by Beth Hautala
I lay there for a minute, listening to them talk before sighing and throwing back my covers to search for a sweatshirt and a thick pair of socks. I didn’t want to stay up here in bed while they talked about me down there. I didn’t need Dad telling Sura any personal stuff when I wasn’t there to defend myself. She didn’t need to know a single thing about me that I wasn’t willing to share on my own.
The stairs squeaked as I padded downstairs, a pair of Dad’s wool socks on my feet. I tucked my hair behind my ears and both Sura and Dad looked up from their places in the kitchen. He was at the table with his big hands around a steaming cup of coffee, and Sura was flipping pancakes at the stove.
“Morning, Tal, how’d ya sleep?” Dad’s grin was wide and hopeful. He wanted this to be all right. He wanted me to be okay.
“Fine,” I said.
“Do you like pancakes, Talia?” Sura held out her spatula, a perfect golden cake balancing on the end of it.
I shrugged. “They’re okay.”
Dad threw me a look, but I ignored it and sat down across the table.
I loved pancakes and Dad knew it. Actually, I loved my mom’s pancakes. She made them from scratch with oat flour. They tasted like oatmeal and pancakes all rolled into one. Breakfast perfection.
“Well, your dad said you were a fan.” Sura was unfazed, and she placed a plate of pancakes in front of me. “If you don’t like them I have tuktu and touton,” she said.
Dad laughed, and I glanced up at her.
“What is that?”
“Caribou and bread fried in bear fat,” Dad said.
I quickly stuffed a bite of pancake in my mouth.
Strange places and strange people were one thing, but strange food was another. I smiled, a tiny bit nervous as Sura handed me a glass of orange juice. What sort of people ate caribou? And then there was whale! Dad told me whale meat was a regular delicacy around here.
“These are great,” I said between bites. I pushed the pancakes around my plate.
“I’m going to head on over to the CNSC this morning and start mapping out the expedition details,” Dad said to me. “Want to come along?”
I wanted to go with him. There was an empty loneliness in me, yawning wide. It had been open ever since Mom died, but it was opening up even more now that Dad was so close to leaving. Normally I would have jumped at the chance to join him. And I should have jumped now; it might have gone a little way in closing up that Mom-sized space. But I shook my head. Something kept me from saying yes.
Dad had planned this trip a while ago. Before we knew how serious things were with Mom. And when she died, he should have called it off. He should have stayed home. He should have let me stay home. What would Mom think right now, if she knew? If she knew he’d gone on with his work and life and stuff just like nothing had changed. What would she say if she knew he had dragged me out here with him for the summer, only to leave me with someone I didn’t even know?
But Mom wasn’t here.
What was I supposed do once Dad disappeared out on the ice? Hanging over his shoulder at the CNSC while he got ready to leave me wasn’t going to help. The emptiness inside me was loud and insistent. I needed to be alone while I figured out what to do with it.
“Think I’ll just stay here,” I said. “I want to look around.”
Dad looked surprised, and then sort of relieved. And I suddenly felt horrible. Mad even. I didn’t actually want to do anything of the sort. What I really wanted was to go back upstairs to my room and hide under the covers until spring came to this icy, frozen-over place. But it was easier to lie than tell him we’d both better get used to being alone. And Dad didn’t seem too concerned anyway.
“Well, you have fun exploring,” Dad said as he got up to leave. “Just make sure you let Sura know where you’re headed.”
I nodded and watched him walk down the hall as he pulled his parka from its hook on the wall. Until he left, Dad would spend the next week or so inland, preparing his team for the first of several expeditions out on the ice. They’d head north out over the floes and explore the eastern edge of Hudson Bay and the Foxe Basin for beluga activity.
And I knew I’d be safe here while he was away. Safer than if I was out on the ice, anyway. I could even go exploring around town if I wanted. Dad didn’t want me getting lost, but there wasn’t much chance of that considering I had no intention of actually leaving the house. Or my room for that matter.
“See you later tonight,” Dad called over his shoulder. But I just stared down at the brown pool of maple syrup on my plate, blinking as the front door slammed behind him.
The kitchen was very quiet for a few minutes, and then Sura pulled out a chair and sat down beside me. She spun her coffee cup in a slow circle while I tried to think of something to say.
“I’m glad you’re here, Talia,” she began. “I know this must all seem very different from what you’re used to. And I’m sure it’s going to be awkward at first, being here.”
Awkward was putting it mildly. How normal was it to spend a summer in the Arctic with someone you’ve never met?
I squirmed in my chair. Sura didn’t avoid the obvious like Dad and I were so used to doing. It made me uncomfortable, like I’d forgotten to put on clothes before coming downstairs.
Whether Sura could tell I was uncomfortable or not she didn’t show it. She just kept trying to make me feel at home.
“It’s a good thing for Churchill—you and your father being here,” she said. “We depend on the whales to draw in tourists, so we need the whale watchers, the photographers, and the naturalists to continue visiting. They keep our little town on the map. Your dad’s research will help to ensure our whales keep coming back, year after year.” Environmental and climate changes could potentially alter their route, but I knew from science class that even if they stray off course, whales return to the same places to eat and rest every year. As long as conditions remain favorable, they will hunt in the same places, too, and follow the same ocean currents, which makes it possible for researchers, like my dad, to study them.
