them water, trimmed their hair and even nuzzled their noses when they needed a friend. One day, after I finished cutting the grass, I looked up to see him at the top of the hill, arms out, resembling Christ the Redeemer.
“You’re the king of the hill!” I shouted. He laughed. I knew he’d like that one. He had a natural knack for work on the hills. After the first week went by, I completely forgot he had cancer. I looked at him and I saw the same Matthew I had always known – a man with a heavy exterior but a soft interior. We got on really well. I learned to take his illness in stride, and not let it rule our relationship. He always managed to stay so positive, so I wanted to do the same.
“You’ve gotten better,” He said to me one day over checkers. He won on the next move.
“I think all the practice of playing a real person is helping,” I replied. He packed up the pieces and placed them in sealed plastic bags. “Do you want to go out tonight?” I asked, knowing the answer would be one of hesitation. He hadn’t been to the city since arriving; only around the hills.
“That pub you’ve been telling me about sounds nice.”
TO BE CONTINUED…
Rhys Desmond 