Exchange of Heart

by Darren Groth

  Dad’s turn: ‘The eighth of March will mark the first anniversary of our beautiful daughter’s passing. To remind us all to live the way Evie did, and to help fund research and awareness of Down syndrome, we ask you to buy this button.’

  A graphic of the button appears. The word ‘E-LIFE’ is in bold yellow, set against a blue background.

  ‘You can find these at Save-On-Foods, Safeway, Best Buy and Canadian Tire stores, or you can purchase direct through the Evelyn Maddux Foundation. Thank you for your support.’

  The video fades with the two of them holding a button towards the camera. Just before they disappear, Dad gives his a kiss. A pop-up asks if I would like to see the video again.

  ‘No thanks,’ I say aloud, exiting the screen and shutting the laptop. ‘I’m good.’

  THE STRAYA TOUR

  Everything.

  What?

  Everything.

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  It’s like Jeopardy. This hasn’t changed for Munro Maddux in his student exchange so far … What is: everything.

  Did it take you this whole train ride to come up with that?

  Hey, don’t go wasting that bad attitude on a Sunday. Save it for school. After all, you need to top what you did in Week 3, eh? Another flashback – this one walking out of the library. Janitor found you crying near the tennis courts. Another freeze-up in your English presentation – not practice this time, but for real. You were lucky the teacher … what’s her name?

  Ms Nielsen.

  You were lucky Ms Nielsen gave you an extra point because she liked your accent. And then there was fight number two.

  It was just a bit of a scrum.

  Fight, scrum … let’s not split hairs. The main thing is you taught those three Grade 10 boys a lesson. Douche-bags. Who could possibly think surfing was better than snowboarding? And then they’re dumb enough to say it out loud! Talk about asking for it!

  Yeah.

  The gang didn’t have your back this time, did they?

  Rowan did. And Caro.

  Not the others, though. On the basketball court, they came to your defence. This time, not so much. They felt you were being pretty douchey yourself.

  I said sorry afterwards.

  How many sorrys is that now?

  Fuck, why couldn’t Fair Go be a couple of stations closer?

  Ah, you’re still thinking Fair Go is some sort of safe place. I’ve got news for you, Munro: it’s not. First time there, when I went missing – that was a mistake. I’ll be right alongside you today. I’ll be everywhere.

  And everything.

  Kelvin directs me to sit on the couch and plonks down beside me. He’s gone casual; in our one previous meeting he was all business – dress pants and collared shirt. Today it’s jeans, sneakers, sunglasses and a black ball cap with a masked bandit logo. His T-shirt says ‘I Bring Nothing to the Table’. His office has a new look as well. A small bookshelf, stuffed full, sits under the Il ritorno dello Jedi poster.

  ‘Ready to rumble?’ asks Kelvin.

  ‘Yes.’ I adjust my Mariners cap. ‘I was thinking if I could get hold of some equipment I’d teach them floor hockey.’

  Kelvin nods. ‘Sounds fantastic. Now forget all about that.’ He slaps his thighs, his face lit up like a Catherine wheel. ‘Munro, my man, this is going to be a whole different caper to what you were expecting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He tells me. The team decided during the week that hanging around Fair Go for my stint was not going to cut it. Young man in Grade 11, visiting from Canada, never been to Australia before – he needs to see the sights! They came up with a plan: every session until my fifty hours were up would be a stop on the Munro Maddux Australia Tour, or ‘Straya Tour’, as they preferred to call it. We’d visit places in and around south-east Queensland of the residents’ choosing; each would get a turn in an ongoing rotation.

  There was more. Kelvin would come along as well. It meant extra time put aside midweek for paperwork, but something like this was worth the sacrifice. He would be supervisor, bus driver, ATM and videographer. When I asked about the last one, he explained that this was a chance to tell a great story: a group of residents showing off the city to their young LP from overseas, at the same time giving them recreational opportunities and increasing their community access skills. It was too good to pass up. As an afterthought, he asked if I had a problem with being in the video. I said I didn’t mind.

  ‘So, it’s field trips the whole time?’ I ask.

