Songs of the Humpback Whale

by Jodi Picoult

He reaches his hand towards my face, and traces the length of my cheek and chin with his finger. Then he grabs my hand and holds it to his own cheek. He runs it over the coarse field of stubble, over the break of his jawbone and the soft, dry line of his lips. Then he lets go.

  But I don�t pull my hand away. I keep my fingers against his mouth as it opens to kiss them. I run them lightly over Sam�s eyelids, feeling his eyes moving wild behind. I comb over his lashes and down the bridge of his nose. I explore him as if I have never seen anything of the kind.

  He doesn�t move as I slide the palms of my hands over his shoulders and his arms, over the indentation where his muscles join, into the hollow of his elbow. He lets me trace the sinews of his strong forearms, turns his hands over in my own, feel for the callouses and cuts. He helps me pull his shirt over his head and when I throw it, it lands on the night table.

  If I keep it like this, like an exploration, then I have nothing to be afraid of. It is only if I move to a different level, to intimacy, that I will have to worry. Sex has never been mystical for me. The earth doesn�t move, and I don�t hear angels, or bells, or all those other things. I am always a little too self-conscious. With skeletons such as mine in the closet, I never expected making love to be magic. The way I saw it, I had done something extraordinary: I had pushed the worst memories out of my mind. The first time was the hardest for me, and having hurdled that with Oliver, I never expected to have to face that problem again.

  But when I feel Sam wrap his arms around my waist, and gently run his fingers over my ribs; when I feel him already hard, pushing against my thigh, I start to cry.

  �What is it? What�s the matter?� Sam pulls me against him. �Did I do something?�

  �No.� I try to catch my breath. I cannot tell him. I haven�t told anyone. But suddenly I don�t want to carry it around anymore, like Atlas�s weight. �When I was little,� I hear myself murmur against his skin. My voice sounds foreign, like I am listening, again, from that far corner, but as I speak I seem to be coming closer.

  Sam holds me at arm�s distance then, and I witness the most amazing thing. He is staring at me, puzzled, waiting for me to tell him about my father. But all I have to do is raise my eyes to his, and look at him, really look at him. And I realize from his gaze that he isn�t waiting for an explanation anymore. �I know,� he says then, sounding surprised at his own words. �I know about your father. I don�t know why, but just then I could tell what you were going to say.� He swallows hard.

  �How?� My mouth forms the word but there is no sound.

  �I-I don�t know how to explain it,� Sam says. �I can see it in you.� Then he winces, and draws back, as if he has been stricken. �You were just a kid,� he whispers.

  He holds me tight, and I hold him back. He is shivering, having found pieces of me that have been missing, having found parts of himself he didn�t know existed. The whole time, I cry like I have never cried before; tears I did not cry when I was nine and Daddy came into my room, tears I did not cry at my father�s funeral. Sam unbuttons the silk nightgown I am wearing, and slides it off my shoulders. He guides my hands to inch off his shorts. Our skin is iridescent in the dark. Sam reaches his hand between my legs. I cover his hand with my own; I urge him. He slips one finger inside me, moist and blossoming, and all the while he is watching my face. Is this all right? Just like that, he has found my center. Sam kisses away my tears, and then he kisses me. Like salt, I can taste my pain, my shame, on his lips.

  59 SAM

 

  She is so beautiful, lying here on my bed. And so sad. She keeps trying to turn her face, to hide in the pillow. But I can�t let her do that, not knowing what I now know. I am taking Jane with me every step of the way.

  I close my eyes and kiss her neck, her breasts, the curve of her hip. I breathe lightly inside her thighs, knowing she can feel it. That is when she takes my hand, guides me inside her. I watch her face the entire time. I ask her if this is all right. But she holds my wrist, insisting, and so I go as tenderly as I can. Inside is hot, pulsing. I can feel myself getting harder; I rub against her leg. When I think I am going to lose control I pull away, and run my tongue over her nipples. Her eyes are open, but she isn�t looking at anything. She does not make any noise. Sometimes I think she is forgetting to breathe.

  Then she sits up and reaches for me. She slides her palms up and down. Her touch is feather-light, teasing. When I can�t take it anymore I fall down on the bed, grab her roughly and kiss her. She tastes of mint and honey. Once I begin I cannot stop; I crush my mouth against hers, bruising. She pushes me away, gasping, and then she kisses me again. She rubs against me, wrapping her arms around my hips. I will not let her go. I drink her in, every inch that I can touch, and I watch to see her back arch, knotted by pleasure.

