Fast Flight (3 page)

Things got off to an early start. The alarm blared at 6.30 am.

Dillon usually hit the snooze button on school mornings, trying to squeeze in a few extra minutes in bed. But today was Saturday and he wasn't going to school. He jumped straight out of bed and slid into the cricket whites draped over the back of a chair.

Mum had breakfast on the table as he bounded into the kitchen.

‘You're chipper this morning,' she said, brushing a strand of mousy brown hair from her eyes. She was of average height and a little on the plump side. Wide, friendly eyes shone from her round face, projecting a feeling of warmth.

Dillon grinned. ‘Got a good feeling about the match.'

He sat down and devoured the bacon and pancakes, which he first drowned in maple syrup. This was a get-your-own-breakfast household most mornings, which usually meant cereal for Dillon. But Mum always made something special on a match day.

Dillon was out the door by seven, in the car and being driven to Jay's place by Dad.

Dad was tall and gangly, but with a small round belly that looked out of place. His thinning hair was a greying blond and he had pasty white skin with loads of freckles. He yawned every couple of minutes as they drove. He didn't like mornings.

They arrived at Jay's just before 7.15 am.

Dad honked the horn. Dillon pulled at his seatbelt impatiently.

A couple of minutes later, Jay stumbled out of the house.

‘Good luck, Jayden,' his mum's voice called from inside.

Jay threw his sports bag into the boot, then fell into the back seat of the car. ‘Yo!' he grunted.

‘Yo right back at you,' said Dad with a smirk.

Jay clicked the belt into place, leaned his face against the window and closed his eyes.

‘Come on,' said Dillon, looking at his friend. ‘You can't be tired. You've got to be on your best game.'

‘I'll be fine when the time comes,' said Jay sleepily, without opening his eyes.

Dillon poked him in the ribs. Jay grunted.

Dillon stared out the window for the next half hour. The sky was clear and blue. It looked set to be a bright sunny day. Which is exactly what Dillon liked. It would mean less time in his light box. The sun's warming glow included ultraviolet light. And he would be out in it all morning.

The car pulled into the parking lot of the sportsground at 7.46 am. A number of cars
were already there, and a bus was pulling in behind them.

‘We're here,' said Dillon, stabbing a finger into Jay's ribs again before getting out.

Jay's eyes snapped open and he sprung from the car, suddenly awake and enthused. ‘Ta-da!' He flung out his arms. ‘Told you I'd be ready.'

Dillon laughed. ‘And people say I'm weird.'

‘Good luck,' said Dad through the open window. ‘See you after the match.'

The two boys grabbed their bags and headed for the pavilion. An umpire was out on the oval, examining the pitch. A few people were hanging around the edges of the grass.

At eight on the dot, the coach gave them their pep talk. He was large, overweight
and bald. He looked fierce, but spoke with a gentle lilt to his voice. He spoke about strategy, playing to your strengths and having fun.

The coin was tossed at 8.14 am. Dillon punched the air – their side would bat first. Batting was his strength.

He was up third.

The first two batters were doing well until a yorker from the opposition, coming in at the crease, took out the stumps.

It was Dillon's turn now.

Butterflies were flying loop-the-loops in his stomach as he walked to the pitch. He had been a star batsman in junior cricket last year. His first season in his school's senior team had been okay, but not brilliant. But he was feeling optimistic about today.

Dillon reached the crease, positioned himself and felt the butterflies scatter. He was never nervous while batting. His anxiety would rise as he waited for his turn and would go with him to the pitch, but as he took a deep breath in preparation to bat, it would disappear.

Dillon watched the ball as the bowler tossed it into the air and caught it. He did not take his eyes from it. He paid no attention to the bowler, couldn't even tell you what he looked like. All his attention was focused on that red sphere as it was carried in the run up and released, hurtling down the pitch towards him.

He pulled the bat back and swung, the jarring sensation travelling up his arms and through his body like a wave as the ball connected with the bat.

The ball soared into the air and he ran. It landed on the grass, to be quickly scooped up by a fielder and thrown back.

Two runs.

He hit his next ball low.

One run.

His third ball came in super fast, right at the crease. He took a step forward and smashed it on the full with all his might.

He heard the cheering halfway down the pitch.

‘SIX!' called the umpire.

Another cheer went up from the spectators.

His first six for the season! His first six in senior cricket!

Dillon scored another twenty runs before being caught out. A total of twenty-nine. He was happy with that.

