Whales (Fiction)

***

When I pick my son up from school, he smells of seaweed and salt. Crouching down next to him, I ask, “Why is your shirt wet, Jake?”

“We have a whale in our classroom. We think it’s a humpback, but it could be a Southern Wright whale. Ms. Donald is going to look it up tonight.” He looks at me solemnly. “Have you ever seen a whale, Mum?”

I straighten up and reach for his small hand. Kids and their imaginations. “Yeah, buddy, I saw a whale when your dad and I were on our honeymoon in Kaikoura. Long time ago now.” I smile down at Jake's tousled blond hair, so similar to his father’s when we first met. Sighing, I tug gently at Jake’s hand. “What do you think about an ice cream?”

Jake grins and we head down the hill to the corner store.

That evening, only Jake and I are in the house. My husband Malcolm is at another work event in Wellington, and our twins Toby and Josh are away at a basketball tournament. I barely see them, now that they're in their final year of secondary school--except when they come home to change clothes and sleep.

“Mum, can I listen to whale songs while I fall asleep?” Jake asks.

I look down at him tucked in his brother Noah’s old bed. Now that Noah is at university, Jake can finally have a room of his own. He looks so little in this space that I associate with teenage hormones and loud rock music.

“Just tonight, ok, buddy?”

Jake nods, blue eyes wide. I find a whale music playlist and put my phone on Jake’s bedside table. I watch from the doorway as he nestles under the covers, clutching his dinosaur teddy. The whale song fills the room with soft hums and whistles. It feels gentle and inquisitive, careful questions and thoughtful responses cradled in the deep blue of the sea. Sitting outside Jake’s doorway, I lean my head back against the wall. I fidget as I listen, sliding my wedding band on and off, on and off. Malcolm finds me three hours later, asleep in the middle of the hallway, my wedding ring lying on the floor.

“What are you doing?” he asks, standing tall above me. “And what is that crazy noise?”

I look up at him, his face a dark silhouette against the hall light. “Just the whales. Jake is learning about them at school.” I sit up, wipe the drool off my face, slip my ring back on, and straighten my shirt. “I’ll grab my phone.” I sneak back into Jake’s room and watch him sleep, face pressed hard into the pillow, soft toy now on the floor.

By the time I go to bed, Malcolm is already snoring, tucked in tightly to his side. Carefully, I pull back the sheets and get in bed. Lying on my back, I stare wide-eyed into the dark. My legs feel restless, and my skin itches. But then I think of the whales and their gentle song, and sleep comes quickly.

***

At work the next day, I spend my lunch break looking at pictures of whales. Their huge forms arc above the water as they leap and dive. Streamlined, simple shapes floating in a dark blue sea. Soaring plumes of mist ejected from air holes by travelling pods. A mother lifting her newborn calf on her back so it can take its first breath of air. I print out my favourite picture and pin it above my computer: two humpbacks breaching side by side, their white bellies face the sky, vulnerable and magnificent.

During dinner, I watch Jake trace shapes in his tomato sauce with his fork. “Eat up, buddy,” I remind him, leaning over to nudge a stray chicken nugget back onto his plate. I pause, looking at the drawing etched in the sauce; a whale’s tail waves from amongst the broccoli and peas. “Learning more about whales today, then?” I ask, sitting back and taking a sip of my wine.

“Yeah, Mum!” Jake looks up excitedly. “Today we had an orca in the classroom. Did you know they eat seals and penguins?” Jake pauses, watching my face. “But don’t worry, they won’t eat humans. They are super smart.”

The door bangs open, and Jake and I both start. Malcolm is home earlier than I expected.

“Sorry love,” I call out to him, “just a kid’s dinner tonight, chicken and veggies. The twins won't be home till nine, and I thought you were at that work function.”

Malcolm comes and sits at the kitchen table with us, reaching out to ruffle Jake’s hair. “Couldn’t be bothered really, wanted a chill evening. No worries about dinner, though. I grabbed some Maccas on the way home.”

Malcolm stretches his long arms above his head and settles them on the table top. The crisp white of his button-down shirt is a sharp contrast against his dark tan. A rural property developer, he spends half his time wandering in paddocks with farmers and the other half in expensive offices with financers. Having grown up on a farm, he knows how to talk about the land. The farmers respect him, and he does his best to crunch the numbers to make them (and us) money. I sometimes wonder if he wishes for his own farm, if he feels like he is selling his soul helping turn these big country stations into suburban streets. But he has never been one to talk about his feelings, even in the early years of our marriage.

“Ok then, beer?”

He nods, eyes on Jake. I go to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine and open a beer. Standing at the kitchen bench, I look at Jake and Malcolm together. So similar, lean arms and legs, curly blond hair, even the way they squint their eyes or half smile when they notice something funny. But as I walk towards them, and they both turn to look at me, there is the difference: Jake’s face is open and loving, while Malcolm’s shows me nothing. I pass him his beer and sit down again. Both of us turn our attention back to Jake.

That night, I can’t sleep. Getting up quietly, I wander the hallway. Stopping at each of the boys’ rooms, I watch them sleep. The dim light of the hall nightlight allows me to just make out their features. Toby and Josh, as similar in sleep as they are awake, flat on their backs, arms thrown wide, blankets in a tangle. Their hair is dark like mine, and they have the same unfettered exuberance for life that I remember having when I was seventeen. They are both hoping to go to the States on basketball scholarships, and some universities are already taking an interest. I imagine meeting them in some big US city; they show me the sights and take me to a fancy restaurant. I’m afraid that if they don’t go, I’ll be more disappointed than them.

