Exchange of Heart

by Darren Groth

  Caro.

  Her bright features are blurred at the edges. She’s got questions. Concerns.

  Lobe Guy appears, seemingly out of thin air. He wanders into the middle of our silent movie and plants his hands on his hips. He has a toothpick in the corner of his lopsided grin.

  ‘Whaddaya reckon?’ he asks. ‘Did ya have fun or what?’

  Louis goes off-screen for a few seconds. When he reappears, he scratches at his nest of red hair. ‘So, let me get this straight. The clock’s counting down to zero and this Renee, she grabs your hand trying to get the key you’re holding and you yell at her. And, as you’re yelling, you … shove her?’

  I shake my head. ‘I pulled my hand away from her.’

  ‘But she got hurt, yeah?’

  ‘I kind of yanked her shoulder.’

  ‘You pulled pretty hard, then.’

  ‘I guess. It was just a reflex.’

  ‘A reflex?’

  ‘Yeah. You know, like when somebody taps on your knee with a little hammer.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Louis sucks air through his teeth. ‘What happened after your reflex?’

  ‘Nothing much. I said sorry, asked if she was okay. She said she was fine. She apologised for grabbing my hand. She said she got too caught up in the moment. We all went to get something to eat. It was awkward. No one wanted to do much or talk much, so we just went home.’

  Lou sighs and leans to one side. ‘James lost his shit completely when we did the Egyptian room in Richmond. Those escapes, dude – they can bring out the worst in people.’

  Or they can show people as they really are.

  ‘Did you have, like, a flashback or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure!’ I hold my hand against my ear and press the buttons on a pretend phone. ‘Hello, Teen Helpline? Yes, I’d like to speak to Louis Erasmus, please? What’s that? He’s too busy being a jerk?’

  ‘Quit it, bro. I know you had episodes and stuff at home.’

  ‘This isn’t home.’

  ‘What happened there – what you’ve just been talking about – sure sounds like an episode to me.’

  Smart boy, that Louis. Very smart boy.

  Lou leans in to the camera. ‘How about we switch gears, eh? What was that place you said you were going to be volunteering at? The residence for disabled people?’

  ‘Fair Go.’

  ‘That’ll be pretty rewarding, I reckon.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You sound like the guidance counsellor. You going to guarantee Fair Go will make me better, too?’

  ‘I think it’ll stop you yanking the shoulders of those Aussie honeys.’ Lou throws his hands up. ‘Ah, crap. You’re still mad.’ He makes his own pretend phone, puts it down on the table in front of him. ‘Lookit, the jerk is hanging up. He’s off shift. He’s gonna call up a sex hotline instead.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m hanging up for real.’

  ‘I’m here for you, Munro.’

  ‘Worst sex hotline ever.’

  ‘I’m here for you. Don’t forget it.’

  Lou starts licking his lips and rubbing his nipples. I flip him off and kill the call.

  The Fair Go volunteer role of Living Partner is a wonderful opportunity for you as a young person with energy and compassion. You are the sort of individual who views time spent with our special needs residents as a privilege …

  We look forward to meeting you!

  I switch off the lamp and turn onto my side. In the darkness, my left arm splays sideways, holding the print-out off the edge of my bed. Sometime between awake and asleep, the paper slips out of my fingers and falls to the floor.

  A wonderful opportunity, it says. It will help you get better, they say. You know what I say? A place like that will make you worse.

  Fair Go could be the last straw, Munro. One visit – just one – could mean the end. Of school. Of the exchange.

  Of you?

  Evie? Are you there? I don’t know what to do, Evie. Tell me what to do. Talk to me.

  Why can’t you answer? Why are you the only one who’s off limits? I’m supposed to hear you. I read that it happens a lot. I read that it helps the people left behind to cope. But you haven’t spoken to me. Not once. Why? Do I have to die, too? Is that the deal? I have to die before I can hear your voice again? That hardly seems fair.

  I looked after you, Evie. I taught you stuff. I protected you. You know how a clownfish takes care of the coral reef it lives in and vice versa? You were my coral reef. You were my world. You were my bud.

