by Eric Walters
“Nice T-shirt.”
“I really like it.”
“I thought you would,” he said. “I’d like you to meet somebody. This is my brother—”
“Darrell,” I said, completing his sentence.
“Hi,” Darrell said, extending a hand. We shook. “Good to meet you.”
“Good to meet you…I’ve been reading a lot about you.”
“That’s a little scary. Terry told me all about you, too,” Darrell said.
I wondered how much he had told him, and I was hoping he’d left some of the bad stuff out. I felt embarrassed thinking about some of the things I’d said and done.
“Terry said you’d probably be joining us today. Are you ready to run?” Darrell asked.
“I’m ready.”
“Good, because it’s almost time to go,” Doug said, checking his watch again. “We still have a schedule to keep.”
“Do we have a minute before we have to go?” Terry asked.
“A minute or two,” Doug answered.
“Good…I was hoping to talk to Winston.”
“Sure, no problem,” Doug said. “We’ll hang on a bit.”
Doug and Darrell walked away, leaving Terry and me alone—alone, that is, if you didn’t count the hundreds of people who surrounded us.
“So, how have you been doing?” Terry asked.
“Fine. I’ve been doing fine.”
“School?”
“I went to school every day.”
“And your marks?” he asked.
“Not great, but good enough to pass. I’m going into grade nine next year, high school.”
“High school was one of my favourite times. You’re going to love it…you know, maybe trying out for some teams…going to classes every day…getting good marks.”
“I’m going to do all of those things,” I said. “A deal is a deal.”
Terry flashed a big smile. “And home?”
“I’m there every day and every night. Like I said, a deal is a deal.”
“That’s what I wanted to hear…what I knew I’d hear. I knew you’d keep your word,” Terry said.
“What choice did I have?” I asked. “You kept yours.”
“I’m trying. I got this far and I’m not quitting…and neither can you. Agreed?”
“I’ll keep my word. You can do the running for both of us.”
“Except today you’re going to be doing a little running too, right?”
“I’ll be running.”
“All right. It’s really good to have you with us again,” Terry said.
“It’s good to be here, but this is all pretty overwhelming,” I said.
“I’ve been doing this day by day and it still keeps on amazing me. It keeps getting bigger and bigger.”
“But that’s okay, isn’t it?” I asked.
“More people, more money raised. But more time spent talking to people and going to rallies…that stuff gets to be more exhausting than the running.”
“You looked tired,” I said.
“I am, but you know,” Terry said, “there’s not another thing in the entire world I’d rather be doing.”
I smiled. “Really?”
“Really.”
Doug walked over. “It’s time.”
“You’re going to take care of Winston?” Terry asked.
“He’ll be running right beside me and Darrell the whole way.”
That sounded good to me. I wasn’t going to let Doug out of my sight for a second.
“Great. I’ll see you in a while.”
Terry turned and walked away, policemen on all sides to shepherd him through the crowd. I stayed close to Doug and Darrell as they followed behind. Terry came to the very edge of the crowd. There were four more policemen on motorcycles waiting on the street, their machines rumbling away. They started slowly down the road, their lights flashing. The road was empty, but the sidewalks on both sides of the street were packed with people. Terry started running, and a wave of applause rose up from the crowd. I stood there, transfixed, watching him run. Stride, skip, step. Stride, skip, step. That same run that I’d witnessed in Nova Scotia. That same run that had taken him from St. John’s, Newfoundland, all the way to Toronto. That same relentless pace that had now taken him over two thousand miles.
“It’s time for us to run,” Doug said. “Let’s go.”
Doug and Darrell and I started to run. As we pulled away from the crowd, a wall of runners started up behind us. We were a few dozen yards behind Terry. From that vantage I took in the whole scene—packed sidewalks, the clapping, yelling, signs waving—Terry the very centre of everything, just as Doug had said. People kept jumping out of the crowd and running along with us for a while before dropping back or stopping. There were men in suits, women who hiked up their skirts, little kids with their parents, people with their dogs, women in curlers and aprons who looked like they’d run straight out of the beauty salon as Terry passed and couldn’t help joining in. There were volunteers holding buckets and bags, and people continually stuffed money into those containers. I couldn’t even imagine just how much money was being raised.
As Terry ran he smiled and laughed, and for what had to be the seven millionth time, waved back at somebody. And I knew that what he had told me was right—there was no place else he would have rather been. There was nothing else he would rather have been doing.
And I also knew there was no place else I would rather have been. I was there watching, witnessing, being a part of something so much bigger than anything I could imagine…something that hadn’t just started two thousand miles ago in Newfoundland and wasn’t going to end in Port Renfrew…something bigger…so much bigger. Even bigger than the width of this whole country.
