Waiting for Unicorns

by Beth Hautala

  Simon took the ruler, measuring against the parallel lines and counting up, until he came to Churchill’s dot.

  “Fifty-eight degrees, forty-six minutes, and nine seconds,” he said.

  “Great! That’s the latitude,” I said. “Now the longitude. It’s a little trickier.”

  “Trickier?” Simon asked. “Don’t you just do it the same way you did the latitude?” He moved the ruler until it lay parallel against the map. But unlike the latitude measurement, the lines didn’t match up.

  “See,” I said, pointing to the ruler. “It’s too long this way.”

  Simon tilted the ruler, already a step ahead of my explanation, slanting it until the lines matched up.

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “So on a globe, the meridian lines move closer together the farther you get from the equator. They move until they all meet at the poles, right?” Simon reasoned.

  “Right.”

  “But on a map,” Simon continued, “everything’s flattened out, so you have to measure longitude at an angle.”

  Placing the ruler on a slant, Simon tallied up the minutes and seconds. “Ninety-four degrees, ten minutes, and nine seconds,” he said.

  I rocked back on my heels, beaming. “Good job! Now you can navigate your way anywhere in the world and always know exactly where you are.”

  Simon sat cross-legged beside me, fiddling with the coordinate ruler.

  “You’re a surprising person, Talia Lea McQuinn,” he said.

  I frowned, suddenly nervous.

  He laughed. “I mean that in a good way. Like, you’re different from other girls I know.”

  I didn’t know what to say, and I felt my face heating up.

  “You mean, because I can chart coordinates?” I shrugged. “It’s not really that interesting.”

  “No, not just because you can chart coordinates. Other things, too,” he said. “And it actually is interesting. To me.” He handed me the ruler.

  “Well, good,” I said, my stomach flipping around. “Thanks.”

  But what I wanted to say was, “You’re a surprising person, too, Simon. And different than any other boys I know. Different than any other people I know, actually. And I like being around you. You make me feel brave, somehow.”

  But I didn’t say any of that. I just smiled and carefully put Dad’s map away, thinking the words at Simon, and wishing I was brave enough to say them.

  I turned off the lights in Dad’s office, making sure everything was exactly the way I’d found it, and locked the door behind us. We hadn’t gone more than a few steps down the hall when I heard the Birdman’s voice. Simon grinned.

  “He can’t get very far without talking birds—” but I shook my head and held up my hand, cutting Simon off. The Birdman wasn’t talking birds. We both paused in the hall, listening.

  “So you’re not concerned? It’s going out early this year—I can almost guarantee it,” a man said. I didn’t recognize his voice.

  “I wasn’t aware you were in the business of guarantees, Kurt.”

  The Birdman’s words were light, but there was an edge to his voice. It was that edge that made me stop. I held my breath. My heart was suddenly racing. We were eavesdropping, and I knew we shouldn’t, but now I was too curious to stop. Simon looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, maybe not,” Kurt said. “But you have to admit, McQuinn’s pretty driven. Don’t you think? Word around here is that when it goes, it’ll go fast, and no one—no matter who he is or how much time he’s spent out there—will get kind treatment from an iceberg. Not sure a man’s life is worth those whales.”

  “He’s a researcher, not a fool,” the Birdman said. “And whether or not the ice goes out early, he’s not going to take any more risks than he needs to. He’s got Talia back here in Churchill.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he said. “And McQuinn will be the one we’re all applauding if he comes back off the ice with word of those missing belugas.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Simon and I stood quietly in the hall until the sound of the two men’s voices receded down the corridor. But I wanted to chase after them. I didn’t care if they knew I’d been eavesdropping. I wanted to hear the rest of their conversation. I wanted to tell them when—not if. When my dad came back off the ice with news of the whales.

