by Darren Groth
‘It’s the truth.’
‘Truth, eh? That’s all I want. Gimme some, just like Eddie Vedder says.’ He pushes his half-empty bowl aside, wipes his hands down the front of his shirt. His face goes all sucked lemon. ‘So gimme the truth about today.’
‘What about it?’
‘8 March? Is that the real reason for cutting class?’
I shrug. ‘It’s just another day, man.’
Louis’s reply is disrupted by a knock on the bedroom door. Rowan pokes his head in.
‘Sorry, Lou. I gotta go.’
My best friend since elementary school gives me a minor hairy eyeball and wags a finger. ‘To be continued, Mr Maddux.’
‘Or not, Mr Teen Helpline.’
My tablet screen blanks out. I wave for Rowan to come in.
‘Sorry, Mun. Didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘This is your house – you don’t have to be sorry.’
‘Yeah, well, I might get kicked out with the sneaky shit you’ve got me doing.’ He laughs at my instant horror. ‘I’m kidding, brother!’ He thumbs through one of the old surf mags on the TV stand. ‘So, you probably worked it out from your chat with the oldies – I wiped the phone message the school sent. They don’t have a clue.’
‘Thanks, man.’
‘And I can keep wiping them, if you want.’
‘I don’t want to get you in trouble.’
‘Meh. As far as my criminal record goes, this is littering.’ Rowan sits in the office chair at the desk and spins slowly. ‘A message will probably get through to the keeper at some point, though. You know that, hey?’
‘Yeah.’ I shift up to the head of my bed, slip a pillow behind my back. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Go for it.’
‘Why are you good with this? I get that to you it’s littering, but … why are you helping me?’
Rowan stops spinning. He rubs his buzzcut. ‘Do you know exactly what went down with Dad’s rescue?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t look it up?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t search any of the million articles out there?’
I fold my arms. ‘Evie’s death was a story, too, so I know what it’s like to have your misery out there for all to see. And there is misery in Geordie’s rescue, isn’t there?’
Rowan blows a big puff of breath and begins talking to the ceiling. ‘At the height of the flood, on 11 January 2011, Dad tied a rope around his waist and swam out to a blue Ford Fiesta caught in the Logan River. He pulled the driver out – a man named Patrick Cloutier – and managed to drag him back to the bank. Then he swam out again to get Patrick’s brother, Sean. He was in the passenger seat. Dad was about halfway out when the car got swept away. Sean’s body was found the next day near the Carbrook golf course.’
In the corner of the room, something is loose inside the guts of the pedestal fan, sticking with each rotation.
‘A lot of stuff happened in the three years after that, up until Dad left work on medical. Not much of it was good. Not even the medals. The thing I remember most about those three years is the look Dad had most of the time – sort of uptight, distracted. It was like he was still in the water, still with the rope tied around him. Waiting. Waiting for that blue Fiesta to come back so he could finish the job. Waiting for a chance to make things right.’
He brings his gaze down, then flips it my way.
‘I’ve seen that look on your face – on your first day here and quite a few days since. It’s not fun seeing that look. And, sure as shit, I know it’s not fun living with it. So, I’m trying to help you get rid of it.’
Mum and Dad
My 8 March has just ended and yours is just starting. Hard to believe it’s been one year. I considered calling but I bailed. Thought it might make things harder rather than easier.
I was okay today. Better than okay, actually. In my interview with the YOLO coordinator, he said he can see great things ahead for me (!). And do you remember me telling you about my team at Fair Go? You remember Shah? I made a pretty big breakthrough with him. I played checkess with him – a combo of chess and checkers. It helped bring back some memories he’d lost. School was fine, too, btw. The afternoon class was particularly good. I haven’t had any major ‘challenges’ the last couple of weeks.
8 March will always be hard. What I did today – it didn’t make things easier, but it made things better. And if things keep getting better, they’ll eventually be the best they can be. That’s what I’m aiming to do. Not just 8 March. Every day.
When you visit Evie’s grave today, tell her I love her and I miss her.
