by Chad Morris
This huge beautiful blue whale wasn’t alive. I shook my head. All of my work wasn’t enough.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “And we will take it from here. Thank you so much for your help.”
I fell to the beach. I think my legs turned to squid tentacles. And my tears drained out. I had seen one of the biggest, most magnificent creatures in the world. I had touched it. I was in the right place to help. And I failed.
Maybe a whale out there had just lost their dad or brother or friend because I wasn’t good enough.
Willa Twitchell, Journal #5, today
That was the second time I’ve been there when the world lost one of its best.
Blue whales are one of the absolutely most epic creatures in the history of time. But even though they’re enormous, in the 332.5 million cubic miles of water in the ocean, rarely does anyone see one. And they are endangered. Rare and endangered.
My mom was about seventy-five feet shorter than a blue whale and sixty-five and nineteen-twentieth tons less. But she was even more rare. And to be honest, about a duodecillion tons awesomer. And miles and miles more important. And she left a blue whale–sized hole in my world.
Why did she have to go?
And why does this keep happening to me?
In a haze, I looked out over the beach where Blue was. Blue. It was a good name for a good whale.
The ocean still curled in waves and lapped, but it didn’t calm me. The in and out was almost annoying. Those waves had brought Blue in and then we lost him.
Lost him.
I hated that phrase. We didn’t lose him. He was right there. When people would say that it was so sad that I lost my mom, I bristled. I didn’t lose her. She wasn’t a misplaced shoe. She was dead, not lost. And it made it sound like I had some responsibility in it, like I had absentmindedly left her someplace.
“I’m sorry,” Dante said, and gave me a hug while I still sat on the sand. Sweet. But I didn’t hug him back. I wasn’t all there. My mind was replaying any mistakes I might have made.
The titan was dead. Blue was gone.
It didn’t work. I called the experts, I called in my friends, I tried to keep him wet, and it still didn’t work.
It was like my personal ocean was filled with a bloom of jellyfish and their stings. They were everywhere. I couldn’t swim a stroke without another stab of pain.
So I didn’t try to swim. I didn’t try to move.
It hurt too much.
I think a few more people spoke, but I was somewhere in a fog. My eyes glossed over and my mind reeled.
Dead.
More words around me. Marc? But I didn’t move. The amazing whale had been right here and now part of him was gone. Gone somewhere else. And the whale probably had a son or daughter out there that was about to get the absolute worst news of their lives. Or worse yet, maybe they would swim around, wandering aimlessly looking for their father or friend and hoping he would be just around the next reef, or just out of sight in the darkness beneath them, or a shadow about to swim over them.
And once they really knew, once it settled in, they would try to move on, but they would still pass spots where he used to be and wonder. And miss. And feel weak, like the current just got ten times harder to swim against.
And maybe they wouldn’t feel like swimming at all. Not alone. Maybe they would just hover there, not even knowing where to go, letting the current pull them wherever it wanted.
And maybe in an ocean of sixty million square miles with over 200,000 different kinds of creatures swimming and living and growing around them, they would suddenly feel completely alone.
Like me.
Right then in my life, it felt like there might be more jellyfish than water to swim in.
Dad pulled me to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. I felt his beard on my forehead. He was in his suit coat, ready to leave for work. And because he was hanging around the ocean with me, he smelled like sea rock—earthy but salty—and fish. He’d probably ruined his suit. For me.
I think he said something, maybe thanking Charles, Clarissa, and the others and I let him scoop me up and carry me up the trail. That had to be hard, but I didn’t realize it at the time.
Eventually, my dad set me down on the seat of his truck. Again voices. Mamá Mendoza. Then Marc. But I couldn’t focus on any words.
The car started up. My dad was looking forward as he pulled off the crunchy gravel onto the highway.
“I’m really sorry, sweetheart,” he said.
Part of me wanted to say something, but I wasn’t going to be able to make sentences. At least not ones that made sense. At least not without dissolving into a puddle of tears.
But the tears came anyway.
They came for the whale and his family.
They came for a life that was gone and all the hollow that would come. But mostly they came for me.
For my mom.
“Just know that whenever you want to talk,” he said. “I’m ready to listen.”
I wanted to talk. I was going to have to talk. I opened my mouth hoping something would come. Something that would make sense. Something that would pull me out of this mass of emotion. A whale’s weight of feelings.
Zero percent chance. So I closed it again.
I did want to talk.
Desperately.
But when and how, I couldn’t figure out.
Not now. Not here.
But soon.
Before I exploded.
Willa Twitchell, Journal #5, yesterday
I couldn’t go to school. Not now. And my dad didn’t make me.
Blue whales were put on the endangered species list before my parents were born, like 1967. At one time, there were hundreds of thousands of them. But they were hunted and now they’re one of the rarest whales. Researchers estimate there are 10,000 to 25,000 of them left in all the world. That’s not a lot compared to over seven billion people, or like 900 million dogs. They are still endangered and very slowly recovering.