  As Simon and I made our way through the corridors, I couldn’t forget what I’d overheard. Everything had gone from good to horrible. One minute Simon and I were kneeling on the floor, charting our way across the Arctic, and the next minute the ice was coming off early and my dad was in danger. Even if Kurt wasn’t in the business of guarantees, his words had settled and spread within me like cracks across the ice. My dad was out there. And no matter what the Birdman said, I wasn’t so sure I was reason enough for Dad not to take any more risks than necessary.

  After we finished at the CNSC, the Birdman drove us back to Churchill. He never said a word about his conversation with Kurt or anything about my dad at all, and I almost asked him if anyone at the CNSC had heard from him—just to see what he would say. But I was already scared, and talking about the danger my dad could be in wasn’t going to help me feel any better. So I didn’t say anything. And neither did Simon.

  “Well, I think we’ve expended enough effort today to require nourishment!” the Birdman proclaimed. “How about some ice cream?” And without waiting for a response, he pulled up to the confectionery in town.

  The Birdman’s truck had jostled us over every pothole in the road on our way back, and I was actually feeling a little sick to my stomach. Though I wasn’t sure if it was because of the ride itself, or the worry Kurt’s words had flung over me.

  “One cannot go this long without sustenance.” The Birdman glanced at me in the rearview mirror and I tried to smile—tried to play along. Simon, of course, had no trouble, and he nodded, his face completely serious.

  The Tamarack Confectionary had the best ice cream in Churchill, and we were all hungry. It definitely wasn’t ice cream weather, but we walked around town anyway, eating our cones and watching tourists. The Birdman stopped and talked with a few people along the way. He was known in Churchill as the resident bird expert, and it was fun to hear him talk about birds with people who understood them. He reminded me a bit of Dad, always so excited by his life’s work.

  As we walked around, I couldn’t help but worry if Dad was okay. The last time he called in, there had been thirty paper loops left on my paper chain, but he still hadn’t found his whales, and I could tell by the sound of his voice he was concerned. He was a man of science. He believed every effect had a cause. But this time, the effect was so great and the cause so mysterious, I was beginning to worry he wouldn’t ever have his questions answered.

  Sura believed mysterious things sometimes happened just because they did, and that whether or not we ever understood why didn’t matter as much as what we did with the mystery. “There’s beauty in not having all the answers,” she’d said recently. “It makes your heart grow.”

  But I wasn’t so sure. Sura’s words and thoughts of Dad swirled around in my brain as the Birdman, Simon, and I made our way back home.

  I couldn’t help but wonder: You can chart distance across a map in minutes and seconds. This I knew. But could you chart the growth of your heart by the things you do and say, by what you think and how you feel? One gave you a physical location in the world. Maybe the other could give you answers to impossible questions.

  I was so lost in thought that when Guns N’ Roses started crooning “Don’t Cry” over the radio, I reached across the backseat and flipped it off like I usually did when one of the songs Mom used to sing came on. I didn’t even think twice about it. But Simon didn’t get it, so he reached across the seat and flipped it back on.

  I sat stiff and quiet for a few seconds, then reached over and
turned the radio off again. I felt the Birdman’s eyes on me in the rearview mirror, but I didn’t look at him. The silence in the cab was thick enough to drown in, and from across the front seat, Simon turned the dial on again, and the words came flooding back into the silence.

  Angry now, I reached for the dial a third time, but Simon grabbed my hand and held it. Jerking away, I was all ready to say something cliché about silence being golden once in a while, but the look on his face made me bite back my words. He wasn’t teasing me or messing around. He was serious. Confused.

  “Why’d you do that?” he asked.

  I bit my lip and looked away, out the window.

  “Hey. Why did you do that?” Simon leaned over so he could see my face.

  So much for letting it go.

  I shrugged. “I don’t feel like listening to the radio.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged again.

  “Don’t you like music?” His voice fell, and I suddenly thought of his guitar and his songs.

