Exchange of Heart

by Darren Groth

  About the Book

  Since the death of his sister, Evie, Munro Maddux has been stuck.

  Flashbacks. Anger. Chest pains. A constant ache in his right hand. And a taunting voice he calls the Coyote. In an act of desperation, Munro heads off on a student exchange to Australia – the country of Evie’s dreams.

  Forced by his new school to join a volunteer program, Munro discovers the Coyote is silenced in one place: Fair Go, an assisted-living residence in Brisbane’s west. Munro gets to know his team of residents: designer Bernie, sleeping refugee Shah, would-be wedded couple Blake and Dale, comic creator Iggy, and self-defence tutor Florence. As this unlikely group shows Munro the sights, Munro’s notion of what it means to be a big brother begins to change.

  But the burden Munro carries is not so easily cast aside. Will the Coyote triumph? Or can Munro find the fortitude necessary to mend his heart?

  ‘Funny-sad, authentic and uplifting. Groth is a writer who can pivot from heartbreak to humour without missing a beat’ – Vikki Wakefield, author of All I Ever Wanted

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  EPIGRAPH

  BRISBANE

  SUSSEX HIGH

  THE ESCAPE ROOM

  AN INTERVIEW

  THE STRAYA TOUR

  CHECKESS

  FAIR GO

  THE JAIL

  HOME

  AWAY

  THE LAST TIME

  THE END

  REST IN PEACE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  For W, C, J, and especially for Mum, Dad and my two brothers who were meant to be my sisters

  And all people live, not by reason of any care they have for themselves, but by the love for them that is in other people.

  Leo Tolstoy

  BRISBANE

  Have you always wanted to travel to other FAB parts of the world?

  Not so much.

  Do you want to immerse yourself in an AWESOME new culture?

  If it helps.

  Are you ready for the RAD adventure you’ve always dreamt about?

  Not my dream.

  Then YOU are srsly the sort of student YOLO Canada is looking for!

  I srsly doubt it.

  I shut the handbook, turn it over so I don’t have to look at the title on the front page – Munro Maddux, You da Man! – and stuff it back in my carry-on. A horn sounds. The baggage carousel grinds into motion. Passengers from my flight push forward, chattering around me.

  ‘Can you believe we’re here?’

  ‘I can’t wait to go to the beach!’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be kangaroos hopping down our street?’

  Most of these people are too old or too young to be on a student exchange. Still, they’re the ones who should be reading the YOLO handbook. These are YOLO-type folk. Loud. Lame. Soon-to-be memes.

  YOLO. Worst name ever. My parents wanted to go with a more established agency – YES or Youth for Understanding or Study Abroad. All three showed me the hand when my Grade 10 report card hit their inboxes. So YOLO it was. I figured an organisation that had a pathetic name wouldn’t be too picky about their candidates. I was right. Their selection criteria, which included ‘Student motivation and commitment must be to the MAX!’ and ‘Student academic grade level must be a WICKED B AVERAGE!’, turned out to be more of a wish list than a hard line. They didn’t seem to care that my marks were less than a ‘WICKED B AVERAGE!’ or that my application essay asked if they’d be open to a bribe.

  Maybe they took pity on me after Mum’s email about Evie.

  Whatever.

  My suitcase eases up the conveyor belt and tumbles down onto the carousel. The ruby-red ribbon on the handle flutters like a flag in the wind.

  Here we are, Evie. Where you always wanted to be.

  Friggin’ YOLO. You only live once? Total BS. Some people don’t get to live at all.

  The pick-up guy is waiting for me in the terminal. He holds a sign that reads MUNRO MADDUX, YEAH! For a second, I consider ditching him to hitch a ride.

  ‘Welcome to Brisbane!’ he says, presenting a fist. I hesitate, then give it a gentle bump. ‘I’m Lars and this is the beginning of six months that will change you forever!’

  ‘Here’s hoping, Lars.’

  ‘Hey, you can call me Lars and in Charge.’ He snorts and gives a timeout sign. ‘Just kidding! You don’t have to call me that. I’m here to take you to your host family!’

