“Can you stay, Marisa?” Bette asks, wiping her hands on her apron. I see her take a good look at me. “My, you look a bit worn-out.”
She’s being polite. I must look like something Mut dragged up from the beach.
“That boy has been so good for Tal,” she whispers, when Harris leaves the room. “He was spending far too much time thinking, if you know what I mean.” Yep, I know perfectly what she means. “Now he seems to have a purpose again.”
When I call to check in with Dad, he says the water is still off at the marina and Bette insists I use her shower. “Give me your dirty things, I’ve got a load of wash to do anyway,” she orders, handing me two fluffy towels.
“Gotta look presentable for the crowds on Saturday,” Harris jokes when he overhears. That gives Bette another idea. She glances at the wall clock in the kitchen.
“Harris is right. It’s almost six already. You’re just going to come right back here in the morning. Why don’t you ask if you can stay the night? Harris and Jesse are in the basement bedrooms. You can stay upstairs in the tower. I think you’d enjoy that.”
Dad says stay and I take what must be the longest shower of my life, feeling the hot water wash away three days of dirt and tiredness. When I’m done, Harris gives me the tour.
We wander around jam-packed rooms. One is filled entirely with tackle boxes, framed photos, and paintings of fish, plus half a dozen fishing poles lined up leaning against the walls. Another is Bette’s quilting room. A whole room just for quilts. Two frames are set up and waiting with projects in progress and three gorgeous quilts hang on the wall, two Northwest landscapes and a third intricate design of flowers and hummingbirds.
When we make our way up the circular staircase to the tower room, I feel like a princess in a fairy tale, climbing up to her lookout. Harris pushes open the door and it creaks.
“You’re not gonna believe this one,” he smiles and we duck our heads to enter.
When I step inside, I catch my breath. Fancy windows with built-in cushioned seats encircle the whole room. Standing in the corner, near a daybed, an expensive-looking telescope points west. Through the windows, the inlet spreads out before us. Even in the fading light, I can see all the way south to the Warren Avenue Bridge and north to where the inlet dead-ends at Silverdale. Little specks of light, from the last few boats still moving on the water, flicker in the distance.
“Looks just like my view from the trailer park, don’t you think?” Harris says and we laugh. It’s nice to know we’re good enough friends now that we can laugh about this.
When it gets too dark to see, Harris moves over to a small desk and clicks on the table light. It’s a perfect desk, positioned to allow a half view of the inlet, with curved drawers running down both sides and little brass handles that make a satisfying little clinking sound when you touch them. I open and shut one drawer absentmindedly, thinking what it must be like to live here when I notice something glinting on the desk in the fading light. I lean closer to look.
It’s a charm bracelet, lying on top of a thick stack of books.
“Oh!” I pick it up gently. It’s really light and makes a pretty tinkling sound from the charms dangling off the chain.
“What’s up?” Harris says, coming up behind me.
“It’s a bracelet … look.…”
I know right away it’s not an expensive piece—the metal is a bright gold, too bright to be real—but I fall in love with it anyway. I examine each charm. There’s a tiny American flag, a painter’s palette with multicolored gems for all the different colors, a Christmas tree, a cat, an airplane, and a minuscule pair of baby shoes, each with an inscription on its sole: Sept 4, 1975 on the left and the name Carol Ann on the right.
Plus one more.
“Look at the orca,” I whisper, showing Harris the tiny leaping whale with faceted blue glass eyes. “I had a bracelet almost exactly like this, one that Mom and I put together. Every time we’d travel somewhere, we’d put a new charm on it. I loved that bracelet. I haven’t seen it in years.”
Harris is thumbing through the thick books where the bracelet was resting. “These are pretty cool,” he says, handing me one with green binding and the words Augustus 1990 embossed in gold. There are two more, same size but with different color bindings and different years.
I put the bracelet down and open the green book. Handwritten messages written in blue pen fill the endpaper and first page. Some have little hearts drawn next to the names, others “XOXO” in fancy curlicue letters. All the messages start the same way—Dear Carol.