The rest of the match streaked past in a blur of motion. Runs were scored, balls were caught, stumps were smashed. The game was close, but they won. And Dillon's six was the only one of the match.

Dad took him and Jay out for milkshakes to celebrate. They sat at the café's outside table. The three of them clinked their glasses together in a victory toast and Jay said, ‘You're the dude!'

As Dillon slurped the last of his shake, he looked up and enjoyed the feel of the sun's warmth on his face. His skin felt tingly and he imagined the ultraviolet light doing its work … like a cricket bat smashing the bilirubin out of his system – hitting it for a six!

He returned home on a wave of excitement, barely able to stop talking.
Even his mum's complaints about the state of his room couldn't diminish the thrill of having scored a six. He promised to clean his room tomorrow.

Dinner was spaghetti bolognaise. His favourite.

And then it was into the light box.

Dillon finally got out of the box at 11.30 pm. It had been a long day and he was tired.

He went straight to bed, but found himself staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying the six. It was a good reason to have difficulty in falling asleep.

Finally, be began to doze off … only to
be dragged back into the waking world by a loud ringing.

The phone!

Dillon glanced at the clock on his bedside table. Who in the world would be ringing at 12.30 am?

And then his heart skipped a beat.
Could it be?

He tried to calm down.
It could be anything
, he told himself.
A wrong number. A telemarketer working late. The death of a long-lost family member.

Or …

It might be a new liver.

Unconsciously, he found himself crossing his fingers and holding his breath as he listened.

The ring cut off as the phone was answered.

‘Hello?' Mum's weary voice carried through the silent house.

There were a few seconds of silence. Then …

‘What?' Her voice was excited.

There was movement. Mum was walking around the house as she spoke, her words now muffled and indistinct.

Dillon got out of bed and crept to his door. He opened it and listened.

‘Yes!' Mum was almost shouting now. ‘Yes, yes. Thank you. Thank you so much.'

Dillon's heart was pounding hard and his breath was coming in short rasping bursts. His mind was whirling with the possibilities and hope.

Mum hung up the phone and came racing down the corridor. She ran straight to Dillon
and wrapped her arms around him, almost lifting him off the floor.

‘They've got a liver!' she whispered.

Dillon's knees turned to jelly. If Mum hadn't been holding on to him, he was sure he would have fallen over. And it seemed to be forever before she finally let go.

Dillon leaned up against the wall to steady himself. Dad appeared at the other end of the corridor, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired.

‘What's up?' he asked, confused with sleep.

‘They've got a liver!' Mum shouted as she ran to embrace him.

Dad's eyes were now awake and alert. Dillon smiled as his parents hugged and did
a little happy dance. Then Mum stopped and looked back at Dillon.

‘They're getting a Flying Doctors aeroplane ready. We need to get moving,' she called. ‘NOW!'

Dillon was shaking as he stuffed his iPod and iPad into his overnight bag. It was already full of clothes, waiting for the time it would be needed.

Could this really be it?
he thought.

He suddenly realised that he may have had his last session in the light box. If all went well, he would never have to sit in it again.

Is this my future?

And yet the idea of the transplant operation weighed heavily on him. As did the possibility of being incompatible with the donor.

‘Hurry up!' Mum shouted.

The next few minutes were utterly frantic. Despite the fact that his parents had insisted on preparing a plan in advance (including a list, maps, where to park at the airport, etc.), they still seemed to be running around like headless chooks.

Finally, they headed out the door. In theory, Dillon was never supposed to be more than half an hour from an airport, in case the call came. But Hope Valley was about forty minutes' drive away in daytime traffic. In the middle of the night, however, half an hour should be easy.

Dillon sat in the back of the car, while his parents got into the front.

Dad paused for a moment, holding the key in the ignition. Dillon heard him take a long, deep breath. He let it out slowly.

‘Ready?' Dad asked so quietly it was almost a whisper.

‘I think so.' Mum's voice was a little timid and shaky.

‘You bet!' answered Dillon with enthusiasm.

His parents nodded in unison and Dad turned the key.

Dillon smiled as the engine started.

Best day ever
, thought Dillon.

Dillon watched the street lights go by, glowing points in the darkness. His eyes went from one to the next, like a gigantic dot-to-dot illuminating the night.

He imagined the patterns and pictures they might form when viewed from above. Instantly, it transported him six weeks back in time, to his first flight aboard an
RFDS plane. There was no faster way to get to Melbourne for a transplant, than with the Royal Flying Doctor Service.

