THE STRAYA TOUR
Everything.
What?
Everything.
What’s that supposed to mean?
It’s like Jeopardy. This hasn’t changed for Munro Maddux in his student exchange so far … What is: everything.
Did it take you this whole train ride to come up with that?
Hey, don’t go wasting that bad attitude on a Sunday. Save it for school. After all, you need to top what you did in Week 3, eh? Another flashback – this one walking out of the library. Janitor found you crying near the tennis courts. Another freeze-up in your English presentation – not practice this time, but for real. You were lucky the teacher … what’s her name?
Ms Nielsen.
You were lucky Ms Nielsen gave you an extra point because she liked your accent. And then there was fight number two.
It was just a bit of a scrum.
Fight, scrum … let’s not split hairs. The main thing is you taught those three Grade 10 boys a lesson. Douche-bags. Who could possibly think surfing was better than snowboarding? And then they’re dumb enough to say it out loud! Talk about asking for it!
Yeah.
The gang didn’t have your back this time, did they?
Rowan did. And Caro.
Not the others, though. On the basketball court, they came to your defence. This time, not so much. They felt you were being pretty douchey yourself.
I said sorry afterwards.
How many sorrys is that now?
Fuck, why couldn’t Fair Go be a couple of stations closer?
Ah, you’re still thinking Fair Go is some sort of safe place. I’ve got news for you, Munro: it’s not. First time there, when I went missing – that was a mistake. I’ll be right alongside you today. I’ll be everywhere.
And everything.
Kelvin directs me to sit on the couch and plonks down beside me. He’s gone casual; in our one previous meeting he was all business – dress pants and collared shirt. Today it’s jeans, sneakers, sunglasses and a black ball cap with a masked bandit logo. His T-shirt says ‘I Bring Nothing to the Table’. His office has a new look as well. A small bookshelf, stuffed full, sits under the Il ritorno dello Jedi poster.
‘Ready to rumble?’ asks Kelvin.
‘Yes.’ I adjust my Mariners cap. ‘I was thinking if I could get hold of some equipment I’d teach them floor hockey.’
Kelvin nods. ‘Sounds fantastic. Now forget all about that.’ He slaps his thighs, his face lit up like a Catherine wheel. ‘Munro, my man, this is going to be a whole different caper to what you were expecting.’
‘What do you mean?’
He tells me. The team decided during the week that hanging around Fair Go for my stint was not going to cut it. Young man in Grade 11, visiting from Canada, never been to Australia before – he needs to see the sights! They came up with a plan: every session until my fifty hours were up would be a stop on the Munro Maddux Australia Tour, or ‘Straya Tour’, as they preferred to call it. We’d visit places in and around south-east Queensland of the residents’ choosing; each would get a turn in an ongoing rotation.
There was more. Kelvin would come along as well. It meant extra time put aside midweek for paperwork, but something like this was worth the sacrifice. He would be supervisor, bus driver, ATM and videographer. When I asked about the last one, he explained that this was a chance to tell a great story: a group of residents showing off the city to their young LP from overseas, at the same time giving them recreational opportunities and increasing their community access skills. It was too good to pass up. As an afterthought, he asked if I had a problem with being in the video. I said I didn’t mind.
‘So, it’s field trips the whole time?’ I ask.
‘That’s what the team wants to do.’
‘A tonne of sightseeing.’
‘There’s a lot they want to show you.’
‘And all five of them are good with it?’
‘All five.’
‘Florence? And Shah?’
‘So they say.’ Kelvin looks over the top of his sunglasses. ‘I’m sensing you’re a bit uncomfortable with this.’
I’m uncomfortable with being away from Fair Go. The Coyote threatened to be everywhere and everything. So far in my short time here it’s been nothing. For all I know, the physical environment is the reason why.
‘This feels weird,’ I reply. ‘It’s like this is for me and not the residents. I mean, they’ve even given it a title using my name. I don’t want them doing this for me.’
Kelvin throws his hands up in mock disgust. ‘Man, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Typical bloody teenager!’ He laughs. ‘Yes, you’re the inspiration for why they want to do this. But there’s plenty in this for them, too. Believe me.’
‘I guess I had it in my head that I’d be helping the guys do stuff at Fair Go. You know, here, where they live.’
Kelvin smiles. ‘Yes, they live here –’ he jerks a thumb over his shoulder – ‘but they also live in the world out there.’ He stands and I get to my feet, too. He gives me a playful punch on the arm. ‘This is a unique opportunity, mate. So go with it, yeah? You never know, they might still become floor-hockey legends.’
There are five familiar faces on the bus. The sixth requires an intro.
‘Dale is joining us on the Straya Tour,’ says Kelvin, talking over his shoulder from the driver’s seat. ‘Functional interaction in the community is a big focus for him, so this fits the bill perfectly.’
