by Darren Groth
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 it come to a screeching halt with my parents around? Would the Coyote find new life with Mom and Dad on the scene? I didn’t want to find out.
I FaceTimed them on March 22. 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, Munro?”
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 carried 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.”
Mom entered the fray. She was wearing pajamas 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, Mom.”
“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, without the pressure of the past or the future. Just enjoy a few moments in the present. Munro?”
Tears pooled in Mom’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 at least giving it a chance to float? Ollie might have applied one of her labels to me: 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 toward my suitcase, standing in the corner of the bedroom like a bodyguard.
“Coming over,” said Dad. “We just thought it would help dispel some of our fears.”
“How many do you have?”
“A ton. 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, after you went through security, your mom and I wanted to sit down, so we 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 travelers, 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. Mom had to take my elbow and lead me out. 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, Mom asked me, Are you regretting the decision to let Munro 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.”
Mom 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 come over and visit. But, just as it is with Evie, we have to understand we can’t bring you back. I can’t, Mom can’t, your sister can’t, God up in Heaven can’t. Only you can bring Munro Maddux back. We need to get that. But it seems we’re not there yet.”
The following day, Nina showed me an email Mom 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, one I’ve heard before. 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: basic map, schedules, mobile-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 and brings an index finger to his lips. “I’ll say no more. Enjoy yourselves today, 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.”
Seven weeks. Seven stops. Barbecues and beaches, theme parks and theaters, rugby games and rainforests. I’ve listened, played, occasionally guided. I’ve done it all without the Coyote in my ear. The Straya Tour has been great, but I’ve also felt shielded, kept inside a nice busy bubble, away from the real action. It’s left me wanting more. It’s left me wanting the true Fair Go. That’s what I expect to find today.
In the Creative Arts Precinct, those expectations take flight. Every part of the scene stokes the smile on my face: the colors, the materials, the humming machines, the buzzing voices. The people. Smiling, laughing. Working together. Singing along to the tune tumbling out of the Bose speakers—“Dangerous Woman” by Ariana Grande. A girl sits in a wheelchair made to look like an ice-cream truck. A young guy wearing an eye
patch darts about taking photos of finished pieces on display. “Etsy will love this!” he announces after each snap, as if Etsy is a favorite 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!
“How great is this?” says Caro, examining the school of glass tropical fish hanging from the ceiling.
“It’s something else,” I reply.
Bernie appears from a small nook near the screen-printing area and scurries over. She’s blinking at regular speed, but the rest of her is pumped. Hands flicking, mouth twitching. Her cheeks are redder than cherry Kool-Aid.
“Munro, I’m so glad you’re here!”
“Bernie, I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
“I’ve figured it out!”
“This is Caro.”
“The word for my clothing line!”
“She’s my friend.”
“After all this time, I’ve finally got it!”
Caro holds out her hand, but it’s left hanging. I click my fingers. “Caro’s saying hi.” For a few seconds Bernie is thrown. She tucks her elbows into her hips and hunches forward, trying to gather my words to her chest. Then she turns and stares at the hand suspended in midair.
“Lovely to meet you, Bernie. Munro has told me heaps about you.”
Bernie makes a fist and pushes it into her chin. “I’m very sorry,” she says, staring at Caro’s sneakers. “I was a bit excited and forgot my social skills. Munro and I have been working on this for a while.”
“It’s been all you, Bern.” I lean to the side. “In your back pocket—is that one of your new shirts?”
Bernie snaps her head up and stands tall. The hunch in her back (I’ve learned that it’s called a kyphosis) shrinks and flattens. She plucks the T-shirt from her pocket and lays it across her extended forearms.
“Freetard? That’s the word you came up with?”
She nods enthusiastically. “It’s someone who doesn’t use the R-word. And Freetard changes the bad word to something good. I’ve done shirts in my three favorite fonts: Forte, Impact and Helvetica. This is the Forte one.”
“It’s eye-catching,” I say. “Do you think it could be taken the wrong way though?”
“How?”
“Well, people might see Freetard as a different sort of insult.”
Bernie gives a big belly laugh. “No way, Jose! It changes the bad word to something good. Duh!”
“I think it’s great,” says Caro. “Where can I buy one?”
“You can have this one. I’ll give you a cap too, when we start making them.” Bernie looks me up and down. “I think you should have an Impact shirt, Munro.”
“Okay, sure.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder toward the bustling studio. “How can we help out this inefficient, poorly run hater operation?”
Bernie balks, then pulls a face. “Joking, ha!” She plunges her hands in her pockets and looks around. “Hmm. Everyone understands the equipment and the rules and what to do. The Fair Go Working Partners have more responsibility for things backstage, as they say, like buying materials and getting donations. If we get something new in the studio—like our new kiln over there—they teach us how to use it. I s’pose you could come over and help me with screen printing?”
Under the careful watch of Bernadette Polk, Caro and I spend the rest of our scheduled hour making Freetard shirts. Like everyone else in the studio, we laugh and sing and display our work for the Etsy photographer. When the time comes to end our “shift,” it hurts a little to leave.
Good thing First Aid is next.
We arrive to find Iggy looking at letters he’s scribbled on his hand.
“D-R-A-B-C,” he says. “You know what that means.”
I nod. “Danger, response, airway, breathing, circulation.”
