When Whales Watch

by Mara Purl

  She thought about the inevitable postcard Zelda would print of the new image. Of course, Zelda took the “seasonal” idea literally. She’s probably expecting Christmas trees and a Santa walking down Main Street. She probably won’t approve this image at all. But it feels right to me.

  Miranda did a quick mental check list on her current works, dividing it into what she thought of as “elsewhere” and “local.” On the “elsewhere list,” the San Diego Zoo commission had been very well received; her painting of Lia the Cheetah was now being reproduced in their marketing material. And, according to Zelda, they would be doing an opening at which Miranda would be honored. That leaves the Cove commission for Zack . . . and I seem to have painter’s block on that one.

  Skipping over the uncomfortable subject, she checked through her “local” list. The sea otters painting is finished, and already at Finder’s. A whimsical piece, she’d titled it You Otter Sea Me Play, which Nicole at the Gallery had liked even better than Zelda. I got the heart cockle shell done for Shelly for her store. And she smiled as she thought of the last thing currently on her local list: a mural at Sally’s Restaurant. Her friend Sally had asked for a trompe l’oeil painting to cover one whole wall. I’ve got it sketched out. When I’ve added the color, I’ll take a photo, then develop it as a slide. That way I can project it onto her wall as I paint it.

  Miranda stretched and glanced around her work space. Reassured that her home was tight and secure, she also felt gratified at the increased order she’d managed to establish since autumn. She took a moment to assess this artist-zone. Two walls were taken up with windows, which was why she’d chosen this room as her studio.

  One wall she’d left as a hanging area where pieces could dry, be examined or compared, or just be enjoyed until they were shipped out to a gallery, bought by a client, or framed and hung elsewhere in her own home. The four long, tall sumi-e studies I did last October—one for each season—I sort of miss them on that wall. But they look perfect framed in my bedroom, almost like a Japanese screen.

  Against the upper half of the fourth wall, she’d had her friend Kevin construct a built-in set of shelves. Below it nestled the daybed, which she sometimes used as another surface for spreading prints or paintings, and sometimes used as a reading nook. And if Mer or anyone else ever comes to visit, this can be a guest room, I suppose. As her gaze lingered on the daybed, it suddenly seemed so appealing. Sure would be softer than the floor.

  She bent down to scoop the maps up and onto the more comfortable surface. As she did, the crisp papers rattled, triggering a childhood memory of road trips with her family. Her mother would have a map spread out in her lap, her father would ask, “Here? You’re sure you want me to turn here?” “Yes! For heaven’s sake, Charles, why else would you entrust the job to me?” Dad would jerk the wheel to the right. Mother would press herself back into her seat. She and her sister would giggle at the whole thing. Well . . . now I’m my own navigator.

  Settling herself against the cushions, Miranda spread out the improvised atlas she’d assembled. The largest sheet was her road map of California—the very one she’d used on her first drive down the coast from San Francisco sixteen months earlier. Her finger traced the familiar landmarks of the Bay Area: San Rafael and Mill Valley, Berkeley and Richmond. But at this scale, distances were deceptive, with Interstate 5 a cheerful red slash tracing the length of the state. Small cities were nothing more than dots, and smaller communities, like Milford-Haven, didn’t even appear. Better that way . . . a secret haven.

  Switching to a Bay Area map, she smoothed its folds, saw its shapes and colors . . . the narrow waterway leading in from the Pacific . . . the matched set of bays, San Francisco’s to the south, and to the north, the San Pablo. Her gaze traced back down past San Rafael to the next peninsula, easily identifying Tiburon, then Belvedere, where she’d grown up in her family’s home. The “Jones Joint,” her childhood friends had called it, making light of the fact that she and her older sister had lived in a mansion. It also referred to the well-appointed game room she and her friends had turned into a private club of sorts.

  But that was twenty years ago. There were plenty of wide-open spaces where we played outside too. Now the area is getting so densely populated. Heard there were public hearings last May . . . a group trying to get permission to build fifty homes on one hundred twenty-five acres. At least the Tiburon Uplands Nature Preserve is still there.