I wave.
Dale waves back, then taps the iPad in his lap. An artificial voice responds. ‘G’day.’
‘Communication app,’ says Kelvin, inserting the key in the ignition. ‘Great stuff. Allows the user to have a voice, literally and figuratively.’
‘He’s my boyfriend! Remember?’ adds Blake, who is sitting beside Dale, head on his shoulder. ‘I told you about him at the interview! I said he doesn’t get jelly!’
The iPad responds: ‘I like ice-cream much better.’
I move down the short aisle, past Iggy – he’s fogging up the window with his anxious breathing – and the seemingly unconscious Shah. Three from the back is frowning Florence. The seat beside her is free. Without acknowledging me, she shifts to the middle, taking up both seats, in case I had any ideas. I sit across the aisle. As I buckle up, Bernie makes her way to the front of the bus and strikes up a conversation with Kelvin, who waves a hand and says, ‘Fine, fine. Don’t take too long.’ Bernie takes hold of the bus’s microphone, pulls her rounded shoulders back as far as they will go and clears something awful from her throat.
‘Hello, everyone. Welcome to our first field trip on the Munro Maddux Straya Tour. Munro, I hope you’re excited. I’m very excited. I know the others are, too.’ She pauses. Shah’s snoring fills the gap. ‘This is a great chance for us to show how awesome we are, not just to our brand-new Living Partner, but also to the people out there.’
‘You’re pointing to the forest,’ says Blake.
Bernie shifts her aim to a more populous point on the compass. Blake approves. Kelvin fires up the bus.
‘Can we go now, Bernie?’ he asks.
‘Soon.’ Bernie points. ‘Florence, what do you do if someone calls you the R-word today?’
‘Drop-kick them in the throat.’
‘Uh … no. Don’t you remember what we’ve been taught? S-N-A-P? SNAP? Blake, what does the “S” stand for?’
‘Stop!’
‘That’s right! We tell them to stop. What about the “N”? What’s that?’
‘Now?’ suggests Kelvin. ‘As in “Let’s leave now”?’
‘No, that’s not correct. Dale?’
Dale types his response and holds the iPad up so it’s better heard: ‘Name the behaviour.’
‘Yes! Call it out. That’s rude or that’s mean. Now, the “A”. Iggy?’
‘Away?’ says Iggy, blowing his nose. ‘Get away as quickly as you can.’
‘“A” is for Advise. Advise them what will happen if they do it again. And last, the “P”?’
‘Please?’ suggests Kelvin. ‘Please let’s leave now?’
‘No, that’s not correct. Munro, do you wanna guess?’
I look to Florence, who is poking at her teeth. ‘Punch them in the throat?’
‘Prove it! Do what you said you would do! Whether it’s telling someone or refusing to walk away or taking a photo of them to put on Instagram later. Stop, Name, Advise, Prove. S-N-A-P, SNAP!’ Bernie’s speed-blinking paces her march up and down the aisle. She closes her hand into a fist. ‘Everyone say it together: SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! SN–’
Bernie trips on a stray bag in the aisle, stumbles forward and drives her still-extended fist into sleeping Shah’s stomach. He jackknifes, lets out a yowl and then a torrent of angry words in another language before stomping to the back of the bus. Awkwardness rules for a few seconds, then laughter erupts. Blake roars like a bear. Dale is full of snorts; for good measure, he types ‘LOL’ on the iPad and hits some sort of repeater button. Iggy giggles into the crook of his elbow. Even Florence cracks a half-smile. Bernie waits for the commotion to die down, then apologises for her behaviour. She sheepishly airs one last Snap! and takes her seat.
Kelvin swings the bus towards the exit.
In the online stuff I’ve read about trauma treatment and recovery, one message always stands out: when you find something that works, keep doing it.
Something worked when I visited Fair Go and met the residents for the first time. And I want to keep doing it. One problem: I haven’t figured out what the ‘something’ is. I don’t even know where to look.
My team is probably a good place to start.
Iggy is looking out the back window of the bus at the trailing traffic. Every so often he points and ducks down in his seat. Florence watches his behaviour. To my surprise, she does so without a scowl or a frown or an eye-roll.
‘We bein’ followed again, Ig?’ she asks.
He nods. ‘Green Camry. Rusty bonnet. Front left headlight is smashed in.’
‘Orright.’
‘It’s been on our tail since we got on the highway.’
‘Well, it is the highway, mate. Hard gettin’ off until there’s an exit, hey?’
Iggy’s unconvinced. He shakes a finger at the window. ‘Clever to be a couple of cars back and not right behind, but not clever enough.’
‘How ’bout we play the name game.’ Florence starts tagging cars as they pass by. Commodore, Falcon, Astra, Fiesta. Iggy is reluctant to join in – someone has to keep an eye on the green Camry – but then gives over. Pajero, Tarago, Jazz, Tundra. He mentions there’s an American vehicle called the Dodge Avenger.
