One Thousand Cranes

The day Julie and Simon came into my life (or was that the other way around?) was like so many other Aussie summer days. It was hot; it was humid, and it was definitely not ideal weather for my line of work.

It was almost knock-off time, and this would be my last call before finishing up. The address I'd been given was a little way out of town and had taken me a while to find. As I pulled my van into the driveway all that was on my mind was getting home to put my feet up with a nice cold beer.

The house was small and neat, and the gardens didn’t seem as though they needed a whole lot of attention. As I climbed out of the cab a boy of about 13 appeared from the carport, driving an electric wheelchair. It was one of those sporty-looking jobs, festooned with stickers and with two large mirrors, each boasting bright streamers. His sports team's colours, I guessed.

“Hello,” he said. “You the gardener guy?”

“That's me, is your mum about?”

As if on cue, a petite woman appeared in the doorway. “G'day,” I said. “I'm Greg. The people at Home and Community Care asked me to drop in. Apparently, you need some gardening work done?”

“Julie White.” She extended her hand. “And this is Simon.”

I took her hand and instantly forgot all about the heat, or the beer waiting at home. Julie White was the sort of woman few men can pass without a second look. Somewhere in her late thirties, I would have guessed, with shoulder-length, light brown hair held in place by a bright silk scarf, and a smile to melt the hardest of hearts. She wasn’t exactly slim, but had a well-proportioned figure that spoke of a woman not obsessed with appearance, but obviously mindful of her health and well-being.

I felt a flush starting to rise and hurriedly turned to the boy. “G’day Simon, pretty flash looking machine you're driving there. I'll bet that's the envy of all your mates!”

Simon gave me a look I presumed he reserved for people who made condescending remarks and replied with a shrug: “It's OK, I s’pose.”

He spun his chair and wheeled away along the verandah. Realising my faux pas, I turned to Julie.

“What do you need?” I asked. “Your wish is my command.” I made an exaggerated bow, and she rewarded me with another of those smiles. I badly need to break the ice here—I thought.

“There's just the two of us,” she explained. “HACC has been wanting to get someone in to help with the house chores and so on, but we don't like our routine disturbed. Eventually, I gave in and said if they got somebody to weed the garden for me, I'd be pretty happy.”

“And here I am. Greg the gardener at your service.”

She flashed another disarming smile. I did my best to return the favour.

Julie showed me around the small cottage and yard, while Simon disappeared inside. There was a neat vegetable patch at the back and some climbing roses along the fence. “These could do with a prune,” I mused. “And those shoots from below the graft need to go before they take over the whole plant.”

“Well, you’re welcome to that job,” Julie said. “Every time I get within reach they attack me on all sides.” She laughed lightly, “Look at these scratches! All I did was try to cut some blooms for the house.”

“That looks painful,” I said. “I’ve got something in the van that’ll help.” She protested a little, but I fetched a tube of aloe vera ointment from my kit. “I use this a lot. In my line of work, you never know when you’ll need it.” I dabbed some on her scratches and asked, “So aside from the feral roses, is there anything more you want taken care of?”

“Just that, a bit of weeding, and whatever else you feel needs doing, I guess.”

I arranged to call around at 4 o'clock the following Friday afternoon, and weekly after that.

There wasn't a lot to do. There was no lawn to mow, Julie being one or those water-wise folks; so I weeded, and tidied, and did the occasional handyman job to fill in her allotted six hours per month.

Simon kept his distance, preferring to spend his time playing an online computer game or with his dog, a sandy-coloured Labradoodle. On the third visit, I thought I’d strike up a conversation.

“He’s a friendly fellow,” I said, giving the pooch a scratch behind his ear.

“His name’s JS,” Simon offered. “He's a trained Companion Dog. He's really smart, and he helps me do all sorts of things.

“Bet you don’t know what JS stands for.”

“JS…” I said, rubbing my chin, “that wouldn't be short for Johannes Sebastian would it?” I made it seem like a guess, but in fact, Julie had let slip on that already.

“Johannes Sebastian Bark! You're the first one who got it!”

He gave me a broad smile and offered a high five. As our palms met he said, “Maybe you're not such a dill after all!”

“Thanks, mate,” I said, “I think.”

“So what’s the game you’re playing there?” I asked, after a pause, peering over his shoulder at his laptop screen.

“It’s called Quasi. It’s like a cross between Second Life and World of Warcraft,” he replied. “You do know what they are?”

“Hey, steady on,” I said. “I might be old, but I’m not a dinosaur. I had a mate who was into both of those. Not my thing, though. I’m more of an outdoors type. You know, fishing, camping, and all that old-fashioned stuff.”