  We become a twist of arms and legs. It takes a moment to see that she is moving, tunneling low, running her fingers over my body like the feeding seam of a sewing machine. She stops, looks up at me once, and then takes me into her mouth.

  It is like a warm sponge, wrapped around, and she moves up and down, and the wonderful thing is: I can feel the line of her teeth; I can feel the nut of her tongue. I try to reach for her; to do something for her that feels as good as this does for me-but all I can touch are her shoulders. Her hair is spread over my hips like a dark fan. She begins to go faster and faster. I close my eyes, thinking of rhythm. I move my hips with her. This is going to be it; this is going to be it, but I want more. Gasping, I pull her hands from my sides to slide her up my body and that is when I see her ring.

  It has been there the entire time, but I didn�t notice. It�s thin, gold. It looks permanent. She follows my gaze to her left hand. �Throw it out,� she whispers, �I don�t care.� She rolls away from me and tugs it off, setting it spinning on the nightstand. She rubs her finger, as if she is trying to erase the memory. But there is a thin white line where she hasn�t tanned.

  She takes that hand and brushes hair away from my face. I can�t help it, I flinch-it�s got me thinking again. She leans over to kiss my chest, and then she buries her face in a blanket. �I just want to be yours,� she says.

  I turn her so that she is facing me again. We start to kiss, touching together with the sound of a sigh. This time, our eyes are open, because we don�t want to miss seeing each other. I become aware of her hands on my hips, lowering me. She wraps her legs around me, and eases me inside her, and that is when I understand what it is to feel whole.

  She closes around me like a soft throat. So this is what love is like. So this is the way all the pieces come together. All my blood is pouring towards my hips, pounding out of rhythm. I cannot press any closer to her, but I�m trying. I want to be contained, to come through to her other side. We cling to each other, heat steaming from our bodies.

  I start to feel it building up, insistent and demanding. She opens her eyes wide, looking at me in wonder. This is the image that I carry when I crush her to me, and feel myself explode just as she tightens around me.

  We stay like that for a long time. Neither of us wants to speak. I kiss her on the forehead. Astonished, that�s the way she�s watching me. And I suppose it�s the way I�m watching her too. When she shifts under my weight I move, wincing as we are ripped apart. It just doesn�t feel the same. Now that I know what it is like to feel complete, it�s no good to be by myself.

  60 REBECCA July 7, 1990

 

  This diner has velvet Elvises on the walls. Two waitresses are sharing a cigarette and talking about Elvis. The place is empty.

  �Vera saw him,� the fat waitress says. �A party in Blue Dome.�

  �Well Glory Be for Vera. He�s dead, I tell you. D-E-A-D. Dead.� The waitress turns to us. She has a nose ring. �Can I help you?�

  �We can seat ourselves,� my mother offers. The waitresses are already ignoring her.

  My mother and I don�t bother to read the menu. We�ve memorized it. We�re listening to these waitresses, and taking in the seventeen pictures of Elvis. They are the kind y
ou buy on highways and they hang over each booth. In the one above our heads, Elvis wears a white jumpsuit and a belt whose buckle spells LOVE. He is gyrating, even on velvet.

  �Elvis died when you were three,� my mother says, and both waitresses stare at us. �Well, theoretically .�

  We order three sandwiches between us: chicken cutlet, meatballparmigiana, and tuna with swiss. We order Cokes and onion rings, potato skins. While this is all being cooked we go to the restrooms and wash up. Then while we eat our food, we plot the route from Idaho to Fishtrap, Montana, with spoons and forks and sugar packets. �It won�t take us more than a few hours,� I say, and my mother agrees.

  �I figure we�ll be in Massachusetts in a week,� she says. �We�ll probably celebrate your birthday in Minnesota, at this rate.�

  Minnesota. My birthday. I forgot about that. As the fat waitress brings us our food, I think about what my birthday might have been like. A big surprise party, maybe, out in our backyard. Maybe even a night cruise on one of my father�s Whale Watch boats from the Institute. With a DJ and a parquet dance floor laid down. Or maybe there�d be a huge wrapped package waiting at the foot of my bed when I woke up. Inside, a red dress with spaghetti straps and sequins, the kind I always want but my mother says makes me look like a child prostitute. And my father would promenade my mother into my bedroom-she�d be wearing a taffeta gown and he�d have on his fancy tuxedo with the pinstriped bow tie. We�d walk down to the limo, and we�d be off to the fanciest restaurant for steamed lobster. And at the table, the waiter would be young and blond and gorgeous, and he�d hold out my chair for me and unfold my napkin and bring me a drink without questioning my age.