Florence sniggers. ‘Does the Hulk drive one?’ she asks.
Iggy doesn’t answer. Instead, he demands a thumb wrestle. Florence tells him he’s a stupid bugger, that he’s been owned every time they’ve battled in the past. Iggy is undaunted. He stays in the contest for a bit, twisting his wrist, using his whole arm for leverage, cheating. At one point, he tells Florence to look at the Hulk driving a Dodge Avenger in the next lane. It doesn’t work. Florence fake yawns and pins him, sparking yelps of pain, a tap-out and an excuse of not feeling one hundred per cent.
When the whining subsides, conversation kicks in again. The topic? The self-defence class Florence is hoping to get going.
‘I got some things sorted,’ she says. ‘We could do it in The Shed, or maybe the fitness room if it’s only a few people. I know the moves I wanna teach. The Roo Punch, the Redback Bite, maybe the Noosa Rip. Stuff like that. At the end, I’ll give my students a special belt I’m makin’ in the Art Studio. It’s white and it’s gunna have jacaranda flowers on it. It’ll be tops.’
‘I’d like to do that class,’ I say.
Florence looks my way. Her nostrils are flared. What teeth she has left are clenched. ‘It’s not for you.’
‘Why not?’
She looks me up and down. Her lip curls. ‘’Cause you have to be disabled. Or a girl.’
‘Do you do a class for boys?’
‘Why would I do a class for boys?’
‘Because everyone needs to learn self-defence.’
Florence looks at Iggy. He nods and rubs his thumb. She turns back to me, looking down the crooked line of her nose. ‘Thumb wrestle,’ she says. ‘You win, you can be in my class.’
‘Um, okay.’
I begin warming up. Flexing, stretching. As a goalie, your hands have to be strong and quick. I figure I’ve got a shot here. Iggy feels the same, or at least suspects it will be a decent contest. He’s hard up against his seatbelt, straining to get the best view possible.
Florence cricks her neck. ‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Hold out your hand. No, not that one, the other one.’
‘My right?’
‘Yeah. I always wrestle with my right. Hold it out.’
I bite the inside of my cheek. My legs bounce. ‘I’d like to stick with my left, if that’s okay.’
Florence rears back. ‘It’s not okay! I always wrestle with my right! Put out your right!’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Do it!’
‘I’m sorry, Florence. I can’t.’
The self-defence teacher-in-waiting throws up her arms, then drives her elbow into the seat padding.
‘I s’pose it’s a draw then,’ says Iggy. ‘Does that mean Munro gets to do the class?’
‘It’s NOT a draw,’ cries Florence. ‘We didn’t even go one round!’
‘He didn’t lose.’
‘I didn’t win either,’ I say. ‘That was the deal to do the class.’ I lean forward, trying to catch Florence’s huffy, turned-away face. ‘Another time, maybe? When my right hand is okay?’
‘Whatever. I’ll still crush you.’
‘I’ve got no doubt you will.’
Bernie has selected today’s tour stop – the South Bank Parklands.
‘My favourite place in Brisbane, maybe even the world!’ She beams. As we walk through a Triffids structure called The Arbour, she takes hold of my elbow. ‘Indigenous people from two different tribes met here for many years. Then the whites came along and took over, setting up Brisbane’s main businesses. But then the river flooded in 1893 and the businesses moved to the north side because the ground was higher. By the way, I should tell you – there were two other big floods here, in 1974 and –’
‘2011,’ I say.
Bernie lifts her sunglasses, squints her eyes. ‘You know about that?’
‘Bits and pieces.’
She stares, perhaps trying to figure out which bits and pieces. After ten seconds or so, she finishes her sentence. ‘In 2011, where we are now, the water would have been up to our waists. But they fixed the damage.’
For half an hour, the team, Kelvin and I laze about on South Bank’s man-made beach. Bernie’s focus shifts from history to engineering. She delivers a stack of trivia: the amount of water, where the sand comes from, something about dredge pumps and sifting machines.
‘It’s actually called Streets Beach,’ she adds. ‘Streets is a company that makes ice-cream. My favourite Streets ice-cream is the Golden Gaytime.’
‘I wish they’d called it Golden Gaytime Beach,’ says Blake.
‘I wish they had, too,’ I reply.
Bernie’s history class resumes over lunch at a place called Cosmos. ‘The World Expo was held here in 1988, and after it was over they didn’t want to leave a big hole in the ground, like what happened in your home city. In Vancouver, they didn’t have a plan for what would happen after the Expo 86. Did you go to the Expo 86?’
‘I wasn’t born then, Bernie.’