I stand in Jake’s doorway the longest. My youngest, my last. Only seven, but he is already more serious than any of his older brothers. Malcolm always calls him the unexpected surprise, but he wasn’t a surprise to me. I had hoped that his birth would bridge the gap I could feel forming between us, and it did for a while, but there was an inevitability in that chasm that even a beautiful golden child couldn’t mend.

***

Each day that week, Jake comes home with the story of another whale that has visited their classroom. Fin whale, pilot whale, beluga whale, sperm whale, sei whale. Even a blue whale that he says was only a juvenile, but its tail still stuck out the door. Whale pictures decorate his room, and every night he begs to listen to whale songs while he falls asleep. Whales swim through my dreams, and I often wake with the feeling of salt spray on my face. I listen to a podcast about freeing orcas from captivity, and the last episode reduces me to tears. My desk space at work becomes littered with whale pictures. I admire Jake’s imagination and his teacher’s creativity, but I’m worried that whales are becoming my obsession.

At the end of the week, while Jake is in the bath after dinner, I take a moment to check his school bag. He is normally pretty good about bringing home school notices or reports from his teacher, but occasionally I find something important crumbled at the bottom. As I lift the bag from its hook, I notice that Jake’s blue drink bottle is missing from the side pocket.

“Jake, buddy, where is your drink bottle?” I shout down the hall.

A long pause, then softly, “I must have left it at school.”

I groan, throwing my hands in the air. Missing or forgotten water bottles are one of the things that drive me crazy, and Jake knows it. I rummage through the cupboard where we normally keep our extra drink bottles, but the twins have ransacked it, taking all the spares to basketball practice.

“Jake, it’s sports day in Richmond tomorrow, and I don’t have time to swing by school and pick it up before I’m supposed to drop you off!”

Jake is silent, knowing that whatever he says will only make me more frustrated. I glance into the lounge, Malcolm lying on the couch, watching rugby.

“Malcolm, I’m going out, sort out Jake for bed.” He looks up, startled, but after seeing my face, nods and turns back to the screen.

“Jake, I’m going to get your water bottle,” I shout down the hall.

“Thanks, Mum,” he says, and then adds softly, “It was a narwhal today.”

I roll my eyes and head for the car. “Surely this whale unit is almost over,” I mumble to myself as I back out of the drive.

The drive to Jake’s primary school is only ten minutes on a winding road flanked by paddocks and large houses with well-manicured gardens. All four of my boys have gone to this school, and I know it well. Years ago, at a girls’ night at the pub, the principal got a bit tipsy and confessed to me that she hid the master school key under a rock outside her office. She was notorious for leaving her keys at home, and this was her solution. I’ve used her secret a few times to retrieve forgotten backpacks and misplaced library books.

After getting the hidden key, I take my time walking to Jake’s classroom. I’m in no hurry to return home to Malcolm’s silences and my unasked questions. I peer in other classroom windows, admiring the artwork and noting which teacher has the tidiest desk. I sit for a while on the bench by the playground; so many hours of my life spent in this seat. Waiting for my boys to finish school, chat with other mums, checking in with teachers about school camps and reading levels, watching my children learn how to navigate the social dynamics of a playground.

When I finally arrive at Jake’s door, the streetlights are coming on, and the evening is darkening. The hidden key fits the lock, and I carefully open the door, aware that I’m entering another adult’s space, even if they aren’t here. Ms. Donald is known amongst parents and students alike to be firm but fair, and I certainly do not want to disrupt her classroom. I keep the lights off, and the classroom is murky, all shadows and dark corners. I know that the student cubbies are on the left side of the classroom, so I head to them, now eager to get Jake’s water bottle and go home. Perhaps he will still be awake when I get back, and I’ll have a chance to read him a story before he’s asleep.

I am only a few steps across the room before I’m forced to stop. A tail, over a metre long with curved edges, lies in front of my feet. Squinting, my eyes follow the tail up; a large shape looms in the middle of the room. I gasp, and the tail flips. Taking a breath, I try to relax my shoulders. It’s just another animal, I remind myself. I begin to talk quietly, gentle murmurings, as I sidle around the edge of the room towards Jake’s cubby. As I get closer, I can just make out a long thin point projecting from the animal’s head. A narwhal, Jake said: that must be its horn. The sides of the animal look smooth and slightly damp. Close to the floor, the skin is pale, almost white, while on the top it is dark. A round black eye watches me. I hold my hand out, wondering if it can smell me, sense my uncertainty. The eye blinks slowly, and the horn lowers. I pause and then slowly reach out a finger and trace it over the whale’s side. The skin is smooth and slick, the flesh forgiving. I place my whole hand on its side. I can feel the whale breathing slow and deep. Quietness seeps into my fingers, and I find myself sitting back against the whale’s supple side. I lean my head backwards, cradled in the certainty of this animal. A deep silence settles in my chest. Closing my eyes, I see the dark blue depths of freezing Arctic oceans. I allow myself to sink. I can feel my body, strong and sure, able to bring me to the surface when I need air.

A tremor runs down the narwal’s flank, and I sit up. The dark eye watches me and then blinks. I stand, moving towards its head, towards the long, sharp horn. Longer than my arm, the horn rises from the narwhal’s forehead. A white spiral ending in a sharpened point. The narwhal lowers its head, and the horn points at my chest, to my heart. Slowly, I slide my wedding band from my finger. I reach out to the horn and drop my ring over the point. The gold band slips down the horn and then wedges in place. Bright gold against pearly white. A perfect fit. I pick up Jake’s drink bottle and leave the classroom, locking the door behind me.

Hillary McDonald lives in the South Island of New Zealand where she teaches secondary students outdoor skills. She has had short stories published in takahē magazine and Folklore Review. She spends her free time exploring the outdoors with her family, reading and writing.