  ‘That’s what the team wants to do.’

  ‘A tonne of sightseeing.’

  ‘There’s a lot they want to show you.’

  ‘And all five of them are good with it?’

  ‘All five.’

  ‘Florence? And Shah?’

  ‘So they say.’ Kelvin looks over the top of his sunglasses. ‘I’m sensing you’re a bit uncomfortable with this.’

  I’m uncomfortable with being away from Fair Go. The Coyote threatened to be everywhere and everything. So far in my short time here it’s been nothing. For all I know, the physical environment is the reason why.

  ‘This feels weird,’ I reply. ‘It’s like this is for me and not the residents. I mean, they’ve even given it a title using my name. I don’t want them doing this for me.’

  Kelvin throws his hands up in mock disgust. ‘Man, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Typical bloody teenager!’ He laughs. ‘Yes, you’re the inspiration for why they want to do this. But there’s plenty in this for them, too. Believe me.’

  ‘I guess I had it in my head that I’d be helping the guys do stuff at Fair Go. You know, here, where they live.’

  Kelvin smiles. ‘Yes, they live here –’ he jerks a thumb over his shoulder – ‘but they also live in the world out there.’ He stands and I get to my feet, too. He gives me a playful punch on the arm. ‘This is a unique opportunity, mate. So go with it, yeah? You never know, they might still become floor-hockey legends.’

  There are five familiar faces on the bus. The sixth requires an intro.

  ‘Dale is joining us on the Straya Tour,’ says Kelvin, talking over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. ‘Functional interaction in the community is a big focus for him, so this fits the bill perfectly.’

  I wave.

  Dale waves back, then taps the iPad in his lap. An artificial voice responds. ‘G’day.’

  ‘Communication app,’ says Kelvin, inserting the key in the ignition. ‘Great stuff. Allows the user to have a voice, literally and figuratively.’

  ‘He’s my boyfriend! Remember?’ adds Blake, who is sitting beside Dale, head on his shoulder. ‘I told you about him at the interview! I said he doesn’t get jelly!’

  The iPad responds: ‘I like ice-cream much better.’

  I move down the short aisle, past Iggy – he’s fogging up the window with his anxious breathing – and the seemingly unconscious Shah. Three from the back is frowning Florence. The seat beside her is free. Without acknowledging me, she shifts to the middle, taking up both seats, in case I had any ideas. I sit across the aisle. As I buckle up, Bernie makes her way to the front of the bus and strikes up a conversation with Kelvin, who waves a hand and says, ‘Fine, fine. Don’t take too long.’ Bernie takes hold of the bus’s microphone, pulls her rounded shoulders back as far as they will go and clears something awful from her throat.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Welcome to our first field trip on the Munro Maddux Straya Tour. Munro, I hope you’re excited. I’m very excited. I know the others are, too.’ She pauses. Shah’s snoring fills the gap. ‘This is a great chance for us to show how awesome we are, not just to our brand-new Living Partner, but also to the people out there.’

  ‘You’re pointing to the forest,’ says Blake.

  Bernie shifts her aim to a more populous point on the compass. Blake approves. Kelvin fires up the bus.

  ‘Can we go now, Bernie?’ he asks.

  ‘Soon.’ Bernie points. ‘Florence
, what do you do if someone calls you the R-word today?’

  ‘Drop-kick them in the throat.’

  ‘Uh … no. Don’t you remember what we’ve been taught? S-N-A-P? SNAP? Blake, what does the “S” stand for?’

  ‘Stop!’

  ‘That’s right! We tell them to stop. What about the “N”? What’s that?’

  ‘Now?’ suggests Kelvin. ‘As in “Let’s leave now”?’

  ‘No, that’s not correct. Dale?’

  Dale types his response and holds the iPad up so it’s better heard: ‘Name the behaviour.’

  ‘Yes! Call it out. That’s rude or that’s mean. Now, the “A”. Iggy?’

  ‘Away?’ says Iggy, blowing his nose. ‘Get away as quickly as you can.’

  ‘“A” is for Advise. Advise them what will happen if they do it again. And last, the “P”?’

