Eye of the Whale

by Douglas Carlton Abrams

  As Frank hurried down the hall, he recalled Professor Ginsburg’s lecture. Maybe the cases of childhood cancer had less to do with God and more to do with humanity. Frank glanced at the dark glass door of the Epidemiological Research Unit as he walked quickly down the hall. He noticed the words written in cheerful white letters: SPONSORED BY THE ENVIRONMENTAL STEWARDSHIP CONSORTIUM.

  When he arrived at the exam room, Frank felt flushed as he took the chart from the door and flipped through it. The results of the biopsy were not there.

  “Kim,” Frank said, then hesitated as he recalled their failed date. “Can you please call pathology and have them fax over the test results for the Gates baby, stat?”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Her tone was professional. Thank God she wasn’t going to hold it against him. Frank turned back to the exam room and took a deep breath. It would be awkward to be in the room without the results, but Frank did not want to keep the family waiting any longer. He opened the door.

  Justine, once again on her mother’s lap, was smiling as she pointed at a picture in a board book. In quick diagnostic observation, Frank noticed the bags under Delores Gates’s eye makeup as well as how her husband played nervously with his black watch.

  “Not a lot of sleep last night?” Frank asked, knowing that much suffering could be relieved just by its acknowledgment.

  “No, not much,” she said.

  Frank sat down on a rolling stool and approached slowly, not wanting to scare Justine. “Now, let’s have a look at the surgeon’s handiwork.”

  Frank gently pulled back the dressing tape and gauze bandage on the girl’s neck. When she flinched, he stopped and waited. Then he finished removing the gauze so slowly the girl did not even seem to notice. He stared at the centimeter-long incision where the pediatric surgeon had removed a lymph node. A red line showed where she had been cut, and across it were the sutures of black nylon thread. They looked like fishing line knotted on one side, straight as the rungs on a ship’s ladder. The incision was healing fine, and any redness was hidden by the girl’s beautiful coffee-colored skin.

  “The lab test should be here any minute,” he said, looking back at the parents. The mother’s hands were clenched, and the father was tapping one of his black leather shoes. Frank reminded himself to breathe. If he calmed himself, it helped his patients and their families stay calm as well.

  “What would it mean,” Gates asked, “if our baby has this disease?”

  “Lymphoma,” Frank said, “is a cancer of the lymph system, of the immune system.”

  “Will our baby die?” Ms. Gates asked.

  “We’ll know more once we get the tests back,” Frank said. “Let’s wait—”

  “Doctor, if my baby’s going to die, I want to know.” Gates was speaking with executive authority. He was a man who clearly felt most comfortable with the hard truth of numbers, but there was no certainty on the profit and loss of life, only probabilities. Frank knew that many people took a prognosis as prophecy and died on the exact day predicted. He refused to give a death sentence to anyone, regardless of the “facts.”

  “I understand, Mr. Gates. We all want to know what might happen to Justine, but much depends on the kind of lymphoma, its severity, where it is in the body, and how far it has spread. And much depends on her.”

  “Last time I was here,” Gates said, “you asked me about my job at the chemical company and how far we live from the plant. Does this have something to do with our baby being sick? Because we don’t live near the plant—we live in Blackhawk.” He said the name of the most exclusive town in the Bay Area with hard-earned pride. Frank noticed Gates glance at his wife, who was scowling but said nothing.

  “It may not be the result of exposure, but that is one of the risk factors,” Frank said.

  “Dr. Lombardi, I spoke to a friend of mine,” Ms. Gates said. “She has a toddler who was diagnosed with this same disease a year ago.”

  “A neighbor?” Frank asked.

  “Used to be,” Gates said.

  There was a knock at the door. Kim handed him the lab results.

  “Thank you.” Frank was still trying to be hopeful. The blood test was often a false positive. The biopsy would tell them for sure. “Now let’s see,” he said, and then began to review the tissue diagnosis on the first page, outlining everything that the pathologist had found. Then he flipped to the conclusion on the second page. He felt his face fall. Lymphoblastic lymphoma/acute lymphoblastic leukemia.

  “The test was positive,” Frank said as he looked down, unable to face the parents.

  “Positive—that’s good, right?” Ms. Gates said, forcing a smile.

  Frank looked into her worried brown eyes. “I’m afraid not. I’m very sorry.”

  Ms. Gates burst into tears, which caused Justine to start crying, too. She pulled her child against her, trying to comfort them both as she rocked back and forth. “My baby, oh, my baby, my baby…”

  SIXTY-SIX

  5:15 A.M.

  Next day

  Thursday

  Alameda, California

  LIEUTENANT JAMES poured himself a cup of coffee from the glass pot. The steam felt damp against his tired face. The kitchen was still dark except for the light from the streetlamp outside and the orange glowing light on the coffeemaker. His wife was still asleep, as were his twin daughters. He had gotten home late the night before, too late to read them a book or say good night, but they always wanted him to kiss them, even if they were asleep. He had walked into their bedroom, pulled up their covers, and kissed their warm cheeks. They smelled like baking loaves of bread.

