by Darren Groth
‘Ditching is not what you do, Caro.’
My phone buzzes for the second time. Again, I kill the call. The school bell rings. Last class is starting. The drone of students roaming from one class to the next begins to die away.
‘It wasn’t supposed to end like this, Munro. Not today. Not this way.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’
I open my arms. She falls in, buries her face in my shoulder. Two minutes pass – a poor substitute for what’s left of six months. I take everything in. The curve of her back, the coconut smell of her hair, the squeak of her small sobs. The punch of her hammering heart.
‘I’ll text you.’
Caro wipes her eyes with my shirtsleeve. ‘Don’t.’
‘Okay.’
We break apart. Caro takes hold of my left hand again, squeezes it, lets it fall back to my side. ‘Say hi to the team for me.’
She turns and runs away, headed for H Block.
Varzani said I’m not a criminal, but maybe I am. Maybe I’m a fugitive. The Coyote always accused me of hiding out in Fair Go. Maybe I could do just that – lay low there for a while. Seriously, what the fuck could YOLO do about it? Call the cops? Arrest me? Put me in handcuffs and force me to leave?
I could convince Kelvin to keep me around. I could do other stuff, not just be a Living Partner. I have some money. I could stay in the staff units.
This is not over.
This is not goodbye.
I knock on the door to Kelvin’s office. The muffled murmurs inside continue for several seconds before a strained ‘Who is it?’ can be heard.
‘It’s Munro Maddux.’
Silence, then more muffled murmurs.
‘Get on with it,’ I whisper. Time is short. And getting shorter. Finally, he calls me in. I enter to find Kelvin on his cell.
‘I know where you’re coming from, no doubt … That’s right … Okay, I’ll be in touch. Bye.’ He puts down the phone and looks me over like I’m a piece of abstract art. ‘Munro Maddux, the young man I need to talk to and – poof! – you appear just like that. I would say you’re psychic, but I don’t think you’re aware of our recent situation.’
‘I don’t know about any situation. What’s up?’
‘First things first, why are you wagging school to come here?’
‘Sorry?’
Kelvin folds his arms. ‘You can only do so many “diversity projects” before the truth is apparent. What’s going on, mate? Why did you bail on school to come here today?’
It’s all falling apart, Munro.
I wince. ‘You’re right, I’ve been ditching. But it’s actually not the case this time. I’m here because I want to … stay.’
Kelvin’s eyes narrow. He begins drumming his fingers on the mousepad to his right. ‘Stay. You mean … live?’
‘Yes. In the staff units, if you have room.’
‘How long were you hoping to stay?’
‘As long as you’ll have me.’
‘Your host family been a problem?’
‘No, they’re not the problem.’
Kelvin stops drumming. ‘Do the student-exchange people know about this? They can’t be okay with you making this request.’
‘There is no student exchange. It ended this morning. So did my Sussex State High stint. I’m not ditching now. I’m a free man.’
‘Free?’
‘Free to be here at Fair Go.’
‘Okay, but if the exchange is over, won’t you be on your way back to Vancouver soon?’
‘I’m not ready to say goodbye.’
Kelvin leans back in his chair, plants his hands on top of his head. He starts a comment, but it falters in transit, peters out to a soft hmmm. He stands up and begins a lap of the office. One by one, he finds the framed pics of him with my team. Florence mid-arm wrestle. Iggy pointing at a vine of big ripe tomatoes. Bernie talking into a microphone. Dale going full farmer with overalls, boots, straw hat. He returns to the desk and opens one of the drawers. He takes out an unframed pic, lays it facedown.
‘The photos on display,’ he says, ‘are of the residents who currently call this place home. I make sure I get a snap with each person, print off a copy and frame it. I love seeing them and being around them every day.’
He points at the open drawer.
‘I also keep photos in my desk. These are the folks that used to live here, at one time or another, but are now gone.’
He turns over the pic. It’s Shah, in his Barcelona shirt, arms folded, right foot propped on a soccer ball.