  That whole area of Marin County—oceans and bays, foothills and mountains—had been her proverbial “oyster” when she was a kid, a safe place full of natural beauty that taught her to love colors and shapes, birds and animals, hiking and biking.

  Yet, somehow that same region—and its sparkling city across the Golden Gate bridge—had taught her sister to value elegance and style, money and power. Mer used all the irritations of childhood to make herself a pearl. But for me, the place was a shell from which I needed to escape.

  “Home” now meant something different than it had before her move here, more than a year earlier. Her parents’ objections at her relocating to an obscure and faraway town had at first been lengthy and loud; now her folks were sullen and passively disapproving. She’d argued the town was closer than it seemed on the map. But secretly she’d celebrated at how much distance she’d been able to attain.

  Miranda glanced up at one long row of windows—black rectangles that glistened with rain spots, but offered no exterior view at the moment, not with her interior lights on. Doesn’t sound as noisy out there now. Maybe the storm’s passing.

  Turning her attention back to her collection, she reached for the map labeled “Los Angeles.” The scope of the urban sprawl set her teeth on edge. How do people there deal with the freeways, the traffic, the distances? She glanced over at the 1996 Thomas Guide map book for Los Angeles and Orange Counties. The book is twelve-by-nine and at least an inch thick! How will I ever find my way? Well, maybe if I just stick close to the coast?

  Thinking about navigating the California terrain reminded her of the new miniature she’d decided to paint, and she zeroed in on a regional map of the Central Coast. What’ll be the borders for my own small piece? Monterey to the north and Santa Barbara to the south? Yes, that seems about right. To confirm, she looked at the topography just to the south, where Oxnard and Port Hueneme appeared to be the start of the next region, paired with the Channel Islands. Of course, according to her friend Kuyama, a Chumash elder, the whole of this coastal area from Monterey to Malibu had originally been home to her tribal people. I’d love for my watercolor to include the whole Chumash area down to Malibu. But that would make everything so small.

  She yawned and her eyes began to water. So tired. Maybe I’ll just lean back against the pillows . . . rest my eyes. She slid the maps carefully to the floor and grasped the edge of her quilt, pulling it up over her shoulders.

  I wanted to go for a bike ride this morning. But not in this weather. After this storm, it’ll be days before the mud subsides enough for the trail to be passable. It was as she pictured herself clicking on her helmet that Miranda sank into sleep.

  * * * * *

  As the dream began, Miranda steered her mountain bike to the side of the dirt trail and put one foot on the ground to steady herself in the wind. She wiped sweat from her brow, took a long pull of water from her bike bottle and looked up to see how much farther she’d have to climb.

  She stepped back into the pedals and kept her derailer in its lowest gear to negotiate the rest of the hill. About a hundred more strokes’ll bring me to the brink. Standing in the pedals, she pulled at the handlebars and lunged for the top, allowing herself an anticipatory smile. But when she crested the hill and looked down, she was startled to find the town she expected to see nestled below her was, in fact, still only a dot on the horizon.

  How can that be? I know this coastal trail so well.

  She paused and faced west, trying to orient herself. To her right, the edge of California snaked its way no
rth against a dull winter ocean. To her left, the southbound trail curved back into coastal pines and darkening woods.

  This should be the turn. Why can’t I see the homes in Milford-Haven?

  Confused, she argued that if she just kept going, she’d recognize her location. Yet, in the back of her mind, a nasty suspicion murmured. You’re lost. So lost, you’ll be stuck out here on the trail for days. First you’ll run out of water. Then you’ll run out of steam. You’ll never get home. It’s much farther than you think.

  Ignoring the voice, she rode on and came to a clearing. She could still hear the waves lapping below, but now she also heard a wind sighing high overhead through the hundred-foot pines.