“Hmmm, never been camping,” Simon replied. “Mum took me fishing once. We caught nothing, though.”

“If you like—and if it’s OK with your mum, of course—I can take you one day. There’s a spot not too far out of town with a small jetty that shouldn’t pose too much of a problem for you… er…” I hesitated, searching for the right words.

“It’s OK,” Simon interjected. “I’ve got a lightweight manual chair as well. I reckon even you could manage that.” he gave an impish grin and playfully nudged my shoulder. “Here, check this out.” He pointed at his screen. “This is me, or my avatar, anyway. In here I’m Hodari Silverblade; righter of wrongs and all-round good guy. Hodari is a Swahili word meaning warrior.”

The avatar was rather fitting. A handsome, muscular man, above the waist, at least, with the bottom half being a machine, running on tracks like a dozer, and bristling with spears and other weapons.

“I like this site ‘cos I can choose to be a human, a machine, or a bit of both. What do you reckon?”

“He looks like you,” I said. “Did you upload a photo?”

“Yeah, that’s another cool bit. We can customise the avatars to look like us.” then he added, “I can’t do some things my mates can, but in here I’m a superstar!”

I smiled and returned to my work, leaving Simon—alias Hodari Silverblade—to his make-believe world.

He’s a superstar all right—I mused to myself. In truth, I’d met few teenagers so well balanced despite the daily challenges he faced.

After that, things got a little easier between us. Perhaps he decided I wasn’t a threat, or possibly he’d needed time to adjust. Either way, over the next few visits we became pretty good mates. Julie had agreed, in principle, to my taking Simon on a fishing trip, but we all agreed to leave it for a while—maybe until next spring.

“Simon's really taken to you,” she said one day, as we enjoyed a cuppa together, “He doesn't make friends easily you know.”

“I guess that's understandable,” I replied. “He's probably had his share of bad experiences.”

There was a slight pause. “You have anyone waiting at home Greg?”

“Nope, just me and the telly. I rent an on-site van at the caravan park.”

“Aha!” she laughed. “Trailer trash! I might have known!”

We both had a good chuckle before she asked, “Why don't you come to dinner tonight Greg? I've got a roast in the oven, way too much for the two of us.”

I hesitated for a moment—a roast would beat the hell out of fish and chips any day—but I wasn't sure how HACC felt about workers fraternising with clients. Before I even realised it though I heard myself saying, “That'd be great Julie, I'd love to. Shall I bring a bottle?”

“Sounds good to me,” she said. “See you about 6.30 then?”

Dinner went well. Julie's roast turned out to be more of a banquet than a family meal. Simon said it was because she spent ‘way too much time’ watching cooking shows on TV. After we’d eaten, Simon offered to show me his collection of football posters in his bedroom.

Simon's room was tidy for a teenager's. There was the usual slight clutter, but mostly, things were in their place. One thing that I couldn't help but notice was a number of folded paper cranes arranged on the bookshelf.

“Origami,” I said. “Your work?”

“Yep.” He handed me one to examine, pride showing on his face.

“These must take you a while, what with…” I paused, searching for the right words.

“It's OK,” he said, “You can say it. Yeah, they take me a fair while, but my OT says it's good therapy. I downloaded a pattern and instructions off the internet. They say that if you make a thousand of these, your greatest wish’ll come true. That's number 398. You can keep it if you want.”

“Thanks, Simon,” I said, marvelling at the precision of its assembly. I doubted if I could do such a neat job.

“Are you going to stay the night? It's OK with me if you do. Mum hasn't had a boyfriend for pretty much forever, and I reckon she likes you.”

His frankness caught me completely off guard, and I wondered what Julie would make of his attempts at matchmaking. “I hadn't thought that far ahead,” I said finally. “Anyway, I reckon that's up to your Mum to decide, don't you?”

“Sure,” he replied. “Just thought I'd let you know it's fine with me.”

After a moment of awkward silence, I said: “Thanks for the crane mate, I'll keep it in my appointments book as a page marker.”

“Cool,” he said, spinning his wheelchair around and heading back out to the living room. “Any more of that apple pie left Mum?”

After Simon went to bed we sat and talked for hours. Julie explained his condition. “Muscular Dystrophy,” she said. “They diagnosed him at two years old. I knew something was wrong when he had so much difficulty learning to walk, but it was still a hell of a shock.”

“I've heard of it,” I said, “but I don’t know much about it.”