‘I would love to keep these photos on show, too, but I don’t. Putting them away reminds me that things don’t stay the same, that people leave. That we walk side by side with our residents rather than holding their hand.’
A thought hits me. I scan the office gallery once, twice, then zero back in on the residential manager. ‘Where’s Blake?’
The colour leaches out of Kelvin’s face. He reaches into the drawer, finds a photo and places it face up next to Shah’s. Blake is eating ice-cream and rocking the peace sign.
‘Early Monday,’ he begins, ‘Tom Kennedy came across one of the “wedding” pics from Boggo Road on his daughter’s phone. He was livid and rang me immediately, demanding an explanation. I assured him that the ceremony was nothing more than spur-of-the-moment, harmless fun; it had no actual meaning, no formal recognition. It was simply a wonderful display of affection and commitment between two loving people. He saw it very differently. Blake has Down syndrome. She’s handicapped. She can’t properly grasp affection and commitment. She has no real clue about relationships. She sees marriage as some sort of fairytale, not what it truly is: a holy union between a man and a woman, of sound mind, sanctioned by God. Tom said we’d been grossly irresponsible and had gone against his express wishes. We’d indulged his daughter’s unrealistic expectations and he would forever have to deal with the fallout. Shame on us. He wanted to know whose idea it was. I said it was mine. He wondered what sort of sadistic organisation we were running and mentioned he was considering legal action. In the meantime, he was taking Blake out of Fair Go, effective immediately.
‘I apologised unreservedly and asked him how I could make things right. Anything short of turning back time was unacceptable. I asked him – no, I begged him – to not have Blake pay the price for a mistake that we made. I pleaded with him to consider her work in the Digital Media Centre and the pride and achievement and responsibility and self-worth she’d got from it. Should all that be swept aside because of a momentary miscalculation? I said straight up, Fair Go is Blake’s home. Tom Kennedy laughed and said, “Some sort of home.” He reckoned we’d get Blake and “that boy” living together and sleeping in the same bed. Before long, he’d have a retarded grandchild to look after.
‘Next morning, he collected Blake and her belongings. I won’t share the details of that scene with you, Munro. Suffice to say, it was tense. And awful. And sad.’
Kelvin walks around his desk and grabs a spare chair. He sets it down directly in front of me and sits. We are face to face, knee to knee.
‘You’re blaming yourself,’ he says. ‘But, sometimes, Life takes on a life of its own. Fair Go is not immune to that truth. It’s why we walk side by side. It’s why I keep those pictures in my desk drawer.’ He pats my shin. ‘It’s why you should think about going home, Munro.’
My phone comes alive again, bustling and vibrating. I take it out and shut it off. It goes back in my pocket. Silent. Dead.
I stand up, sling my bag over my shoulder and walk out of Kelvin’s office.
She’s gone.
Stolen.
You tried to do more, tried to do good, to be the big brother she could be proud of. But you let her down. You failed.
Now, you’ll never see her again.
You never even got to say goodbye.
My head is a kite. My chest is on fire. My legs are filled with sand. It’s so hard to move, but I have to keep going, find somewhere to hide – a
n escape, away from all the people who want to say ‘It isn’t your fault’ and ‘You did your best’ and ‘You should go home’. I blunder forward, one heavy foot after another. This hallway – when will it end? Soon, I expect. Sooner than I expect. That’s the way of the world. Sure enough, there’s a door. A sign: Emergency Exit Only. I push like I pushed on Evie’s chest. But just once, not dozens of times. Not hundreds. An ache chews on my wrists as the door swings open. No bells or alarms. No siren. That’s gone now. She went with it.
The sky. Bright blue. Full of sun. It’s a lie, a trick. You know it’s grey.
That’s it, Munro – crush every stray leaf on the path, spit in the flowerbeds. See the signs up ahead? They don’t have to tell you. You know where you’re going.