She blinks several times, gives me a look that says ‘What a lame excuse’. She continues. ‘Here, they got lots of ideas for what should be built after the Expo, and in the end the Parklands was the winner. It’s a good thing, too – nothing beats this place.’
Tour Guide Bernie finally goes on a break at the Nepalese Peace Pagoda. Prompted by a girl wearing a Game Grumps tee, she tells me about the clothing line she’s working on at Fair Go.
‘I want to make shirts that say something I like, that have a good message.’
‘You got any ideas?’
‘I thought about SNAP. But there’s heaps of that on clothes already. I don’t think it has the same meaning as our SNAP.’
I’m about to suggest ‘R-word’ crossed out in a red circle when a very small boy wearing his chocolate snack as a beard appears between us.
‘Your back has a big hump like a camel!’ he says. ‘Does it have water in it?’
Bernie immediately responds with ‘“S” is for STOP!’ and shoots out her hand.
The boy thinks for a few seconds, picks his nose and smiles. ‘“G” is for GO!’
He shouts and jump-slaps a high five. Before Bernie can progress to “N” (a name for this behaviour doesn’t instantly spring to mind), the boy’s mum arrives on the scene gasping apologies and threatening to hide something called Dorothy the Dinosaur when they get home. They scurry away.
Bernie watches the retreat, then pushes her sunglasses further up her nose. ‘I think I will make hats as well as shirts.’
Quality time for me and Iggy happens two hundred feet up, looking out over the city.
‘I like the Wheel of Brisbane,’ he says. It’s the first time today I’ve heard him speak without a wheeze or a groan or a sniffle. ‘No one can follow you up here. And I think the chances of being killed are probably a lot less than on the ground.’
‘Okaaay. You’re, uh, probably right.’
‘Do you like heights, Munro?’
‘I don’t mind them. I’ve been on the Sea to Sky Gondola back home. Peak 2 Peak up in Whistler.’
‘Has anyone died on those?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
As we arc towards the highest point, Iggy takes a sketchbook and a pencil out of his backpack.
‘Drawing the city?’ I ask.
‘No. I’m drawing Infecto flying over the city.’
‘Infecto?’
‘My superhero. He has the ability of germs, so he can go airborne. He can drink poison or get a virus in his blood or get a disease in his body, and he won’t die. He won’t even get sick. And when he’s got the toxic stuff inside him, if he touches a bad guy, the bad guy gets really sick straight away and dies.’
‘Am I allowed to have a look?’
Iggy pulls the pad in close against his chest. ‘I don’t let anyone see Infecto. I’m keeping him a secret until I’ve finished the story.’
‘No problem, that’s totally cool. Would you mind, then, if I guess what Infecto looks like? You don’t have to tell me if I’m right or wrong, it’d just be for fun.’
Iggy looks first left then right. ‘Righto,’ he says warily.
‘Awesome!’ I clap my hands as the Wheel carries us over the top. ‘Okay, let’s see. I guess if he flies he’d have a cape, and I figure that cape would be made out of … sanitary wipes, maybe? Or prescriptions for antibiotics? Now the suit. It would have to be one of those hazmat deals, only skin-tight, and on the chest would be, like, the outbreak symbol or the skull and crossbones. Oh, I know! A Petri dish with stuff growing in it!’
Iggy pushes his tongue into his cheek. He peeks at his drawing and snorts.
‘Okay, last but not least, what sort of mask would Infecto wear? Gas mask, maybe? Probably not – that’s more of a villain thing. How about just the small plastic deal over the nose and mouth? You see people wearing those all the time in winter. Of course, Infecto’s mask would be a lot better than those – it would be made out of really thin gold or silver or platinum. Yeah, platinum. And for sure it would be really decorative with lots of different germs painted on it, you know? The way you’d see them under a microscope.’ The Wheel starts bringing us back down to earth. ‘That’s all I got. Did I nail Infecto?’
Iggy wipes his eyes and tut-tuts. There is serious colour in his face. He’s grinning like he just saw Stan Lee. ‘You said I don’t have to tell if you’re right or wrong.’
‘Correct.’
‘Then I’m not telling.’
‘Probably a good idea. Let’s shake on it.’
I lean and extend my elbow. Iggy meets me halfway.
At the start of the day, Blake had me constantly double-taking. The briefest glimpse could convince me, just for a second, that Evie was here. The longer the day has gone on, though, the more I’m seeing differences rather than similarities. Dale being on hand is a big help. Evie never had a boyfriend (unless you count Chris Hemsworth), so the sight of this tall, skinny, silent sidekick wasn’t ever going to hit home. And maybe his behaviour – holding her bag, looping his arm through hers, the occasional butterfly kiss – emphasised the Blake-ness I’d previously been blind to. She has dimples. She flicks her hair a lot. She’s quite light on her feet. Her lips are not in the least bit blue.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she says.
‘Sorry, Blake?’
