Changes in Latitudes Page 24

  I point at the steps and Drew casts an uncertain look at me, at the water, up at the mast where the sails barely ripple, then back at me again. “I—you’re sure you can handle it?”

  “You’re ten feet and one good shout away if anything comes up. Though what that might be on a night like this, I can’t even imagine.”

  He’s struck with another coughing fit, and by the end of it, he’s convinced. He gives me a grateful look and heads below.

  Leaving me alone in the middle of the ocean with my thoughts.

  Okay, yes, there are two sleeping people nearby, and though there’s enough distance between us that I can’t see either of their mast lights, somewhere out there are Tide Drifter and Reality Bytes. So not all that alone, really. But the last time my loneliness yawned this wide in my belly was the day after Dad moved out and I wandered the rooms of the house cataloging all the small things that went with him.

  Now the tears come.

  It’s so quiet tonight, I know my sobs will carry below easily, so I’m careful to keep them muffled in the armpit of my puffy life jacket, but otherwise I give in to the shaking and the gush of salty water down my face. My cheeks are used to salt these days, though mostly it’s been sea spray. None of that to be had tonight.

  I cry for normal, happy, carefree Cassie, because at the moment it feels like she’s as far away as Dad. I missed her so much and then somehow these last few weeks, she slipped in here and there. Like Peter Pan’s shadow. I was just beginning to believe I could finally stitch her back on, but now she’s gone again.

  Eventually my tears stop and I wipe my nose.

  The stage is set a little too perfectly for thinking deep thoughts. Middle of the night, floating on water as free of wrinkles as one of my dad’s starched oxford shirts, gentle rocking. But I’m just so tired of thinking, of feeling all this heaviness.

  Instead I tilt my head and try to count stars. I don’t know how Jonah says he finds feeling small and inconsequential comforting. The emptiness of it all chokes me.

  Music. I need music blasting in my ears, to chase this melancholy away. Something loud and grating. I’m weighing what could go wrong if I went below for five seconds to grab my phone and headphones when a soft splash sounds over my left shoulder.

  I whip my head around, but there’s nothing. The noise reminds me of another way I am very much not alone. There’s an entire ecosystem just below me. Millions—no, billions—of little creatures swimming around, just out of my sight. I hook an elbow on the railing and lean over to squint into the water, trying to see anything that could make a splashing noise, but the moon and the stillness create a mirrored surface, and all I see is a girl with a runny nose peering back at me.

  From the corner of my eye I catch a movement off the bow, and I stand and readjust my squint to that section of water. What was it? I wait, perfectly frozen—even my heartbeat stills—as I stare at the surface. And then, in a different spot, farther out, a spout of water arches into the night sky. As I gape, a huge, dark, smooth shadow rolls above the water and slides back below. Several shallow breaths later, an unmistakable shape flicks through the air and slips under the surface.

  A whale’s tail.

  And then another, just to the right of the first one.

  Oh my god. Whales! My breath is in my throat and fresh tears form in my eyes, but this time they’re of wonder. If I wasn’t living this, I wouldn’t believe it. It’s like something out of a movie. Broken girl has mystical nighttime encounter with pod of whales and realizes the universe wants her to heal.

  I’m awed, but I’m not that naive. Abigail and Grace have been talking about them this whole trip. I’m well aware this is migration time in these waters for humpbacks, blue whales, and finbacks. There are whale-watching trips leaving out of most of the harbors we’re been mooring in. Maybe the real miracle is that we haven’t seen any before this.

  Still.

  I gaze, transfixed.

  Within a few minutes their noises are all around me. Not the eerie soundtracks of musical calls that play in spas and yoga studios. These whales are grunting and burping and spraying water in giant spouts. I try to figure out how many there might be, but it’s hard to tell if I’m counting the same one multiple times. The most spouts I see at once are three, but I think there might be as many as five or six whales.

  There’s a creak on the steps and I turn my head.

  30

  “Cass?”

