Читать книгу Chasing at the Surface - Sharon Mentyka - Страница 11

CHAPTER 3

Orca Day 2

Marisa. Honey … wake up.”

Dad sits on the edge of my bed, lightly scratching my back, his special way of waking me since I was a little girl. The tiny window facing the bay is still dark.

“What time is it?” I ask, my voice groggy. Waking up still doesn’t feel the same. A minute of calm, then a rush of remembering.

“Just six,” Dad says. “Tal phoned. He wants me in early.”

Tal Reese owns Mud Bay Kayak Center, where Dad’s the manager. But before Mom left, Dad had his own carpentry projects too. Now it feels like he’s always going in to Mud Bay early or staying late. I wonder sometimes if we both avoid each other for the same reasons.

I shiver and pull the covers closer around me. Sometimes living on this houseboat is like being in the water instead of just on it. The ancient heater either delivers hot, dry air or it hardly works at all. In spite of everything, living here might actually be kind of fun except it only happened after Mom left.

“Listen,” Dad continues as he rubs my back, “I have some good news.”

I’m instantly awake, waiting to hear that Mom’s back, sitting at our little kitchen counter, drinking a cup of tea.

“A bunch of whales are swimming around in the inlet. Seems people have been calling and leaving messages since last night to reserve boats. That sure doesn’t happen every day, huh?”

Even without looking, I can tell Dad is smiling. I sink back into my pillow, disappointed, and try to think of what to say.

“Hey, I know it’s a school day, but what do you think about coming along? Remember that camp you went to up in the San Juans a couple summers ago? You came home pretty psyched.” Dad shifts on the bed and chuckles to himself. “Plastered your walls with pictures and those pod genealogies … all sorts of stuff.”

The chilly morning and Dad’s memory stir up the familiar tug of missing what I don’t have anymore. I lie there quiet in my cold bed, and part of me wants so much to throw myself into Dad’s arms and just cry. But then Dad will want to “talk.” I haven’t been in the mood to talk for a long time.

“I kidded you no end that you must have been a whale in a previous life—thick black hair, white skin, just like—” he stops, realizing where his talk has gotten him. “Anyway …” he coughs. “You up for it?” He starts rubbing my back again but I squirm out from underneath and roll onto my side to face the wall.

Has he forgotten who really loved whales? Who would have been crazy with excitement if she were here?

“Umm, I don’t think so,” I mutter into my pillow. “Today’s our science unit exam,” I lie.

“Well … this is kind of science in action.”

After a long minute, Dad bends down and kisses the top of my head and I feel myself relax. I know he won’t argue. Dad never argues, not even when Mom said she needed to leave. Not one fight. I still can’t believe how this all happened without any fights. Neither of us fought for Mom to stay.

I shift in my bed, restless. For a long time, feeling angry seemed safer than feeling anything else, but now mostly what I’m really feeling is confused.

I can still see them both standing there, holding hands, telling me everything will be okay. Trust us, they said. Mom just needs some time. For the hundredth time, I’m certain I must have missed something. Otherwise, it doesn’t make any sense. Mom says she needs time to figure stuff out. Dad says sure, fine. And that’s it? She leaves, we move to the marina, and everything in our lives changes?

Maybe they did all their fighting when I wasn’t around. Or maybe it was something else totally, something too horrible to tell. Was Mom already married to somebody else when she met Dad? Is that why she’s keeping the truth from him too, even now? Or is she running from the law? I barely know where she grew up—somewhere in California—she was always vague about it. And I never knew my grandparents, which is too bad, because if they were still alive, I’d call them up right now and get some answers.

But none of that feels really right. I keep coming back to the one thing that makes more sense than any of the others: Mom’s leaving had something to do with me. Why else would she tell Dad she was a terrible mother?

“Eat something, okay?” Dad’s voice startles me back to the present. “Maybe they’ll still be here later.” He stands up. “And …” he pauses dramatically, “I’m going to trust you to ride by the PO after school, okay?”

The question hangs in the air. And this time Dad won’t leave until he gets a nod from me. When he opens the front door to go, a gust of even colder air blows in. As he steps outside, the houseboat pitches and sways, then slowly settles back, rocking me in my bed.

I lie there in the dark, remembering that summer two years ago. Mom was so excited when she found the whale camp—she’d checked out everything offered within a fifty-mile radius of Seattle looking for the “perfect experience.” It was where I first met Lena. We spent three weeks kayaking and studying marine biology—and becoming best buds. It all seems like centuries ago now.

Getting up quickly, I skitter across the narrow hallway into the kitchen and prop open the door to help the struggling heater push warmer air toward my bed. Then I climb back under the covers, stretching out my legs. My toes are freezing and I miss Blackberry again. He used to sleep on my feet, kept them nice and toasty.

But he ran away, too. Just like Mom. I try hard to push away all my gloomy thoughts, but I have as much luck as the houseboat heater.

––––

Downtown Manette is really just a couple of blocks of small family-owned businesses, most of them having something to do with camping or fishing. Places with names like “Sugar Shack” and “Trail’s End.” Evanston Memorial is here too, the hospital where Mom worked. Sometimes, we’d meet after school if she could arrange her shift, and walk a couple of blocks over to the town pool to swim or use the “spa”—just a hot tub really. Besides collecting the mail, those memories are another good reason to avoid coming here now.

