Exchange of Heart

by Darren Groth

  ‘Shah, you’re up,’ says Kelvin. ‘What’s your question for Munro?’

  Shah yawns again. ‘You here for good?’ he asks.

  I hesitate before answering. ‘I’m on a high-school student exchange. From Vancouver, Canada.’

  ‘You leave family behind?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You here alone.’

  ‘I have an Australian family – the Hydes – I’m living with for the next six months. And I’m getting to know the people at school.’

  ‘But you here by yourself. You are alone.’

  ‘Yeah, I am.’

  Kelvin holds up a hand. ‘Okay, Shah, that’s good enough, hey?’

  Without answering, Shah turns his chair around and sits facing the opposite way. A chunk of skull, about the size of a golf ball, is missing from the back of his head. What look like burn scars are poking out of his shirt collar.

  Kelvin scratches his cheek and sighs. ‘Righto, let’s move on, shall we? Blake, you’re next.’

  I shift in my seat. Blake. Brown hair. Blue eyes. She has the Down’s features: flat face, pixie ears, big tongue. She’s similar to Evie with one glaring exception: she’s an age my sister will never see.

  I wait. If the Coyote is right about things getting worse, this is the moment to tell me all about it.

  Still waiting.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend?’

  ‘Still waiting.’

  Blake’s giggles shake me loose. I glance over at Kelvin.

  ‘Don’t worry, my man,’ he says, winking. ‘You’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammer. ‘I misheard the question. No, I don’t have a girlfriend.’

  ‘Not in Canada?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not in Australia?’

  ‘Like Kelvin said, I’ve only been here two weeks.’

  ‘Is there someone you’ve met that you like?’

  ‘I’ve met a bunch of people I like.’

  ‘No! I mean like like.’

  I rub my eyes. ‘There is a girl at school.’

  Blake makes a woo sound and tucks a strand of hair back over her ear. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Caroline. Caro, for short.’

  ‘Are you dating?’

  ‘We’re texting.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Most days.’

  ‘You think you might marry her?’

  ‘Righto, that’ll do for your one hundred questions, Blake,’ says Kelvin. ‘This is Fair Go, not eHarmony.’

  ‘I’ve got a boyfriend: Dale in Number Six,’ adds Blake. ‘He never gets jelly.’

  ‘Jelly … not sure that version of the word is on Dale’s iPad. Okay, Iggy, over to you. The floor is yours.’

  Iggy makes a show of attempting to stand. Several groans later, he gives up. ‘I am not feeling the best,’ he says. ‘My lungs. So I’m going to stay sitting. My question is: have you ever done CPR on anyone?’

  A breath snags in my throat. My right hand clenches.

  ‘Whoa, Ig,’ says Kelvin, ‘that might be a bit rough, mate. How about you ask something else?’

  ‘Why? A Living Partner has to know CPR, yes?’

  ‘That’s right, but –’

  ‘So I want to know if he’s good at it. Just in case he needs to do it on me.’

  ‘Iggy –’

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ I say. My breathing has steadied. My hand, though clenched, feels no pain. I’m still here in the interview and not teetering on the edge of the world. My mind is clear.

  Nothing, Coyote?

  ‘I, uh, didn’t save the person. But it wasn’t because my skills were bad. It was … It was … The person couldn’t be helped at that time. CPR wasn’t going to be enough.’

  The deep discomfort I ought to be suffering belongs instead to Iggy. He shrinks into his seat, melting like a January snowman in a March rain.

  I move to the table and go down on my haunches. ‘You and I both hope you’ll never need CPR. But if you do, and I’m here, I’ll do it and I’ll do it well. You’re in good hands. I’ll even shake on it.’

  I kink my elbow and hold it over the table. All eyes – even Shah’s – are on Iggy. His eyes are on me. The melt has stopped. His bent arm tentatively emerges from the blanket. We make brief contact, then he coughs into his shirtsleeve and squirrels his arm away again. I go back to my seat. Bernie bursts into a round of applause. Blake sticks two fingers in her mouth and whistles.

  ‘Sweet!’ says Kelvin. ‘Okay, Florence. I know the question you’re going to ask.’

  Florence licks her lips. Her teeth are pretty messed up – three of the front four are missing, as well as a few towards the back. Her nose is pushed to one side. She looks like she wants to do similar damage to my face.

