by Andrew Daddo
‘You had to leave, Hendrix,’ she whispered. ‘For us as much as you.’
‘Yeah, but what if it was waiting for the train that did it? It was cold, she didn’t have a blanket. It was a longer car ride than she usually takes at that time of the morning. That could have triggered something. I should have stayed.’
He was in his tracksuit, running singlet and socks.
‘No,’ said Anna, gently. ‘You had to go, and it was only for the day. You weren’t leaving forever. And neither is Emily.’
‘It’s not your fault, son,’ said Eddy. ‘It was random, just chance.’
Hendrix’s dad shook hands with Eddy and offered what little he could.
‘Yeah, but, what if …?’ challenged Hendrix. But it was useless, his heart had the better of him and he was too scared of the answer to the question he was trying to ask.
His father helped him into a plastic seat opposite the others and sat with him, their heads bowed, no one knowing where to look.
Eddy got up and sat next to Hendrix. ‘I hear you ran a pretty nice semi-final, Hendrix.’
‘It was shit,’ he muttered without looking up. ‘Third. Nothing special.’
His father couldn’t help himself. ‘Far from shit. Top four go through. And he walked it in, didn’t ya.’ He was just trying to change the mood, nothing more.
‘Dad.’
Eddy stuck with it. ‘When’s the final? Is it today?’
His father looked at the big clock on the wall, the one that never seemed to move but gobbled time when no one was watching. ‘Three-forty. Two hours.’
‘Jesus, Dad. Would you let it go?’
‘I said nothing, Drix. Just the time of the race. Eddy asked, that’s all.’
Hendrix shook his head. ‘Did they say how long the operation’s going to take?’
Anna shook her head.
Hendrix grunted. ‘So, what are they actually doing? Is it brain surgery? Are they going to cut out the growth? What if they stuff it up? What if she’s paralysed …’
‘Drix,’ said his dad.
Eddy looked over Hendrix’s bent form to Paul and shook his head, then placed a hand on Hendrix’s back. ‘The shit thing,’ he said quietly. ‘Like, the really shit thing about all of this, is we’re useless. There’s nothing we can do, not one of us. Not me, or your dad or even you. We can just sit here, say the right things, think the right thoughts and wait. I pray to God she can feel us, I really do. We wait and hope. But you might be different, Hendrix. There is something you can actually do.’
‘I’m not leaving.’ He was forward in his chair, face up.
‘You’re not staying, son. You can’t.’ Eddy sat forward, mirroring Hendrix, and said very quietly, ‘Run on, Hendrix. Go do what Emily can’t. Go run the race of your life and come back with a story to tell her when she wakes up.’
Eddy was wringing his hands. Hendrix followed their motion, concentrated on them. Big, hard worker’s hands. Dirt and scars and scabs on the two big knuckles.
‘You know what she likes about you?’ Eddy said. ‘You’ve got potential. That’s what she told me. She said, “You should see him, Dad. Potential plus.” And I kind of laughed, because I definitely hated the thought of any other man than me in her life. But, you make me feel alright about it. And she’s right. You’ve got potential, son. Go fill it. Run on. Run on for my little Emily.’
Hendrix saw a tear land on the back of Eddy’s hand and could barely stand it.
‘What do you think?’ asked Eddy. ‘Can you run your race for her?’
Hendrix shook his head as his father stood up.
Anna chimed in. ‘You can’t stay, Hendrix. Eddy’s right. Too many people, too miserable. It’s too hard. We need a good story, and the doctor said this is going to take hours.’
‘But what if something happens?’ Hendrix dug in.
‘Nothing’s going to happen, son. Not quickly, and Em’s in the best possible place. Give her a story, mate. Take her with you. Take her for a run like she’s never had before. God know she’ll be running with you the whole way.’
Eddy levered a hand under his elbow and started to lift him.
‘Run on, Hendrix.’
They literally didn’t speak on the walk back to the car or during the ride to the track. Not a word.
Paul was desperate to say something but feared he’d spook his son. Hendrix was all over the place, tears one moment, brooding the next. It was as if his emotions wouldn’t settle, so he was splashing about with no warning of what might be coming next.
Paul steered Hendrix toward the marshalling area and kept him away from the throng. He could see the runners assembling and guessed they’d missed the first call for competitors. ‘You’re okay,’ he said finally.
‘Calling finalists for the Under 17 800 metres. Last call, Boys Under 17 800 metres, Victorian Championships Race.’
‘I can’t do it, Dad.’
‘Hendrix. Of all the things you cannot do, this is not one of them.’
Hendrix shook his head slowly. Then faster, as if trying to loosen a thought.
‘I can’t. It’s no good. I shouldn’t even be here. Fuck. What if she –’ But the words trailed off as he looked to the sky hoping that might cork things for a moment.
His father took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the track. ‘Don’t think,’ he said quietly. ‘On that track you don’t have to think at all, Hendrix. It’s probably the one place on the planet where you’re free.’
A teary gust caught in Hendrix’s throat.