19
SEPTEMBER 1, 1980
The intercom buzzer sounded and I clicked off the TV, got up off the couch and walked over to the door. I wondered who it could be. The buzzer sounded again. Whoever it was, they were in a hurry. I pressed the button to speak.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Winston, it’s me.”
“Dad?”
“Yeah, let me in.”
“Sure.” I pressed the button that opened the door to the lobby.
What was my father doing here in the middle of the day, and without calling? And why was he coming upstairs? He never came up here. He hadn’t been in the apartment since he’d left, almost two years ago. My parents had been getting along better the past while, but he still always picked me up and dropped me off in the lobby.
A chill went up my spine. Whatever the reason for this, it couldn’t be good. Come on, don’t be so paranoid…it doesn’t necessarily mean anything, I said to myself.
There was a knock. I opened up the door, and I could tell by his expression that something was wrong, terribly wrong…but what? I got an awful, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
My father came into the apartment. “I’m so glad you’re—”
“Is Mom okay?” I demanded, cutting him off.
“Your mother? Of course she’s okay.”
I exhaled deeply. Thank goodness.
“I just spoke to your mother a few minutes ago. She’s coming right home,” my father said.
“Why is she leaving work early? And why are you here?”
He didn’t answer right away. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?” I demanded.
“It’s Terry.”
“Terry…what happened to Terry?” Now I was scared in a different way. I could feel my stomach tighten into a knot.
“He’s stopped running.”
I shook my head. “That can’t be right. Terry would never stop running…that’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry to be telling you this, but I know how much he me
ans to you, and I thought it would be best if you heard it from me or your mom.”
“You’re wrong!” I snapped. “He hasn’t stopped! He wouldn’t stop!”
“I wish I were wrong. I just heard the first reports coming into the newsroom. He had to stop.”
“You mean for a couple of days, right?”
“I don’t know all the details. When I spoke to your mother she said they were going to be doing news updates on the CBC.”
I wanted to rush over and turn on the TV, but it felt like my feet were glued to the ground, like my legs were filled with lead. I just couldn’t move.
“Winston?” my father asked. “Are you okay?”
I looked up at my father. He looked scared, which made me feel even worse. He reached over and took my arm and led me down the hall toward the living room. Suddenly I no longer felt heavy. Instead I felt like a balloon, being pulled along by my father. He grabbed the converter and clicked it on. It was showing the cartoon I’d been watching when I’d buzzed him up to the apartment. He clicked the channel, then clicked it again, and again and—and there was Terry. He was on a stretcher being loaded into the back of an ambulance!
I felt my legs get weak and I slumped down into a chair.
Terry looked so weak, so fragile.
“This footage was shot this afternoon outside of Thunder Bay,” an unseen announcer said, “as Terry Fox was forced to abandon his run.”
I heard the words and saw the images but I couldn’t believe them, couldn’t understand what they meant. It was as if the announcer were speaking in an entirely different language.
“Our correspondent at the scene reports that Terry was weak and fatigued.”
“Of course he’s weak and fatigued, you idiot!” I screamed at the TV. “Wouldn’t you be tired if you’d run more than three thousand miles!” I turned to my father. “He just needs a rest…he’s been needing a rest for a long time. Just a few days off and then he’ll be fine…he’ll start running again!”
“Terry began his run this morning but had to abandon his efforts after twenty miles because he had difficulty breathing,” the announcer continued. “Preliminary, and still unconfirmed reports indicate that our greatest fears have perhaps become true—that the primary cancer that cost Terry his leg has now spread. It appears that after 143 days and 3,339 miles the Marathon of Hope may have finally come to an end.”
“You’re wrong!” I screamed. “You’re wrong!” I leaped off the chair, charged across the room and smashed the off button with the palm of my hand! The whole wall unit holding the TV shook and rocked and for a split second I thought it was going to come tumbling down on top of me!
“Winston!”
I spun around. “He’s wrong! He doesn’t know Terry. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Are you?” I demanded. “You said it would only be a story when he stopped running!” Instantly I regretted my words. What an awful thing to say!
“I’m so sorry,” my father repeated. “Sorry for you…sorry for Terry…sorry for the whole country…just plain sorry.”
My lower lip started to quiver and I felt my tongue getting big and fat and the tears starting up, and I tried to fight it but I couldn’t. I started to cry—big hard sobs from the pit of my stomach. The tears just flowed down my face, and my father threw his arms around me and held on as the sobs just kept coming and coming and coming and my whole body convulsed.
And then I felt another pair of arms around me and I looked up to see my mother—I hadn’t heard her come in, but it was so good to have her arms around me too, holding on tight…holding me tight. It felt like I was little and my parents were together again, and I’d fallen down and hurt myself and they were both there to help make things better. Except this time, nobody could make things better. Nobody. This couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t. It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
20
SEPTEMBER 5, 1980
As I came in the door I heard the phone ringing. I dropped my backpack and books fell out and slid across the floor. I rushed over and grabbed the phone off the table.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Winston.”