“They’re yearbooks,” I tell Harris, lifting the bracelet again. “And this must be her bracelet.”
“Who?”
“Carol Ann. The Dear Carol in the yearbooks. These are hers.” A tingle runs through my body. “Have Tal and Bette ever mentioned a daughter?”
“Not to me,” he says, still flipping through pages of past pictures of Augustus High School kids from years ago. Swim Club. Forensic Society. Tennis Club.
1975—the date on the baby shoes.
“Let me see something.” I reach for the red yearbook Harris is holding, embossed with the date 1992, and flip the pages to the graduates’ pictures in the back.
Parsons—Pawlak—Rizzo. Ragoza—Raimondo—Rea—Reese.
Silently, I pass the book to Harris. His eyes widen. One name stares up at us: Carol Ann Reese. Except where her picture should be, someone has taken scissors and carefully cut it away. All that’s left is a gaping hole in the paper.
Carol Ann Reese is gone.
––––
When I wake, it takes me a minute to remember where I am. The soft morning sunlight spreads its thin November rays over the water of the inlet, flooding the tower room with a soft light. Just as I imagined, the wall of windows offers a spectacular view.
I lie quietly, thinking about Carol Ann Reese. I thought about her all last night before falling asleep. What could have happened that was so awful Tal and Bette would never mention her?
From downstairs, the sounds of breakfast preparations float up. Bette has laid my freshly washed clothes out on one of the window seats. I dress slowly, then wander the tower room, almost in a trance. The telescope stands facing the window like a sentinel, and I run my hand along its length. It’s not all that different from bird scopes or Dad’s binoculars, and pretty soon I’m scanning the inlet like an expert.
Carefully, I move the scope left to right, repositioning the viewfinder. Boats of all kinds cluster in every cove and marina along the western and northern shore and I check for any big ones that might be entering the inlet. A ferry and one whale watcher steam in under the Manette Bridge, but the Warren Avenue approach is still clear.
Then, swiveling to the left, I see them—a cluster of black fins slicing through the water just north of the bridge. My knee-jerk reaction is to step back and of course the view disappears. I find the spot again, refocus, and hold the scope as still as I can. A small group of whales swims toward the mouth of the inlet, moving forward in a steady line.
Amazingly, there are no boats anywhere nearby.
From here in the tower, the whales seem a million miles away. I try to stay calm and count, 1-2-3-4-5 fins. Then I remember Kevin mentioning the beneficial tide. Maybe they’re going for it! But—where’s the rest of the pod?
The room is quiet except for the sound of the heavy mechanical clicking of the scope. Downstairs, I can hear Harris and Jesse moving around in the kitchen. I watch the group slowly approach the bridge—still forty or fifty feet away. I’m pressing the eyepiece against my socket so hard it starts to hurt, but I don’t dare glance away.
“Harris!” I shout, keeping my eyes glued to the scope. “Come upstairs, quick! The whales are moving!”
Harris races up the stairs and together we take turns on the scope, watching as two of the largest orcas dive deeply, traveling under the bridge to surface on the other side with two spectacular blows. I hold my breath, but inside, I’m sile
ntly cheering. The rest are so close to the overpass now—probably only twenty feet away.
“Three to go,” Harris says, stepping away from the scope so I can take a look. The largest whale in the group turns on his side. Then slowly and deliberately, I watch as he slaps the water once, twice, three times with his pec fin, almost like he’s telling the others “Come on, follow me!” Then he dives. I track him with the scope, trying to anticipate where he’ll surface, just the way Mom taught me. Two seconds later, up he comes on the other side, joining the two already there.
“He made it!” I shout. “But …”
I watch as the three orcas begin circle swimming in a holding pattern.
“What?”
“They’re not leaving.” I turn to Harris. “I think they’re waiting for the little ones to follow.”
We wait, watching. A few long seconds pass. “Maybe we oughta call Mr. O or Kevin,” Harris says finally, fidgeting. “Let them know some, at least, made it out.”