  My mom’s face appears, and then the rest of her. She looks around sleepily and steps into the cockpit while whispering, “Why is Drew asleep down there? Are you—?”

  I put my finger to my lips and she breaks off. I point to the bow and watch as her eyes adjust to the dark and she realizes what she’s seeing in the moonlight.

  If we were in a movie, this is the part where the mom would put her arm around her daughter and the daughter would rest her head against the mother’s shoulder and, without any words being exchanged, the audience would know they’ve just forgiven each other. Enya or some other ethereal New Age track with, like, lutes or something would be playing.

  In real life, my mother gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh god,” she says into her palm. “Oh god. Which direction are they moving?”

  When I stare at her blankly, she snaps, “Cassie, think. Are they getting closer or farther away from when you first spotted them?”

  I blink. “I—um, closer? I think?”

  My mother looks around wildly. “Okay, take the wheel and turn off the autopilot.”

  I continue to stare at her, frozen.

  “Cassandra! The wheel!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Her sigh is exasperated, as if I should know this on my own. “Do you realize how big these whales are? Can you imagine what it would do to Sunny-Side Up if one tried to surface while underneath us?”

  My eyes grow as wide as hers. “Does that ever happen?”

  Mom nods sharply.

  Why didn’t I have this on my list of potential catastrophic events at sea? Whales are the gentle giants of the ocean. I had a “Save the Whales” bumper sticker on my binder in fifth grade. I can’t get tossed into the water by one!

  “The wheel,” Mom orders, and I jerk to attention. She races to the bow and peers into the night.

  “Should I turn the motor on?” I call, picturing a quick getaway (or a semi-quick getaway, since we’re not exactly a speedboat).

  Mom shakes her head and moves to the middle of the deck. “No, the sounds from the propellers can actually attract them. Just keep your eyes peeled and get ready to turn hard if you need to.”

  A shadow rolls across the surface a hundred yards or so off our starboard side, and water rushes down the smooth expanse of black glistening in the moonlight.

  What felt meaningful and special and beautiful minutes ago now seems menacing.

  I plant my hands on the wheel and stare so hard at the water my eyeballs hurt.

  “There!” Mom points to a spout off our port side.

  We’re surrounded. This is a different kind of fear than what Jonah accused me of running from. This is sharp in my lungs and throat and prickly up my spine.

  After all my fears about things that go bump in the night, here I am waiting for a literal one. It’s even worse than the abstract.

  I have a sudden thought for the other two boats in our caravan. “Should we radio the others?”

  Mom crosses to the dashboard instruments and glances at the radar. “Not until we’re out of immediate danger. Tide Drifter’s at least five miles ahead of us, and I doubt the pod covers a distance that wide. Reality Bytes is much farther behind—they’re not even showing. They radioed just after we left; they had to go back to the marina to grab a chart Christian left in the harbormaster’s office.”

  I nod and resume staring at the sea. Mom returns to her spot in the boat’s center, taking turns peering in both directions.

  “I think you should turn us to port,” she says
a few minutes later. “It’s been a bit since I’ve seen anything there.”

  I follow her instructions and spin the wheel. Mom ducks under the boom as it swings into place on the opposite side of the mast.

  The whale burps and groans begin to recede, as do the spouts of water. I allow myself a deep breath. I think they’ve moved on.

  We’re silent, ears strained, for long minutes after that, but the surface is glassy and smooth as far as I can see.

  “If I were more religious, I’d be working the rosary right now,” she says.

  I laugh despite myself, mostly to get the bottled-up relief out.

  Mom looks up and offers me a wry smile. “I like when you do that.”

  I glance away. We may have just shared the terrifying experience of narrowly avoiding becoming whale roadkill, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to hug it out. My anger is lurking about as close to the surface as those whales just were.

  Before I can say anything, she holds up a hand. “Stop. I don’t want to get into it with you tonight. I need you to stay up here for a bit and help me keep on the lookout for a while longer, so let’s just sit here quietly. Please.”