  ‘You ever hurt your sister?’ she says.

  ‘Florence!’ Kelvin steps towards me. ‘Munro, wow, I’m so sorry. Flo usually asks people if they know how to defend themselves. I had no idea she was going to …’

  The rest of Kelvin’s apology fades. Florence’s question is only that: a question. It should be a knife to the gut or a hellish scream or a car going off a cliff. But it’s not. It’s just … words. And I’m putting words together in reply. Coolly. Calmly. Without the Coyote to contend with. Did I ever hurt Evie emotionally? Sure. When I was six, I put her Jessie doll in the garbage bin. When I was eleven, I told her she’d get diarrhoea if she went on the Zipper at May Days. When I was fourteen, I showed her the sex scene in The Fault in Our Stars. Did I ever physically hurt my sister? Just one time. I broke her ribs pressing on her chest, trying to save her life. I can give all these answers if I want to, even the last one. But I won’t. I have a different response.

  ‘I don’t have a sister.’

  Florence scrunches her nose. ‘Too bad,’ she says. ‘I would teach her Flo-jitsu.’ She moves to the side of the table and performs a short sequence that looks like an angry robot trying to kick a soccer ball. ‘My own martial art.’

  Kelvin fans his face with his hand. ‘Okaaaay. Well, that was … educational. If no one has anything more to add, I’ll get the ballot box and the papers.’ He collects a notepad, pens and an empty Streets Blue Ribbon Neapolitan ice-cream tub from a cupboard in the corner of the room. Placing them on the table, he lays out the rules: ‘“Yes” or “no” on the piece of paper, no names, fold it once, drop it through the slot in the top of the tub. And don’t try to sneak a peek at anyone else’s vote.’

  Blake and Bernie are the first to cast their votes. Blake blows me a kiss. Bernie gives a sneaky raised thumb. I think I’m cool with them. Iggy has brought his blanket up over his head and is completely obscured as he marks his slip. A small, pale hand emerges and scrabbles around for the tub, eventually finding it with some ‘Getting warmer, getting warmer, really hot … got it!’ assistance from Bernie. Then it whips back under the blanket.

  Two left – the two major question marks.

  Shah sits poised over the paper. He watches me as the pen descends and starts to scribble. There’s the flicker of a smile as he drops his vote through the slot.

  Last one.

  Florence gives me the stink eye and pretends to karate chop her pencil. She deposits her paper in the tub and then sits back in her chair, arms folded. If she could get her hands on a microphone right now, she would drop it.

  ‘Done!’ announces Kelvin. ‘I’ll take the box. Munro, we’ll go back to my office to find out if Fair Go is in your future. Bernie, Shah, Blake, Iggy, Florence, thank you for your time. We’ll see you at dinner and I’ll let you know the result then. Munro, after you.’

  As we depart Rec Room 1, I hear Blake say in a loud voice, ‘You two better not have fucked this up for us!’

  The warning is met with a solid belly laugh.

  ‘Gotta say,’ says Kelvin, lowering himself into his office chair and putting the Walking Dead coffee cup to one side. ‘There were a couple of interesting moments there. You handled them wel
l, though.’

  ‘Yeah, that was a … surprise.’

  ‘Not put off, are ya?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘The rest of your six months in Oz will be a cakewalk after that.’ Kelvin shakes the ice-cream tub and peels off the lid. ‘Righto, ready for the count?’

  He plucks them out, one by one, lays them open on the table:

  One – Yes. With a smiley face.

  Two – Yes. With the ‘e’ backwards.

  Three – Yes. And a ‘please’.

  Four – YES!!!

  I edge forward in my seat. Despite my fears and doubts, I decided to give Fair Go a shot. And what’s happened? Nothing. A big, beautiful, silent nothing. Screw the sample size of ninety minutes, I’m calling it – this place will not make things worse.

  Kelvin extracts the fifth ballot, opens it, holds it where only he can view it. He glances at me, then back at the slip of paper. An age passes. The office contracts. The zombie on the Walking Dead cup tries to bait me into a staring contest. At last, Kelvin bites his bottom lip and shakes his head. He lays down the final vote.

  Yes.

  No ‘please’. No exclamation marks.

  Just ‘Yes’.

  The residential manager extends a hand across his desk. ‘Congrats, Munro. You can call yourself a Living Partner now.’

  I meet his firm grip. ‘I think I will.’