‘The question I asked at your interview.’
‘You asked a lot of questions at the interview.’
‘You didn’t answer the last one: Are you going to marry your girlfriend, Caro?’
I take off my Mariners lid, pour some water in it from my bottle, jam it back on my head. ‘First off, she’s not my girlfriend.’
‘Not yet.’
‘Thanks for that, Dale.’
‘No problem.’
‘Caro is very cool. I like her a lot.’
‘So, she will be your girlfriend,’ says Blake.
‘We’ll see.’
‘You want to make her your girlfriend.’
‘Maybe.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Soon?’
I whisper in Dale’s ear.
He types. ‘I DON’T KNOW!’ shouts the iPad, volume to the max.
‘Blake, if it happens, I promise that you and Dale and the iPad will be the first to know.’
The clunk of bike gears and the clap of flip-flops fills the space in our conversation. Below us, a big paddleboat churns the river, the white wake like a bandage on the water. A herd of people lean out over the rail of the Goodwill Bridge, waving and shouting and holding out their phones. Their reward is a horn blast.
‘Do you want to marry someone one day?’ asks Blake, as the echoes die away.
I laugh and point at the markings on the pavement – a yellow bike and a 10 km/h speed limit sign. ‘You’re going way too fast here! Slow down, eh?’ She gives me a look that says ‘What are you talking about? I’m walking!’ I shrug. ‘I’m sixteen, Blake. I’d like to live a little.’
‘So, you will get married one day.’
‘If I’ve lived a little.’
‘And when you fall in love.’ Her head leans to the side, suddenly heavy. She takes hold of Dale’s hand and swings it high, back and forth. ‘We can’t get married.’
‘No?’
‘We’re not allowed.’
‘Oh.’
‘My dad said so. He thinks if we get married then we will want to live in the same house at Fair Go and sleep in the same bed and have sex and have children. He thinks we want to be the same as everyone else, doesn’t he?’
Dale allows a grunt to speak for him instead of the iPad.
‘Do you want that?’ I ask.
Blake halts the hand-swing. ‘We don’t want to be like everyone else. We just want to get married. That way we’ll be together forever.’
If Shah was supposed to be anything more than a passenger on the trip, he never got the memo. Or he got the memo, tore it up and burned it. For the entire time at South Bank, he was distant, hands in pockets, uttering a grand total of maybe ten words. His only real sign of life? Watching a Champions League match on the big TVs at the Piazza.
On the bus ride back to Fair Go, I park myself in the seat beside him.
‘Hey, I’m really looking forward to your turn with this tour business, Shah. You want to give me a hint where you’re going to take us? Maybe a soccer game in the –’
‘Football.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Not soccer. Football.’
‘Ah, right. Of course. In Canada, football is a different –’
‘I would like to sleep, thank you.’
‘You want to sleep?’
‘Yes. I do not want talking now. I want to sleep, thank you.’
‘Okay. Sure, no probs.’
Shah cosies up to the window. He makes a fist and presses it to his mouth. It kind of looks like he’s sucking his thumb. Then he closes his eyes. I don’t know when or even if he goes to sleep, but he doesn’t move. Through the wail of an ambulance siren, through the jolts of speed bumps, through an impromptu sing along of Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ initiated by Bernie, he is a corpse.
I squirm in my seat. A small part of me wants to wake him. Come on, Shah! We haven’t spent any time together! With the others – even Florence – I took a step forward. We made progress. I listened and hung out and began building relationships. If I’m to keep the Coyote at bay, I need you too, bud!
The silver lining: I’m talking to myself and it’s still just me.
I’ve taken zero photos to mark my first Fair Go adventure, and here at my shoulder is a beauty. I can see the image on Instagram and its accompanying caption: One of my team, Shah, demonstrating the effect of chillin’ with yours truly #Sleeper #TheSleepening #YouSnoozeILose #NoSleepTillBrisbane #FairGo #LivingPartner. I leave the phone in my pocket, though. This moment can be put away in the place that suddenly seems inviting.
My memory.
Kelvin gives me a fist bump. ‘Congrats, Munro. You did great for your first stint as a Living Partner.’
‘Thanks. Best time I’ve had so far on the exchange.’
‘Awesome. I take it you’re feeling a bit better now about this tour caper?’
‘I am. The Fair Go vibe travels.’
‘It does. Recorded some beaut footage today, by the way. You and the crew keepin’ it real. Top stuff.’
I nod, although I’m surprised. I don’t recall seeing Kelvin with the camera in hand at any point during the day. Either he was very sneaky or I was very comfortable. Probably a combination of the two.
‘It was a good start with the team,’ I say. ‘Florence – she’s tolerating me. Shah, though … I’m still at the starting line with him.’
Kelvin shrugs. ‘Don’t take the sleeping thing personally. He does it on all our community access trips. He’s got a pretty good reason.’
