As I watched the whales approach, the sight of their powerful bodies gliding through the water hypnotized me. They were very curious about us and swam in lazy circles alongside the boat. Sometimes they seemed almost close enough to touch.
“Sarah, don’t lean over so far,” my father warned.
I ignored him, gripped the rail and stood on my toes. Then I recklessly leaned over and stretched one hand down toward the water. When a young killer whale suddenly surfaced next to the boat, I snatched my hand back and my father laughed.
“She’s looking at you,” he said, elbowing me.
The whale eyed me, then dove underwater.
“She’s a calf,” my father explained. “A baby. We’ve been tracking her the past few weeks. She isn’t shy, that one. We’ve even seen her close to one of the villages.”
His comment reminded me of something.
I turned around. “Mom, did you know that Nootka Indians have a legend about killer whales?”
My mother shook her head.
“They believe that killer whales would knock over boats,” I said. “And bring the drowned people down to their village under the sea. Then the men would turn into whales and live in the Village of the Whales. Neat, huh?”
“That is neat.”
“Long as they don’t take us there,” my father teased.
“It doesn’t sound that bad,” my mother said, shifting in her chair. “Just imagine…swimming under the sea without any worries.”
I snorted. “Yeah. No worries until the sharks come.”
“Actually a killer whale can scare off a shark,” my father said.
I looked at him, surprised. “How?”
“Whales will ram into a shark if they feel threatened,” he said, butting me with his head.
That sent us all into hysterics.
For the rest of the afternoon, he gnashed his teeth at us and pretended to ram us whenever there was a long silence. From deep in his throat, he made scary noises that grew louder and faster whenever he approached me.
“Da…dum. Da…dum. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum!”
It was a good thing I hadn’t seen the movie Jaws back then or I would have been petrified of the ocean.
That night, after we left the harbor, we bought burgers and fries at Myrtle’s and took them home to eat. While my father and I wolfed ours down, my mother picked at hers.
“Aren’t you hungry?” my father asked.
My mother shook her head. “I’m tired, Jack. I think I’ll go to bed early.”
I watched her, thinking her behavior seemed odd. My mother was a night owl, often painting until the wee hours of the morning. She rarely went to bed before midnight.
“Good night, Mom,” I said.
Halfway up the stairs, she lurched to a stop.
My father pursed his lips. “Dani, are you okay?”
She turned slightly, her face an insipid gray. Her mouth moved, but I didn’t hear a sound―except the clatter of my fork as it hit my plate.
“Dani?” My father’s voice trembled with fear.
I swear that from that moment on everything moved in slow motion. My father pushed himself away from the table, just as my mother tumbled down the stairs and landed with a thud on the rug below.
“Oh God,” he moaned, calling her name repeatedly.
He reached her side, knelt by her body and felt for a pulse. In a flash, he scooped her into his arms and strode to the door.
“Sarah!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Get in the car!”
I followed him outside and stood motionless while he draped my mother across the back seat. When he slammed the door, I climbed in front, terrified by his intense expression. He jumped in beside me, revved the engine and the car squealed out of the driveway.
“Daddy, what’s wrong with her?” I asked tearfully.
His face went rigid and the muscle in his jaw clenched. “I’m not sure, Honey-Bunny. We’ll take her to the hospital where the doctor can examine her.” His eyes darted behind him. “Dani, can you hear me?”
There was no response.
I hugged the headrest and gazed at the limp body of my mother in the back seat.
Is she breathing?
eight
The drive to Bamfield General Hospital seemed endless. By the time we arrived, my mother was coming around.
“What happened?” she asked groggily. “Where are we?”
My father released a ragged sigh. “At the hospital.”
“You fainted, Mom,” I said, peering over my seat. “And you fell down the stairs.”
My father parked the car outside the emergency doors, lifted my mother in his arms and carried her inside. Hospital attendants settled her into a wheelchair and pushed her down the hall to an examining room.
I followed behind, my stomach churning in knots.
Time dragged by slowly…mercilessly.
My father paced the small waiting area while I counted the orange tiles on the wall. So many questions screamed inside my head. What was wrong with her? Was she sick?
Is she going to die?
I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid the answer would be yes.
The clicking of hard soles interrupted my morbid thoughts.
I turned and saw a tall, mustached doctor heading straight for us.
“Mr. Richardson?”
My father nodded, his eyes rimmed with red.
“I’m Dr. Anders,” the man said. “Would you mind stepping into―?”
“How’s my wife?” my father interrupted. “Is she going to be okay?”
Dr. Anders placed a comforting hand on his arm. “I have a few questions for you. Why don’t you follow me? Your daughter will be fine out here for a few minutes.”
I watched as the two men disappeared into an office. The door closed gently behind them, but to me it sounded like a thunderous boom. I’m not sure how much time passed before my father walked out of the doctor’s office, but I remember the expression on his face. It was a mixture of fear and anger.
“Is…is Mom going to be all right?” I asked as he slumped in the chair beside me.