  Kelvin escorts me to the front entrance. The Brisbane sun is low in the sky, its rays now moving through my body rather than beating me over the head. The grass in and around the Welcome sign is brown and thirsty. A smell like cinnamon is in the air. A throng of dark clouds hangs out by the horizon.

  ‘Know your way back to the station?’ asks Kelvin.

  ‘I do. It’s pretty straightforward.’

  He looks at his watch. ‘You’ve got about ten minutes, so you’re sweet.’

  ‘Great, thanks.’

  Kelvin claps me on the shoulder, goes to turn away, pauses. ‘Hey, I’m sorry again about that question from Florence. I don’t know why she asked that … Well, I do know why she asked it, but I don’t know why she asked you.’

  I look at the Welcome sign. I didn’t notice the ‘o’ had a smiley face when I came in.

  ‘I can honestly say it didn’t bother me,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Kelvin hoicks a thumb over his should er. ‘Every resident lives with adversity, Munro. Some, like Florence, live with too much.’

  ‘Is she still living with it?’

  He pulls a weed from the dry grass and wipes his hands. ‘Not physically. Her brother went to prison for what he did to her. And Flo’s a tough bugger. They all are.’

  Kelvin departs with a wave that’s almost a salute and heads back into the Fair Go grounds.

  On the train, I pull out the novel we’re doing for English: Picnic at Hanging Rock. It’s supposed to have hot private-school girls and murder and be creepy as hell – all good stuff. I open it to dog-eared page 18 and begin shovelling the snowbank of words.

  By page 20, I’m hoping a plough comes by. Barely any of it registers. If I thought the Coyote’s absence at Fair Go was a breakthrough, now I know I’m not cured.

  Reading has been this way for longer than I can remember. Ollie assured me difficulties concentrating and staying on task were temporary. Things would improve with time and space and kindness to self.

  But how long is temporary?

  Where were you?

  Ah, Coyote. Welcome back. I missed you so much.

  Where WERE you?

  You know where. I was interviewing for my volunteer hours.

  Why wasn’t I there?

  Maybe you can’t go there.

  Are you trying to trick me?

  No.

  You can’t trick me, Munro. You can do morning push-ups and count your breaths and think good thoughts and all the other things Ollie told you to do. You can pretend you don’t see me or you can’t hear me. You can bring me to Australia, hoping I’ll stay. It doesn’t change anything.

  We’ll see.

  No, YOU’LL see. If you think I’ll just say goodbye without putting up a fight, you need to think again!

  Okay, you can stop now. You’ve made your point.

  You know you can’t let go of me. You did it with Evie and you know how that turned out.

  Fuck.

  The one time she needed you to hold on and you couldn’t do it.

  I am Munro Maddux. I am a good person. I am not responsible for what happened.

  You could do it every other time. But when she needed you most? When her heart stopped?

  I am Munro Maddux! I am a good person! I am not responsible for what happened!

  You couldn’t do it – that’s why she’s dead.

  I AM MUNRO MADDUX! I AM A GOOD PERSON! I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT HAPPENED!

  You’re the reason she’s dead.

  IAMMUNROMADDUXIAMAGOODPERSON IAMNOTRESPONSIBLEFORWHATHAPPENED!

  That’s why I’m with you, Munro. That’s why I’m here.

  I AM … MUNRO MADDUX … I AM … A GOOD PERSON … I AM NOT … RESPONSIBLE –

  Forever.

  – I AM … MUNRO … MADDUX … I AM … NOT … GOOD …

  I stumble out of the train. The platform sways and rocks, but I manage to stay upright. My heart booms like a cannon.

  ‘Mun! Did you forget your stop?’

  ‘Whaaa?’

  ‘Whoa, dude, your backpack. It’s caught in the door! HEY! HEY! OPEN THE DOORS!’

  I turn my head. Rowan is jogging towards me. Gum in his mouth. Skateboard under his arm. Panic in his eyes.

  ‘DON’T GO!’

  It’s okay, Rowan. It’s over now. The Coyote backed off.

  ‘HIS BAG! HE’S STUCK!’

  My feet are dragging, but it’s over now.

  ‘STOP THE FUCKING TRAIN!’

  There’s a heave and a hiss and a sigh. I fall forward and Rowan catches me by the shoulders.

  ‘Holy shit, Munro! You all right?’