‘Breathe,’ his dad said. ‘Just breathe.’
Paul held him in a gentle embrace from behind and then, tilting Hendrix’s head back ever so slightly, Paul rubbed his son’s forehead and said very gently, ‘Breeeathe. You’ve got to breathe out the fear, Drix. It’s not going to help anyone now. Breathe the shit out, bring in the good stuff. That’s it. Good boy. You’re a good boy.’
He could feel his son relax as the mantra found its mark.
‘You see that sky? Clean blue sky full of beautiful, perfect oxygen. There’s power in it, Hendrix. Power and faith and goodness in every breath. Bring in the new, Drix. Bring in the possibility.’ He ran his hands across Hendrix’s shoulders and down his arms. ‘Power and freedom and clarity. Out with the sadness, in with the possibility. That’s it. Long, slow breaths. That’s it. Here it comes. Fill your heart with possibility. With possibility comes probability. Good boy, Hendrix. Good boy. That’s it. Your girl’s going to be fine, I just know it.’
Hendrix dropped his head, dragged in a couple of big breaths and shrugged a couple of times. He’d said something like that to Emily in the tent; just the thought of it started to strangle him.
‘Just run, Drix.’
He almost managed a smile before wriggling out of his trackie dacks and handing them over.
‘I reckon it’ll take a miracle, Dad. Two in a day might be a bit much.’
Up behind the start line, Hendrix did some basic stretching and tried to get his head into the race. Fast, he thought. I’ll go out fast. Or I’ll hang back. I can hang back and run through them all. But his focus was off, the only picture he could see clearly was Emily and her head cut open on an operating table. Every time he thought of it he nearly buckled. Twice he backed away from the start line as the starter called them to get ready.
Can you run a race for her? Eddy had asked.
‘I can,’ whispered Hendrix. ‘We’ll run it together, Em.’
He came to the line and held his position, taking a quick look at the runners around him. Lane three. It was shit and perfect at the same time.
‘Here we go, boys. Be still.’ The starter held them forever. Hendrix pulled a couple of big breaths in through his nose and let them go from his mouth. ‘Take your marks.’
Can you run a race for her?
‘Get set.’
Run on, son. Run on for my little Emily.
MHEEEP!
Hendrix missed the start complet
ely. He was marooned on the start line as the other runners took off. He’d barely got going by the time the runner from lane one was past him. Through the fog he heard a yell of ‘Go!’, but it could have been for anyone. ‘Gogogogogo!’
He guessed it was meant for him.
Run on, son.
Hendrix charged. He was like Lucky after a ball, there was no sense to it, he just took off, running madly for the other finalists. His father was wrong. He did have time to think on the track. He saw himself streaming past the other runners, humiliating them, all for Emily. But it wasn’t working. After the late start, he was barely gaining ground. Worse, he couldn’t find a rhythm.
Just run, Drix.
He wanted to stop, to feign injury. People pulled hamstrings all the time in races like this. Too much too soon and any number of muscles could go ping. But that wouldn’t solve anything.
Just breathe, went his father’s voice. Pick a line, run to it, and breathe.
Breathe, in.
Now. Out.
He listened to his breath, to the sharp intake and the slower exhale until it was all he could hear. He searched for his heart next. For the dull throb of it. To harness it, to give him form and strength and to get the blood and the air moving to the right places.
He could hear his spikes ripping at his lane, finding comfort in their tacky thwack. The outside runners were drifting in, the pack settling in lanes one and two. Hendrix stayed wide.
On the first go up the back straight he’d caught the runners at the tail of the field. Hendrix knew he should sit to the side, watching and waiting, but he couldn’t slow down. It was like he wanted to suffer the way Emily was. It was only fair. Through that top turn and down the straight, he was literally charging, making easy work of the field. By the bell, a group of three were still out front, but they’d tire, he knew they would.
He didn’t care if they didn’t. He’d run them down, and then he’d run through anyone else in his way. By the end of the back straight, he was through two of them, the leader just ahead and looking good. Hendrix could feel the burn beginning in his legs and arms as they pumped him forward. It was a relief, a reassuring glow; a reminder he was alive and working. This was what Emily wanted for him, she wanted him to live, to feel life, to thrive. It’s what she’d wanted all along. Now he wanted it for her, too. His chest would hurt next, the breathing would come harder.
Halfway through the final top turn, he had the boy in front. Hendrix didn’t even look, he pumped his arms harder, forcing his legs to follow and to drive him faster down the track. Exiting the turn, it all opened up in front of him. No one in front, nothing in his way.
Open air. Blue sky. Possibility.
Hendrix knew the wall was coming. The edges would blur first and things would get funky. It only made him want to hit it quicker. He wanted the next level, to have the taste of blood in his throat as he tried to get even more from his body. Hendrix knew he might black out if he pushed hard enough.
Good, he thought. Let me black out. Let me feel how bad it can get.