Sounds specific. Maybe chronic fatigue syndrome, like Mr Twan at DSS? That thing where you have sleeping fits – what’s it called? Narcolepsy? Or maybe he has heart issues. Evie often fell asleep after school.
‘Is it something I should know about?’ I ask, trying not to be too nosy.
‘No, it’s fine.’ Kelvin finds a Fruit Tingle in his chest pocket. ‘He’ll tell you if he wants to.’ He tucks the candy between teeth and cheek so he can keep talking. ‘You’ve got plenty of time.’
You were gone again.
I was. Are you going to put another smackdown on me?
Is that what you want?
No.
Do you want to be punished?
No.
You deserve to be punished.
No, I don’t. I deserve to be better. And it’s starting to happen, Coyote. Fair Go is making it happen.
You’re just hiding, Munro. Do you remember what you did after the ambulance took Evie away? You stumbled around the school, past rooms and through doors. Along the side of the theatre, around the tennis courts. Didn’t stop until you reached the storage shed. You went in and sat between the lawnmower and the recycling bins, then you lay down on the concrete. And you stayed there so that all those people who wanted to say how sorry they were, and how it wasn’t your fault, and that you did your best, and you should go home … You stayed there so they couldn’t find you.
You hid, Munro. And now you’re doing it again. You think this is hide-and-seek and Fair Go is where you can’t be found. But I will find you. And when I do, you’ll know we’re together.
Forever.
I jerk awake.
Bright lights above. Hard cushion beneath. Clackety-clack in the ears. Runaway backdrop in the window. The PA announcement. My station – Wattle Heights – is next.
I exit, jumping well clear before the door clamps shut and the train glides away from the platform.
Maeve, Digger and Renee haven’t had a lot of time for me since Liber8. But Rowan isn’t deterred. He still wants all of us to get along. According to him, we just need an outing with a little less intensity.
‘How about you come to the movies with us tonight? See the new Star Wars? That’ll be fun, hey, Munster?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Come on, man. Caro would deck me if I didn’t bring you.’
‘Is Renee going to be there?’
‘Mate, don’t worry about Renee. We all love her, but she can be a pain in the arse at times. She knows that. She shouldn’t have grabbed you at Liber8.’
I appreciate his honesty and, to show this, I decide to make an appearance. I’m feeling good. Solid. The connections with my team today, the absence of any bad moments on the tour, the assertiveness with the Coyote on the train home … The Fair Go effect is a thing. I had my fingers crossed it could travel – now I’m wondering how far it can go.
At the cinema, it’s clear things are a bit icy. Maeve and Digger bring me into the chat, but more out of politeness than genuine inclusion. Renee says nothing to me directly other than ‘How’s it going?’. I nod and smile. For Rowan and Caro’s sake, I won’t make waves.
If my presence is awkward for Renee, it doesn’t register. She gives a standing ovation to a truck ad with talking bulls and then enlists Maeve’s help in booing a tampon commercial that calls for women to ‘have a happy period’. When the preview of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice hits the screen, she loudly suggests an alternative title – Fapman v Supergland: Dong of Justice.
Caro leans towards me. ‘I know from past experience she can be more entertaining than the movie.’
By ‘entertaining’ she means ‘distracting’. And I want a lid put on it before the words ‘In a galaxy far, far away’ climb up the screen. Star Wars, I’m confident, will be plenty entertaining without Renee’s look-at-me act.
Turns out she’s on her best behaviour and I’m distracted anyway. When Kylo Ren uses the Force to interrogate Poe Dameron, I wonder how he would fare against Infecto. As Rey smokes her attackers on Jakku, I imagine her receiving a Flo-jitsu belt as a reward. Looking at the massive ditch surrounding the Starkiller Base, I figure they didn’t learn anything from when they hosted the Expo. My attention, of course, is also at the mercy of Caro. We share an armrest; every time she shifts, my level of self-esteem is in direct proportion to the amount of elbow contact remaining. When Kylo Ren gets all murdery, Caro grabs me like it’s a fire drill and my forearm is the personal possession she wants to take with her. She lets go soon after, but the mark left behind is a phaser strike.
‘So, where to now?’ asks Maeve, as we exit the theatre.
‘Across the road to Nitrogenie,’ says Digger. ‘I’m craving one of those lemon-lime-and-bitters shakes.’
‘Yeah, I could go for a Pavlova Pash,’ admits Renee.
‘Hell, I could give you one of those.’ Digger puckers up and advances, arms outstretched.
Renee shows him the hand. ‘I’d rather get one from Chewbacca.’
Rowan looks my way. ‘How about you, Munster?’
The corners of my mouth turn down. ‘I don’t know. What’s your plan, Caro? You sticking around?’