  It won�t happen in Minnesota. But it probably wouldn�t have happened in San Diego, either. My father wouldn�t have been around for my birthday, or we wouldn�t be here in the first place. He wasn�t home when I tried to call last night from the motel. I tried when my mother was in the bathroom, but she probably knew. I can�t hide those things from her, no matter what.

  It�s not so much that I miss him. I think if he�d picked up the phone I would have hung up anyway. Still, it would have been nice to hear his voice. To hear him say he missed me, even. I would like to think he wasn�t home because he�s on his way to find us. I have these Hollywood visions of him begging on his knees for my mom to come home, and then sweeping her up in his arms for a long moviestyle kiss. I have these visions, but I know better.

  My mother, who has been rummaging through her wallet, starts to empty her entire pocketbook on the crummy table. �What�s the matter?�

  She looks up at me. �We can�t pay. Simple as that.�

  She�s got to be kidding. We have plenty of money. We would have noticed before now. My mother leans across the table and whispers to me. �Ask if they take checks.�

  So I sidle up to the fat waitress and in the most precious sugarcoated voice I can summon, I ask if a check is okay. �We�re just trying to ration our cash,� I say. The fat waitress says it�s okay, but a voice from the grill in the back yells out it isn�t, not one bit. Too many travelers come through. Too many checks bounce.

  I walk back to the booth. Will they make us scrub the floors with a toothbrush? Wait tables? I tell my mother we are out of luck. �Wait,� she says. �There�s five dollars in the glove compartment.�

  This gets me all excited-can you imagine, going crazy over five bucks? Then I realize I�ve been using that money for tolls. My mother glares at me and counts the change in her purse. We have one dollar and thirty-seven cents.

  My mother closes her eyes and wrinkles up her nose, the way she does when she is creating A Big Plan. �I�ll go out first, and then you make an act out of coming to get me. That�ll look natural.�

  Sure it will, I think. What kind of mother are you, to leave your kid behind when you are stupid enough to run out of cash? I scowl at her as she stands and peers into a compact mirror. �I�ve left my lipstick in the car,� she says in this bird-chirpy voice to all seventeen Elvises. �Diana?� She stomps on my right foot, just in case I haven�t picked up my cue.

  �Yes, Aunt Lucille?�

  �Wait here.� I�ll be right back.�

  She smiles at the waitresses on the way out. I drum my fingers on the formica. I slurp my empty Coke. I count the rows of glasses behind the counter (twenty-seven) and try to invent names for the waitresses. Irma and Florence. Delia and Babs. Eleanore, Winifred, Thelma.

  Finally I sigh. �I don�t know what she�s doing but we�re going to be late for ballet class,� I say loudly, wondering if Idaho girls take ballet lessons. I approach the waitresses. �Could you just watch our stuff for a minute? I think my aunt�s gone and gotten lost!� I smirk a stupid teenage smirk and put my hands palms up, What can you do?

  �Sure honey. No problem.� I walk out the door, blood pounding-behind my knees. I wonder how you get a criminal record. I wait until I think I am out of sight from the diner door and then I run like hell.

  My mom has the car pulled up and I jump in. She screeches out of the parking lot. For a few miles I lean forward in my seat, my eyes wide. Then I relax. My mother is still paralyzed with fear, panic, I don�t know what. I touch her hand where it rests on the radio dial, and all the air goes out of her like a deflating tire. �That was close,� she says.

 

  My mother wipes her upper lip with the collar of her shirt. I don�t know if she�s laughing or crying. I unroll the window, wondering what comes next. I smile, but only because this keeps the wind from hurting my eyes.

  61 J ANE

  That night I have my flying dream. I have had it often: when I was a very little girl, when I first married Oliver, days before I gave birth to Rebecca. The dream is always the same: I run as hard as I can, and then I jump up high with both feet, and I can fly. The higher I get the more scary it is, but I always make it just above the tree line. Below, people look tiny and cars seem like toys, and just at that point I start to lose control. I worry about how I am going to land and sure enough I crash through the trees at an astounding pace, hurtling towards the ground, and land a little too hard. But it is a wonderful dream. When I was little I hoped each night I would have it. I figured if I dreamed it often enough, eventually I would learn how to land.

