Whale Song: A Novel

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  “Wait!” I shrieked. “What about Mom’s ashes?”

  Sgt. Washinski slammed the car door, climbed in front and drove away. In the backseat window, I saw my father’s face pressed to the glass. Then they were gone.

  “Your papa will be back,” my grandmother said.

  “But Nonna Sofia,” I wept. “We have to throw Mom’s ashes in the ocean.”

  I clutched her arm―afraid that if I let go, she too would be taken from me.

  “Ah, carina,” she said softly. “We’ll do that when your papa comes home.”

  Nonno Rocco brought my father’s car around.

  My grandmother climbed into the back seat and patted the space beside her. “Let’s go home, Sarah.”

  I looked over my shoulder at the dispersing crowd. Annie and Goldie sprinted toward me. Behind them, hobbled Nana.

  “Are you okay?” Goldie asked me.

  “Nothing is okay.”

  I could barely look at my two friends. My father had been arrested in front of their eyes. Everyone would think that he had murdered my mother. That my father was a murderer.

  “Sarah,” Annie said. “They must’ve made a mistake.”

  Goldie nodded. “We know he didn’t do anything wrong. And we know he didn’t hurt your mom. He’d never do anything that bad.”

  We formed a circle. With our heads bowed, we held onto each other tightly. Three Warriors. As soon as those two words entered my head, a smug voice in my mind whispered, ‘Some warrior you are!’ I let go of my friends and took a step back.

  Nana beckoned to me. She hunched forward, placing both of her aged hands on my damp face. Then she looked me right in the eye. “Remember, great warriors never stop trying.”

  I blinked, bewildered by her words. Had she read my mind?

  For the rest of the day, I thought about her strange comment.

  The days flew past, but the nights were endless torture. They were filled with nightmares of death and hopeless despair. At times, I questioned my sanity and whether I would endure. My mother was dead and my father was a murderer.

  I thought of him, trapped behind steel bars. His lawyer did his best to get him released on his own recognizance, but bail was denied. The prosecutor thought that my father was a flight risk because he had strong ties to the United States.

  Nonno Rocco was adamant that we would stay in the house in Bamfield until the jury released my father. My grandfather drove to Victoria every day that my father’s case appeared in court. Sometimes Nonna Sofia would go with him and I would stay at Goldie’s house.

  Nana visited my house often that winter. She would exchange recipes with my Italian grandmother over a steaming pot of herbal tea. They swapped stories from their childhood and legends from their countries, all the time trying to ignore the terrible things that were happening to our family.

  One morning, my grandmother sat down next to me at the dining room table. Nana sat at the other end, waiting patiently.

  “You have missed so much school this year,” Nonna Sofia said with a sigh. “That is not so good. Your father wants you to go back to school.”

  I stared at her, open-mouthed. “But―”

  “Sarah, your education is very important,” my grandmother interjected. “I know it’s difficult, especially with your father…away. You will go back after New Years.”

  Nana nodded in agreement and I felt betrayed, angry.

  I stomped outside onto the deck.

  I didn’t want to go to school. How could I face everyone? The only one I wanted to see was Goldie.

  She’s the only one who understands.

  I peeked in the window and glimpsed my grandmother and Nana talking seriously. Neither of them looked at me, so I darted down the path to the beach. Running along the shore, I headed for Goldie’s house. I was halfway there when I stopped. My friend was still in school.

  I yanked my bike from behind the trees near the driveway and jumped on it. Then I pedaled down the driveway, not knowing where I was going, not caring. I just knew that I needed to get away, to escape the walls that were closing in around me. I rode down the meandering main road and stopped in front of Adam’s house.

  I don’t know why. I hadn’t seen much of him lately.

  I leaned my bike against some bushes, brushed the leaves off my sweater, then strolled over to his front yard. The tire swing moved slowly in the soft breeze, calling me and I climbed into it and began pumping my legs. The wind danced through my hair and I closed my eyes, leaning backwards as far as I could go. I felt liberated.