I really, really, really, really wished I could have saved this one.
5:30 a.m.
And I was awake. Just like yesterday.
I rolled over and remembered everything. Both the whale and Mom.
That had happened yesterday. I didn’t go to school, or to swim practice. Which didn’t really matter because Marc wasn’t going either. I didn’t leave my room. I rolled over again and again, thinking everything over and over and inside-out and through. I wanted to cry, to punch something, and scream. I wanted to be in the ocean, just floating there. Just being. Just away from here.
A million stings.
But this morning was slightly better. I had only rolled over about 287 times since waking up. 7:00 a.m. came and went. I didn’t even try to get up for school. In the back of my mind I thought of Marc. I needed to thank him and his family. He had texted a few times yesterday, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. I still didn’t know what he was being all upset and secretive about, but he had come when I needed him.
But that was in the back of my mind. The rest of my mind stormed. I’m not even sure it was really thinking, just soaking me, drenching me, drowning me. It was like I was on a sinking skiff out on the ocean during a hurricane. I could try to sail out of there. I could try to stay dry. I could lift my fists to the heavens and curse them, but none of it would do any good.
So I didn’t move.
And Dad didn’t wake me. From inside the storm I liked that. He had already given me one day off. He could have insisted I wake up and go to school today. But he didn’t. Maybe he knew I was in a storm. A storm I couldn’t get out of. I had to wait for it to blow over.
I was in and out of terrible sleep for a few hours before I finally got up. And I knew what to do. I kind of felt terrible about it, but I had to go back
down to the ocean. I had to see Blue again for myself.
I took my phone and stuffed it into my pocket, but I saw a notification first. Marc had texted again, asking if I was okay. I’d have to answer that later. I got dressed and I snuck toward the front of the house. I heard Nadia yelling that it was her turn to use the remote control, and Masha saying she just needed to sit for ten minutes. She was probably cleaning up a mess, or changing Hannah, or taking a break, playing games on her phone.
As I stepped out the front door, Caleb was sitting on the doorstep again. I guess it was going to be harder to get out than I wanted. I started back into the house. I’d have to sneak out the back.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, his fingers playing with his shoelaces.
I wanted to keep moving, not saying a thing. But I couldn’t quite do it. My haze had lifted enough. “I could ask you the same thing. Shouldn’t you be in school by now?”
He looked forward. “I have to go to the therapist this morning.”
I paused. I didn’t know that Caleb saw a therapist. Why would he do that? Did anyone mention that before and I just missed it?
“Okay,” I said. “I had a rough night, so my dad let me stay home today.”
“Cool,” he said, a smile crossing his face. “Want to do something?”
“Not right now,” I said. He was a decent kid, and quiet enough when he was by himself. But I wasn’t going to stick around. “I’ve got to go.”
“To school?” he asked. Why did he have to keep talking? “’Cause you’re really late.”
“Yeah,” I lied, because that wasn’t a bad cover story. “I’d better hurry up.”
“Where’s your backpack?” he asked.
Curse that kid. He was observant.
“I don’t need it today,” I said. But then realized that if I told my dad I went to school, then I could go to the beach first for however long I needed. As long as I eventually made it to school, I’d be fine. And I should probably get to school. Mom would want me to. “Never mind,” I said. “I do need it. Thanks.” And I stepped back inside. After sneaking up to my room to grab it, I texted my dad that I had woken up and was going to school. Then I slid out the door.
My dad texted back.
I didn’t answer. And I still hadn’t answered Marc.
I sped down the hill and saw Blue in the distance.
Part of me was sad that the experts weren’t there. They had probably been there all of yesterday. But today, it was like Blue wasn’t important enough for them. Not worth getting up for. Or maybe they just wanted their coffee first. But it still made me sad. Maybe they thought coffee was more important than Blue.
I jumped off my bike and went down to him.
He was surrounded with caution tape—an area a lot bigger than necessary. They really didn’t want anyone getting close. I guess they were serious about the danger a beached whale could cause.
I pulled out my phone and took some pictures; it was the scientist in me. I always document what I see of ocean life. But mostly I just wanted to remember Blue.
I hated seeing him there, completely still. If only I had arrived earlier. Or maybe if we had tried the boats idea or gotten everyone on the island to help push. I know those ideas were kind of stupid, but anything would be better than this. I clearly hadn’t helped enough. I just wasn’t sure what I was supposed to have done differently.
Sometimes I wondered that about my mom. Could I have done anything for her? Could I have noticed problems with her heart earlier? Maybe if I was a better scientist I would have noticed and insisted she visit the doctor. Or maybe if I was a better daughter, she never would have left my dad in the first place and then we definitely would have noticed.
Those thoughts might not even be true, but I thought them.
I took more pics of the whale. I got both faraway shots and close-up shots. I got good pictures of his closed eyes, his baleen, his blowhole, those fins. I knew I was going overboard, but I just did it.
