Munro vs. the Coyote

by Darren Groth

  My team.

  I dig my elbows into the mattress and attempt to shift. A volcano erupts in my chest.

  “Whoa there, champ,” says Kelvin. “You gotta take it easy.”

  I try to speak. The words are too brittle to come out in one piece. Dale pushes through to the edge of the bed. He hands me his iPad. I touch the screen. Each movement is like a match being struck on my ribs.

  You’re all here.

  Kelvin hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “They told us only two at a time, but we told them to get stuffed. Then they told us visitors limited to family. We told them we are the family until your folks arrive. And to get stuffed.”

  Parents.

  Nina steps forward. “They’re on their way, Munro. Flight lands in a few hours. Geordie’s going to pick them up and bring them straight to the hospital. They’re staying with us.” She begins to well up. Geordie pulls her close. “They know you’re okay, Munro.”

  I fell.

  Kelvin surveys the others, then nods. “You collapsed. Doc gave us the story. Your heart’s a bit out of whack.”

  A hole?

  “What’s that?”

  Is there a hole in my heart?

  “No, no hole. Doc thinks it may have sustained some damage a while back. Stopped it pumping properly. You had any chest pains, shortness of breath, light-headedness, that sort of stuff?”

  Only the last fifteen months.

  “Well, that’s probably how long you’ve had a heart problem. Doc called it some fancy name. Hyperactive, hyperbolic…cardiosomething-or-other.”

  Fuck.

  “It’s okay. Thanks to our mate Iggy, you got the jump start you needed. And it’s not a permanent thing. Doc said it’s treatable. Things will go back to normal.”

  I take a deep breath. Not a good idea.

  Iggy did CPR?

  Florence releases Iggy’s hand and urges him forward.

  You saved my life, Ig.

  He blushes and puffs out his chest. Then he gets into a stance. “I’m a good goaltender.”

  Tired laughter flits through the room. Rowan speaks as it dies away. “I brought you something. Caro suggested I get it from home and bring it here.” He points at the safety bar by my right hand. I scrabble around, grab the object hanging on the bar. With gritted teeth, I bring it up to my eyeline.

  The squirrel tie.

  Put it on me.

  “You think that’s wise?” asks Rowan.

  Please.

  “Okay then. Promise I’ll be really gentle.”

  Not you. Caro.

  Rowan huffs. “Typical.”

  He hands over the tie. Caro’s different from this morning, different from any other time I’ve seen her. Her hair is pulled back into a long braid. The black wristbands are gone. Her nails are bright yellow. She’s a sight for sore eyes. And hearts. Caro leans in and presses her cheek to mine. She cradles the back of my head in her hand.

  “You made me come and get you,” she whispers.

  She kisses me and withdraws. The tie is looped around my neck and laid out on my upper body, covering the wires on my chest.

  Kelvin raises a hand. “Um, Munro, the residents have asked for five minutes alone with you. Is that cool?”

  Of course.

  The Hydes exit, pledging to be “back in a tick.” Kelvin is on his phone before he reaches the door. Caro squeezes my right hand and follows him out. There’s a minor commotion outside the room and down the hall. The door shuts, and quiet resumes.

  Noise?

  “People from your school,” says Bernie. “A few teachers, some students. They asked me how you were feeling.”

  What did you say?

  “I told them you are feeling like a Freetard. Then I told them where they could get my exclusive Freetard shirts and hats.”

  Perfect.

  The foursome moves closer, crowding the bed. They look beat, but not freaked. Tough buggers. I offer Dale his iPad. He gestures for me to keep using it.

  So glad you’re here.

  “The hospital wanted us to talk to a counselor,” says Iggy. “I said I wanted to talk to you.”

  Stop it.

  “You’re in a lot of pain,” he adds.

  I can handle it.

  “I drew a picture of Infecto for you while you were sleeping.” He holds up the sketch and shoves it in my face. “I made the outfit just like you said at South Bank. Skintight yellow suit. Cape made of wipes. I did the skull and crossbones instead of a petri dish—I like that better. And she’s got the platinum mask with the germs on it.”

  I thought Infecto was a guy?