  “Hey,” someone called.

  Startled, I opened my eyes.

  Adam stood beside me, watching me thoughtfully.

  Embarrassed, I skidded to an abrupt stop. “I, uh…sorry.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it,” he said with a chuckle. “No one uses that old thing much anyway. My mom’ll be happy to know someone had fun on it today. She keeps threatening to burn it.”

  “Doesn’t your brother use it?” I mumbled.

  “Darren? Nope. He wouldn’t be caught dead on that thing.”

  Fascinated by him, I secretly admired his tanned, handsome face, his golden eyes and his quirky smile. All of a sudden, I recalled my first kiss―the moment when his warm lips had touched mine.

  I blushed.

  We stood in awkward silence, neither of us knowing what to say. The only sounds were the wind whistling through the trees and a wind chime tinkling nearby.

  Adam’s expression softened. “I’m sorry―”

  “I just wanted―” I said at the same time.

  He laughed, his golden eyes twinkling. “You first.”

  “Thanks for coming to my mom’s funeral.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I gave him a hesitant look. “I was curious why you weren’t at the beach ceremony.” I shrugged, as if it didn’t matter to me.

  Adam kicked at a small rock in the grass, shooting it under some bushes. “I had to go to the mainland with my parents and we left the day before your mom…died. We just got back a few days ago.” He looked up at me. “I’m really sorry about your mom. Your dad too.”

  He stepped behind me, grabbed the swing ropes and pulled them toward him. I held my breath. Then he let go. We remained like that for some time―me stuffed into that old tire swing and him pushing me.

  I learned that he’d been born in Petawawa, Ontario. His parents had met on the Queen Charlotte Islands. His mother was a Haida Indian and his father had been in the Canadian Armed Forces, stationed at the base in Masset when they’d met and married. After a posting to Ontario, Adam’s father resigned from the military and they moved to Bamfield.

  “And here I am,” Adam said. “What about you?”

  I described my experiences growing up in Wyoming, the grassy plains and mountains, the long bus ride to the school in Buffalo and the Shoshone man who had lived in our barn. I told him about Amber-Lynn. She still wrote to me occasionally, but mostly that friendship had faded. I admitted to him that I felt guilty about leaving her behind.

  “Sometimes change is good,” he said. “Sometimes you just need to move on, maybe to better things.”

  I giggled. “Jeez, Adam, now you really sound like an Indian.”

  Behind me, he grew quiet. For a moment, I wondered if I had hurt his feelings and I almost apologized.

  He turned the swing so that I faced him. “One day, Sarah Richardson, I’m going to marry you.”

  I gasped, flustered by the intensity of my emotions. Then I looked away. “I’d better get home.”

  Ungracefully, I tried to extract myself from the swing, but it spun around, making me dizzy. My legs were tangled and I had to lean on Adam to keep my balance. I fought the urge to giggle and tried to maintain my dignity. But with my arms wrapped around his neck while I hopped on one foot and my other leg sprawled in a tire, it was next to impossible.

  A flicker of movement caught my eye.

  I saw Adam’s mother poke her head out th
e kitchen window. She seemed startled to see her son holding onto a girl who was balanced precariously on one foot while trying to extract the other leg from the tire. She smiled and quickly ducked inside the house. I swear I saw the kitchen curtain move afterwards.

  Pedaling home, I was mortified that Adam and I were in such close contact and that his mother had seen us. Yet I was ecstatic that he really seemed to like me. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. So I did both. I giggled, grinned and wiped my eyes. I was in a state of almost manic euphoria. Every now and then, I would think of his words, stop my bike in the middle of the road and gasp in disbelief. I didn’t know what to think.

  Adam wants to marry me?

  Suddenly, something darted out from the woods.

  Jamming on the brakes, I screeched to a stop and almost toppled from my bike. At first I thought it was a shaggy dog that stood in the middle of the road―until I saw the wild intensity in the creature’s yellow eyes.