  ‘Please?’ suggests Kelvin. ‘Please let’s leave now?’

  ‘No, that’s not correct. Munro, do you wanna guess?’

  I look to Florence, who is poking at her teeth. ‘Punch them in the throat?’

  ‘Prove it! Do what you said you would do! Whether it’s telling someone or refusing to walk away or taking a photo of them to put on Instagram later. Stop, Name, Advise, Prove. S-N-A-P, SNAP!’ Bernie’s speed-blinking paces her march up and down the aisle. She closes her hand into a fist. ‘Everyone say it together: SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SN–’

  Bernie trips on a stray bag in the aisle, stumbles forward and drives her still-extended fist into sleeping Shah’s stomach. He jackknifes, lets out a yowl and then a torrent of angry words in another language before stomping to the back of the bus. Awkwardness rules for a few seconds, then laughter erupts. Blake roars like a bear. Dale is full of snorts; for good measure, he types ‘LOL’ on the iPad and hits some sort of repeater button. Iggy giggles into the crook of his elbow. Even Florence cracks a half-smile. Bernie waits for the commotion to die down, then apologises for her behaviour. She sheepishly airs one last Snap! and takes her seat.

  Kelvin swings the bus towards the exit.

  In the online stuff I’ve read about trauma treatment and recovery, one message always stands out: when you find something that works, keep doing it.

  Something worked when I visited Fair Go and met the residents for the first time. And I want to keep doing it. One problem: I haven’t figured out what the ‘something’ is. I don’t even know where to look.

  My team is probably a good place to start.

  Iggy is looking out the back window of the bus at the trailing traffic. Every so often he points and ducks down in his seat. Florence watches his behaviour. To my surprise, she does so without a scowl or a frown or an eye-roll.

  ‘We bein’ followed again, Ig?’ she asks.

  He nods. ‘Green Camry. Rusty bonnet. Front left headlight is smashed in.’

  ‘Orright.’

  ‘It’s been on our tail since we got on the highway.’

  ‘Well, it is the highway, mate. Hard gettin’ off until there’s an exit, hey?’

  Iggy’s unconvinced. He shakes a finger at the window. ‘Clever to be a couple of cars back and not right behind, but not clever enough.’

  ‘How ’bout we play the name game.’ Florence starts tagging cars as they pass by. Commodore, Falcon, Astra, Fiesta. Iggy is reluctant to join in – someone has to keep an eye on the green Camry – but then gives over. Pajero, Tarago, Jazz, Tundra. He mentions there’s an American vehicle called the Dodge Avenger.

  Florence sniggers. ‘Does the Hulk drive one?’ she asks.

  Iggy doesn’t answer. Instead, he demands a thumb wrestle. Florence tells him he’s a stupid bugger, that he’s been owned every time they’ve battled in the past. Iggy is undaunted. He stays in the contest for a bit, twisting his wrist, using his whole arm for leverage, cheating. At one point, he tells Florence to look at the Hulk driving a Dodge Avenger in the next lane. It doesn’t work. Florence fake yawns and pins him, sparking yelps of pain, a tap-out and an excuse of not feeling one hundred per cent.

  When the whining subsides, conversation kicks in again. The topic? The self-defence class Florence is hoping to get going.

  ‘I got some things sorted,’ she says. ‘We could do it in The Shed, or maybe the fitness room if it’s only a few people. I know the moves I wanna teach. The Roo Punch, the Redback Bite, maybe the Noosa Rip. Stuff like that. At the end, I’ll give my students a special belt I’m makin’ in the Art Studio. It’s white and it’s gunna have jacaranda flowers on it. It’ll be tops.’

  ‘I’d like to do that class,’ I say.

  Florence looks my way. Her nostrils are flared. What teeth she has left are clenched. ‘It’s not for you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She looks me up and down. Her lip curls. ‘’Cause you have to be disabled. Or a girl.’

  ‘Do you do a class for boys?’

  ‘Why would I do a class for boys?’

  ‘Because everyone needs to learn self-defence.’