M
FAIR GO
The three weeks before Easter break were the best three weeks I’d had since Evie’s death. The Straya Tour went to Mount Glorious, the State Library and Suncorp Stadium for a football match. With each trip, I began to get hugs goodbye, saved seats on the bus, rabbit ears in photos. It was all unicorns and double rainbows. Mostly, anyway. Florence started calling me Mr Wrong due to my ongoing avoidance of a right-handed thumb wrestle. Iggy kept insisting the licence plate on the bus be changed so it was more difficult to track. Shah was still largely a nonfactor. The Afghani refugee was awake much of the time, though. I’d like to think our Wednesday afternoons playing checkess had something to do with it. And, by association, Rowan’s deletion of the school’s absent messages.
Caro and I spent a lot of time together. We were still in the friend zone, but that didn’t stop Rowan labelling us ‘Thunder and Lightning’. Back home, the Foundation had its best month to date, in large part because the new video got some run on CTV Morning Live and Breakfast Television.
Last but definitely not least, the Fair Go effect reached Sussex State High.
A lockdown drill came and went without the need for a paper bag to breathe into. A couple of meathead rugby players who suggested I should go back to America got a reply of ‘With yo mama?’ instead of a physical confrontation. I still got the odd token twinges in my chest and my right hand, but there were no full-on freezes, no vivid flashbacks.
No Coyote.
Well, almost. I hardly heard a peep out of him; a comment here, a question there, usually mailed in. It was more a whisper than a voice. It was the clearest evidence yet of improvement. It was nailing the first four letters in the word ‘goodbye’.
Of course, because the life of Munro Maddux could never be completely stress-free, there was still the odd fire to put out.
The first was sparked by YOLO. After the routine check-in with my parents, they beefed up the backgrounder in my Sussex student exchange profile. The add? Mum’s ‘pity poor Munro’ email sent along with my original application.
‘I promise it totally stays on the down low,’ Craig Varzani assured me, and a cringe crawled across my face.
On 16 March, Ms Mac interrupted Geography to summon me to a one-on-one. As we strode in silence to her office, I wondered what she was thinking. Was she upset that I’d deceived her? Mad? Would she body-check me, send me flying? Slameron Diaz certainly had the chops to do it. I risked a look in her direction as we passed the 2011 tribute mural. No bruises or scratches. I didn’t know if it was an omen.
We entered her office. There was a new poster on the wall: Don’t ask me nothing and I won’t tell you no lies – Anonymous. Seemed appropriate. I took a seat. Across from me, Ms Mac pondered, elbows on the desk, hands joined, tips of her fingers tapping out morse code.
‘You’ve been through a lot, Munro,’ she began.
‘It’s in the past, miss,’ I replied.
‘Is it?’
‘Yeah, it is. Evie died over a year ago. I’m here in Australia. I’m enjoying the student exchange. I’m trying to go for “best” and not be satisfied with “better”.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
The clock on the wall checkmarked my performance so far. Tick … tick … tick … tick …
‘I do have to talk to your t
eachers about this.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means they need to be informed.’
‘How informed?’
‘What info do you reckon they should have?’
‘None.’
‘Because it’s in the past?’
‘I want it to stay that way.’
Ms MacGillivray nodded, once, in slow motion. She suggested telling the teachers that I’d ‘experienced family difficulties’ and ‘may require some special consideration’. Could I handle that? I said I could.
‘There’s one more thing,’ she added. ‘I think you should seriously think about getting some help, Munro.’
‘Sorry?’
‘If “best” is truly your goal, someone should be giving you a helping hand while you’re here.’ Ms Mac rounded the desk, dropped down to her haunches beside my chair. ‘There are a couple of really good people I could recommend, folks who work with young people doing it tough. I could give you their numbers, email addresses.’
‘I’m already in contact with a teen helpline on a regular basis,’ I said. ‘And, just so’s you know, I’m able-bodied. Regular brain. No third copy of chromosome 21. No hole in the heart.’ I nodded. ‘I am the helping hand.’