Like this time, the call had come in the evening, although not as late.
Do all transplants happen then?
he wondered. Dillon had been whisked away into the car by his parents, taken to the airport and flown to Melbourne. He had always assumed that the Flying Doctors only ever dealt with emergencies in far-off, out-of-the-way places. But it seemed that they also did short-notice, middle-of-the-night transfers in city locations.

He remembered looking out of the window as the plane rose higher – watching the lights grow more distant. They did make patterns. The higher the plane went,
the more intricate the patterns became. And he could see pictures in the lights – faces, animals, machinery. His imagination ran wild until the landscape changed, leaving behind the illumination.

His mind returned to the present with a sudden lurch.

The car was pulling over, making an odd thumping sound.

‘What's wrong?' asked Dillon.

‘Just a flat tyre,' said Dad with an exasperated sigh. ‘Talk about rotten timing.'

‘What are we going to do?' demanded Mum, voice rising.

‘Change the tyre,' said Dad, deadpan, opening his door.

The three of them got out of the car and stood back. The tyre on the front passenger
side was indeed flat. On closer examination, Dad found a nail embedded in the rubber.

‘We're going to be late,' worried Mum, running her hands through her hair.

Dillon's heart jumped.
Late? We can't be late!
Every step of the way, it had been drummed into them how essential speed was in the case of an organ transplant.

‘It's going to be okay,' said Dad. ‘I'm good with tyres. I'll have it replaced within ten minutes.'

‘That's still ten minutes late,' said Mum, pacing anxiously on the footpath. ‘You know how important it is to get Dillon to the hospital immediately.' She stopped, an idea springing into mind. ‘Maybe Dillon and I should take a taxi?'

Dad was already getting the spare and the jack out of the boot. ‘In the time it takes you to ring and wait for a taxi, we'll be ready to go. But go ahead, if you like.' He winked at Dillon. ‘We can make it a race. See if I can get us going before the taxi arrives.'

Dillon laughed. Mum's attention snapped to him, her face tense. But then she relaxed and nodded. ‘Okay. How about I ring and let the RFDS know what's happened?'

‘Excellent idea,' said Dad as he started jacking up the car.

Mum walked off behind them. Making that call would keep her busy and out of Dad's way. It would also help her stay calm.

‘Need a hand?' asked Dillon, eager to participate.

‘No, no,' assured Dad, getting to work on loosening the wheel nuts. ‘I've got this.'

Dillon sighed. Whenever Dad refused assistance, it made Dillon wonder:
Is it because I'm defective?

Was Dad trying to protect him? Or didn't he think he was capable? Or was it just coincidence?

Whatever the case, it made Dillon feel left out. Excluded from the details of his own adventure.

With nothing else to do, Dillon worried. He worried about getting the transplant, about not getting the transplant, about the possibility of another incompatible liver. But mostly, he worried about being late.

What if this delay stuffs up everything?

Being quick was important when it came to transplanting organs. A liver would only be viable for transplant for a
certain amount of time after the donor had died … although he wasn't really sure how long that was. No one had actually told him that. But he thought that it was different from case to case, depending on the circumstances of death. Either way, he didn't want to miss his opportunity because of a stupid flat tyre.

Mum finished her call and walked back to the car to see that it was fixed.

‘And that would be a new family record,' said Dad, heaving the replaced wheel into the boot and tossing the jack in after it.

‘Fastest tyre-changer in the West,' quipped Mum. Now that everything was okay again, she seemed more ready to joke about it.

‘Maybe we should apply to the
Guinness World Records
?' suggested Dad.

‘Or maybe we should just get going?' said Mum. ‘Come on.'

They all got back into the car. Dad paused like he had earlier, holding the key in the ignition.

‘Ready?' he asked, after taking a long, deep breath.

‘Oh, would you just get moving!' demanded Mum.

‘Right-oh, then.' Dad turned the key and the engine started. ‘Fingers crossed for smooth sailing from here on in.'

Sailing?
thought Dillon.
We're in a car, not a boat.
He often considered Dad's choice of analogy to be a bit weird.

The car took off, zooming up the deserted road.

‘Well, that was a bit of an adventure,' said Dad.

‘Let's hope there aren't any more,' countered Mum.

A flat tyre is nothing
, thought Dillon.
The transplant is going to be the real adventure.