Hendrix was in it now. The finish line was only a straight away, all he could hear was his heart smashing away in his ears and his chest fighting for breath. The crowd was kind of there, the commentator barking excitedly. Hendrix tried to get a bead on the white line across the end of the straight but couldn’t see for the blur.
He knew it was over by the roar that went up. He knew he’d won. He didn’t give a shit. He’d give a thousand inter-galactic championships to have Emily run one race. He’d give everything to race with her one more time. Any race at all. A walking race, a race to the shops on bikes or rollerskates or down the side of a mountain on skis. He’d race her to clean their plates of food or skoll their drinks or race to see who could text the other ‘I love you’ fastest.
Any race.
Just the chance to race.
Hendrix didn’t flinch; he ran full steam through the finish and into the next bend. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t. Hendrix ran on until he couldn’t run any more. His body was screaming for him to pull up but it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. He slowed to a jog, and by the top of the turn he was walking. His chest was heaving, screaming for air and room for his heart to pound. It wouldn’t slow and he didn’t care.
Hendrix stepped off the track and folded into a heap on the ground.
He was done. He had nothing left. Not the energy to cry or laugh or hurt. When he heard his name called he barely looked up. It was his father, running toward him, arms up in the air, waving at him like a madman.
‘Hendrix!’ he roared. ‘Hendrix!’
His dad’s fists were clenched in the victory salute. It must have been good, he was literally beaming, the time must have him in great shape for the Nationals. Hendrix was happy for his dad, but he’d never been sadder in his life.
‘Drix. Jesus,’ his dad panted as he got closer. ‘Why didn’t you stop? I was yelling at you to stop.’
Hendrix looked up at him, but the sun was behind, blacking out the expression on his face. He couldn’t see the pain or the worry, and what he thought was excitement was more fear for his son.
‘I couldn’t. I wanted to keep going ’til I died, Dad. I just want to die.’
He got to his knees but started crying again, burying his face in his hands. Anyone watching would have thought it was happiness, that the dream was done, the work had paid off. His father didn’t know what to say. The words were there somewhere, but trying to give them voice was almost impossible. He squatted next to his son and rubbed his back the way his mother would have. It seemed to settle him. Hendrix caught up with his breathing, but stayed cocooned on his knees.
Paul’s phone rang. He was tempted to leave it. But what if this was the call? It could be about the race, but maybe not. He stood up and pressed the green button.
Hendrix almost had his breathing together. His dad had answered in his business voice, the deep, serious ‘Paul Stenson’. That’s where his voice stayed.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Okay. I understand. I understand. Oh, God.’
Hendrix exhaled all of the shit that was inside him. It was the call. He should never have run. He should have stayed at the hospital. He should have been there, but like an idiot he’d run a stupid footrace instead. He covered his head with his arms and hoped to die, too.
‘Thanks for letting us know,’ Paul said quietly. ‘Thank you.’
The breath caught in Hendrix’s throat. He tried not to breathe. He didn’t want anything. His father kneeled beside him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders so tightly his son couldn’t shake him off.
Hendrix moaned. It was awful.
‘Hendrix,’ whispered his father tenderly in his ear. ‘She’s awake, son. Emily’s awake. She wants to know if we won.’
How lucky am I to have such help. My family, again, are spectacular! Felix, Bibi and Jasper were patient and generous enough to listen through scenarios, make vocabulary suggestions and to crap on things that were a generation away from their reality. My wife and life-long writing instigator, as always, visited the trenches throughout the battle.
Selwa Anthony, so much more than an agent, once again held my hand through the writing process: cajoling, helping, bending truths and realities where she had to. Peter Duffy was superb at helping out with the medical questions that Dr Google could never have answered.
When it was done – after we’d kicked and pulled and bashed it into a story – the real work began. Thank God for Heather Curdie, my editor who, along with Laura Harris sat me down for a reality check, then took the reins for the home straight – it was longer than I’d expected.
To Marina Messiha for the cover design and finding the artwork, all of which is stunning; Katrina Lehman for the proofreading; and publicist, Tina Gumnior, who is a dream to have in your corner.
To the librarians and booksellers who have always been so supportive.
My kids would say #blessed – but they’d be taking the piss. H
ard work, many hands, laughs and a few tears.
It’s done now – Just Breathe.
This is Andrew Daddo’s third young adult novel and his 26th book for young people. He’s written picture books, chapter books, short story collections, novels and a vague biography.
He has also managed to have a crack at just about every aspect of the entertainment industry. He’s appeared on TV and stage, presented radio programs and podcasts, and even made movies.
PRAISE FOR ONE STEP
Daddo … has stepped effortlessly into the YA genre and created a very special story that will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading.
Australian Bookseller and Publisher
… brilliantly observed. Daddo really understands teenage anxieties and insecurities and opens up a window into the teenage mind.
Magpies Magazine
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published by Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd, 2018
Text copyright © Andrew Daddo 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
Design by Marina Messiha © Penguin Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Cover background illustration by Tom Clohosy Cole; silhouette figures by aarows/Shutterstock
ISBN: 9781760142476
penguin.com.au
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