  “I changed him to a girl.”

  She looks like somebody we know.

  I turn my head toward Florence. She’s standing at the foot of the bed. Her pose matches Iggy’s drawing—legs apart, arms folded.

  Thumb-wrestle.

  “What?”

  Right hand. Right now.

  Florence smirks and cracks her knuckles. “Finally! I thought you were just gonna lay there all day like a goanna in the sun.”

  “Before you do that and get crushed, Munro,” says Bernie, “we need to vote. Actually, you need to vote.” She pulls her shoulders back and lifts her chin. “We didn’t know your heart was sick. We would’ve skipped the floor hockey. Or told Caro to take you to Emergency. Or called the ambulance instead of eating cake. It would be great if we could have a do-over, but we can’t. Do-over—that’s one of your Canadian words, isn’t it?”

  I start working the iPad. Bernie holds up her hand. S is for stop. “You may never want to think about how your heart stopped today,” she says. “Because of that, you might not want to see us again. Or hear from us or talk to us. You might want to leave and never come back. And we would be sad if you did. But we have lots of great memories. So there is a question we have to ask. And you need to vote, yes or no.”

  Bernie looks to the others. They nod in agreement.

  “Do you still want to be our Living Partner?”

  I scan the hopeful faces, then type.

  To make the right choice, I must listen to the voice inside my head.

  “What’s it saying?” asks Iggy.

  I tap the screen.

  HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO HELL NO

  I bring my right hand up to my chest. Despite the agony, laughs come. Real ones, not programmed from the iPad.

  “Actually, we were just being nice,” says Bernie. “You don’t get a vote.” She gives me a gentle fist bump. Three more fist bumps follow. “Okay then,” she adds, “we should go now because you probably need to sleep again.” She turns to Florence. “Don’t worry—you can crush Munro in the morning.”

  Morning.

  “We’re ditching,” says Iggy.

  I gingerly lift my arm and wag a finger. I go to hand the iPad back to Dale. He leans over, types and stabs the screen: Keep it until you can talk again. I’ve got another.

  The team says one last goodbye, waves, then exits. Before the door can shut behind them, a nurse bustles in. He’s tanned and blond and has biceps like bowling balls. He looks like Whistler material.

  “You’re awake, Munro!” he says.

  Only just.

  “You got a vocal aid there? Nice!” He takes a closer look. I read his name tag.

  You gotta be shitting me.

  “Hey?”

  Your name is Wiley?

  “Yep. Grant Wiley, Super Nurse.”

  Wiley. As in Coyote.

  “Spot on. That was actually my nickname in high school.” Grant Wiley checks my pulse, takes my blood pressure. After some chart scribbling, he folds his bulky arms and smiles. “Not bad, young fella. Now, you feeling chilly at all? Need an extra blanket or two?”

  I’m good.

  “Righto. I probably don’t need to tell you to take it easy, but…no star jumps, no one-arm push-ups. No bench-pressing the bed.”

  I’ll resist the urge.

  “Right on. It’s g
oing to take you a little while to feel like yourself again, Munro. You’ll need to stick around here for a bit, get better. Just until you’re good enough to go home.” Grant Wiley claps his hands once. “Sound like a plan?”

  I turn off the iPad and open my mouth. My voice is weak and scratchy. But it’s definitely mine.

  “I can do that.”

  Visiting hours are done. My “family” has left for the night. Grant Wiley is checking on other patients. It’s my room now. My place of rest. Not the final one.

  Sleep is calling. My eyelids are heavy. The room is already unconscious; only the quiet hum of the machines and shallow huff of the tubes remain. As I start to drift, an object on the windowsill makes a final impression—my koala buddy. I don’t remember anyone saying they brought him to the hospital. And I don’t remember anyone admitting they put a ruby-red ribbon in his outstretched arms. Maybe my eyes are playing tricks? Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there?