  ‘I’m okay. No big deal.’

  ‘Did you know you were caught in the door?’

  ‘It’s over now. No big deal.’

  ‘Well, being pinned all the way to Central Station would’ve been a big deal.’ Rowan drops the skateboard onto the concrete, starts rolling it back and forth under his sneaker. ‘I’m guessing things didn’t go too great at Fair Go.’

  ‘I start next weekend.’

  ‘Oh. Okay. That’s … awesome?’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘You sure you’re okay? You look like someone ran over your dog.’

  ‘Coyote. That would be good.’

  ‘Hey?’

  I wave a hand. ‘Forget it.’

  Rowan stops his skateboard roll. His eyes narrow. ‘Man, I know there’s more to your story than you’re willing to give up and that’s cool – it’s totally your business, you can do whatever you want. But take it from someone whose family went through a real rough patch: find somewhere or someone to talk to – and soon. Before the next fight on the basketball court or the next Liber8 freak-out or the next train door that wants to ragdoll you to Roma Street.’

  I hook my thumbs under the shoulder straps of my bag. An image of Fair Go’s Welcome sign flashes in my mind. The ‘o’ has an upgrade to its smiley face – a wink.

  ‘Let’s go,’ I reply.

  The fast walk home helps shake off the lingering effects of the Coyote’s attack. By the time I open the screen door at the Hydes’ house, I’m feeling close to Munro Maddux levels of normal again.

  ‘MUNSTER AND ME ARE HERE!’

  Nina appears in the hallway carrying a clear, bubbly drink in a tall glass. ‘You’re back! We’re just watching the cricket. How’d you do at Fair Go, Munro?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased. I know you were worried about it.’

  ‘I got a thumbs-up from the residents, so I’m in.’

  ‘The residents?’

/>   I tell her about the interview – the set-up, the vote. I don’t get into the questions asked or how I answered them without incident.

  ‘Did you have to bribe any of ’em?’ asks Rowan.

  I shrug. ‘Just the manager.’

  ‘And what work will you be doing there?’

  I explain the Living Partner role. Rowan makes impressed noises.

  ‘Sweet gig, hey, Mum?’ he says, increasing the chew rate on his gum. ‘I have to scrub toilets at Habitat for Humanity.’

  ‘The needy families who move into those homes – they’ll appreciate those sparkling loos.’ Nina pats her son’s shoulder and then sips her drink. ‘Munro, it’s very admirable what you’ll be doing at Fair Go. Fitting, too, because of … well, it’s fitting …’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I think your sister would be very proud of you.’

  I remove my backpack, put it between my feet. ‘You’re right, Nina. She would be proud.’

  ‘And as your other mother in Australia, I’m proud of you, too.’

  ‘When do I get another mother?’ asks Rowan, through a burst bubble.

  ‘When you send your real mother round the bend … which will be a blessed relief for her.’

  ‘Cool.’

  Nina takes another sip. ‘Okay, Munro. I’ll leave you be, unless you want to watch the cricket with us?’ On cue, Geordie starts shouting and swearing at the TV, something about a ball down the leg side and the umpire’s finger not doing what it was supposed to do. ‘On second thought, maybe you’d rather not put up with a retired copper acting like he’s still on the job.’

  ‘Yeah, I might pass, Nina. I’ve got some schoolwork for tomorrow.’

  Nina turns to her son. ‘Hear that, Rowan Hyde? Munro’s going to do schoolwork.’ She exits, giving him the ‘I’m watching you’ sign.

  Rowan smirks and points at me. ‘I should’ve let you ride to Roma Street, brother.’

  Picnic at Hanging Rock gets another shot at kicking my ass. After half an hour, I tap out. I open up my laptop and go to the website I’ve been avoiding since my arrival in Australia.

  The new video – the one Mum and Dad were working on when I left, the one I was afraid to be filmed in – is up on the Foundation’s home page. I click Play, fold my arms and lean on my elbows. A series of photos featuring Evie drift in and out of screen, backed by a Sarah McLachlan tune. As the montage fades to black, my mother and father appear, standing in front of our house, holding hands. Mum begins: ‘Evelyn Maddux had a smile that would light up a room. She had a laugh that made you want to tell her a joke. She had a spirit that overcame every challenge that stood in her way. Evelyn Maddux was our daughter and she was the very definition of life. Tragically, that life was far too short.’