  This clearing . . . I’m here again. But how did I actually get here? She knew why the place looked familiar. She’d first seen it in her mind as a young teen. Mrs. Flood’s assignment in seventh grade: design your dream house. My favorite assignment—ever. Under her drawing Miranda’d written the words: “where mountains meet ocean, where art meets science, where heart meets heart.” Later she’d added sketches to her teen diary: a mountain at the edge of a sea; two overlapping hearts; a constellation reflected in a well.

  One of the drawings appeared in front of her and, as she watched, the original black-and-white began to morph into a colorful image. I recognize this. It’s my first miniature, the one of Milford-Haven that became the first postcard.

  But here, lost in the woods, she tried to make sense of the three phrases. “Where mountains meet ocean.” Okay, I’m riding a mountain trail next to the ocean. “Where art meets science.” That makes sense. My work is my art. My art is a science. But “where heart meets heart” doesn’t track because I’m still alone here. Maybe if I could get a higher perspective.

  Suddenly Miranda felt her body lighten and the ground begin to fall away. Higher and higher she rose, watching breathlessly as the coastal region below her resolved itself into . . . my map! My mind couldn’t locate it, but my heart knew the spot instinctively, intuitively. This is just what I needed . . . a bird’s eye view so I can find my way home. I feel like I’m an eagle, able to see everything in such detail!

  She spread her arms, thrilling at the sudden ability to embrace the horizon and hover in the sky. But then, just as suddenly, a horrible realization began to dawn. I may feel like I’m flying . . . but I’m no eagle . . . I can’t really fly! She flapped her arms in a futile gesture, panic beginning to engulf her. How will I get down safely?

  Something tugged at her shoulders and she lifted her hands, touching straps. I’m . . . in a harness. . . . She looked straight up, where a silken cloud seemed to billow. I have a parachute!

  She watched as, over her head, white fabric filled with air until it formed a perfect dome. Now, she looked down. Sunlight threw a circular shadow on the ground, its darker perimeter outlining Milford-Haven as the circle’s center began to glow. Like it’s showing my safe landing zone.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as the ground drew closer, until she began to drift off course. It’s okay . . . I can use my toggles. Use your head! Reflexively, she pulled on the right toggle, but it took her further off-course. No . . . I want to use my intuition!

  Now she yanked on the left toggle, but it was too late, the ground approaching too fast as she veered helplessly away from the drop zone.

  When she landed, she took a moment to breathe. The parachute has disappeared . . . and here’s my bike. She looked down the long slope ahead and blinked in disbelief, for there, stretched out below, she saw the unmistakable angles of her family home: the gabled roofs, the high surrounding walls, the long curving private drive.

  This doesn’t make sense. The whole time I was biking, was I pedaling in the wrong direction? She reached into her rear pocket for her compass, but somewhere along the way, it must’ve fallen out.

  It’s not fair. All that work! And I haven’t gotten anywhere! How could all she desired seem so much farther away than ever before? How could she be so much closer to what she’d already outrun? She nearly succumbed to a sinking feeling of dread as she watched the gates to her parents’ home open like the mouth of a dragon. “No!” she declared, and the tableau froze to a still photograph.

  I did create a new home for myself, she insisted. I found a new sense of self, forged a new sense of faith. All that cannot have disappeared!

  Grabbing the handlebars, she mounted her bike, but her legs seemed heavy as lead, her neck welded to her body. Using every molecule of strength she could summon, she forced herself to turn away from the house, but the trail seemed to have disappeared. Where is the path? There must be a greater Spirit. If so, I need your help!

  Then, in a dull thicket, a dim vestige of the path appeared. Without hesitation, she plunged into the overgrown trail. Head down, eyes nearly closed against scraping branches, she pedaled, pushing till her thigh muscles burned and tears streamed down her cheeks. It might have been moments or it might have been days, but she pressed on till the trail opened and she made her way back to the high, windswept clearing. Trees towered on nearby mountains and the ocean undulated far below.

  Where mountains meet ocean. She’d seen it before—yes, in another dream. A place to paint, a place to chart with her mind and map with her heart. She had work to do! For this place must never again be lost.