  All I hear now is the fucking Coyote. I can’t stand it – for everything it’s done and everything it’s doing. The day it goes away will be the greatest day of my life.

  I hate it.

  I don’t hate you, Munro. I’m here for you.

  Unlike Evie.

  AN INTERVIEW

  Wow, Munro! It’s Sunday and here you are – on the train. You’ll be at Fair Go in ten minutes! Why the change of heart, amigo?

  Lou and Ms Mac felt I should give it a go. They think it could be good for me. I trust them more than I trust you, Coyote.

  More than you trust yourself, you mean.

  Whatever.

  They’ll be very proud of you.

  I’m sure.

  I’m very proud of you.

  Fuck off.

  Fifty hours … that’s a long time to be in a bad place, though. Maybe you should quit now, before things, you know … end.

  Fuck. Off.

  Don’t swear! I’m trying to help you.

  I’m not listening to you.

  The interviewer enters the office. I stand and button my jacket.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he says, extending a hand. ‘Table-tennis match went into extra time. I lost. Couldn’t find the table with my last lob. I’m Kelvin Yow, Residential Manager of Fair Go.’

  ‘Munro Maddux.’

  ‘Take a seat, Munro.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So, you’re from Vancouver, Canada?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Love the tie.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  I pinch the knot under my chin. The fabric is printed with squirrels in sunglasses throwing up the horns. It was Evie’s last birthday gift to me. She wanted me to wear it to grad.

  ‘Call me Kelvin,’ he says, lifting a small tube of candy labelled Fruit Tingles from a drawer in his desk. He tears the silver wrapping and pops a piece in his mouth. ‘You’re on an exchange?’

  ‘Yes, sir … Kelvin.’

  ‘Sir Kelvin – I like that. You’ve been here, what, two and a bit weeks?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How you finding the heat?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Good-o. And how’s the new school?’

  ‘Up and down.’

  ‘Oh. Bit of an adjustment period, I imagine.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  For the first time since sitting, Kelvin Yow registers as more than just the guy in charge of my potential last straw. His face shines like he uses wax instead of face wash. He wears a wolf’s-head ring on his right index finger. I look around his office. No motivational clichés or roller-derby merch here. A Star Wars poster has pride of place on the main wall, only the writing is in a different language, maybe Italian: Il ritorno dello Jedi. A Walking Dead coffee cup stands guard beside his open laptop. Framed photos are everywhere; each one features two people in the shot. Kelvin is the constant – smiling, arm over the shoulder of his companion. The others? I’m guessing they’re the residents.

  ‘Let’s get to it,’ he says, levering a second Fruit Tingle out of the wrapper with his thumbnail. ‘Do you have any experience with the disabled?’

  It flashes through my mind to say no, but I don’t want to feed the Coyote, not this early in proceedings. I sit up straighter, shrug. ‘I grew up in a special needs home – my little sister
had Down syndrome.’

  ‘Had?’

  ‘She died last March. Heart failure.’

  ‘Ah, geez.’ Kelvin brings his hands together under his chin and closes his eyes. He murmurs words I don’t recognise, maybe a Buddhist prayer or something. ‘I’m really sorry for your loss, Munro.’

  I assume my brutal, superficial honesty will force Kelvin to drop the subject. He doesn’t.

  ‘That’s hard on a big brother, no doubt.’

  ‘Um, yeah. It is.’

  ‘Especially if it’s sudden.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Was it sudden?’

  ‘It was … yeah.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That link between Down’s and heart issues …’

  If there’s a second half to the sentence, it’s jammed in his throat. He resumes eye contact and, for a brief second, I see the same expression Mum and Dad have had for close to a year: unwavering acceptance.

  ‘You okay, Munro?’

  I blink, swallow. Aside from a tense grip on the chair’s armrest, I find I’m okay.

  ‘I apologise if I upset you.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘How about I stick to the script for this next bit?’ Kelvin pushes his chair back and stands. ‘Let’s head across to the Rec Refuge.’