  �Hello,� Sam says as I�m waking, and it�s the most beautiful word I�ve ever heard. He comes into his room with a wicker tray, balanced with melon and cereal and fresh-picked raspberries. �I didn�t know if you like coffee.�

  �I do,� I tell him. �Cream, no sugar.� He holds up a finger and disappears, then returns with a steaming mug and sits on the edge of the bed. He watches me while I am drinking, and under his gaze I wait for embarrassment, but nothing comes. In fact I�ve never felt better. I could climb a mountain today. I could hike forty miles. Or I could just follow Sam around, that would be fine.

  �Did you sleep all right?�

  �Fine,� I say, �and you?�

  �Fine.� Sam looks up then, and catches my eye, and turns red. �Look, I wanted to say something about last night.�

  �You�re not going to apologize, are you? You don�t think it was a mistake?�

  �Don�t you?� Sam says, looking at me. I can�t concentrate when he does that; he takes my breath away.

  Those eyes. My God. �I think,� I say, halting, �I think I love you.�

  Sam stares at me. �I�m taking the day off.�

  �You can�t. You�ve got an orchard to run.�

  �I�ve noticed lately that when I�m near you-fighting or kissing,-it doesn�t matter-I don�t give a damn.�

  �Everyone will start talking. Rebecca can�t know.�

  �She�ll find out. She isn�t stupid. Besides, I deserve a break. That�s what I�ve got Hadley for. What good is hiring someone to be second in command if you never leave the post?� He leans over me and kisses my forehead. �I�ll tell them we�re going back to bed.�

  �Sam!� I call out, but to my surprise, I am not upset. I want the world to know I feel like this; that I am capable of it. I move the tray onto the floor, picking at the fruit. Then I stretch across the tangled she
ets of the bed. My nightgown-that pretty silk from North Dakota-is on inside-out.

  There is a knock at the door. I slide off the bed and open it. �Sam?� I say, and there is Rebecca, her voice chiming with mine, asking for him too. She does a double take, checking to see if she has the right bedroom. I pull the neck of my nightgown closed, feeling the telltale tag inside-out on the collar. �Sam�s not here,� I say quietly.

  Rebecca keeps looking around the room like she is searching for evidence. Finally she meets my eyes. �I was looking for you, actually. I wanted to know if he knew where you were. Apparently,� she says, �he does.�

  �This is not what you think,� I say too quickly.

  �I bet it�s exactly what I think.� I feel a stab in my heart, and this makes me feel better-isn�t that what I have been waiting for? �I came to tell you Hadley and I were going into town this afternoon. I wanted to know if you�d like to come.� She peers over my shoulder again. �I guess you have better things to do.�

  �You can�t go into town. Well, Hadley can�t. Sam was going to tell him he�s in charge of the place today.�

  �Is that so?� Rebecca says, hands on her hips. �Straight from the boss�s mouth?�

  �You�d better watch it,� I say quietly.

  � I�d better watch it? Me? I don�t think I�m the one who�s got the problem. I�m not the one who is cheating on my husband.�

  Instinct: I raise my hand to strike her. Then, shaking, I bring my arm down to my side. �We can discuss this later.�

  �I think you�re disgusting!� Rebecca yells, her hands balled into fists at her sides. �I can�t believe you�d do this to Daddy! I can�t believe you�d do this to me! Whatever you think, he still loves you. He�s coming here, you know. And then what are you going to do?� She turns around and thunders down the stairs.

  Sam finds me in the open doorway. �She came in here,� I say. �Rebecca. She hates me now.�

  �She doesn�t hate you. Give her a little time.� But nothing he says can keep me from crying. He puts his arms around me, he rubs my shoulders-all of which worked wonders last night, but this is different. This is a rift between my daughter and me. This is something he could not possibly heal.

  Eventually Sam leaves me alone for a while. He says he�s going to make sure Joley knows what�s getting sprayed with what today. He kisses me before he leaves, and tells me I�m beautiful. On his way out he turns around. �Your nightgown�s on wrong.�

  I move to the window that looks out onto the brick patio in front of the house. When my cheek is pressed against the sill my face doesn�t feel half as hot. I�ve been so selfish. All right, Jane, I think. You�ve had your moment in the sun. Now just put it behind you. You have to work with your loose ends and see what you can make of them. When Sam comes back, I�ll tell him this. I will say that it might have worked in another time or another place. If I was ten years younger; if he worked behind a desk. And then I�ll go out and find my daughter. You see? I�ll say. You have to love me again. Don�t you see what I have given up for you?