  And then she knew she wouldn’t be here alone. She’d met him here before, could remember his touch, as though born recognizing it.

  She knew his voice, the scent of his skin, the warmth of his hands where they held and stroked. She remembered the weight of him pressing on and into her, heart beating to heart till the rhythms overlapped. Where heart meets heart.

  But where was he now? He didn’t come to meet her this time. There was no reunion, only the memory. Or was it a foreshadowing? Am I supposed to wait for him to find me? Or maybe he’ll call me to meet him another time.

  And how would she find this place again? She could sketch these trees, the lay of the land . . . pencil in boulders, distinctive branches, broken stumps. But she’d have to do more—draw a detailed map to scale, using tools for measurements and a magnifying glass. Where art meets science.

  In the distance, a bell began to ring. No, not a bell. A phone? Maybe that’s him calling me now.

  Miranda reached from under the quilt to grasp the handset. Placing it to her ear, she said nothing, waiting to hear his voice.

  “Hello?”

  Something’s wrong. That’s not a man’s voice.

  “Miranda? Are you there?”

  * * * * *

  Miranda’s eyes flew open. What? Where . . . in my studio! And I’m holding my phone! “Uh . . . hello?”

  “Well, there you are. Good heavens, I thought something was wrong when the machine didn’t pick up. But I’m glad you’re hard at work already. I just wanted to tell you I have a brilliant idea, and it just couldn’t wait.”

  The voice of Zelda, her artist-rep, had plummeted into the depths of Miranda’s dream, yanking her back to the surface. Heart pounding, mouth dry, she blinked and sat up on her daybed. Nothing like a call from Zelda to bring me back to reality. Sunlight’s still pale, so it can’t be later than seven.

  “Miranda? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” Wish I had a glass of water.

  “That miniature you told me you’re doing—the map—well, at first I thought you’d missed a golden opportunity, given the holidays are almost upon us.”

  “I figured you’d think—”

  “Yes, yes,” Zelda pressed on. “Well, I’ve changed my mind. It came to me, you see, if you really care about this little town of yours as much as you say you do, this could be quite the golden opportunity.”

  “Sorry, Zelda, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Putting Milford-Haven On the Map!”

  Miranda considered for a moment. “You’re right. That’d make a nice title for the piece.”

  “No, no, it could be much more than just the title. This postcard can b
e their marketing piece for the new year!”

  “I’m not sure who you mean. Isn’t this postcard going to be sent out like the first one to market my paintings?”

  “You’re not grasping what I’m saying, Miranda dear.”

  When she calls me “dear” she’s just about out of patience. “No, I’m not.”

  “So.” She spoke more slowly now, as though enunciating would elucidate her meaning to her dim-witted client. “You’re going to the trouble of creating a map of Milford-Haven so people can actually find the town, am I right?”

  “Well, I suppose—”

  “That’s it, you see. This could be of tremendous benefit to the town itself, the town fathers, or the Chamber of Commerce, or the Town Council, whatever governing body exists in such a small place. It could be their new campaign: ‘Putting Milford-Haven On the Map’!”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes! Think of the synergy!”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In fact, I could take this to the Town Council, if you like. I imagine they’ll be so impressed they’ll swoon.”

  Miranda couldn’t imagine Lorraine, the octogenarian head of the Town Council, swooning over anything—not even a boa constrictor in her bathtub.

  “Marketing and PR gurus plot for a year to come up with something this cleverly multipurposed! I just had to let you know. Now get back to work! Ta-ta.”

  Still speechless, Miranda sat there holding the silenced phone for a moment longer, then replaced it in its cradle. Is she always that high-energy? Probably. But I’m usually awake for the onslaught.

  Her gaze fell to the maps on the floor. Did I just dream about them? She darted a glance out the window, as though that’s where she could find a dream-fragment, but it eluded her, as dreams usually did.

  Just then the sound of a tiny “Pew” reached her, and she looked toward the studio door in time to see her kitten step around its edge, the black fur giving her the appearance of a small shadow in the lightening room.