  When I first arrived, Fair Go took me by surprise. It was bigger than I thought it would be. A couple of buildings and a bunch of cabins – that’s what I’d expected. A souped-up version of summer camp. Now, accompanying Kelvin through the heart of the community, I realise the full scale of the place. It’s a tiny town. A tiny home town, in fact. Several of the sights are like snippets of my hood. The vegetable gardens and the barn and the field stretching towards the horizon could belong to Westham Island. The arts and crafts store wouldn’t look out of place in Ladner Village, next to Stir Coffee or Angela’s. The small skate spot next to the library is a mini version of the park by Delta Gymnastics Society.

  There’s also plenty that tells me I’m a long way from home. Palm trees. Patches of dry grass out of sprinkler range. The Aussie flag fluttering above the admin building. Tin roofs on the townhouses. Laundry on a rotary clothesline. The signs on the swimming-pool fence: No sharks in the water and Beware of attack turtle. The overall vibe of Fair Go, though, is familiarity. Comfort. I recall the Coyote’s warning from last night: so many reminders. My hateful sidekick got that much right. So far, none of the nasty variety.

  I suspect the residents like living here.

  Where would you have lived, Evie? After Grade 12, would you have stayed home with Mum and Dad? Would you have gone out on your own? Maybe someplace in between? Somewhere like here?

  I often wonder where you are now. And who you are. Maybe you have superpowers? Can you run like the wind, or fly, or turn invisible? I hope you’re still you, though. Two legs. Two arms. Brown hair. Blue eyes. ‘Celebrity’ chromosome 21, as Mum and Dad used to say.

  Mum and Dad believe you’re in Heaven, Evie. I’m not so sure there is such a place. Right now, I still believe in Hell more than I believe in Heaven.

  Kelvin gives me the Fair Go facts as we walk.

  ‘The residence was the brainchild of my father, James Yow. He was the youngest of four children. His eldest brother, Wally, was diagnosed as “mentally retarded” at the age of five and placed in an institution after his schooling finished at seventeen. Dad loved Wally very much and he always felt sad that his brother had to move away. He didn’t blame his parents – Grandpa had died of polio before Wally was in his teens, and Grandma kept Wally at home until her own health concerns made it impossible to continue. Responsibility, Dad felt, lay more with society. He decided he would do something about it. So, he built a place for young disabled people coming out of school, one that struck a balance between independence and support.’

  We pass by an obstacle course – WOOT CAMP, according to the handpainted sign, the ‘B’ crossed out and replaced with a ‘W’ – threading through a crowd of thick trees. In the centre is a web of ropes suspended between two poles. Half-a-dozen people have a girl held high on their hands and are attempting to crowd-surf her through the top gap in the web. For a second, I think she’s scared, curled up and shouting louder than a substitute teacher in detention. Then I put two and two together: the wheelchair off to the side, her jerky movements. She’s not shrinking in fear, she has cerebral palsy. And she’s having a blast. On cue, she raises her bent arms and starts singing Imagine Dragons’ ‘Radioactive’ in a loud, tone-deaf voice.

  ‘Fast forward a decade and here we are,’ says Kelvin. ‘Fair Go Community Village: the place where special needs and life purpose come together. Fair Go sits on seven acres; there are twenty residents, aged eighteen to twenty-five, living in the fully furnished, fully appointed townhouses. There are twelve full-time and twenty-eight part-time staff employed here. A number of the full-timers, including me, live in the dedicated staff units on site. We offer a range of vocational opportunities: small-scale agriculture, creative arts, recycling, hospitality, basic digital media skills. Fair Go makes pesto and jams and chutneys from our homegrown fruits and veggies. We sell them in our shop and in a few stores around West Brisbane. Arts and crafts are also sold in our shop, as well as on Etsy. All the info can be found on our website, which is in large part maintained by two of our residents.’ Kelvin pauses mid-stride. ‘I should also mention that we encourage peer-to-peer training. Good example over there.’