The second fire was no inferno, but it still needed to be put out. Caro and Rowan must’ve been on to the gang about their bad case of Munro-itis, because they came after me – in class, at lunch, after school, individually and together. Even Renee got in on the act. No more time on my own practising chess or researching popular T-shirt designs or reading comics with obscure superheroes or checking out stories of special-needs marriages or watching videos of made-up martial arts moves. They would find me and befriend me, whether I was down with it or not.
There was plenty of news to update. Maeve’s high light of the school fete was Rowan’s cooking, specifically a batch of ‘to-die-for honey-and-fig bikkies’ he made for the bake sale. Renee passed around her list of heckles for the opening night of The Addams Family (Maeve would be spared any burns). Digger revealed that the pursuit of Jessica Mauboy as his semi-formal date was going to plan; he’d favourited two hundred of her tweets since January. He would pop the question once he’d reached the magic number of three hundred.
I knew they weren’t really reaching out to me; they were just doing it to make Caro and Rowan happy. But I played along. That made Caro and Rowan happy, too.
The third fire to be extinguished was lit by my parents.
We’ll be visiting you soon!
That was the opening line of the email they sent on 21 March. The lines that came after it were just as WTF.
Nina and Geordie invited us to come over and visit. They felt you were a bit homesick and thought you could do with a familiar face (or two!). We were delighted to accept the invitation and I’m looking at flights as I write this!
I won’t lie – a big part of me wanted them to come. A bigger part, though, was fearful about what might happen if they did. I was progressing, I had momentum. Would the Coyote find new life with Mum and Dad on the scene? I didn’t want to find out.
I FaceTimed them the next day. Dad sensed what was coming and the sort of message I was bringing. His first comment came down the line before the video feed had even kicked in.
‘You don’t want us there, do you?’
His face appeared. He’d grown a beard since the last call – a patchy, scraggly excuse for a goatee. The bags under his eyes could’ve stashed groceries.
‘I do, but I … don’t. I’m sorry, Dad.’
He sniffed and looked off to the side. ‘What did I tell you, Belinda? You owe me twenty bucks.’
Mum entered the shot. She was wearing pyjamas and carrying a hot drink, probably one of her ‘zen’ teas.
‘Quit it, Malcolm! We did not bet!’ She turned to me. ‘There was no bet, Munro.’
‘I know it’s a joke, Mum.’
‘Honey, we’d love to see you.’
‘You’re seeing me now.’
‘We’d love to see you in person. I think a short visit would be great for all of us. We could meet the Hyde family and see some sights and, you know, just spend some time together … Munro?’
Tears pooled in Mum’s lower lids. Her twenty-four-hour delight over the Hydes’ invite had been crushed underfoot. Was I being cruel? Was I blowing the idea out of the water before giving it a chance to float? Ollie would have called me a joy-bomber.
‘People who’ve been through serious shit,’ she’d said, ‘can really struggle to accept nice things happening to them or around them. Instead of appreciation, they nuke it with anger or cynicism or disdain or just something negative. They joy-bomb it.’
I wasn’t joy-bombing my parents. Joy-slapping, yes; joy-punching, maybe. Definitely not joy-bombing. I leaned in closer to the propped iPad, but looked towards my suitcase, standing in the corner of the bedroom.
‘We just thought coming over would help dispel some of our fears,’ said Dad.
‘How many do you have?’
‘A tonne. Losing you. The future. Whether we’re doing the right thing. Whether the exchange will help you heal. Just to name a few. All of them are real to us.’ Dad tapped his forehead several times, perhaps trying to loosen up his memory. ‘The night you left, son, Mum and I went to a bar near the check-in area. It was about nine-thirty; the place closed at ten, so there was time for a drink or two. But we didn’t want to drink. We didn’t want to watch the game on the TVs. Didn’t even want to talk. We just sat there, gawking at the procession of late-night travellers, looking like we’d lost a fortune on a coin flip. Eventually, a waiter had to ask us to leave because they were closing up. I was reluctant to go. Mum had to lead me out by the elbow. I think there was something about the act of leaving – the actual passing through the doors of the terminal – that felt wrong to me, like an ending I couldn’t understand.