There’s no theatre or tennis courts here like at DSS. No storage shed. There’s just a house. A front door with the number 4 on it. It’s locked. Doesn’t matter – this is your hide-out. It’s quiet. Still. No one inside. Grab a rock from the pile near the mailbox and bring it back to the nearest window. Wrap it in your shirt. Smash the glass. Good. Now you’re inside, where no one can find you.
Except me.
No thoughts. No feelings. Just heartache. And a stone in my throat that won’t budge. The couch looks good.
I ditch my bag.
As I lie down, I feel pain in my right hand. I hold it up to my face. It’s cut, bleeding. It could do with a bandage, but that wouldn’t make it better.
All I want to do is sleep.
AWAY
Sunlight pours through the broken window. I rub my eyes and peek at my watch. Just after eight. In the morning. I look down to find my hand bandaged. The person responsible is packing up to leave.
‘Perry?’
‘Hello, Munro. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’
‘It’s, um, fine. What … What are you doing here?’
‘Kelvin sent me here. He said I needed to stop you bleeding to death. That’s not a very good joke because you were never in danger of bleeding to death. You don’t even need stitches. The wound is superficial. Jackie Chan has had much worse making his movies.’ He turns his head to the side and squints. ‘You are probably wondering why I bandaged you while you were unconscious. It’s not good social skills to be in your personal space like that without you knowing, but I thought it might be easier and less painful that way because you were sleeping so deeply. I hope you are okay with that.’
I hold up my dressed arm. ‘Didn’t feel a thing. Thank you.’
Perry wipes his hands on his thighs. ‘You’re welcome. Do you mind if I ask you a question?’
‘Is it: Why did I break into House 4 for the night?’
‘Good guess! Why did you do that?’
‘I wanted to be alone.’
‘Do you still want to be alone?’
I think for a moment, then answer. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘That’s good. We all need to be alone sometimes, but we also cannot live in a world of one. No lie.’ Perry looks at his watch. ‘I have to go and babysit my nephew now. I hope to see you this afternoon, Munro. Kelvin mentioned you might be staying here for a little while.’
‘Actually, I’ll be out of here today. Then heading back to Vancouver, probably in the next day or two.’
‘I think your mum and dad will be very pleased to see you.’
‘Yeah.’
Perry nods, then winks. ‘Take care of yourself.’
He exits House 4.
I stare at my phone for ten minutes. Old texts from Caro. Lou’s Facebook page. A post he shared about the E-LIFE button campaign leads me to the Foundation’s site. It looks unchanged from a week ago. Strange, I think. New content has been the standard since it went live, whether it’s a blog entry or a video or a media release.
There are eleven missed calls on FaceTime, the last at six o’clock this morning. I sigh and look around the living room for a suitable place to surrender. The small table where Shah and I played checkess draws me over. I sit down and, making sure my bandaged hand is out of the picture, thumb the green icon.
The answer is almost immediate, two buzzes and my parents fill the screen. They don’t speak, don’t even move. They’re like wallpaper. I start talking.
‘Mum, Dad … I’m sorry. I should have told you what I’d planned to do these last few weeks. A bunch of times I ditched school and headed out to Fair Go. I had to do more. For my team of residents. For me.
‘It hasn’t worked out – in fact, everything’s gone to shit. I take full responsibility for that. And I know what the consequences are. I’m not ready to say goodbye, but … I guess no one ever is.’
My parents turn to each other, brows lifted. After a few seconds, Dad removes his glasses and stares down the camera. ‘You done?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing else you want to say?’
‘I could say sorry again.’
Dad holds up a hand. ‘Not necessary.’
He looks to the side as if, off camera, a stranger has arrived and wants in on the discussion.
‘Munro, do you ever talk to Evelyn?’ he asks.
I glance at my bandaged hand. ‘Yeah. Sometimes. She never answers.’