  I don’t know what I was expecting when I touched down in Brisbane, but it wasn’t Lars. For starters, he’s not an Aussie. He’s Canadian, sounds like he grew up out east, probably Toronto. He’s also … well, old. Thinning hair. Bit of a gut. Grey in the stubble. He looks like one of Dad’s poker buddies.

  We walk to the parking lot. Lars lays out a Wikipedia of factoids: the blistering sun, the crazy traffic, the current cricket match, cockatoos, thunderstorms, the sun again, water restrictions, skin cancer, the long sleeves and broad-brimmed hats that are stock summer wear. His first question comes after we’ve hit the road in his steam room of a car.

  ‘What you got there, Munro, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  I do mind, but I’m sure Lars minds that I’m reading instead of staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed out of the window. ‘Info pack,’ I reply. ‘For my new school. Sussex State High.’

  ‘Ah, very good! Although I’m guessing you already read it cover to cover on the way over.’

  I shake my head. ‘Didn’t get a chance.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Flight was only fifteen hours.’

  Lars squirms in his seat, then hits the AM button on the dash. A nasally talk-show host punches through the airwaves. He’s got a bug up his butt about ‘illegals’. Lars switches to a station playing ‘Nineties at nine’ and holds up a hand in apology.

  I nod. ‘That dude is soooo un-YOLO. Am I right?’

  Lars smiles thinly into the rear-view mirror.

  I return to the Sussex info pack. The big thing that jumps off the pages: the formal uniform. I’ve seen it before, but it’s for real now that I’m in Australia. Shorts, shirt, tie. Pleated skirts for the girls. The get-up is ‘strongly encouraged on Wednesdays’; the rest of the week you can wear the sports uniform.

  The package has other nuggets of info about the school. Their motto is ‘Climb the highest peaks’. I Google Earthed Brisbane’s highest peak, Mt Coot-tha, a while back – it’s like the bunny hill on Cypress Bowl. Climbing that should be a breeze. The sports line-up includes boys’ touch and girls’ touch. I’m not sure which one to sign up for. One of the electives is Tourism. The ski trip is in July. The school has a thing for volunteering.

  Overall, I can’t say I’m looking forward to being a student at Sussex State High. But I don’t have zero desire to show either.

  That’s a big improvement.

  Over Christmas, four months into Grade 11 and ten months after Evie’s death, I was done with school. I didn’t hate it – I just couldn’t function any more. The people at Delta Secondary School weren’t to blame. They had found a way through their grief, planting a cherry blossom tree by the admin block, printing a special We will remember you forever newsletter with dozens of kind quotes, flying the BC flag at half-mast. Hundreds turned up to her funeral. It was helpful for everyone.

  Everyone except me.

  I had flashbacks. Chest pains. My right hand ached constantly. I got angry at other students walking too slow or brushing my shoulder or giving any hint of side eye. And there was a voice. The Coyote – my therapist, Ollie, called it. Teasing, taunting. Barking. Som
etimes biting. It played at being people I knew – friends, teachers … even Mum and Dad. That was the worst. Four months into Grade 11, I was hearing the Coyote everywhere in school, not just on the stretch of corridor between the library and Mrs Bouchard’s room. My problem had become something central, at the very core of my being. And it wouldn’t matter if I moved to Burnsview or Seaquam or Sands – the Coyote would follow.

  On New Year’s Eve, I straight up told Mum and Dad I wanted out of school. For how long? they asked. I said I didn’t know. They baulked. I pleaded. They reasoned. I resisted. They sympathised. I punched a wall. Alternatives were proposed and rejected. Homeschooling was an added pressure none of us could handle. Distance learning was, in Mum’s eyes, a pretend education.

  ‘How about you work with us for a bit?’ Dad suggested. ‘Just until you figure things out.’

  I couldn’t do it. The Evelyn Maddux Foundation was a great thing, for sure. In just seven and a half months it had raised over one hundred and fifty grand for Down syndrome awareness and research. More importantly, it was Mum and Dad’s rehab, their way of keeping Evie’s memory alive. It would never be that for me. Seeing her name every day, hearing it spoken out loud, selling ribbons and buttons and bracelets that only existed because she was no longer with us … Compared to that, school was a picnic.