‘On the drive home, Mum asked if I regretted letting you go away. I pulled the car over to the shoulder and searched for an answer. It took a while. “Munro went away the day his sister died,” I said. “I don’t know how to bring him back.”’
Mum closed her eyes, let her head fall to the side.
‘We still don’t know how to bring you back, son,’ added Dad. ‘I guess we’re still trying. That’s why we jumped at the chance to visit. But just as it is with Evie, we have to understand that we can’t bring you back. I can’t, Mum can’t, your sister can’t, God up in Heaven can’t. Only you can bring Munro Maddux back. We need to understand that. But it seems we’re not there yet.’
The following day, Nina showed me an email Mum had sent:
Hi Nina
Thank you so much for your very kind invitation. Unfortunately, we will now have to pass. There are some things with our work at the Foundation that we have been unable to shift.
Thank you again for all you are doing to take care of our Munro.
Sincerely,
Belinda Maddux
Three fires doused amid three weeks of awesome. And now I’ve arrived at the first morning after the Easter long weekend, the first proper opportunity to tour the only place in Brisbane I really want to see. The failing grip of the Coyote is set to give out altogether.
I turn away from the Fair Go Welcome sign and motion for Caro to join me. ‘You ready to Living Partner like a boss?’
She smiles and adjusts her black wristbands. ‘Lead the way.’
‘Caro, this is Kelvin Yow. He’s the residential manager.’
‘Thank you for having me here.’
‘No worries. The residents who work with Munro are the ones you should thank. Normally, they would have a face-to-face before letting you loose, but they made an exception in your case. A thumbs-up from Mr Maddux here is good enough for them.’
‘I tried to warn them,’ I add. ‘I said you were a horrible person, really mean, not too bright, bad hygiene.’
Caro shrugs. ‘All true.’
‘They said they didn’t mind –
working with me, they were used to it.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ says Kelvin. ‘So how about we get you two awful teenagers out and about?’
On the walk to the Creative Arts Precinct, Caro notices everything: the ramp accesses, the park benches, the hand-carved Wally Yow Way street sign. She also has a hundred questions for Kelvin: How long has Fair Go been around? How many residents? How many staff? What sort of activities do you do? What sort of support do you provide? In many cases, she already knows the answers, either from talking to me or from her own research.
By the time we reach the studio door (painted with the image of a mermaid on a swing), Kelvin has a solid opinion of Caro. He shares it with me quietly, behind a cupped hand. ‘She’s a keeper, Munro.’
Before leaving, he makes sure we’re set for the day with a basic map, schedules, phone numbers. He looks at our shoes.
‘Ah, good, you’ve got your runners on. The residents have planned a little something for you this afternoon.’
‘It’s not another field trip, is it?’ I ask. ‘I mean, the touring is great, but that’s all we’ve been doing. I really want to stick around home here.’
‘You’re staying here, mate, but it is touring … for the residents. They’re looking to get a little taste of your homeland.’ Kelvin smiles, brings an index finger to his lips. ‘I’ll say no more. Enjoy yourselves and I’ll catch you this arvo at The Shed.’
After Kelvin departs, Caro bumps me with a little hip-check.
‘What was that for?’ I ask.
‘You called this place home – that’s really sweet.’
In the Creative Arts Precinct, every part of the scene brings a smile to my face – the colours, the materials, the humming machines, the buzzing voices. The people. Smiling, laughing. Working together. Singing along to the tune tumbling out of the Bose speaker – ‘Dangerous Woman’ by Ariana Grande. A girl sits in a wheelchair made to look like an ice-cream truck. A young guy wearing an eyepatch darts about taking photos of finished pieces on display. ‘Etsy will love this!’ he announces after each snap, as if Etsy is a favourite aunt. A girl, seated in a La-Z-Boy off to the side, looks like she’s opting out of the action. A closer look shows she’s putting together a bracelet that has ‘LUKE’ spelled out in beads. The place is a beauty. A sign on one of the walls has a message in an ornate font: Art is education, art is vocation, art is therapy … Art is LIFE!