“You and I both hope you’ll never need CPR, Munro. But if you do, and I’m here, I’ll do it, and I’ll do it well. You’re in good hands. I’ll even shake on it.”
“You stealing my speeches now, Ig?” I say, laughing and accepting his offered elbow.
At the front of the class, the instructor is talking quietly to himself, prepping the session. I recognize him from the day of my interview.
“The guy up front running the show…is his name Percy?”
Iggy shakes his head. “Perry. Perry Richter. He’s good. Very smart.”
“He’s not a resident, is he?”
“No. He just comes here to teach.”
“First aid. And car washing, yeah?”
“And nuclear physics.”
“Did you just make a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Not bad.”
Iggy smiles and resumes the study of his palm. This is the best I’ve seen him. No coughs or throat clears, no cool washcloths or warm blankets, no sickly voice. No darting looks for suspicious strangers. There’s a bit of sunburn on his nose. I’m not surprised. First thing he said to me today was, “My comic! I’m three quarters done!” The way he’s going, he’ll be doing cartwheels and one-arm push-ups at the finish.
“So does Perry teach the group on his own?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“No Working Partner?”
Iggy points out a bald, bearded guy with a tattoo sleeve, counting bandages off to the side of the room. “Baz is always here. He helps with putting stuff out and cleaning up. And he’s a really good victim for practicing. But he doesn’t teach.”
“Perry’s got a certificate or something?”
“Yeah, he shows it to us at the beginning of each class.”
“He sounds perfect for the job,” says Caro.
Iggy nods. “He has real-life experience too. He saved his sister by giving her cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It must be true, ’cause he kept saying, No lie! all the time.”
Iggy tells the story. Earthquakes, car stunts, a mad dash to the hospital…it sounds more like a movie than something that actually happened. I don’t feel great as I listen in—my heart’s jumped up a level and my stomach is a bit watery—but I don’t feel ambushed. I know where I am. I know who I am.
Caro tugs my shirt sleeve. “You with us, Munro? You okay?”
I scan the room. Residents take up their positions, and Perry Richter calls for attention. “Hello, everyone. As my father used to say, what do we want? No more delays! When do we want it? As soon as possible! That’s a good joke.”
“I’m fine,” I say, patting Caro’s hand. “Let’s get hurt.”
Arms are broken. Legs are stabbed. Systems go into shock. People turn into mummies, bandaged in head dressings and figure-eight wraps and collar- and-cuff slings. Perry is as good as advertised, clear in his steps and in his demos on Baz the victim. He sees everything that’s happening in the room, even when he’s looking to the side or at his fingernails. He talks about Jackie Chan, injuries he suffered, films on which they occurred. At the end of the session, he approaches us, holding a batch of DRABC pocket cards and a small green dome.
“Hello, my name is Perry Richter,” he says, fanning the cards so we can each grab one. “Thank you for coming today, and you too, Iggy, even though you are here all the time.”
“I’m Caro. It was an awesome class, Perry. Everyone was totally into it.”
“Thank you, Caro.”
“Yeah, you rocked it,” I say. “By the way, I’m—”
“Munro Maddux, the young person from the excellent city of Vancouver, home of the Qube building and Stanley Park and the PNE.” Perry dips his head to one side and flutters his half-closed eyes. “You are here on a student exchange.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“Kelvin Yow told me about you and said you would be here today.” He flicks his fingers. “I would like to talk to you alone, please.”
“Alone?”
He turns to Caro and fixes his gaze on the Rip Curl badge on her cap. “I’m sorry, Caro, it is not great manners to take Munro away to talk.”
“Go for it.”
“Thank you.”
Perry moves toward the front of the room, where a CPR mannequin is laid out on a table, awaiting pickup from Baz. I shrug and make my way over. We end up on either side of the mannequin, which is named Annie, according to the nearby storage bag.
“Were you comfortable in my class today, Munro?” asks Perry.
I glance at Caro and Iggy. They’re watching something on Caro’s phone and laughing. “I felt very comfortable, Perry.”
“No lie?”
“Um, no. No lie. It was great to be a part of this session.”
Perry squints. “Excellent! Kelvin told me that you might not be comfortable in the class this morning. He did not say why.” He puts the small green dome down on the table, beside Annie, and gives it a pat. “I didn’t feel anything in my seismometer here, in the lead-up or during the class.”
“That’s…good.” I stare at Annie’s lifeless face. “Iggy told me about your sister. It’s awesome that you saved her life.”
Perry makes a pop sound with his mouth. “It is. I couldn’t save my parents though. My father died from pancreatic cancer two weeks before my twin sister and I turned eighteen. My mother died of lung cancer last spring. Now it’s just me and Justine and her husband, Marc, and their baby, Daniel Leon Richter. He’s my nephew. No lie, it would be very good if my parents were still alive, but they’re not, so I try to make things very good without them.”
“I imagine that’s hard to do.”
“It is hard to do, but that is today, that is the future.” He scrunches his eyes and sucks in a big breath. He lays a hand on the seismothingy. “You are positive you felt comfortable in my class this morning?”
“One hundred and ten percent.”
Perry scoffs. “That’s not possible!”
He says goodbye, waves to Caro and Iggy, then exits. I wander back to the pair.
“Good chat?” asks Caro.
I nod. “It was. No lie.”