  Around sunset, with heavy clouds hinting at a snowy start to the new year, Mum stumbled upon a possibility with promise.

  ‘What about a student exchange?’ she asked.

  My first thought was: What good would that do? But over the next couple of days, the idea persisted. Then it grew on me. Then it grew around me. Ollie had told me that the flashbacks, the pain, the bad associations, the loss of connection to others, the Coyote … recovering from all of it started with finding a place for it to go. Could that place be a country?

  I wonder if Mr Adams is here. Maybe I’ll run into him. That would be some serious coincidence. Population of Brisbane’s only about, oh, two million.

  I wonder if he still remembers you, Evie. For sure he would. The eleven-year-old you. That’s the age you’ll always be to him. He’s lucky to remember you like that.

  Thirteen years, four months, eight days – that’s the age you’ll always be to me.

  Australia. Home of Mr Adams, Evie’s Grade 6 teacher. He told me once that he saw school as the sky and his students as stars. And Evie shone brightest. In his class, she learned to swim and put up a tent and make a dessert called a pavlova and throw a rugby pass like a seasoned pro. The inspiration of Mr Adams soon became the aspiration of Evelyn Maddux. She planned to visit his home state of Queensland. She imagined holding a koala and playing a didjeridu, running on a beach where the white sand squeaked under her feet. She was determined to marry Chris Hemsworth. She made plane tickets out of cardboard and crayon. She searched online for houses for sale in suburban Brisbane. The dream of Australia gave her purpose and filled up her heart.

  It wouldn’t stay filled. The hole between her ventricles made sure of that.

  The car slows. Lars flicks the indicator and turns into a short driveway that fronts a beige house with pine-green trim. Two flags, side by side – one Canadian, one Australian – are tied to the top railing of the front patio. An old bedsheet is suspended underneath, the words WELCOME TO AUSTRALIA, MATE! in blue spray-paint. Lars parks behind a car that looks a bit like a Mustang, cuts the engine and pip-pips the horn. He turns, forearm propped on the passenger seat.

  ‘Your host family awaits your pleasure, Master Maddux.’

  On the YOLO Canada website, there’s a series of short videos about past exchanges. Each one is a softball lobbed towards home plate, all joy and laughter and zit-free faces and ‘This is the greatest thing ever!’ and ‘How can I possibly go back home?’ They all have over-the-top, lame titles: On the Streets of Philadelphia; Hungary for Life; Smile and Say Swiss Cheese!; Been There, London That!

  No way the videos are legit. The people are real enough, sure, but the bubblegum tone? No doubt there would’ve been tough times. That’s life. That’s truth. And even if the occasional student exchange ends up being a Disney movie, it doesn’t mean it will happen to me.

  The Hyde family isn’t the problem. They’re friendly and easygoing. After a quick tour of ‘Chez Hyde’, Mum Nina – a hummingbird with reddish hair and a thing for purple – sent me to bed for a ‘nana nap’ so I could start resetting my body clock. Since waking up, she’s been studying for Munro Maddux 101. What do I like to eat and drink? What are my favourite TV shows? Which video games do I play? She writes everything down on an MM List that she posts on the fridge.

  Dad Geordie’s welcoming in a different way. A big barrel of a ‘bloke’, he introduced himself as Dr Jekyll and wanted to know if I’d ever come across a grizzly. (I said I hadn’t and probably wouldn’t be talking to him if I had.) He shook his head and admitted he couldn’t understand why Australia had the reputation of being such a dangerous place when, in the True North strong and free, there are ‘bears and mountain lions and bloody great moose looking to make a mess of you’. He also warned that any Dad joke I didn’t laugh at (see ‘Dr Jekyll’) would result in a grounding.