‘Nah, I’m a bit tired. Don’t like the look of that sky – reckon there’ll be some thunder and lightning later tonight. Think I might bail. Want to share a cab home?’
‘Sure. Is there a rank around here?’
‘There’s one just around the corner.’
‘Cool.’
‘You’re taking Munro away?’ says Maeve. ‘Who are we going to show the sights to now?’
‘Yeah, we had a whole thing planned,’ adds Digger. ‘A river cruise, a dance at Cloudland, a trip up Mt Coot-tha.’
Renee huffs. ‘You used to be such a party animal, Munro. We don’t even know who you are any more.’
I pout and feign shedding a tear. Their sarcasm is uncalled for, but I don’t give a shit. I’m feeling solid and I’m heading home with a hot girl.
Rowan eases between Caro and me, drapes his arms over our shoulders. ‘At least our Canuck friend here still likes one of us. Could well be some thunder and lightning this evening.’
I glance at Caro. She’s blushing, but she’s not disagreeing.
We sit apart in the back of the taxi. In the space separating us, we each have a lone hand, palm down, flat on the seat. The gap between them can’t be more than the width of a gum packet.
I stare at our driver’s turban, trying to come up with something to say.
You remember the last time Evie tried to ride a bike, Munro? At the old racetrack, beside the Rec Centre? She told you she was going to stay up. She was going to ride all by herself. You told her to climb aboard, feet on the pedals, hips locked and not all loosey-goosey like they usually were. You said you would run alongside for a bit, then you’d let go so she could stay up. Ride all by herself.
Evie pushed on the pedals and the bike moved forward. You told her to keep pushing, keep going. You told her to keep it straight. As the bike picked up speed, she asked if you were going to let go. Soon, you said. She asked you again. Just a little more speed, you said. Evie’s voice rose. Munro, let go! But you kept holding the handlebar and the back of the seat. That’s when she started to shout:
LET GO!
LET GO!
LET GO!
‘You have a girlfriend at home, Munro Maddux?’
I tap my forehead, clearing space for Caro’s question. Rain patters on the roof of the taxi.
‘Didn’t you ask me that already? Two weeks ago in Chemistry class?’
‘I remember. And now I’m asking you in the back of a taxi. You have a girlfriend back home, Munro Maddux?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Caro laughs. She pulls on her seatbelt, creating some give that allows her to semi-face me. ‘Ever wish you had a brother or sister?’
I’m thrown. Where did that come from? Then I recall: I told her I was an only child. First time we talked, first day of semester. I inwardly sigh. This night was going so well.
‘I wish I had a sister,’ I reply.
‘Yeah?’
‘I just think being a big brother would be awesome. I would teach her lots of stuff, like how to ride a bike.’
Caro scans all parts of my face. ‘Wow, you’ve thought about this before.’
‘Yeah. The last year especially.’
‘Why the last year?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe because the idea of coming to Australia was starting to take shape. I figure it’s something my little sister would’ve enjoyed.’
‘The way you talk, it’s like you know her. You have a picture of her in your head.’
I nod. ‘You think I’m a drummer short of a marching band now, don’t you? You want the cab to pull over so you can get out?’
Caro doesn’t reply. She lifts her hand from the seat and places it on top of mine. My heart quakes. My pulse is an avalanche.
She’s holding my hand.
She’s holding the hand.
LET GO!
I jerk out from under the gentle contact and press my arm against my chest. ‘Caro, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. Honestly. It’s a reflex thing, nothing at all to do with you. Just a bad … association. I’m so sorry.’
Any second now she’ll give me the gears.
‘I’ve blown it, haven’t I?’ I say.
We stop at an intersection. The rain is sheeting down now. A soaked couple in formal dress crosses in front of us, arguing fiercely. Our driver honks the horn. I zero in on Caro’s face. It’s thoughtful then kind.
‘You haven’t blown it,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay, really.’ She nudges the hair away from my face. ‘Renee grabbed that hand in the escape room, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
She hesitates for a second, then lifts her dress slightly, exposing the outside of her left thigh. Though the light is dim, I can see a nasty scar several inches above her knee. ‘A memento from one of my mum’s pisshead former boyfriends. One night he tried to glass her. I made sure he didn’t.’ She returns the hem of her dress back to her knees. ‘I can’t hack it when it’s touched, even with the doc or the physio. I wear board shorts at the beach. I don’t really hate the way it looks, I just hate why it happened.’ She unclips her seatbelt, begins climbing over me.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Move over. We’ll swap sides.’ After some awkward shuffling, we settle into each other’s previous spots. She smiles. ‘This is better, isn’t it? We’re on our good sides now, as long as you don’t have issues with your leftie there.’
I shake my head. Our opposite hands now lie flat on the seat, occupying the space between us. The previous gap has been restored.
Two other things happen on the trip home.