I’d also learned that whales are repetitive creatures. Dad said they’re like stubborn old men. Once they get set in their ways, they settle down and stay put. That’s why Churchill was so important. This was home to those whales. Nothing on earth would make them fail to return.
Sura looked up at me over the rim of her coffee cup, her eyes warm. I twisted my napkin into tiny little pieces until it looked like my lap was full of snowflakes.
I should have been glad to be here. To be away from everything that reminded me of Mom. And I should’ve been happy my dad was making a difference. But the small selfish part of me kept creeping in and twisting my sadness into anger. I wanted my dad to myself. I didn’t want to share him with Churchill or with Churchill’s little white whales. And I didn’t want Sura to be glad about us being here. I wanted her to feel upset with my dad for dragging me out here and then leaving, like I was.
“Thanks for the pancakes,” I said.
I gathered up the bits of napkin in my lap and looked around the kitchen for a trash can. I didn’t want to sit here anymore. I didn’t want Sura to know how hard I was fighting the lump in my throat.
“The garbage is under the sink,” she said. “Or I can take that for you.”
I shook my head and jumped up, my fist clenched around my twisted, shredded napkin.
“I got it,” I said, dropping the pieces into the trash can.
I muttered an excuse about unpacking some more of my things and hurried up the stairs to my room, my sadness twisting inside until my heart felt small and cold and in pieces. Just like snowflakes.
DAD AND HIS TEAM SPENT the next week and a half getting ready for their first short-term expedition, and I pretended like I wasn’t counting every hour, every minute until he left me. I finished all of my end-of-the-year school assignme
nts, reread two of the books I’d brought from home, and spent a lot of time just standing at my bedroom window, staring out over the frozen landscape. It was the third week in May, but there was still snow on the ground, and it was below freezing. Spring didn’t seem like much of a possibility way out here.
I knew what snow looked like, obviously, but I wasn’t used to the colorful whiteness of everything—the different shades and textures. Like the clouds that scuttled across the sky, trying to outrun the north wind, the snow was full of colors. If I were a painter I’d have to use grays and browns, blues, pinks, and yellows in addition to whites to get it right. And that was on a cloudy day. But when the sun broke, there was no hope of ever getting that snow right, no matter how many colors you might have in your palette.
I’ve heard people say freshly fallen snow is blinding. But I never really understood what that meant until now. When the sun hit the frozen bay, the new snow looked like it was lit from underneath. It was almost as if the sun had somehow broken itself apart and burrowed under the arctic landscape until all of its warmth seeped out, leaving behind only its cold brilliant light.
I also watched people come and go. Since Sura’s house was on the edge of town, it was pretty much just hunters and trappers venturing out past the house into the tundra. With their snowmobiles whining and spewing exhaust into the cold air, they would drag their gear behind them in sleds, cutting a wide swath through the snow. It was a strange sight, watching them disappear into the frozen landscape, a rifle strapped to their backs. Sura said they were hunting tuktu—caribou, mostly. Sometimes moose.
“Most of what we eat comes from the land,” she said. “Or off the ice.”
“Aren’t there laws against hunting in the springtime?” I asked.
Sura smiled. “There are. Though I’m surprised you know about that.”
“Why are you surprised?” I glanced up at her and crossed my arms. My dad had been a whale researcher my whole life. Was it really so shocking that I would know some stuff about animal rights?
“I just didn’t realize you thought about hunting regulations,” Sura said carefully, “especially in regards to your dinner.”
I didn’t really know how to respond to that. I hadn’t talked to Sura much since we’d arrived, so this—being around her—was all still pretty new. Instead I just asked again, “So is he hunting illegally?”
“No. Standard hunting regulations do not apply to the Inuit because we depend on the animals in ways other people do not. We do not take them for sport, but for survival. There is a difference.”
I nodded. “Tuktu.” I said the word for caribou in Sura’s native language clumsily, feeling its heaviness against my tongue.
“Yes. The life of a caribou for the life of the Inuit. And you.”
I wanted to tell Sura I hoped they weren’t out there killing caribou for my sake, but I didn’t say anything.
By May twenty-fourth, Dad was ready to leave for his first expedition. The morning of his departure, I stuck pretty close to him, partly because I didn’t want to lose sight of him before I had to, and partly because I didn’t want to keep running into Sura. The house was pretty small, and it seemed that no matter where I went she was lurking just around the corner, waiting to see if we needed anything. I couldn’t exactly tell her that what I needed was to be at home—to have my mom back—to be anywhere but here in the middle of Churchill, Manitoba, because if I was here, that meant my dad was still leaving and my mom was still gone. And there wasn’t much Sura could do to change that.
While Dad packed, I sat cross-legged on his bed, running my palms over the patchwork quilt that covered it. I watched as he filled his duffel bag—wool socks, sweaters, long underwear, sun goggles, sunscreen. I tried to pretend he was just leaving for the weekend.