  Son Rowan – only child, also in Grade 11 – seems chill. According to Nina, he’s a gifted cook, a real chance to get on MasterChef one day. According to Rowan, he’s a snowboard-pro-in-waiting. He’s already asked me about Whistler three times. As a team, the Hydes seem close, fun, free of the dark clouds that can hang over a family. It’s a vibe I haven’t encountered in a while.

  I hope the Hydes haven’t got their hearts set on being in a YOLO video. I’m not like all those made-for-TV teens. I’m here because my little sister never made it, and I’m stuck with the fallout of her death. I’m the stand-in big brother and the psycho surviving son.

  They don’t make videos about those guys.

  ‘So, Munro,’ says Nina, ‘you’re the only child in the Maddux family, hey?’

  I steal a glance at the others. Geordie is at the barbecue, squeezing lemon on the barramundi he bought especially for my first supper Down Under. Rowan is chest-deep in the jacuzzi, mirrored aviators on, Red Bull in hand. Neither looks like they’re listening in, but I sense they are.

  I shift my feet from the camping chair’s footrest and sit up straight. This moment is important. Weighty. They’ll be shocked. ‘Munro had a sister with a disability and she died at age thirteen’ probably wasn’t part of their student-exchange binder. So it’s up to me to reveal the Maddux dark cloud. And, to be honest, it’s okay. I get to tell the story on my terms.

  They get the basics. Evie had Down syndrome. She had a ventricular septal defect, a hole in the heart, which was inoperable. It was meant to be low-ish risk, but it didn’t turn out that way. Last March, she collapsed at school and efforts to revive her were unsuccessful. She’s buried in the Boundary Bay Cemetery in Delta.

  You left out so much, Munro.

  Shut up, Coyote.

  A hush creeps in. Only the sizzle of the barbecue and the fizz of the jacuzzi’s open vents drift through the space. I have deflections ready – That’s all I want to say, I’m not comfortable talking about it any more, leave me the hell alone – but they remain holstered. Rowan has lifted his shades above his forehead and, with his free hand, is scooping bubbles from the surface of the water. Geordie wipes his hands on his Licensed to Grill apron and thuds down in the nearest plastic chair, the onions ignored for a moment. Nina covers her mouth and lays a hand on my forearm. There’s a tiny tremble in her fingers.

  ‘No doubt your sister’s watching over you, Munro,’ she says, ‘so we’d better take good care of you.’

  ‘Bloody oath,’ adds Geordie.

  Rowan raises his Red Bull. ‘These two have done an all right job with me so far.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I appreciate it.’

  With that, the Hydes slip back into barbecue routine. Nina tosses the pasta salad and unveils a tasty-looking pie called ‘Heavenly Tart
’, which she says was named after her. Geordie starts swearing as he examines the state of the barramundi. Rowan puts his drink and sunglasses aside and announces he’s going to breathe underwater by sucking air through the jacuzzi vents. He drops out of sight.

  These people really should demand a refund from YOLO.

  Jet lag sets in around 8 pm (2 am, Vancouver time). Through a series of yawns, I inform the Hydes that I’m heading for bed. Geordie and Rowan wave from the couch.

  ‘You got everything you need?’ asks Nina.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Sorted out the aircon in your room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re thinking tomorrow we might go out for breakfast – there’s a great cafe that has a Brisvegas mixed grill on Saturdays. It’s walking distance from here. No pressure. I know you mentioned you do exercises in the morning.’

  I nod. ‘Fifty push-ups, a hundred sit-ups.’

  ‘Good on you! Okay, maybe we’ll see how you feel after that, hey?’

  ‘Sure. Hopefully I’ll be on Aussie time after a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘No worries.’ She steps forward. I brace for a hug, but it doesn’t come. She tugs playfully on my Canucks ball cap and smiles. ‘We’re really glad you’re here with us, Munro.’

  ‘Me too.’

  Nina fetches an extra pillow and wishes me goodnight. Closing the door to my bedroom, I hear Rowan call out, ‘Don’t let the drop bears bite!’

  Pre-crash, I check Facebook. There are a tonne of notifications, all of them for the status update I posted just before take-off: Bye. One hundred and forty-three likes, thirty-seven comments.