  Florence looks at Iggy. He nods and rubs his thumb. She turns back to me, looking down the crooked line of her nose. ‘Thumb wrestle,’ she says. ‘You win, you can be in my class.’

  ‘Um, okay.’

  I begin warming up. Flexing, stretching. As a goalie, your hands have to be strong and quick. I figure I’ve got a shot here. Iggy feels the same, or at least suspects it will be a decent contest. He’s hard up against his seatbelt, straining to get the best view possible.

  Florence cricks her neck. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be.’

  ‘Hold out your hand. No, not that one, the other one.’

  ‘My right?’

  ‘Yeah. I always wrestle with my right. Hold it out.’

  I bite the inside of my cheek. My legs bounce. ‘I’d like to stick with my left, if that’s okay.’

  Florence rears back. ‘It’s not okay! I always wrestle with my right! Put out your right!’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Do it!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Florence. I can’t.’

  The self-defence teacher-in-waiting throws up her arms, then drives her elbow into the seat padding.

  ‘I s’pose it’s a draw then,’ says Iggy. ‘Does that mean Munro gets to do the class?’

  ‘It’s NOT a draw,’ cries Florence. ‘We didn’t even go one round!’

  ‘He didn’t lose.’

  ‘I didn’t win either,’ I say. ‘That was the deal to do the class.’ I lean forward, trying to catch Florence’s huffy, turned-away face. ‘Another time, maybe? When my right hand is okay?’

  ‘Whatever. I’ll still crush you.’

  ‘I’ve got no doubt you will.’

  Bernie has selected today’s tour stop – the South Bank Parklands.

  ‘My favourite place in Brisbane, maybe even the world!’ She beams. As we walk through a Triffids structure called The Arbour, she takes hold of my elbow. ‘Indigenous people from two different tribes met here for many years. Then the whites came along and took over, setting up Brisbane’s main businesses. But then the river flooded in 1893 and the businesses moved to the north side because the ground was higher. By the way, I should tell you – there were two other big floods here, in 1974 and –’

  ‘2011,’ I say.

  Bernie lifts her sunglasses, squints her eyes. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Bits and pieces.’

  She stares, perhaps trying to figure out which bits and pieces. After ten seconds or so, she finishes her sentence. ‘In 2011, where we are now, the water would have been up to our waists. But they fixed the damage.’

  For half an hour, the team, Kelvin and I laze about on South Bank’s man-made beach. Bernie’s focus shifts from history to engineering. She delivers a stack of trivia: the amount of water, where the sand comes from, something about dredge pumps and sifting machines.

  ‘It’s actually called Streets Beach,’ she adds. ‘Streets is a company that makes ice-cream. My favourite
Streets ice-cream is the Golden Gaytime.’

  ‘I wish they’d called it Golden Gaytime Beach,’ says Blake.

  ‘I wish they had, too,’ I reply.

  Bernie’s history class resumes over lunch at a place called Cosmos. ‘The World Expo was held here in 1988, and after it was over they didn’t want to leave a big hole in the ground, like what happened in your home city. In Vancouver, they didn’t have a plan for what would happen after the Expo 86. Did you go to the Expo 86?’

  ‘I wasn’t born then, Bernie.’

  She blinks several times, gives me a look that says ‘What a lame excuse’. She continues. ‘Here, they got lots of ideas for what should be built after the Expo, and in the end the Parklands was the winner. It’s a good thing, too – nothing beats this place.’

  Tour Guide Bernie finally goes on a break at the Nepalese Peace Pagoda. Prompted by a girl wearing a Game Grumps tee, she tells me about the clothing line she’s working on at Fair Go.

  ‘I want to make shirts that say something I like, that have a good message.’

  ‘You got any ideas?’

  ‘I thought about SNAP. But there’s heaps of that on clothes already. I don’t think it has the same meaning as our SNAP.’

  I’m about to suggest ‘R-word’ crossed out in a red circle when a very small boy wearing his chocolate snack as a beard appears between us.

  ‘Your back has a big hump like a camel!’ he says. ‘Does it have water in it?’

  Bernie immediately responds with ‘“S” is for STOP!’ and shoots out her hand.