  My response is to turn back to the wheel and continue squinting into the still, inky waters. Mom is silent.

  Long minutes pass where our breathing is the only sound on the deck, and my eyes start to tear up from staring so hard and from wanting to slide back into sleep.

  Huuuuuuuuuh.

  The sound at my back is like a long, heavy exhale. Like the boogeyman slipping out from under the bed. The air smells like the inside of a slimy bucket, but my brain knows instantly it’s whale breath. I’m still turning when the spouting water arcs onto the deck at Mom’s feet.

  I gasp and spin back, yanking the wheel hard to the left and praying, praying, praying the rudder underneath will respond in time. There’s a sickening thud and for a second I’m convinced the whale is under us, that any second now the hull will splinter apart and we’ll be dumped into the ocean. But no sharp cracking sound or terrible boat shaking follows, and a second later a spout of water breaks the surface at least fifty yards ahead of us. But if the thud wasn’t the whale . . .

  I turn. “Mom, I—”

  And then I see her.

  I raise a hand to my mouth and stare in horror at her slumped form lying motionless on the deck.

  The thud was her.

  31

  I don’t realize I’m screaming until seconds later when Drew clomps up the steps, wild-eyed and coughing. “What’s going on? I—”

  He sees my face and his eyes follow my pointing finger. I’m shaking so hard I can’t form words, but he understands immediately and charges over to her.

  “Mom!” he yells, right into her face, his voice pleading.

  But she’s out. A gash in her forehead spurts blood. When he tries to lift her to a sitting position, she’s a rag doll in his arms. I’m horror-struck and helpless while Drew whips his shirt off and balls a section up in his hand to press against her cut. It only takes a few seconds for it to tinge red.

  The boat turns itself in a slow full circle, causing the boom to swing back and forth. When it nearly catches Drew, I snap out of it enough to lock the spinning steering wheel. Oh god, is that what hit Mom, or did she slip on the wet deck and whack her head when she fell?

  “There were whales. They—I— What do we do?” I cry.

  This can’t be happening. Not all the way out here. Not after everything we’ve already been through. I’m this close to losing it, hysteria bubbling up from my belly into my chest into my throat, and I fight to force it down.

  Mom doesn’t move so much as a muscle.

  “Radio,” Drew whispers. “Mayday.”

  I moan. We learned how to call for help in the boating-safety course I took and Mom made us practice a drill the first week we were sailing, but that was so long ago now.

  “I can do it,” Drew says. “You stay with her.”

  We switch positions and I cradle Mom’s head in my lap, letting hot tears fall on her face as I chant, “Please wake up, please wake up, please wake up.”

  Drew races downstairs, skipping the last few steps entirely, judging from the clatter when he hits the floor of the cabin.

  With the hatches open and no wind to distort things, I can hear him clearly as he speaks into the radio. To my chant I add in prayers that he won’t have another coughing fit in the middle of his message. It should be me down there instead, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to follow the proper distress call procedures. My stupid stubbornness about this trip has made me useless in this situation, and I hate myself for it.

  “Mayday—Mayday—Mayday, This is Sunny-Side Up—Sunny-Side Up—Sunny-Side Up OR1120. Mayday. This is Sunny-Side Up. Latitude 33.694, longitude -118.745. Passenger knocked unconscious, need medical assistance. One adult, two teenagers aboard. Adult has head injury, unresponsive. Boat seaworthy, capable crew. Sunny-Side Up is a forty-foot sailboat. Over.”

  I doubt I could’ve come up with anything beyond “Mayday” right now if you’d paid me. Thank god for his captain’s exam studying. Thank god for Drew.

  There’s no response from the radio and he repeats the call before yelling up, “We might be too far from shore for the VHF. I’m switching to the radiotelephone.”

  But just then there’s a reply.

  “Sunny-Side Up, this is catamaran Emancipator CA1205. We’ve relayed your message to US Coast Guard. Assistance is on the way. Please copy. Over.”

