holds up her palm.
“You owe it to me to at least try.” She spins in place and is gone before I can even open my mouth to say “no” again.
––––
It’s almost six-thirty by the time I get home. I glide down the marina embankment and heave my bike over the wharf’s edge, securing it against the leeward wall. When I unlock the front door, it’s dark inside—Dad’s not home yet. I turn on the light and slump down on the couch, not moving until my growling stomach gets my attention. No homemade dinner waiting for you, Marisa. Looking around the quiet room, it’s so easy to feel sorry for myself again.
Irritated, I punch the TV button on and head to the kitchen, hoping I can find something fast and easy to eat. I open the door and the refrigerator whirs to life, but what’s inside is pretty bleak. Not much more than an almost empty jar of peanut butter, yellowing broccoli, and some questionable egg salad.
Not like before. Dad and I used to cook together, a lot. Lemon chicken. Six-onion soup. A spicy red pasta sauce made with garlic, capers, olives, and anchovies that Dad said was named for the “Italian Ladies of the Night.” We always made it on special occasions because it was the dish Dad was cooking when he first met Mom years ago. The story goes that she was waitressing at a Pioneer Square steakhouse and putting herself through nursing school in Seattle. Dad had taken a job as a fry cook. Mom said one of the things she loved about him was how he would sear steaks wearing a tie that he’d throw over his shoulder. “I took one look and knew he’d be a special guy,” she laughed.
Mom was never big on birthday parties but each year, she’d let Dad dress up with a white shirt and tie, toss it over his shoulder, and cook her up a big batch of Pasta Puttanesca for her birthday. As I got older, he let me help. But this year was different. Mom sat at the table, staring out the big window that faced west toward the inlet. It was like she wanted to be anywhere else but here with us.
“Happy Birthday, Abbe,” Dad had said, coming up from behind and ceremoniously laying a plate of pasta down in front of her. Then he kissed her on her neck. “I love you,” I heard him whisper.
Mom’s eyes flickered and she looked as if she was going to burst into tears. She didn’t, but she didn’t smile either. She didn’t do anything. We ate our dinner in almost complete silence.
“C’mon, Abbe, you know how I love cooking this for your birthday,” Dad said, after awhile, “Don’t disappoint us—”
“It’s easy to disappoint, isn’t it?” Mom said. “We try and try and still we let so many people down.…”
She wasn’t really talking to us. I tried to catch her eye but it was like she didn’t even know I was there.
“I thought I was being brave. All these years.…”
“Abbe, honey—” Dad pleaded.
“Stop,” Mom turned and looked at him sharply. “This is wrong. It’s just all wrong.”
And with that, Mom stood up. I can still hear the sound of her chair scraping on the wood floor as she pushed it roughly back. A minute later, I heard the door slam as she left the house.
I remember turning to Dad, not understanding. Wrong about what? I asked, but he didn’t answer. Didn’t or wouldn’t. But I’d never seen him look so sad.
The sound of tinny music on the TV wheedles way into my head. The evening news is starting its wrap-up.
“And that’s it for tonight, folks. But before we sign off, Stacy, can you give us an update on our marine visitors?”
“I sure can, Jake. We now know that the whales in Dyes Inlet belong to a subgroup of orcas that summer here in Puget Sound known as L Pod. Researchers are worried that they might be lost, Jake, because these are unknown waters for these whales.”
“And I understand they’ve identified nineteen whales?”
“That’s right, Jake. L Pod is really one big happy family. Each whale has a name as well as an assigned number: Faith, Canuck, Muncher—”
I stand there, frozen, the refrigerator door open. Did I hear that right?
“They’re going to be monitoring them closely to be sure they’re not showing any signs of stress.”
“Well, Stacy, they look pretty relaxed to me.”
Jake and Stacy continue to banter with each other, laughing at their own jokes. I slam the refrigerator door shut so hard it shudders, then click off the TV. It’s suddenly and pleasantly quiet again.
I try to think back if I ever learned how whales behave when they’re stressed, but I can’t remember. I’m pretty sure Jake and Stacy don’t know. Do they get quiet and forget to eat? Do they leave the pod and swim off by themselves?
Back in my room, I push aside a pile of papers and notebooks lying in front of the chest, and pull open the bottom drawer. It’s packed tight. There was so much stuff that I had to throw out when we moved from East Sixteenth Street that I’m not sure what’s left and what got tossed, but I start looking anyway. I riffle through half-used sheets of wrapping paper, folded-up posters, paintings and watercolors from art classes. I recognize a couple of drawings that I made for Mother’s Day cards. My throat catches a little and I push them aside.
Finally, I see what I’m looking for. Carefully, I pull it out and lay it on the bed, flattening it as well as I can on the soft surface. The title, running across the full width of the sheet, in black italic caps, stares up at me:
L POD ADOPTION CERTIFICATE: L91 “MUNCHER”
I sit back on my knees and breathe deeply.
Four-year-old Muncher—the little whale Mom and I adopted—was back.
CHAPTER 6
Orca Day 4
Saturday morning traffic is bumper-to-bumper on Tracyton Boulevard, the narrow winding road that hugs the inlet shoreline. Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel. Slumped in the front seat, I fidget.
“Just drop me off here,” I say. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.” I know if I wait much longer, I’ll be tempted to tell him to turn around and go home.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine.” I wish he would stop asking me that, because the lie always feels like it’s pushing him further away.
“Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”
I reach behind to grab my backpack from the backseat, open the door, and step out. Should I ask him to do a U-turn and start driving south to California?
“I’ll call later,” I say, slamming the door before Dad can ask anything else.
After the stuffiness of the car, the cool air coming off the inlet is a relief. It’s weird seeing my usually sleepy town like this, full of people—strangers. At every side street, more cars are heading down to the water. Maybe before, it would be exciting. Right now, it just makes me feel lonely.
“Just in time,” Lena says, running to meet me. “I thought maybe you would chicken out.” I shrug, deciding it’s better not to say anything, and follow behind as we head down to the water.
The Tracyton boat launch is really just a poured slab of concrete, maybe twenty feet wide, added to the end of the road and angled down so that a boat can enter the water. Today, it’s jam-packed with people: some like us who are here to volunteer, but others who just seem curious. I take a steadying breath and survey all the activity.
“Who’s that with Mr. O?”
Lena shrugs. “Some whale guy from Friday Harbor.”
The