  The phone rang, and Lieutenant James jumped to the counter to answer it, hoping it wouldn’t wake up his wife or his girls. Who is calling at this hour?

  “Isaac, it’s Commander Swift.”

  “Sir.”

  “The facts on the ground are changing. We’ve got to get that whale out of there by tomorrow, or we’re going to have to euthanize it.”

  “Sir, I thought we had at least until the end of the week. As I’m sure you know, Humphrey was upriver for twenty days before he was rescued.”

  “This operation is costing the state much more than Humphrey ever did, and money is only one of the factors.”

  “Factors, sir?”

  There was an awkward silence. “Isaac, your order is to get that whale out today or kill it tomorrow.”

  “I don’t know how to get it out, Commander.”

  “Well, find out how, or we have no other choice. I want to hear back from you by 1400. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Lieutenant James hung up, he heard little feet on the stairs. His brown-haired daughters came running at him with big smiles, and each hugged a leg as he turned around. His girls were getting so tall they now came up to his waist. Kayla was in her pajamas and held a book in her hand. Eliana was already dressed and held her blue sneakers against her chest.

  “I can do it, Daddy. I can do it myself.” Eliana had been trying to learn to tie her shoes for months. The fact that she was already six and her twin sister knew how to do it was a source of serious embarrassment. Lieutenant James squatted down as she slipped her sneakers on over her frilly white socks. She picked up the laces of her left sneaker and wrapped them around each other, her face in deep concentration. But she got lost in the twisting and threw her laces down in defeat, all the more frustrated because she had thought she could do it.

  “Remember the rabbit ears,” Lieutenant James said as he took the laces and looped each one. “Wind one ear around the other and come through the rabbit hole like this. Now you try with the other foot.”

  “No, I can’t do it.” Eliana was frowning, and her arms were crossed over her chest.

  “You can do it, Elly,” her sister said as she sat down to read.

  Lieutenant James held up his pointer finger like the number one. “One more try? Just one more try?” He smiled, found her downcast eyes, and spoke in a playful voice. “Just one mor
e little try.”

  Eliana snatched the laces of the other sneaker and slowly formed them into rabbit ears, then twisted one around the other and finally pushed it through the rabbit hole.

  Lieutenant James pulled the laces tight. “You did it.” She gave him a big hug, proud of her accomplishment.

  Lieutenant James’s wife, Janet, was watching from the doorway to the kitchen with a smile. Her long red hair hung down over her pink robe, and her freckled skin and light blue eyes looked pretty, as they always did in the morning, even without makeup.

  “Sorry about the call,” he said.

  “Apollo?” she asked.

  “Yeah, they want me to kill it if it’s not gone by tomorrow. I don’t understand what the rush is.”

  Kayla looked up from her book. “Daddy, don’t kill the whale.” Lieutenant James realized that he should have been more careful about what he said in front of his daughters. He pursed his lips as he pulled on his black coat and Coast Guard cap. He was at the door when Kayla came running over. It was still dark and cold outside. “Please, Daddy, promise me you won’t kill the whale.”

  Lieutenant James bent over and put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I’m going to do everything I can to help this whale, but if it doesn’t want to leave or if it is sick, then we might have to put it to sleep.”

  “No, Daddy, don’t.” Kayla was crying. She knew what putting it to sleep meant.

  Eliana came to the door and held up her finger. “One more try, Daddy. Just one more little try.”

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  9:00 A.M.

  Davis

  ELIZABETH DID NOT SUBSCRIBE to the Sacramento Times, but there it was on the doorstep. Someone had unfolded it and laid it out for her to see. She felt dizzy and sick to her stomach as she read the front-page headline: A WHALE OF A TALE: FAILED GRADUATE STUDENT NO WHALE WHISPERER.

  Elizabeth’s hands were shaking as she picked up the paper. She dreaded reading what the article said, but she could not stop herself. It would be worse not knowing what her neighbors and friends were being told about her.

  “Since the whale’s arrival in the San Francisco Bay and its journey up the Sacramento River, former graduate student Elizabeth McKay has been telling the media that the entrapped whale has a story to tell.” The article went on to say that Lieutenant Isaac James had given Elizabeth “unprecedented access to the entrapped whale” and that he had disregarded the recommendations of many more senior scientists who were advising him that the whale was sick and should be euthanized “out of compassion.” It explained that she had recently been kicked out of her graduate program. Skilling was quoted as saying, “I spoke with Ms. McKay many times about the fanciful nature of her research, that it was based on unsubstantiated findings.” The article even suggested that she was possibly mentally unstable.

  ELIZABETH DROVE ACROSS the causeway toward the medical center, the steering wheel of the old station wagon vibrating. She squeezed her hands around the hard plastic, hoping it might stop the wheel—and her—from shaking. The beauty of the floodplain and wildlife sanctuary spread out on either side of the causeway, soothing Elizabeth’s anxious mind. In comparison to the picture and the newspaper article, the argument with Frank about Teo seemed trivial. She had tried to call, but his cell phone kept going to voice mail. It would be better to see him, to tell him in person, to hold him. God, she needed his arms to comfort her.