  I sucked in a breath and stood silent, motionless…waiting.

  A gray wolf had just crossed my path.

  seventeen

  The wolf stared at me hungrily. It was massive, its coat dark gray with streaks of black. Its eyes burned into my soul and I saw sharp teeth and a panting tongue.

  Go away!

  The animal took a few steps forward.

  A memory flashed and I heard Chief Spencer’s prophetic words. “When Wolf walks by her, she will remember…when she is ready to see him.”

  “But I’m not ready!” I shouted at the wolf.

  I held my breath.

  The wolf’s ears perked. Then it vanished.

  I remained glued to the road, unable to move. An insistent blast of a car horn sounded behind me and I darted a look over my shoulder. My father’s car was heading straight for me.

  I dodged to the side of the road, dragging my bike with me. I watched the car slowly back up. Then a furious face glared at me.

  “Sarah!” Nonno Rocco yelled. “What on earth are you doing in the road? I almost ran you over.”

  As he scrambled out of the car, my body began to shake.

  “Are you okay, carina?” He held my arms and examined me with concerned eyes. “Are you hurt?”

  “No. I’m not hurt, Nonno. I’m fine.”

  With a frown, he tossed my bike into the trunk and we drove away. I couldn’t resist glancing over my shoulder. The bushes rustled―as if something hid within. But there was no sign of the wolf.

  The following morning, I was half-convinced that I’d dreamt the entire episode. The ghost-wolf, I determined, had been a figment of my imagination.

  Christmas came and went, barely noticed in all the confusion and sadness. We all agreed that we’d celebrate the following year―when all of us, including my father, would be together. I spent most of the Christmas holidays with Goldie and Annie.

  That’s when I told them about the wolf.

  “Really?” Goldie asked with fearful eyes. “You saw a wolf?”

  Annie was so spooked by my story that she phoned me later that night to tell me that she was sure the wolf had followed her home from my house. Of course, she didn’t see anything.

  “But I know it was that wolf,” she said.

  The next day, I bundled up in a warm jacket and searched the bushes around my house. I looked for wolf prints in the dirt, but I didn’t find anything. Not one single paw print.

  Heaving a sigh, I darted back into my house. Nonna Sofia was watering the plants, lost in her thoughts.

  “Can I go to Goldie’s house?” I asked.

  She looked up and smiled. “Be back by suppertime.”

  I gave Goldie a quick call and we agreed to meet by the boat dock. When I passed the bend in the shore, I saw her sitting cross-legged at the end of the dock. She was staring across the bay, one hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked when I reached her side.

  “Over there.” She pointed.

  I plopped down beside her and squinted as a ray of sunlight reflected off the mirror-smooth water. “What? I don’t see―”

  Then I saw it.

  Near the shores of Fallen Island, a black dorsal fin emerged.

  “My brother has come to visit,” Goldie murmured.

  We watched as the killer whale crested and leapt out of the water. It crashed down on one side, creating a wall of seawater that was suspended in the air for a second.

  “How do you know that’s Robert?” I asked.

  She pointed again. “See that mark on his back?”

  When I saw a white splotch near the whale’s fluke, I nodded.

  “That’s how I know. He has a birthmark on his lower back.”

  I watched the whale frolic in the bay. “Remember when you first told me Robert was a whale?”

  “Yeah,” she snorted. “You must’ve thought I was crazy.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Absolutely wack―”

  “Look, Sarah!” Goldie jumped to her feet.

  I stared in amazement as a second killer whale spouted nearby. The whales swam side-by-side before plunging into the ocean depths and disappearing.

  Goldie gaped at me. “Two whales in the bay at the same time? I’ve never seen that.”

  “So, is that your brother’s girlfriend?” I asked with a smirk.

  “Maybe.” Her eyes grew cloudy. “Or…”

  Grinning, I rose to my feet. “Or…what?”

  When she spoke, her words were seriously quiet. “Maybe that was your mother, Sarah. Maybe she’s come to see you.”