  That’s okay. My hearing is just fine.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The writing of this tale was, at times, Darren vs. the Novel. Fortunately, I had a lot of great family, friends, colleagues and Google searches in my corner. I’d like to thank my beautiful wife and first reader, Wend; my wondrous twins, Chloe and Jared; the Groths; the Frasers; my peerless, fearless editor, Sarah Harvey, and the Orca team; my splendid Oz publisher, Zoe Walton, and the Penguin Random House gang; my invaluable agents, Tara Wynne and John Pearce; Aaron Cully Drake; the End Crew of Patrick, Lauren and Julie; Youngcare; Bittersweet Farms; 2011 flood hero Chris Skehan; and all the young, special people I ever had the privilege of teaching.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Darren Groth is the author of six novels, including Kindling and the acclaimed YA novel Are You Seeing Me? He was the winner of the 2016 Adelaide Festival Award for Young Adult Literature and has been a finalist in numerous other prestigious prizes, including the CBCA Book of the Year (Australia), the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards (Australia), the Governor General’s Literary Awards (Canada) and the Sakura Medal (Japan).

  Darren is a former special-education teacher and the proud father of a son with autism spectrum disorder (ASD). For fun, he watches Game of Thrones with his beautiful Canadian wife and eats at Fatburger with his wondrous sixteen-year-old twins. He lives in Vancouver, British Columbia. For more information, visit www.darrengroth.com.

  Read a sample of another book by

  Darren Groth

  Are You Seeing Me?

  nominated for the Governor General’s Award

  PERRY IS STANDING ON THE far side of the metal detector, feet planted on the red stripe. Beads of sweat dot his forehead. His right leg twitches, keeping pace with some inaudible rhythm. At regular intervals, his lips curl inward then spring open, releasing a loud pop. He’s stuck. He’s been stuck for a while.

  There’ll be another announcement over the PA soon. I imagine it being a little more pointed than its predecessor: Ms. Justine Richter, Mr. Perry Richter, you are required to board Flight 47 to Vancouver. Your fellow passengers are waiting for you to end this madness. Can you blame them for getting upset? I can’t…What is your problem? Are you unaware of anyone but yourselves? You think the whole world should bow to your needs? The two of you are an absolute disgrace.

  I attempt to catch Perry’s eye with reassuring nods and here-is-your-loving-sister hand gestures. I won’t approach him or get in his face. I won’t negotiate either—speeches are useless when my brother has reached this level of anxiety. It’s like trying to draw attention to a lit candle during a laser show.

  The stolid security officer holding the metal-detecting paddle displays a frown. “Please step through, sir,” he says for the millionth time.

  The sour business suit behind Perry huffs and places his hands on his hips. “No worries, pal,” he says. “It’s not like we’ve got planes to catch or anything.”

  Perry hears none of it. His hands are clasped together on top of his head. A pronounced lean has gripped the left side of his body. The pops have morphed into heavy sighs. The soles of his shoes remain fixed to the red stripe.

  This is my nightmare. Sure, there are any number of planks in the rickety suspension bridge of our trip that could give out and send us plummeting—the flight, the hotels, the road trips to Okanagan Lake and Seattle. Foreign places, foreign people. Foreign everything. And, of course, The Appointment and all of the question marks it entails. But to go wrong here? Here? At the airport? On the list of places you’d want to avoid acting out of the ordinary, the airport would rank number one with a bullet. Or maybe a Taser.

  I pull the rubber band at my wrist, let it snap back. The blossom of pain strangles the panic, rouses a resilience honed over the last two years. Perry needs help—it is right and just that I provide it. This is his time. His ultimate holiday. He deserves all the patience and tolerance required to make the next two weeks a memory for the ages.

  I take a couple of steps forward and stand tall, framed by the metal detector. Like a mime playing to the back row, an exaggerated level of animation overtakes my movements. I nod my head until my neck hurts. I tap my watch with large stabbing points of the index finger. I wheel my arm over like an air guitarist in full flight. The performance makes a minor impression; Perry has returned to vertical, and the volume has been turned down on his sighs. I’m ready for a second dance of persuasion when a voice to my left interjects.

  “He’ll get there, miss.”

  I look toward the reassurer. It’s the security officer seated by the X-ray machine. She’s a cement block of a woman with dyed black hair and a red blotchy face. In contrast to her body, her expression is open, soft. The conveyor belt of luggage that is her charge has been halted. I hesitate, wary of reconciling compassion with authority, then nod.