“Dr. Anders is running some tests, Sarah. He isn’t quite sure what happened. I think Mom’s just tired―worn out. She’s been working pretty hard.” He rubbed his eyes and heaved a long sigh.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said, placing my hand in his. “She’ll be fine.”
He blue eyes studied me. “Has Mom been sick lately? Did she say anything to you?”
I shook my head and picked at a stain on my shirt. “No, not sick really. But she has been sleeping a lot during the day. She told me not to tell you.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Sarah.”
He was silent for the next hour. The only time he moved was to glance at the clock or to ask a passing nurse for an update on my mother’s health.
When Dr. Anders returned, his expression was grave. “Your wife is awake and responsive. I’ve asked her some questions so we can determine what’s going on. Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s nothing serious. Perhaps it’s stress-induced.” He smiled at me. “What does your mother do?”
“She’s an artist,” I answered timidly. “A painter.”
The doctor scratched his chin. “Maybe she’s had a reaction to the paint.” He turned to my father. “Is her studio well ventilated?”
“She always has a fan going and her window open,” my father replied. “But I can’t see the paint being a problem. She’s been painting for years.”
“Well, let’s wait and see, shall we? We should have the test results back by tomorrow. Why don’t you take your daughter home and come back in the morning.”
“Can I see my wife first?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll be back in a moment to get you.” Dr. Anders started down the hall, paused and turned back. “Of course, children aren’t allowed to visit.” He must have read my disappointment because he winked at me and said, “But I’m sure we can find a way to sneak you in―if you p
romise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise,” I said quickly, crossing my heart.
He returned a few minutes later and escorted us to my mother’s room. The first bed was empty and the other had a white curtain draped around it. Rounding the corner, I saw my mother propped up in bed, her hair freshly brushed. A long tube ran from her hand to a bag hung on a metal pole. A clear liquid dripped from the bag into the tube.
She smiled when she saw us. “My two favorite people.”
I reached out to her. “Are you okay, Mom?”
“I’m fine. Silly me, I just tripped down those stairs. But nothing’s broken, thank God.”
I extracted myself from her grip and watched her fight the urge to sleep. She yawned, closed her eyes, then opened them again.
“We’ll be back tomorrow, Dani,” my father promised as he leaned down and kissed her on the lips.
“I’ll be fine,” she whispered.
He nodded miserably. “See you tomorrow.”
We walked out of the room and Dr. Anders motioned my father aside. They exchanged a few quiet words. Then my father motioned to me and we left the hospital and my mother behind.
The drive home was silent. We pulled up to our house, climbed out of the car, and went inside. The house was empty without my mother in it.
After my father tucked me into bed, he sat beside me and stared out the window. We both jumped when we heard an eagle’s distressed cry. The sound pierced my heart and perhaps his too because he rose quickly and moved toward the door.
“Love you, Sarah. We’ll go see Mom tomorrow.”
“Goodnight, Dad,” I said in a small, scared voice.
The door closed behind him and I was left with my troubled thoughts. What if my mother has cancer? What if she had a heart attack? What if…
“Mom’ll be fine,” I whispered. “She’s just tired.”
Far away, the eagle cried out again, longing…searching.
I heard its mate answer before I drifted off to sleep.
My mother remained in the hospital for almost a week. My father wasn’t happy that Dr. Anders hadn’t found the cause of her fainting spell, but I was simply relieved. The doctor took various blood tests, but the results came back inconclusive.
Soon my mother was feeling energetic and there was color in her face once more. She was released from the hospital, given some multi-vitamins and ordered to take it easy for the following week.
“It’s great to be home,” she said as my father plumped the pillow behind her head.
Propped up in bed, she proceeded to read two novels during the next four days, after promising my father that she would relax. By the fifth day, I noticed she was getting restless. When I returned from school, I wasn’t too surprised to find her in her studio, working on a painting.
“Dad won’t be too happy,” I scolded.
She laughed. “You think I’m going to stay in bed all day? I have no more books to read anyway.” She blew me a kiss, her hands covered with burnt sienna and cerulean blue.
I couldn’t help but smile. It was great to see her looking so happy…and healthy.
“I’m fine,” she promised.
What was I to do? She was the adult.
“Did you get the mail?” she asked suddenly.
“Sorry, I forgot.”
I scurried downstairs and went outside to the mailbox. When I looked inside, I saw one lonely letter. It was from Amber-Lynn.
“Darn it!”
Her last letter was still sitting on my desk, unanswered.
Glancing at the new letter, I felt a sense of dread…and guilt. Amber-Lynn missed me. She had already written another letter.
What kind of friend am I?
In my room, I re-read her first letter and promised myself that I would send a long reply. I’d tell her everything. After all, best friends didn’t keep secrets from one another. Next, I tore open the new envelope and unfolded a single sheet of paper. Amber-Lynn had picked out some pretty notepaper and had sprayed it with her favorite perfume. She also had enclosed a four-leaf clover that had been dried, pressed and laminated.
I sniffed at the paper, smiling to myself. Then I read the letter.