  “No—no, Simon. I do like music. I do. Really. It’s just that—” I stopped. I didn’t know how to explain without telling him about Mom, and I didn’t want to talk about her. I didn’t want him to feel sorry for me or anything. “I just don’t like some songs, is all,” I said. But I knew this wasn’t going to be enough of an answer for Simon.

  His face twisted into a frown and he slumped back against the seat.

  “Why do you play the guitar and sing so much?” I asked.

  Simon stared at me, skeptical, like he thought it was a trick question.

  “Because,” he said. It was so simple for him. “You can say things through songs you can’t say any other way. And people listen. Songs get inside you and kind of stay there. They remind you of different things. Memories. People.” He shrugged.

  “That’s just it,” I said. “Some songs remind me of things I don’t want to think about.”

  Even though she wasn’t there to sing along, I could still hear my mom’s voice in my head. And when the song ended, I would have to jump right back into the silence her absence had created. Sometimes it was easier not to listen in the first place.

  “You know, old songs can start to remind you of new things,” Simon said, “if you let them. Maybe you should listen again. You might be surprised.” He held my gaze until I looked away.

  And through it all, the Birdman never said a word.

  I’D KNOWN DAD WOULD BE out on the ice for my birthday, and I’d been telling myself for the last few days it was okay. It was fine. But the truth was, it wasn’t fine at all. He was missing this. And it’s not like it was ever going to happen again—my turning thirteen. I wanted him here.

  Since he was gone, and there was nothing I could do to change that, I decided to pretend it was just another ordinary day. I hadn’t said anything to Sura, or to Simon and the Birdman, because it seems sort of weird to go around telling people it’s your birthday, like you need them to congratulate you. I didn’t want anyone to feel like they had to give me gifts or anything. Besides, I’d been born on June thirteenth, and turning thirteen on the thirteenth wasn’t something I wanted to bring a lot of attention to. It’s surprising how many people actually believe thirteen is unlucky.

  But I definitely couldn’t control my birthday, and I simply could not afford to be afraid or superstitious about my own age for an entire year. So, when I woke up on the morning of June thirteenth, I opened my eyes and whispered to myself, “Happy golden birthday, Tal. You’re thirteen today. Congratulations.” Just like Mom would have. Then I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth, and headed downstairs for breakfast. But before I even got to the landing, I knew something was up.

  There were balloons pinned to the railing—thirteen of them. I came down the stairs slowly, batting each one on my way.

  At the bottom of the stairs stood Sura, Simon, and the Birdman, waiting to greet me.

  “Happy birthday!” the Birdman exclaimed, and Simon burst into a rousing rendition of the song. When he finished I clapped. Then I bowed from where I was on the stairs, sticking one hand out behind me, as Simon had done the first day I saw him. And as I straightened up and looked around, all my words disappeared.

  There were balloons pinned to the back of each kitchen chair. Streamers hung from the kitchen cabinets to the ceiling, draping low over the table so we’d have to duck under them. And Sura had made a huge chocolate cake that sat in the center of the table, decorated with thirteen pink candles. It was those candles that did it. Those thirteen pink candles. I had to swallow hard a couple times before I was certain I could talk around the lump in my throat.

  I hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. Not a word! But I also hadn’t considered that Sura might’ve already known all about my birthday. That Dad might have told her before he left. It was the only way she could have known. And that was the part that kept making me want to cry. He’d told her. Dad had remembered, and even though he couldn’t be here himself, he’d made sure Sura understood my birthday was special.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking them in. I couldn’t believe it—they were all dressed up. Sura was wearing a blue dress. Both Simon and the Birdman wore dress shirts and ties. The Birdman’s mustache was curling up especially well today.

  “You’re all so fancy!” I said, laughing as Simon tugged at his shirt collar in mock discomfort.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I hope you appreciate it!”

  “It’s not every day you celebrate a golden birthday,” the Birdman said, adjusting his tie though it was already perfect. “One has to mark these sorts of events with the appropriate attire, you know.”

  I nodded and glanced down. I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt.