  My heart skipped a beat at her suggestion.

  That night, I curled up in the window seat and tried to pick out objects in the shadows around the house. The shed, the stack of firewood…my bike. Then my eyes wandered toward the line of tall cedar and lofty spruce trees. They touched the sky―a hundred soldiers guarding my castle keep.

  I glanced toward the ocean. As moonlight bounced off the undulating waves, I thought about the whales in the bay. Was the second one my mother? If so, would she visit me again?

  My throat ached and my eyes burned.

  I placed one hand flat against the window, its surface cold and hard. “Mom, are you out there?” I leaned closer and my gaze shifted to the bushes below.

  Glowing golden eyes glared back at me

  I jumped, snatching my hand away.

  A gray wolf slinked out from the dense undergrowth. It paused beneath my window and peered up at me.

  Aa-oooo…

  I scurried from the window seat and held my breath.

  The wolf’s wistful howl cut through the air again.

  Shivering, I slid into bed and tried to ignore my racing heart.

  In January of 1980, I returned to school amidst a combination of rumors and sympathy. Mrs. Makowski took me under her wing, encouraging me to create more posters for the school. My Romeo & Juliet poster had been well received and in a few weeks the grade one students were going to present the next play―Little Red Riding Hood.

  I threw myself into my art. My grandparents saw me only at mealtimes and I know they were worried about me.

  “Really, Nonna Sofia,” I said one afternoon. “Making these school posters makes me feel better. Then I don’t have to think of Dad’s court case so much.”

  Nonna Sofia brushed my hair with her fingers. “You’re right, piccolina. We need to keep busy.”

  I spent long days working on that poster. I drafted in the background with lush trees and flowers. Red Riding Hood followed a rocky path, carrying her basket full of treats.

  There was only one problem.

  Every time I tried to draw the wolf, my hands shook.

  “This is silly,” I muttered after erasing the wolf for the millionth time. Taking a deep breath, I pushed away all negative thoughts and focused on the things I’d learned from Chief Spencer.

  Wolf is a messenger who talks to the spirits.

  I started on the wolf’s eyes, wanting them to be c
ute and wide-eyed. But when I looked at the finished product, he was licking his drooling chops and eyeing Red Riding Hood hungrily.

  I showed Mrs. Makowski my rough draft.

  “Can you change his expression just a bit,” my teacher asked. “You’ll scare all the little ones.” She laughed. “He’s very realistic, that wolf.”

  “He’s real to me,” I muttered.

  I carefully altered the poster and eventually got it to my liking. I painted it with my mother’s watercolors. When it was finished, the wolf had eyes that twinkled merrily―an intense golden color.

  I thought of Chief Spencer’s warning.

  When Wolf walks by her….

  Bold headlines in the Bamfield Examiner sensationalized my father’s trial. ‘Richardson Pulls the Plug Out of Love.’ His was the most controversial case the small town had seen in years. Every time I turned on the TV, I’d see a serious rookie reporter standing outside the Victoria courthouse, revealing some aspect of the trial.

  Some people supported my father, saying that he acted out of love and couldn’t bear to see my mother suffer any longer. They called him merciful. Others said he had ruthlessly taken my mother’s life―a life that only God could take. They labeled him murderer.

  In February, the day arrived that we had all hoped would never come―the day that I was to testify. Although a wife couldn’t testify against her husband, a child could―especially one who had witnessed a crime. But my father’s lawyer didn’t want me on the witness stand.

  “You’re useless to me unless you remember something that’ll help your dad,” Mr. Gregory said in a kind voice.

  However, the prosecutor wasn’t as kind. He was hoping that I would remember enough to make my father look guilty. That dreaded day, I anxiously took the stand and with one hand on a black Bible, I promised to tell the truth. It seemed like such an easy, simple thing―until the prosecutor began cross-examining me.

  He was a burly, gray-haired man in his fifties, intimidating in size and demeanor. And he didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “Sarah, you were with your father the day your mother died. Is that correct?”