I bite my lip. “Is Tal downstairs?”
Harris shakes his head. “He’s helping Kevin get patrol boats out. Bette’s out with Mut.”
Maybe he’s right. Kevin could make sure Rich Passage is clear for the pod to head out to the Sound. I check the two smaller whales again. Nothing. They’re still in the inlet, swimming around like they have nothing better to do than play. C’mon. Follow your pod!
I check again for the three who’ve already passed under the bridge.
“Wait … where did they go?”
I scan everywhere, swinging the scope back and forth wildly. Are they underwater? Did they move out to the open Sound that quickly? Even in my panic I know this isn’t the sensible way. But I can’t help it, I feel this desperate need to find them.
“See anything?” Harris asks, moving quickly behind me.
Yeah, I do, but I can’t believe it.
“They’re coming back!” I watch as the three orcas slowly pass back under the Warren Avenue Bridge and reenter Dyes Inlet. “They got out, and now they’ve come back.”
CHAPTER 16
Orca Day 18
Harris and I keep watching through the scope, checking to see if maybe the whales will reverse their course again and head back out, but they don’t. Finally, we give up. In the space of fifteen minutes, the mood in the tower has gone from ecstatic to gloomy.
Why did they come back to an inlet with almost no salmon, after finally finding safe passage out?
I sink down on the edge of the daybed. On the desk, Carol Ann’s yearbook still lies open where I left it yesterday. The questions, to so many things, keep piling up.
“What could have happened?” I say, thinking out loud. “Why would someone cut her picture out like that?”
“Lots,” Harris laughs roughly. “Which bad story do you want to hear?”
His answer startles me. Still, even after all of Mom and Harris’s stories, I don’t really acknowledge how hard growing up is for some kids—and how lucky I am.
“You know, they sat me down the other day, Tal and Bette,” Harris tells me. “Wondered if maybe Jes and me would think about staying here permanent.”
I look up at him, surprised, but he shakes his head.
“Makes sense now, knowing they had a kid who left. But I can’t do it. Can’t see how I can abandon my old man.”
“But … after all the stories you told me? Why? He’s never been there for you, or Jesse.” But even hearing myself say this, it feels wrong.
“He’s my old man,” Harris shrugs. “I can’t just leave him ’cause he made some stupid choices.” He hesitates, just a heartbeat. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m mad at him for lots of stuff. But he always comes back.” Harris laughs. “Kinda like these crazy whales! If I just walk away … I figure that doesn’t make me much better than him.”
“Hello?”
Footsteps on the stairs, then Bette pokes her head in the room. When she sees the look on our faces, she shifts into nurse mode. “What’s happened? Is everything all right?”
We tell Bette about the whales’ abandoned exit, and she relaxes, just a little. I’m used to this from Mom—each crisis put into perspective. Then I see Bette notice the yearbooks.
Abruptly, she walks across the room and starts rubbing my back, like she’s known me forever, like she’s my mother. I stand there frozen, trying to decide if I should ask her to stop or move away, not knowing what I really want.
“I remember when she was born,” she says, out of the blue. “I was so happy to have a little girl.” Her hand drops from my back and she smiles sadly. “She didn’t stay little for long, though.” When she looks at me, I have the weird feeling she’s seeing someone else.
“I came upstairs to check on you this morning,” Bette explains, “just to be sure you were warm enough, it gets so cold up here in the winter.”
The beautiful silver wolf pendant that calmed me that night at Evanston Memorial still hangs from Bette’s neck, catching the first rays of the sun. And I remember Harris telling me Bette was from Lummi Island. Listening to her now—the rise and fall of her voice—I wonder how it didn’t occur to me earlier that she might be Native American.
“Why keep all her stuff lying around?” Harris blurts out. I give him a quick look, but Bette’s face is calm.
“I can’t seem to put it away.” She starts rubbing my back again, like it was a magic lamp that could conjure up Carol Ann Reese back from wherever she was. “I thought I’d better tell you her story before you asked Tal. He still can’t talk about it very easily.”