Dad finds a thin smile that quickly shapeshifts into a grimace. ‘You know what? I talk to her, too. Quite often. I tell her about stuff that’s happening now, good times from the past. About Mum, the Foundation. You. Every time I speak to her, I end up apologising. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you at the end, my sweet. I’m sorry I wasn’t with you. I should’ve been with you. Then a few weeks ago, I stopped mid-apology. A thought had come into my head. I don’t know if it just appeared on its own, or if it had been there all along and finally found a way out. Maybe Evie put it there. However it happened, it socked me right in the jaw. The thought was: If my daughter had known when she was going to die, who would she have wanted there with her? Who would she have wanted by her side at the end?
‘The answer was obvious – it was you, son. Of course it was you. Her big brother. The person who let her win at computer games and painted her bedroom every time she wanted to change the colour. The person who showed her how to skate backwards and who read Treasure Island to her. Her favourite person in the world. I realised after all this time that my apologies to Evelyn were selfish. I was wishing I’d been there for her when, truthfully, I was wishing I’d been there for me.’
Dad’s voice cracks on the final phrase. I try to swallow and fail. The heartbeats in my ears are weak and thin, like small sighs.
‘There’s no need to keep going,’ I say. ‘If there’s more, you can tell me in person soon enough.’
He pulls himself together with another sideways look. Mum dabs her nose with a tissue and grasps his hand.
‘We’re here for you, son,’ he says. ‘Whenever you return.’
I side-eye my phone, then give it a little shake. ‘Whenever?’
Mum nods. ‘That fellow from YOLO recommended that you come home and we agreed. You should come home.’ She points. ‘You. The real you. Like we said last time, we can’t bring you back. Only you can.’
‘And when you do,’ adds Dad, ‘there’s a little Foundation idea we’d like your help with.’ He takes a photo out of his pocket and holds it up to the camera. It’s a selfie. He and Mum standing in a vacant plot of land. There’s a FOR SALE! sign between them.
‘Five acres in Chilliwack,’ says Mum. ‘Future site of the Evelyn Maddux Community Village.’
‘We’re looking into it,’ corrects Dad.
I lean in, studying every detail of the image. ‘Is this for real?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re thinking of buying this?’
‘Like I said, we’re looking into it.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Say you’ll work with us to make it happen one day.’
‘Are you kidding, Dad? I’ll start working with you as soon as I step off the plane.’
‘Well, right now, focus on b
ringing Munro Maddux back.’ He grabs Mum’s hand, kisses it. ‘Whenever.’
I shut my eyes. In the absence of sight, House 4 speaks to my other senses. The air is stale, despite the broken window. The thin film of dust on the table coats my fingertips. The fridge whirrs away in the kitchen, keeping the tray of ice cubes cold. My mind shifts to Blake’s house at Fair Go. Is it like this already? Is there any trace of her left? Any sign that she had a full, rich, loving life under its roof? I open my eyes.
‘Mum, Dad, thank you for letting me stay,’ I reply. ‘But I think it’s time to say goodbye to Fair Go.’
‘During Morning Connections, I showed the team the text you sent me about quitting,’ says Kelvin, holding a sheet of plastic against the damaged window. I hand him a strip of duct tape. ‘They refused.’
‘Refused?’
‘With extreme prejudice.’
‘What about Dale?’
‘I didn’t ask him. He’s not in your team.’
‘Maybe not formally, but he is, though. And his opinion – it’s the one that really counts.’
‘More than the others?’
‘The others have to accept my decision, Kelvin. It’s my decision.’
‘They know it’s your decision. They’re just adamant it’s the wrong one.’
‘It’s not like I want to go. It’s just … you know … I need to put their photos in the drawer.’
‘They don’t agree, Munro. They believe there’s still work to be done together. They want to finish the Straya Tour, too.’
‘Haven’t we seen everything in south-east Queensland?’
‘Apparently not.’
I cut another strip of tape and hand it over. ‘Maybe I should just take off. I could do that.’
He fastens the bottom border of the plastic sheet. ‘It’d be hard on them. They’re tough buggers, though. They’ll get over it. Eventually.’
‘How do I make them get over it now?’ I watch him press against the plastic cover, testing its strength. I snap my fingers. ‘We’ll put it to a vote, Dale included.’