Picking up our mail from the Manette PO box has been my job since I’ve been old enough to bike here alone. Charlie Taffett, the postmaster, used to keep an eye on me when I was littler. If it wasn’t busy, sometimes he’d let me help him attach labels to packages or practice my numbers by reading the weight off the scale. I loved it. Now my goal is get in and out without any collateral damage. Even worse, now the trips have the added pressure of reporting back to Dad.

The post office is nearly empty. I sneak in as quietly as I can, trying to avoid Charlie’s notice, which isn’t that hard really, because Charlie is pretty old, and always seems to be pulling off his glasses for some reason. I dig out my key, open our box, and pull out a thick bundle. It’s the usual mix of junk mail, bills, and a few magazines, some still addressed to Mom, and I suddenly decide to let Dad deal with it all at home. Then, just as I’m shoving the whole stack into my backpack, I catch sight of it—a slim white envelope with blue felt-tip pen writing.

I check the postmark—“PASADENA, CA.”

So, she did go home. And the thought that my home isn’t Mom’s anymore makes my stomach queasy. I take one more second to feel the letter’s thickness, silently calculating how many sheets of paper might be inside. Then, after a quick glance around, as if I’m doing something illegal, I slip the letter into the narrow slot of the blue plastic recycling bin.

The minute it drops down, I feel a pang of regret. But the post office feels like it’s suddenly crowded with people—I can’t very well take the lid off and fish it back out. At least that’s what I tell myself. Besides, it’s probably just more words that don’t make sense anyway. Not the real truth.

––––

Mud Bay Kayak and Rowing Center sits tucked into a small bay on the southwest side of the inlet, across the bridge and a bike ride away from Olympic Junior High.

“Hey!” Dad sees me and calls out, taking a break from wetting down the dock. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

I glide down the Veneta Street hill. It’s a weekday but the dock is crowded, with more people out in boats than on an ordinary weekend. “Has it been like this all day?”

Dad’s boss, Tal, overhears my question and walks over to join us.

“This is the slowest it’s been!” he laughs.

I like Tal. He’s a big man with a bushy beard and wrinkled skin from too many days spent outdoors. I usually only see him when I visit Dad at Mud Bay, but he always seems so relaxed, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Not like Dad … or me.

Plus he’s always full of weird facts and trivia, mostly history and science stuff.

“In fact,” he turns to me, “I’d say the crowds have been rather fervid, or if you prefer, perfervid. Interestingly, the two words mean the same thing,” Tal says. “Just like flammable and inflammable.”

Tal and I have this game where he quizzes me by using tricky words that hardly anybody knows and I have to figure out what they mean. Once he found out I was interested in science, the words got harder. I don’t always get them right, but I usually look them up later. It’s actually kind of fun.

“Marisa? What’s your guess?”

“Umm, enthusiastic?” Tal waits. He wants more specifics. “Feverish?”

“Good girl! Comes from the Latin fervere, ‘to boil.’” He pats me on the shoulder. “It’s unbelievable, actually,” he adds, shaking his head. “Be interesting to see how long they stay—”

“Wait,” I interrupt, “the people or the whales? Have they been out there this whole time?”

“Seems so,” Dad says. “We haven’t seen them.” He runs his hands through his brown curls, giving his head a scratch. “But apparently they’re feeding big-time.”

“Is that why they’re here, you think?”

“I don’t think anybody really knows,” Tal answers. “Could be they followed in a wave of the chum. Chico Creek’s one of the last good runs around. Well, I’d better start closing down shop or we’ll never get out of here. Bright and early tomorrow, Dan!” he calls back as he heads inside.

I stare out over the inlet. Already, the sky is darkening. Once the sun dips down behind the mountains, the light here goes fast. Dad turns off the water and tosses down the hose. He follows my gaze, then sits down on the grass beside me.

“Any mail?”

I hand over the bundle of magazines and bills, but shake my head no. I know what Dad really means, and for a split second, I feel a rush of guilt but quickly push it away.

Dad takes the mail, but stares at me.

“Marisa, I know what you did.”

I freeze, thinking he somehow knows about the recycled letter, but he couldn’t.

“Lena stopped by. She told me you guys saw the whales yesterday when you were out fishing.” Dad’s lips are pressed together in a pout. His eyes get that hurt puppy-dog expression. “Why didn’t you say anything to me this morning?”

I turn away quickly, and stare at the wooden slats of the dock. Why won’t you tell me the real reason Mom left?

I shrug. “It didn’t seem like a big deal.”

“You see the orcas up close in the inlet and you don’t think that’s a big enough deal to tell me?” Dad sighs a big sigh. I pick at the long grass, ripping out small bits and rolling them into little balls with my fingers. “If you won’t talk to me about a whale sighting … something that you care so much about—”

“I just didn’t, okay?” I cut him off, aiming the grass pellets out toward the dock in perfect trajectories. When they hit, they relax and lose their tightly wound shape.

“No, Marisa, it’s not okay.” He stands and starts to pace back and forth in front of me. “Look, you know I’m not one to pressure, but a good attitude goes a long way.”

This is so far from what I was expecting to hear that I sit there, speechless.

“I know you’re struggling—but we have to work together,” Dad says. “I don’t know all the answers about why Mom left, and I’m not happy about it either. But I trust her. And you should too. Things aren’t as hopeless as you’re making them out to be.” He pauses, waiting. “C’mon,” he whispers. “Where’s my best girl? I miss her.”

I jump to my feet, the sudden movement shifting something inside me. The wooden dock in front of me is littered now with green flecks.

“I don’t know where she is, Dad. Maybe she’s gone!” My words come spitting out, sarcastic and cruel, hitting him as I turn and walk away. “Maybe she left with Mom.”