  “I’ve got a nephew like him. Similar age, by the look of it.” She juts her chin and sits up a little straighter in her chair. “You’re doin’ real good.”

  Nephew or not, she has no real clue, but I mouth the words thank you anyway.

  As I turn back toward the stalemate, she adds, “You take as much time as you need.”

  Her gracious sentiment is not a shared one. The paddle wielder has dropped the sir from his requests. The suit barges back through the line in search of a security station that “doesn’t have a goddamn retard holding everything up.” A small part of me is proud of Pez for upending their crappy little ordered empires. The rest of me is still locked on his unraveling.

  And then things go from bad to worse. Perry bends at the knees, buckling slowly, like Atlas defeated. The implications are immediate—if his knees hit the floor, it’s a done deal. He’ll go to all fours, then onto his stomach. Perhaps he’ll roll over on his back. Whatever the final position, he’ll be spread-eagled and staked. Ninety-one kilograms of dead weight destined for full-blown security intervention. The clock, previously at a premium, is seconds away from becoming redundant.

  He’s halfway down when an idea strikes. I lunge for the counter and unzip the bag Perry packed for the trip. I scrabble around among his essentials, assessing their candidacy. The seismometer? Too valuable. The DVD of Jackie Chan’s Drunken Master II? Too fragile. The Ogopogo stuffed toy? Too childish. The CD of Polka Hits from Around the World?! Too…weird. The book Quakeshake: A Child’s Experience of the Newcastle Earthquake?

  Bingo!

  I snatch up the book and hustle into position. I turn side-on, then cock my wrist, ready for the throw. It’s all or nothing, anything but a gimme; the toss must negotiate the metal detector and land at Perry’s feet. If it falls short, it will lack the impact to snap my brother out of his descent. If it sails long, it will hit him in the head, leading to a million YouTube hits. The task would test a decent athlete, let alone a generous-hipped, Cornetto-eating girl who turned excuse letters for PE class into an art form. I take an awkward practice swing, then eye the target. Perry is now down on his haunches, rocking on the balls of his feet. It’s now or never. I
draw back. A king tide of blood pummels my eardrums. The onlookers are panes of glass. Somewhere, in the distant burbs of my mind, I ask: How did my job description become flinging books at my twin brother to avoid disaster?

  The throw clears the metal detector, hits the floor and skims a few meters before coming to rest at the toe of Perry’s right shoe. For a fleeting moment, there is only stillness, the wait to discover if the tall ship of clarity has dropped anchor in the swirling eddies of sensory distress.

  Perry grasps the book. He opens it, begins flipping through the pages. After a few seconds, he stands up. The flush in his face is retreating. His breaths are slowing.

  He is present.

  He is seeing me.

  I bite my tongue. “Come through, Pez. It’s okay.”

  The command is barely complete when my brother walks forward. He holds the book out as he enters the detector, clutches it to his chest as he emerges on the other side. No beeps or buzzes or red lights. I glance at Paddle Man—he looks disappointed. Perry heads for the counter and his carry-on suitcase. He shoves the book back in among his prized possessions and pulls the zipper closed.

  “I’m sorry, Justine,” he murmurs, fixing his gaze on the stack of empty plastic trays by his left elbow. “I was quite worried.”

  “No kidding. Don’t you remember our talk this morning? We went over the detector stuff ten times. And we made sure you weren’t wearing any metal.”

  He nods. “I remember. Those detectors don’t work properly. I saw an article online. Sometimes they malfunction and make noise when they don’t mean to. I didn’t want to hear that noise. It would hurt my ears. And I imagined the security man touching my armpits and the front of my pants, then yelling at me and throwing me to the ground. He thought I was a terrorist—”

  “Okay, okay. It’s done now.”

  “I couldn’t help it. I’m sorry, Justine.”

  “Yeah, I know you are.”

  I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I’m about to lay bare the supreme urgency of our situation when Perry takes my hand. He secures only the middle, ring and pinkie fingers. It is a recognizable and comforting contact. He first held my hand this way in third grade. I can’t recall him ever holding my hand differently.