“You and most of the world! There are dozens, if not more, variations of MD; Simon has one of the worst. It affects his heart as well as other muscles.” She paused, “He knows he'll never reach old age, it's just something we've had to come to terms with.”

Simon's father had walked out shortly after the diagnosis and hadn’t contacted either of them since, leaving Julie as the sole parent and caregiver.

“You've done a brilliant job, Jules,” I offered. “He's a great kid, and he's pretty smart too,” I added, thinking of our earlier conversation. “That fool doesn’t realise what he's missing.”

I truly meant the last part, and couldn't help but wonder how any sane man could walk out on these two.

I did spend the night, but on the sofa. After sharing two bottles of red and seemingly endless conversation, we both agreed that I was in no fit state to drive.

Simon woke me the next morning with a coffee and a knowing smile; convinced, I assumed, that I must have sneaked out to the lounge in the early hours.

I was glad it was the weekend, as I didn't have to rush off. I put in a couple of unpaid hours fixing their front gate, and before I left we all spent the afternoon watching the footy on TV.

After that, dinner on Friday nights became a regular thing, and over the next several weeks I spent more and more time with Julie and Simon. Progressively, I moved from the sofa to the bedroom and started spending weekends, even accompanying them to church on Sundays, which pleased Julie no end. Then she suggested I move in.

“Why pay two lots of rent?” she said matter-of-factly. So I became a part of the household, officially.

There was a slight downside, though; I lost a regular customer. After all, I couldn't bill HACC for doing my own garden, could I?

I began taking Simon with me on jobs sometimes, his manual chair folded and perched on the roof of my van. We got along well, and day by day his collection of cranes grew. Whenever he finished one, he'd announce the new tally. He was up to around 900 when I decided it was about time we had a certain conversation I'd been thinking about.

“Simon,” I asked, as we were doing the dishes together, “What would you say if your Mum and I were to get married?”

He considered it for just long enough to build the suspense. “On one condition,” he said.

I waited. After an appropriate pregnant pause, he added, “I get to call you Dad.”

“It's a deal,” I replied, adding, “Now, we have to convince your mum.”

“Oh, she'll be a pushover, you wait and see.”

Jules and I wed just three months later. Simon carried the rings and insisted on spending two weeks in respite care, despite Julie’s protests, so we could have a honeymoon. Life seemed perfect!

Simon finally reached his total of 1,000 cranes and swore he'd had his fill of paper folding for a while. “Anyway,” he said, “how many wishes can a kid hope to get?”

I had to admire his optimism, but didn't see how paper cranes would help his situation. I kept these thoughts to myself, however. The last thing he needed would be me raining on his parade.

About a year later, as I was out at work, my phone rang.

Julie was beside herself. “Simon's had an attack! He’s just slumped in his chair, and I can't get him to respond!”

“Ring triple zero!” I said, “I'm on my way!”

I arrived home as the ambulance was leaving for the hospital, so I followed, knowing Julie would be in the back with Simon.

After parking my van, I rushed to Emergency, where I found Julie waiting in the corridor

“They wouldn't let me stay with him. They're doing their best, but I'm terrified. Is this it, Greg, is this it?”

The next hour or so passed in a blur, as doctors and attendants came and went. They transferred Simon to ICU, and we waited, and waited, until finally we were allowed in to see him.

Simon looked for all the world as if he were simply sleeping peacefully. Except, that was, for the tubes, leads, and flashing lights of the machines attached to his small frame.

Would he recover? “It's difficult to say at this stage, just what damage there is,” said the specialist. “We'll know more in the morning, but right now we can only monitor him and hope for the best. You're welcome to stay for a while,” he added, “but he is under sedation, so he won't be awake for some time.”

Simon never woke. After two days the medical team announced that his brain functions were negligible and asked us to think about organ donation.

I looked at Julie, expecting some sort of protest, but she simply said: “Where do I sign?”

She explained that they’d had that discussion, and donation was Simon's choice. “At least part of him will live on,” she said. I placed my arms around her and we both wept unashamedly.

Simon’s funeral was a true testament to his popularity. I’d never realised how many lives he had touched, and it seemed as if the entire town had turned out. We laid him to rest by a large Cyprus pine, his small coffin blanketed with 999 paper cranes. Crane number 398, I vowed, would be buried with me, not its maker.

As we walked slowly away towards the carpark I mused aloud, “All those cranes, yet he still didn’t get his wish.”

“Oh yes he did,” replied Julie.

“How so?” I asked, stopping in my tracks.

“All Simon ever wished for was a father,” she said. “You gave him that.” then she added, “And I thank you.”

The End.