  He points towards the carpark. A small team of damp, energetic car-washers are sudsing up a ute. The leader is a big guy in board shorts and a T-shirt with some sort of dinosaur or sea serpent print. His head is turned, as if he’s looking elsewhere, not really paying attention. His voice says otherwise. His instructions are clear: dip deep into the water, don’t squeeze, wash with an anticlockwise motion, separate bucket for tyres, thick sponge for the rims, thin sponge for the windows, chamois after rinse.

  ‘That’s Perry Richter,’ says Kelvin. ‘He was going to be a resident here at one point, but his family circumstances changed and he didn’t end up making the move. So now he shares his car-washing expertise with the residents. He also does a bit of basic first-aid.’

  Kelvin waves. Perry responds with what appears to be a kung-fu kick. We walk on.

  ‘Personally, I think Living Partner is the best role in Fair Go. It’s what really separates this place from any other care facility around. Each LP has five residents assigned – they are your crew. The task is quite simple: be there. To listen, to talk, to play, to guide. Develop rapport, build a relationship. Hang out. Become someone the Fair Goers look forward to seeing and spending time with. It’s a life-changing experience for a young person, no doubt about it.’

  Kelvin leads me into a building that has a climbing wall in the first room and bikes, treadmills and pin-weighted machines in the second. We make our way up a winding ramp and stop outside a door that says Rec Room 1.

  ‘Any questions?’

  I shrug. ‘When do you make your decision?’

  Kelvin grins and opens the door. ‘I don’t decide, Munro. These guys do.’

  Five residents are seated behind a long table in the centre of the room. Kelvin ushers me over.

  ‘Righto, some quick intros before the formalities. Munro Maddux, this is Bernie, Shah, Blake, Iggy and Florence.’

  I offer my hand to each. Two of the five accept. Shah nods and yawns; Iggy settles on a bent elbow instead of a hand; Florence leaves me hangin’. I sit in the chair in front of the table.

  ‘This is your interview panel, Munro. Each of the residents has a question or two prepared for you. Answer them as best you can. Now, I realise we have a language barrier here – you speak English and we speak Australian. If there are any hassles, I’ll interpret. At the end of the questions, the panel will vote using a ballot to determine whether you get to do your volunteer hours here. All five panelists must vote for you to be our next Living Partner.’

  ‘Do you vote as well?’ I a
sk.

  Kelvin smiles and plants himself on a stool off to the side, next to an air-hockey table. ‘You’re here because I already voted “yes”. If I thought otherwise, I would’ve said goodbye to you back at my office. Okay, we good to kick off? Bernie?’

  Bernie stands, slips her hands into the pockets of her cargo shorts. For a few seconds, she blinks rapidly, as if there’s a strobe light behind her eyes. Her hunched back gives her the appearance of a bass clef. She begins pacing back and forth in the space between me and the table.

  ‘When I was eleven, my family went to Wilson’s Lookout to see Riverfire. Before the show started, I wasn’t paying attention properly and I stood on a blanket that belonged to the lady next to us. She got really angry and said I was rude and had no manners. She said I got that from my parents.’

  ‘Bernie.’

  ‘My mum told her that I was special needs and I didn’t properly understand social situations or personal space.’

  ‘Bernie –’

  ‘The lady then called me the R-word. She said being an R-word was no excuse.’

  ‘Bernie!’ Kelvin forms a timeout ‘T’ with his hands. ‘Munro’s only here in Australia for six months, so you need to hurry up with your question, hey.’

  Bernie stops pacing and puts her hands on her hips. She moves in front of me, dips her head and stares at my tie. ‘Do you use the R-word?’

  I lean forward to catch her gaze. ‘Never.’

  I could share a story, too, about a boy – Vincent Perrault – who lived on our street. He called Evie a ‘dumbass retard’ twice. Third time, I chased him down, pinned him, arm-barred him back to his house. I told his mum what he’d done and said the next slur would see me beat the living snot out of her precious little Vinny. He never trashed Evie again – never said anything at all to us, in fact – and the Perraults moved to Calgary the following year. I’m ready to launch into it, but Bernie seems satisfied with my one-word answer. She applauds and returns to her seat. The strobe light behind her eyes is out.