  “Hang on a second,” I said. “I’ll be right back.” I took the stairs two at a time up to my room.

  I changed quickly and then stood in front of the mirror that hung against my closet door, studying my reflection for a minute. The last time I’d worn this dress I’d been a little shorter and a little flatter. It fit me differently now. Better, I decided. It fit me better.

  Dad had helped me pick out this dress last fall for my school band program. Our neighbor had offered to take me shopping, but Dad had surprised me, insisting he take me himself. I think he was trying to fill that Mom-shaped space a little, because he’d never taken me shopping before. Once we were there, though, I knew the trip was a mistake. Everything reminded me of Mom, and that she should have been with me instead.

  I was about to leave empty-handed, until I saw the dress I wore now—mossy green, simple. When I tried it on, Dad said something I would never forget. He told me I looked beautiful. Just like Mom.

  And that sealed the deal.

  As I came down the stairs now, I could tell my new friends were impressed.

  “Well, look at you!” the Birdman exclaimed. He promptly offered me his arm, the way a gentleman would. I took it, laughing as he led the way to the table. He pulled my chair out for me, and then for Sura as well, before seating himself and throwing his arm comfortably around the back of Simon’s chair.

  Leaning across the table, Sura lit the candles on my cake and then reached over and squeezed my hand. This time, I didn’t pull away from her touch.

  It was strange, but lately I felt like I was learning some new kind of skill. It was almost like learning to tie my shoes all over again, memorizing the complicated pattern of loops and crossovers until it was second nature. But this time, instead of my shoes, I was lacing up my heart. Or maybe my new friends were doing it for me.

  Simon seemed a little quieter than usual, and other than his rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday,” he kept his songs to himself for the rest of the morning. I wondered if he might still be upset about the car radio thing. Maybe he was being quiet because he figured I didn’t want to hear his songs. Or any songs. But that wasn’t the case at all.
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  While Sura and the Birdman took out plates and silverware, I scooted my chair closer to Simon’s.

  “Thanks for singing,” I said.

  He looked surprised. “It’s all right then?” he asked, sounding relieved.

  I nodded. “Of course it’s all right. I love your songs.”

  Simon rested his foot on the bottom rung of my chair and grinned until he seemed entirely made up of that smile.

  Then Sura lit the candles, and I knew exactly what came next.

  “Make a good wish,” the Birdman said.

  I smiled, because no one needed to worry about that. I was a champion wish-maker. So I closed my eyes and wished for the one thing all the rest of my wishes depended on, most especially my big wish.

  It would be magic if today—my golden birthday—a unicorn came sailing into Hudson Bay. I knew the reality of that actually happening was about as unlikely as Miss Piggy suddenly taking flight, but that’s what wishes are for. So that’s what I wished as I blew out my candles. I wished for a narwhal whale. My unicorn.

  And then we had chocolate cake for breakfast.

  After I licked the last of the chocolate frosting from my fork, Simon and I decided to walk down to the shore. The Birdman had mentioned something about seeing some new plovers and we wanted to see if we could catch a look at them.

  When we reached the shore, I looked out over the flat stretch of ice, trying to imagine what it would look like to see a narwhal whale emerge from beneath the surface.

  “So, what’d you wish for, Tal?” Simon asked suddenly, and he chucked a rock out over the bay. I watched as it landed with a satisfying plunk.

  You’re not supposed to tell wishes. Not birthday wishes. Not any wishes. Everyone knew that. Only secret wishes come true.

  But Simon’s question made me wonder if maybe I had it backward, because I was doing an awful lot of wishing in secret and not much was happening. Maybe there was more to it than just waiting and hoping. I knew you weren’t supposed to share your wishes with the whole world, but maybe you did have to share them in some small way. Maybe they had to get out somehow before they could come true—like butterflies breaking out of their chrysalises. Maybe my wishes couldn’t come true till I let them breathe. Opened the lid on my jar a little.