I could hardly believe it. “Terry!”
“I was hoping I’d catch you,” he said. “Although I thought you might still be at school.”
“I just got in the door.”
“How did it go?”
“Better than I thought it might…I was worried.”
“Worried about what?” Terry asked.
“First day in high school,” I said. “You know, it’s so much bigger, so many more kids, the halls are crowded and everything.”
“High school is a big step, but I know you can handle it. I wanted to call you,” he said. “I guess you’ve heard about everything.”
Of course I’d heard. The whole country knew that he’d had to stop running and that the cancer had returned. What was I supposed to say to him? “Um…um…how are you doing?” I finally managed to croak.
“I’ve been better.”
“I’ve been watching the television reports, reading the papers,” I said, still hoping that somehow all those reports were wrong.
“The cancer that was in my leg has gone to my lungs.” Terry spoke softly, his voice cracking over the last few words.
“Terry…I’m so sorry.”
“I wanted you to understand that I had no choice. I had to stop running. I had to go home,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I had to have some more tests and X-rays, and maybe they’re going to have to do an operation that will involve opening up my chest. Or it could be more drugs.”
I started to cry. “It’s just not fair,” I blurted out. “It just shouldn’t be happening to you.”
“You know, you’re the second person who’s said that to me.”
“Who was the first?”
“My father. Although he wasn’t really saying it to me. He thought I was sleeping and he was talking to my mother. It was when we were flying home. And I’m going to say to you the same thing I said to him.” There was a pause. “It’s not fair or unfair…why not me?” Terry asked. “Why shouldn’t it be happening to me?”
I started crying louder.
“It’s going to be okay, Winston. This is just a setback. I’m not giving up,” Terry said. “Right now I’m going to fight as hard as I can to beat cancer…as hard as I’ve fought to run across the country.”
I wanted to say something, but I didn’t know what, and even if I had been able to think of the words, I didn’t think I could have forced them to come out.
“Winston, I need you to know that I had to stop running right now, but I haven’t quit. And I need you not to quit either.”
“Me?” I whispered.
“We made a deal, and you have to keep up your end. Keep going to school. Keep trying. Because you have to know that if there’s any way I can get back out there and finish it, I will.” I heard Terry take a big breath, and I could tell he was working hard not to cry. “Good things and bad things happen in the world, and I’m somebody who’s going to try his hardest.” There was a long pause. “And Winston, even if I die of cancer…even if I die…I want you to know that my spirit didn’t die and that I kept on trying…that I never gave up.”
“I know…And neither will I, Terry…neither will I.”
AFTER NOTE
Terry battled valiantly for ten months. On June 28, 1981, he died at the Royal Columbian Hospital in New Westminster, British Columbia. He was one month short of his twenty-third birthday, and his family was at his side.
As Terry had foretold, his spirit did not die. He lives on through the work of the Terry Fox Foundation and the efforts of millions of people around the world who support cancer research in his name.
The Terry Fox Foundation s
trives to keep alive the heroic effort and integrity that Terry Fox embodied, while recognizing the duality of its mandate. Not only does it raise money for research, but it also continues to share Terry’s story. People from around the world learn about Terry in the hope that their lives might be enriched by his example and that they may derive inspiration from his courage.
The Terry Fox Foundation raises funds for cancer research primarily through the annual Terry Fox Run. It is a grassroots organization that does not allow any commercialization of the Run, nor does it allow individuals or organizations to use the Terry Fox name or his likeness for personal gain. Please contact the Terry Fox Foundation to offer your support or to learn more about Terry Fox:
Toll free: 1-888-836-9786
Email: [email protected]
Website: www.terryfox.org
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A few years ago I was in Ottawa with my family when, across from Parliament Hill, I unexpectedly came upon a statue of Terry Fox. I stood beside that statue, unable to take my eyes from it. Overwhelmed by an incredible rush of memories and emotions, I sat down on a little bench just off to the side and stared. I thought about how many years had passed, but how the memories remained so strong—how an entire country was transfixed and united in Terry’s quest—how he remains the most significant hero in my lifetime. I sat there, thinking, feeling, and brushed back the tears that came.
Then, the teacher and writer in me began wondering: why has there never been a novel written for young people about Terry? I knew that through the Terry Fox Foundation and the annual run in schools across the country his memory and goals have been kept alive for children. But what did these students really know about Terry, the person, and the details of the Marathon of Hope? I decided right there, beside Terry, that I wanted to write that novel.
My first step was to approach the Terry Fox Foundation and the Fox family. I made it clear from the outset that I would write this novel only with the full agreement of the family. And I understood their initial caution—they are the guardians of Terry’s name, legacy and dream.