Dear Sarah,
I’ve been waiting for weeks for you to write back to me but I guess you’re just too busy. I guess you must like it there. I know you’ve found yourself another friend. Your letters seem to be all about you and Goldie. Well I’ve got a new friend too. Her name is Pam. She moved in down the road from your old house. So I guess we both have new friends.
Sinceerly,
Amber-Lynn.
Your ex-best friend.
I crumpled the letter in my fist and swiped at the tears that pooled in my eyes. Amber-Lynn had been my best friend for years. And now she had deserted me. How could she?
My mother found me lying across my bed, sobbing my heart out. “Sarah, what’s wrong?”
Her words made me cry even harder.
“Tell me what’s wrong, honey,” she begged.
I lifted my head and looked at her. She couldn’t possibly understand the pain I was suffering. No one could.
“Please, Sarah,” she said, her voice soft and caring.
In huge gulping breaths, I told her about Amber-Lynn’s letter.
“That is sad,” she said, stroking my hair. “I think Amber-Lynn really misses your friendship, honey. That’s why she’s upset you haven’t answered her letter.”
“Well, she’s got a new friend now,” I wailed. “What about me? I thought I was her best friend.”
My mother raised her brow. “Who is your best friend, Sarah?”
“Well…uh, Amber-Lynn was.”
“What about Goldie?”
“Goldie’s my best friend here.”
She patted my hand. “So you have a best friend in the States and a best friend here?”
I nodded.
“Then Amber-Lynn can have a best friend there and still have you for a best friend. Right?”
“I guess so. But she said I’m her ex-best friend.”
“Maybe you need to write her a letter. Maybe you need to tell her that you have lots of room for her as your best friend.”
When she went downstairs, I thought about what she had said. I didn’t want to lose Amber-Lynn’s friendship, so I ran over to my desk and pulled out a piece of colorful paper.
My letter to Amber-Lynn was short and to the point.
Dear Amber-Lynn,
You are still one of my very best friends.
I’m glad you found another friend to hang around with. I really miss you but you’re so far away. I’ll write you a long letter and tell you all about this place if you’re still talking to me. Maybe next summer you can come visit me. I would really like that. I will try to write more. I promise!
P.S. My Mom has been sick.
Sincerely,
Your NOT-ex-best friend,
Sarah XOX
I sealed the letter in an envelope and raced downstairs. My parents had a shelf for all out-going mail and I placed my letter with the rest. I was about to head outside to sit on the deck when I heard a loud crash overhead.
“Mom?” I called. “You okay?”
The silence that followed propelled me forward. In a dazed cloud of fear, I rushed upstairs. When I reached my mother’s studio, she wasn’t there, so I pushed open her bedroom door.
“Mom?”
My heart skidded to a stop.
My mother was lying on the floor in a crumpled heap next to the bed. Her eyes were closed and I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. I knelt beside her and checked for a pulse, just like I’d been taught in lifeguard class. It was very faint.
“What do I do?” I cried out, jittery with panic.
The phone was on the nightstand beside me. I gripped it in one hand and punched in my father’s number. It rang five times, then his answering machine picked up.
“Hi, you have reached the office of Jack Richardson…”
I
held my breath during his message and anxiously waited for the beep. When I heard it, I began to sob. “Dad! Mom’s fainted again. She’s on the floor. I-I don’t know if she’s breathing. Are you there? Daddy?”
I hung up, uncertain what to do next. Then I dialed 911.
“What is your emergency?” a friendly female voice said.
“My mom’s fainted,” I sobbed. “She isn’t moving.”
“Okay, honey,” the woman said. “Keep calm. What is your name and address?”
I gave her my information.
“Okay, don’t hang up,” she said. “I’ll stay with you until help arrives.”
Warm tears trickled down my cheek, but I ignored them.
“Mom, wake up,” I moaned.
It seemed like hours went by before I heard the wailing of an ambulance coming up the driveway. Later, I learned that it had been less than ten minutes. When I looked outside, I saw the ambulance lurch to an abrupt halt. Behind it was a familiar car.
Running to the top of the stairs, I waited, motionless.
“Sarah?”
My father pushed past the paramedics and raced upstairs. “I got your message,” he said hoarsely.
“Dad!” I sobbed.
He picked me up and carried me to my parents’ room. His face was deathly pale while he watched two paramedics prepare my mother for transportation.
I stared at her pale face. She was so still, so lifeless.
“Mr. Richardson?” one paramedic said, securing my mother to a board. “You can follow us in your car.”
The two paramedics carried her downstairs. Outside, my father and I watched the ambulance doors slam shut with a resounding thud. In a frenzy of flashing lights and a piercing siren, the ambulance sped away.
My father rushed to the car. “Come on, Sarah. Get in.”
I don’t remember the drive to the hospital, but I do recall the intense fear in his eyes.
Bamfield General was busy that afternoon. People were crowded in the waiting area and we were forced to stand. Half an hour went by before we saw Dr. Anders. He and my father exchanged a few words―none of which I heard―then the doctor scurried off to my mother’s room.
Whale Song: A Novel Page 7