  Drew answers and the tightness in my chest eases, ever so slightly.

  A second later, we hear:

  “Sunny-Side Up, this is Tide Drifter. We heard your call and are reversing course to return to you. We’re six nautical miles from your position and switching to motor.” Then Amy’s clinical voice breaks and she adds, “Oh god, what’s going on over there, Drew. Over.”

  “Help is coming, Mom,” I whisper, relief coursing through me. “You’re gonna be fine.”

  Wait.

  The whales.

  “Drew!” I yell down. “Amy and Miranda can’t reverse course. What if they run through the pod?”

  Drew is calm as can be as he radios Tide Drifter and tells them to stay in place. He sounds like a fully grown man as he reassures Amy that we’ll be fine now that the Coast Guard is on its way. I wish I felt half as confident.

  Just then Mom lets out a low moan and I gasp. “Drew! Hurry!”

  He races up, and we both breathe sighs of relief as she moans again, then opens her eyes.

  “Wha-what happened?” she manages, her words slow and deliberate.

  “Shh . . . just lie still, Mom. You fell. There’s help on the way,” I tell her.

  At this, she starts to sit up, but Drew pushes her gently down. “Mom, stop! Lie back. Your head is cut and you were just passed out for, like, three minutes. You have to lie quietly until the paramedics get here.”

  She peers at us for a moment, then her eyes slide closed. For a heartbeat I’m afraid she’s passed out again, but then she whispers, “Coast Guard?”

  I smooth her hair and adjust Drew’s T-shirt to place a fresh corner of it against her cut. The gushing seems to be slowing slightly, and that, coupled with her responses, allows my stomach to unclench slightly.

  “They’re on their way,” I say, trying to reassure myself as much as her.

  Drew catches my eye. “I need to lower the sails so we don’t drift off the position we radioed in. I don’t want to move Mom, but you need to go below and man the radio in case the rescue team needs to communicate with us. I think we should tether her to the railing in a safety harness. What do you think?”

  I’m not the one with a fever, yet I’m so not equipped to make any decisions in my current frame of mind; my heartbeat is still hammering in my ears. But I nod and he runs to grab one from the cockpit bench.

  Mom adjusts her head in my lap.

  “You okay?” I whisper.

  “Turkey for libra
ry,” she answers.

  My brow draws down.

  “I didn’t catch that, Mom.”

  I watch her closely, but she merely sighs and her eyelids flutter. Her chest rises and falls evenly and it seems like she might be sleeping. Did I mishear her? Drew returns with the safety harness and the two of us work it around her, trying to jostle her as little as possible. We set a cushion underneath her head and recline her on the deck.

  “I’ll toss up a towel to wipe the water around her,” I tell Drew. I’m not sure if it’s still considered water, having passed through a whale, but I also know I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what to term it at the moment. I just want it gone before anyone else gets hurt.

  I head below to stare at the offensively silent radio. I can hear Drew’s footsteps as he moves around on the deck above, lowering the sails. It’s not as if we were actually moving anywhere quickly with the conditions so calm, but I’m still glad he thought of it. A couple of minutes later, he comes down to grab an electric distress lantern to make us easier to spot. I’m blown away that he knows to do all this. Turns out studying for that captain’s exam was way smarter than doing the schoolwork he put off.

  He’s also super calm and efficient. Who knew that mellow vibe of his would serve us so well in a situation like this?

  Meanwhile, I stare at the VHF, willing it to broadcast something, anything. A message from the Coast Guard, of course. But one from Christian to say they’re coming to us would be equally welcome, even though I know I can’t risk tying up the channel to talk to them. My anger with Jonah evaporates in the face of everything that’s happened. Right now I just want him here with me.

  But all is quiet.

  Drew waits with Mom, who continues to sleep, and I sit in the cabin, drumming my fingers on the navigation table.

  It feels like a lifetime passes, but it can’t be more than a half hour later when we finally hear a noise.