The first – Caro kisses me. On the cheek. Unannounced. Just as the taxi enters the driveway to her house.
Second – she draws a line.
‘You’ve got a bit going on behind those cute blue eyes,’ she says, exiting the cab to the final spits of the night’s downpour. She reaches up to thumb away the lipstick from my face. ‘A lot, actually.’
‘That sounds like a “let’s just be friends” sort of line,’ I say glumly.
She leans on the wound-down window. ‘We are friends. Good friends.’ She nods towards my hand. ‘And when you’ve sorted some stuff out …’
She leaves the sentence unfinished and makes her way to her front door. As she disappears inside, the cab driver asks me where to next.
‘Nowhere, I guess.’
I press the FaceTime icon. The electronic dolphin noises commence. Vancouver time is just after six in the morning, so maybe it’s too early to catch them. No, the shuck sound has begun, indicating a pick-up. The video feed of my head scuttles up into the top-right corner. My parents’ faces appear.
Dad sits to the right of screen, arms loosely folded, face drawn. He’s wearing an E-LIFE button on the collar of his shirt. Mum looks a bit brighter, but her gloomy, glistening eyes show where she’s really at.
‘So good to see you, Munro,’ she says.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t called before now,’ I reply. ‘I’m immersing myself in an AWESOME new culture and having the RAD adventure I always dreamt about. But that’s no excuse.’
‘It’s okay. We’ve been enjoying the emails.’
‘Thanks for putting more cash in my account, by the way.’
‘No problem. You can even keep it if you come home.’
I look from Dad to Mum, then back to Dad. Neither is willing to look at the camera. ‘Is that the deal? You want me to come home?’
Dad rubs the back of his neck. ‘We heard from Nina Hyde that there’s been a few … challenges at school, so …’ He holds up both hands. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. Whatever you want to do, Munro, we’re with you. We want what you want, son.’
‘Absolutely,’ adds Mum. ‘If it’s seeing things through, fine. And if it’s ending the exchange early, that’s okay, too. We don’t mind.’
Seeing my parents’ faces trying not to plead and failing miserably, my mind strays to the night of my departure. It was like a scene from a Wes Anderson movie – all stilted conversations and uncomfortable silences. Dad kept checking his watch every ten seconds, telling me I shouldn’t leave it too late to go through Security, there were always delays with Security. Mum was worse. She drank a double-shot espresso at Starbucks. She grumbled about the new video for the Foundation’s website being too expensive. For the hundredth time that week, she got upset that YOLO had been lax in confirming my pick-up details in Brisbane. Neither one said they were second-guessing the decision to let me go. Neither one said they’d be counting the days.
The look on their faces mirrored the ones I see now.
Go home, Munro. It’s what they want. Don’t let them down.
Again.
‘It’s been a bit rocky at school, for sure,’ I say, ‘but I’m still going. Haven’t missed a day. I’m in a better headspace now.’
I tell them about the volunteering hours, about Fair Go and the Living Partner role. I talk about the Straya Tour and the South Bank trip. I give a brief intro to my team, but I don’t mention Blake.
‘Sounds like an awesome place,’ says Mum. ‘Well suited to your experience.’ She trails off, then forces a smile. ‘So, how are things with the Hydes? Still going well? They seem to be good people.’
‘They’re great. Not sure they deserve the likes of me, but they’re treating me as family.’
‘That’s nice. That’s … nice to hear.’
Mum begins massaging her forehead. Dad twists the wedding ring on his finger. Outside, I hear the lock open on the front door and footsteps across the floor. Rowan’s carefree chatter leaks into my room, followed by Nina’s happy cackle.
‘It’s late over there, we should let you go, I suppose,’ says Dad. His chin quivers. Mum takes hold of his hand. ‘We’re sorry, Munro. Since Evelyn’s passing, we’ve been too wrapped up in the Foundation, not giving you the things you need here. No wonder you wanted to run away from us.’
‘Dad, that’s not –’
‘Let me finish.’ He nods, as if he’s been given permission to speak. ‘We’ll make good. We’ll be better. That’s a promise.’
‘You don’t need to promise anything. You guys aren’t the reason I wanted to come here.’
‘Thank you for saying that.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Dad tilts his head. ‘Be that as it may, we don’t want to be the reason you stay.’ He brings his head back to centre and lifts his chin. ‘Keep at it, son. Keep getting better. And we’ll do the same here.’
I miss Mum and Dad. And you, of course.
Can we really be a family? Just the three of us?
I think about those kids in the severe disabilities class. Like Isaac, the boy who had seizures all the time? Or that girl Katie? She couldn’t feed herself or go to the bathroom on her own. I mean, I’m not saying you were better than them. It’s just … what quality of life do they have? Why are they still alive and you’re not?
I’m tired, not thinking straight.
Goodnight, Evie.