Forgetting Sylva

Transition

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.