  As she drove, she could not stop thinking about the photo with its burned-out eyes. How far would the whalers go? When she’d seen the picture, she had immediately checked the freezer to see if the whale package was still there. It was not. In its place was a brief note Teo had scribbled: “Package to the whalers. Hoping it helps you and the whales.”

  Snowy egrets and a great blue heron stood elegantly in the distance, and a red-tailed hawk flew over the car. The smell of brine and fish made her wince. Had she forgotten to wash her wetsuit? Elizabeth looked in her rearview mirror and saw the messy backseat of the station wagon. Her wetsuit and fins were stacked on top of equipment, files, books, clothes, and other chaos that she’d never had a chance to clear out. She was a bit of a packrat; Frank had always complained about her unwillingness to let go of anything that might someday be useful. As she rolled down her window, the wind felt good on her face and helped with the smell.

  Elizabeth’s cell phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. Restricted. She flipped open the phone and held it to her ear as she continued driving with her other hand.

  “Hello, Elizabeth, I see you’ve been making headlines.” The voice was a woman’s, and it sounded menacingly sweet.

  “Who is this?”

  “One of your secret admirers.”

  “Very funny.”

  “We can ruin your career—or at least what’s left of it.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “We want you to stop being the self-appointed spokesperson for the whale.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter why. We just want you to stop talking about things that you don’t know anything about and scaring people unnecessarily.”

  “How did you get my number?”

  “We know a lot about you, Elizabeth.”

  “You can’t stop me from telling people the truth.”

  “Oh, yes, we can.” The calmness of the voice sent chills up Elizabeth’s spine. “Let’s just say we have legal and extralegal means to keep you quiet. If you know what is good for you and your baby, you’ll do as I say.”

  “How do you know about my baby?”

  “You’re not listening, Elizabeth. I told you that we know a lot about you.”

  “How dare you!”

  “If you don’t believe what I say, Elizabeth, just look behind you…”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flared up toward the rearview mirror. There was no car behind her.

  “In the backseat,” the voice added.

  Elizabeth’s heart was pounding against her rib cage. Was there someone in the car? She saw nothing but the pile of her debris.

  As if reading her thoughts again, the woman’s voice whispered, “Under the wetsuit.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the red brake lights of the truck in front of her and then quickly reached into the backseat, knocking her wetsuit to the floor. Underneath she saw a baby’s car seat. In it was a blue baby’s outfit. As she looked closer, she saw something sticking out of the collar. It was the silver head and vacant black eye of a large dead fish. She screamed and stepped on the gas instinctively. Her eyes shot back to the road, but it was too late. She was going to crash into the truck in front of her.

  Elizabeth yanked the wheel to the right to avoid the truck and cut across the access lane, hurtling toward the railing of the causeway and the floodplain below.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  THE STATION WAGON hurtled toward the concrete guardrail. The front wheel well hit first, and the car screeched along the barrier, shooting sparks in every direction. Within seconds, the full weight of the heavy car collided broadside. The car tipped up on its side as it rode on two wheels, preparing to fall over the low guardrail.

  Elizabeth looked down at the water in the floodplain below her, seeing the car’s reflection. She yanked the wheel to the left, but the momentum carried her fifty meters down the guardrail, sparks still flying, metal grinding, as the car finally bucked and stopped with a groan.

  The old car had no air bags, and there was nothing cushioning her body as it absorbed the shock of the crash. From what she could tell, she had not hit her head and was not badly injured. Shaking and numb, she got out of the car to look for damage. The side of the car was bashed in, and the right front wheel well was punched into a permanent scream. But the tire was intact and still looked drivable.

  A car stopped behind her, and a man got out. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. Thank you.”

  The man looked
at her suspiciously, perhaps wondering if she was in shock. He wasn’t the only one who was wondering if she was in her right mind. Risking her and her baby’s life was crazy.

  It began to drizzle as Elizabeth got back into the station wagon. Maybe I am in shock, she thought as she stared blankly, watching the drops tapping against her windshield. She shifted the car into drive and headed back to the slough to see Apollo. To say goodbye.

  “HOW COULD YOU run a public relations hatchet job like that?” Bruce Wood asked, although it was more of an accusation than a question. He was standing in the doorway of his editor’s office, his black eyes narrowed in anger. For all he knew, the whale researcher was crazy, but this was unprofessional and exactly the kind of garbage that was ruining journalism.

  The piles of paper on the desk almost hid the editor’s rosacea-reddened face. His unkempt gray hair was brushed across his balding head. “When my best investigative journalist decides to cover garden parties and school bonds, I have to turn to the wires.”

  “The wires? The public relations wire, maybe.”

  “Subscriptions are down. Advertising revenue is dropping. The staff is shrinking. I need to print something, don’t I?”

  Wood remembered Elizabeth’s comments about pollution. Maybe there was a story here after all. Someone was clearly trying to discredit her. “I’m going to find out who’s behind that wire story and why they have it in for that graduate student. Then maybe I’ll have some real news for you.”