And then I sat down on the beach. Just me and a big dead whale.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
I have to admit, I wished Blue would speak back. That he would say that there was nothing more I could have done. That he would tell me about where he was now and if my mom was there. That he would explain how he died, why he died, why I shouldn’t be so sad for him. But he didn’t. He wasn’t there.
It felt like a time I should cry, but I just didn’t have the tears. It wasn’t the first time my tears were all dried up. “I really did try.”
“Willa?” a voice came from the ocean.
Meg. Part of me was thrilled, but the other part didn’t want to answer. I had let her down. She had asked me to help Blue.
I took in a deep breath. “Hey, Meg,” I said and then the words tumbled out. “I’m so sorry, but he didn’t make it. I tried. I really did. I called in all the experts. I kept his skin wet. I called in my friends. I did everything I could.”
“Oh, little human,” Meg said and then fell quiet.
I wondered if she was silent because she was mourning or because she was disappointed in me.
I wouldn’t blame her. I was disappointed in me.
Then I heard another long moan. Then another. I wanted to call like that too.
Finally, Meg spoke. “I knew him. He was a beautiful whale, big and gentle. Just a little younger than me. His pod is heartbroken. They said that he was struck by a boat.”
A boat. I hated that.
In order to kill a whale as big as Blue, it was probably a monstrous ship. Like a cruise ship or a shipping vessel. Yesterday, I read an article that said more than eighty whales are hit every year just along the coast of California, Oregon, and Washington. When you understand the small numbers we have of some of these whales, that’s a lot.
What a way to go for a creature with no known natural predators. Dying of accidents caused by people.
I sat on the rocks and looked at Blue.
“How many are in his pod?”
“Three others, two females and a calf.”
Somewhere out there is a calf without a father. Even though I had already thought that might happen, hearing that it was true made my shoulders slump and my head drop. I wanted to melt into the beach below my feet.
“I wish I could carry your sadness a little while,” I said. “But my own is too heavy right now. I can’t carry much more.”
Another long call.
I gave one too. It was long and ugly and I hope it wasn’t insulting, but it felt good.
Then silence.
“I’m sorry, Willa,” Meg eventually said. “This hurts. It hurts you. It hurts me. I have lived long enough now to know that the sadness is normal, that the darkness will lift, that though we will always miss our loved ones, at some point we will feel like we have been lifted from the blackness at the bottom of the sea towards the sunlight.” She paused to let out another call. “But right now, it just hurts.”
Another call.
I gave one too.
“But it isn’t your fault, Willa,” Meg said. “You did what you could. Nobody blames you. Don’t blame yourself. That is a pain you don’t have to feel. A pain that doesn’t take you anywhere.”
I nodded. I understood what she was saying, but it was hard to believe.
“Hey,” I heard someone say behind me. I recognized the voice.
And it wasn’t Marc.
Willa Twitchell, Journal #5, today
Fish have instincts. Even when they’re young, small fish seem to know when a predator is around. And on the other side, predators have instincts too. Like sharks have extra senses that help them feel vibrations through the water that help them find their food.
Humans don’t have as many instincts. We have to learn. One way is by watching and following others.
“What
is that?” Caleb stood right behind me, pointing at Blue, his mouth wide open. “It’s huge.”
I looked at him, then back at Blue. “What are you doing here?”
Caleb faltered a little, entranced by the huge whale. “Back on the doorstep, you were saying stuff kind of funny and I was worried about . . . I just wanted to see if you were . . .” Again he trailed off. “So I got on my bike and tried to catch up with you.”
I found it really interesting that he was worried about me. It made me feel bad. The kid probably had enough to worry about without adding a stepsister to the mix.
Caleb looked me square in the eye again. “This isn’t school. And what is that?” he repeated, still staring at Blue.
He shouldn’t be here, but I could tell I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him until I answered the question about Blue. I couldn’t blame him. If I were him, I’d want to know too. “It’s one of the largest creatures in the world and it died last night.”
Caleb’s shoulders fell. “That’s so sad,” he said. “How did it get here?”
“I don’t want to explain right now,” I said.
“You said you were going to school, but this isn’t school,” Caleb repeated.
“Sorry, Caleb,” I said, putting my arm around his shoulder. “I really am going to school. I just stopped by the beach first.”
“Why?” he asked. “Who were you talking to? Do you have a phone with those invisible talking things?” He poked my ear to check for a bluetooth.
“No.” I looked out to the water. “I was—” I stopped. What was I going to say? All the excuses I thought up would sound even more ridiculous than the truth. So I told him. He was a seven-year-old boy and, according to what he’d said, he had seen me down here talking before. What could it hurt? “I was talking to a whale named Meg. I come down here and tell her all of the things that go wrong in my life and she helps me. She tells me stories and stuff. But today, we were both just really sad because of the dead whale.” I looked over at Blue, huge, magnificent, and lifeless.