“Who cut it out?” Harris asks.
“She did,” Bette says, turning toward the windows.
Her words hang in the air.
“Why?” I whisper. “What happened?”
“I wish I had a good answer for you, Marisa,” Bette says with a sigh. “We’ve been asking ourselves that question since she ran away. We were both working fifty-hour weeks. She was troubled. We realized too late. There were many reasons, I suppose.”
Bette walks slowly over to the huge window. I can’t see her face. I know I should stop asking questions but I can’t. For some reason I need to know.
“Where did she go?”
“We spent the better part of two years trying to track her down. We only heard from her once. She’d had a child … at eighteen. She sent a letter, saying she was doing fine.…” Bette pauses, staring out at the expansive view of the inlet. “She asked us not to try to find her.”
I have to ask.
“Did you stop looking?”
Bette shakes her head. “We couldn’t. We wanted so much to hold her again, know she was safe, tell her.…”
Bette stops and turns to face me.
“With everything your mother’s going through now … all the old feelings have come rushing back to me. She was our child. We had to do everything in our power to find her, even though in the end, all we’re left with is hoping and believing that one day when she’s ready, she’ll be back.”
I’m imagining what it’s like to be Carol Ann Reese and leave home at sixteen or seventeen and not see your parents again. Or to grow up like Jesse, without knowing your real mother at all, when it hits me what Bette’s just said.
I stare at her, wide-eyed.
Bette realizes she’s let a secret slip. “Hon, your mother only confided a little bit to me about her plans. She was there for me when we lost Carol Ann and so I tried to help her now. Honestly, considering her work, I think she was surprised by her own reaction,” Bette explains, but I’m only more confused.
Seeing my face, Bette gives me a little smile, but it fades quickly. “Don’t be upset sweetheart … I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I feel the weight of the bed shift as Bette sits down next to me.
“Your mother’s very private. She didn’t tell me much about what happened … before … in California. But she felt like she’d been given a second chance and needed to take it.”
The air in the room
feels heavy, like in a dream when you try to run or swim but your limbs will only move in slow motion. My head keeps telling me to do something, but my body doesn’t obey. Maybe that’s a good thing, because suddenly I feel out of control, afraid I’ll do something stupid like push them both out of the way. I close my eyes and try to think.
“C’mon,” Bette reaches out and pats my hand. “Your dad just called. The water and power are back on at the marina. Let’s get you home.”
There’s a sharp pain in my chest. I stand and follow Bette numbly out of the room, not turning to look back at Harris.
Bette knows where Mom is and why she left … and I don’t.
––––
The water is cold and it’s dark. Salmon swirl all around me as I swim with the pod, matching their pace. Leaping and diving together, we form one enormous group moving forward. I’m one of them but at the same time, I’m me.
The others don’t seem worried but I know I need to surface soon and breathe, but I can’t. We just keep going, swimming, diving deeper in the murky water. The only sound is a muffled gurgling, the background music of the underwater world.
Suddenly, a strong current pulls me away from the group. Roiling water swamps me. Something massive is passing alongside. I try to turn and see what it is, but my body doesn’t obey. A second ago, I was gliding swiftly along, now I can’t move an inch in any direction. I’m trapped, surrounded by circling whales. I’m not afraid. Their huge flukes move up and down just inches away. When their bodies rise, I can see their underbellies. There are little ones, too. They tumble and roll with their mothers. I seem to have feet now, I can feel myself treading water, watching the whales play all around me. One approaches me sideways, so close, staring at me with its deep eye.
Then something goes very wrong. The pod maneuvers into a huddle position, the calves in the center. Their great bodies begin to heave and together, they send out a sound like nothing I’ve ever heard. The largest whales begin, and one by one the others join in until the whole pod is speaking together with one voice. Agitated labored breathing … a great hruumping that seems to rise up from the very depths of the sea.
Chasing at the Surface Page 11