“Maybe you’ll get a nice tan,” I said jokingly. But I knew better, and so did Dad. In fact, the sun was so strong out on the ice that in addition to needing sunscreen to protect his skin, Dad needed to protect his eyes, too. Like sunburn on your eyes, the glare off the brilliant snow stretching out for endless miles in all directions could shut you up in darkness if you weren’t careful. Snow blindness was a real thing—temporary, but painful. The Inuit had known all about this for ages, and long before we came along, they were wearing snow goggles carved from whale bone with slits to see through.
But snow blindness was the least of Dad’s concerns.
Ever since we’d come to town, we’d been hearing reports from hunters and trappers as they came in off the ice. Dad said it was the strangest thing he’d ever heard, and I could tell he didn’t quite believe it.
There were no whales. That’s what they were saying.
“What if you can’t find them?” I asked.
Dad shrugged and grinned. “It’s early. Sometimes currents and water temperatures shift just enough to alter migration patterns a little. Nothing to worry about. I’ll only be gone for a few days,” he promised. “I’ll just take some measurements and water samples, and then I’ll be back.”
And with that, he left me at the blue house with Sura.
When Dad radioed just two days later to tell us he was coming in off the ice, I could tell by the sound of his voice that something was wrong.
The night Dad came home, Sura cooked a huge dinner to celebrate his return. She went all out. Maybe she hoped that surprising him with his favorite meal would cheer him up. But Sura’s efforts fell flat because Dad was so wrapped up in his whales—or rather, the lack of them.
He and his team had run a variety of tests sampling ice and water, testing salinity and current shifts. They’d done sonar scans, and dropped giant booms through the ice into the depths of Hudson Bay, listening for whale song. But the sea was quiet.
I couldn’t help but think maybe something terrible had happened to them. Dad had told me that beluga whales stay near the edge of the ice pack where holes in the ice allow them to surface and breathe. But if it suddenly gets very cold and those holes freeze over, or if the ice shifts, cutting off their route to open water, the pod can become trapped. If the whales can’t break through the newly formed ice, or if open water is beyond the distance they can swim without surfacing, they can drown. Whales are mammals, and they have to breathe air, just like people. They can hold their breath for a long time, longer than humans, but even the best breath-holders in the world have to come up for air eventually.
“It doesn’t make sense, Tal,” Dad said to me, stabbing his fork through noodles, sauce, and ricotta cheese. “They’ve never been this late to Churchill.”
“You think something happened to them?” I picked at the crunchy edges of my bread.
“I don’t know. Even below-average temperatures wouldn’t strand an entire migratory population,” Dad said, his voice sharp with frustration. “Something is holding them up. I can’t figure it out.”
He got up from the table and dropped his plate in the sink. It only took him a few minutes to throw on a coat and boots before he clomped back out the door into the arctic night air, the door slamming behind him. I heard the Suburban sputter to life, protesting the cold, and then he was gone again—back to the CNSC to try and make sense of it all.
I spun my spoon around and around on the smooth surface of the table, watching it catch the light from the low-hanging lamp over my head.
Dad needed those whales—he needed them like I needed Mom’s stories, because sometimes you just need something bigger than yourself to feel whole. To keep all the pieces of yourself from falling apart. Those whales were big enough to keep Dad together, but not if he couldn’t find them.
And then what?
We were already pretty broken, Dad and I. We couldn’t handle too many more missing pieces.
WITH DAD’S RECEDING footsteps and the slam of the front door still resounding in my head, I stretched out on my bedroom floor, my knees and elbows digging into the wid
e-plank floorboards. My fingers met the cool solidness of my jar of wishes beneath the bed, and I pulled it from the dark into the light of my room. My wishes had settled nicely.
I don’t think Dad knew about my wishes, or if he did, he never said. Probably because he wouldn’t have known what to do with them.
The first wish I’d ever written was easy to pick out, even though the jar was full of little paper slips. It was more crumpled than the others and the ink was smeared a bit where I’d cried on it. Even the paper looked different. Less white. Older. I’d almost thrown that wish away, because it was so obviously not coming true. But I kept it, in the end.
Mom had fingered it like the petals of a flower when I showed it to her.
I wish there was no more cancer.
Then she’d kissed it and dropped it into my jar herself. I couldn’t throw it away after that because it wasn’t just my wish. Mom and I had both wished for her cancer to go away.
Over the next few months, she added two more wishes to my jar:
I wish I knew how to make crème brûlée.
I wish I could grow roses.
At the time, I asked her why she was wishing for such silly things. She just poked me in the ribs and told me she already had everything she really wanted.
I’d always loved making wishes—blowing dandelion seed heads into the wind, wishing on birthday candles. I started writing some of them down because I couldn’t always remember what I’d wished for and I wanted to see if any of them had actually come true. Sometimes they did. Always small wishes, though. That Mom and Dad would let me have a sleepover with a friend from school. That I’d get what I wanted for Christmas. That I wouldn’t have a test or a pop quiz in history. Those kinds of things. But I could never tell if those things happened because I wished for them, or if it was just a coincidence.