To Become a Whale

by Ben Hobson

  As he sat and watched the sunrise he gradually became aware that over the waves he could hear the sound of traffic. It was distant and hard to make out, but as he walked closer to the trees lining the beach the sound became clearer. A highway, or something like it. The low rumble of a truck engine far away.

  Immediately he ploughed into the jungle. There was no clear path, just a dense wall of trees and vines and bushes so impenetrable that he almost lost heart. He wanted to give up, but he knew he couldn’t. He yanked at the vines and pushed aside branches. He said to his mother, ‘I’m alright,’ and was sure it helped him somehow. He had no feeling left in his wounded hand and both hands were dark red with blood. There was a cut near his eye, too, and the blood streamed down his face so that he tasted the iron on his lips.

  Finally the foliage began to thin. The land dipped down and then climbed back up and in the basin there was a puddle of stagnant water. He stopped and drank a little from his can – the liquid tasted faintly of beans. Then he walked down the sandy slope, splashed through the water in his already sodden shoes, and scrambled up the other side on his hands and feet.

  Now he surged forward. Desperate to make it. If he found no people soon he would never find them. He fought through the obstacles with renewed ferocity. He was King Kong in the city, tremendous and powerful. He kicked at puny trees and they snapped like matchsticks. The vines and leaves peeled away like paper. He felt no more hesitation. He knew nothing but his will to survive.

  He had no way of telling for how long he had been walking and he didn’t care. He scrambled like a dingo through the underbrush, his breath loud in his ears. No longer human, but animal. If he did not make it, then he would die an animal and the memory of his mother that he alone held would die with him.

  The sun had traversed the sky and it was almost dark again. Through the leafy canopy, the sky was the colour of blood. He sat, leaning awkwardly against a tree, and pulled his can of water from his hip, but when he brought it to his lips the can was empty. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he’d become until he he could not have water. He wanted to cry and smack his hand into the earth. He tried, but his limbs were so weak his hand only thudded lightly and his impact on the world was naught. The sound of traffic was intermittent but close by. He couldn’t summon the energy to continue. He watched the sky turn from blood to lavender and then black.

  As his breathing slowed he listened with care to the sound of his body. His hand was numb and he knew he would lose it and become his father even in his death. He fell asleep but not really. The canopy of leaves above him swayed with breeze like waves upon the ocean and he knew if he swam in them he would be dead. Maybe there were people there swimming in them now.

  Staggering to his feet he was surprised to see the headlights of an oncoming car through the trees. He tried to force his legs to walk and found they wouldn’t move. ‘Come on,’ he said. One foot forward. The other foot. He grasped at the tree limbs that blocked his path with his whole body. He leaned on each tree as he passed, then pushed off from it to propel himself forward. As he stumbled along he realised he had lost his knife and his torch. No matter. This effort before him was all that was left.

  He pushed up a hill and then he was beside the road in darkness. There were white reflector posts lining each side. He touched the asphalt reverently with his foot but dared not touch it with his hand for fear if he were to bend down he would fall down and be unable to get up.

  The next vehicle to round the corner was a truck. Its lights were on and blinded the boy so that he shielded his eyes with his good hand, and with his poor hand he waved.

  The light and the sound increased. He heard braking, then a horn, and squinted into the light. The truck was slowing on the road before him.

  The truck driver swung his door open and stepped around the front of the truck. He yelled, ‘You there? You alright?’

  A car swooped by behind him. The boy tottered forward.

  ‘You alright?’ the bloke said.

  The boy nodded. ‘I guess.’

  ‘You look like you been hit by a car.’

  The boy nodded again. ‘Feels like it.’

  The man looked at the boy in the glare of the truck’s headlights. ‘Bloody hell, mate. You’re burnt to a crisp.’

  ‘I know.’

  His eye fell on the hand that hung awkwardly by the boy’s side. ‘What you do to your hand?’

  The boy managed a croaky, ‘Hospital, please’.

  The man’s eyes widened at this request. ‘Sorry, mate. Of course.’ He opened the passenger-side door and helped the boy into the cabin.

  The shutting of the door behind him was a relief as the pressure of the wind and the noise subsided with it.

  The driver pulled the truck back onto the road. ‘I’m Mark,’ the bloke said.

  The boy felt sick and suddenly desperate for sleep. He shut his eyes and leaned back. ‘Sam,’ he said, then asked, ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Near Noosa. You know where that is?’

  The boy nodded. ‘I didn’t come far.’

  ‘Where you come from?’

  ‘I launched near Moreton Island.’

  ‘Launched what?’

  The boy heard the question but couldn’t supply an answer. He kept his eyes shut and allowed sleep to take him.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  When he woke he was in a hospital lounge, draped across some dark green vinyl chairs. The truck driver, Mark, must have carried him in. He looked around at the linoleum floor, the panelled ceiling; Mark was talking to a nurse at reception. The boy shut his eyes again and waited.

  Mark’s voice. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

  The boy opened his eyes. ‘Who?’

  ‘The doctors. They’ll come look at you soon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No worries.’ Mark stepped backwards. ‘I’ll call later, see how you got on.’

  ‘Are we still in Noosa?’

  ‘Yep.’

  The boy shut his eyes and leaned his head back. When he opened them again Mark was gone and he was alone apart from the nurses who moved about with their heads down, concentrating on tasks that did not concern him. There were no other patients waiting. He wanted water and before he could ask a nurse approached.

  ‘I’m going to get you a wheelchair, alright, honey? And we’ll get some fluids in you.’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Well,’ the nurse said, ‘you’re clearly dehydrated and your hand is quite ugly. We’ll be getting some fluids and some antibiotics in you, I think.’

  ‘Will I lose my fingers?’

  She laughed at this. ‘You’re a long way off losing your fingers, honey. Don’t worry about that.’

  The wheelchair was brought in by another nurse and the two of them lifted him into it. He was wheeled into a white room and lifted into a bed. A needle was stuck into the crook of his left arm, with a tube running from it to a plastic bag full of clear liquid. He imagined he would feel this coldness course its way through him from within, but instead he felt nothing besides a faint queasiness. The nurse who’d called him ‘honey’ patted him on the head and told him not to worry and both nurses left.

  He waited. The doctor arrived and inspected his hand. ‘This hurt?’ he said as he put a pin in different parts of the boy’s flesh. It hurt far worse than normal and the boy struggled not to snatch his hand away. The doctor held it firm. He seemed pleased and he smiled at Sam without meeting his eyes.

  The boy asked, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘What’s that? Oh, you’re going to be fine, son. Just need some antibiotics to clear up the infection on your hand. And we’re going to hydrate you and feed you for a bit. How’d you get so burnt?’

  The boy looked at his feet. They didn’t quite reach the end of the bed. ‘I was fishing and got lost.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘I was out at sea for a few days.’

  ‘Days?’ The doctor, who had been fiddling with the plastic
bag, turned to look at the boy. ‘By yourself?’

  The boy nodded. ‘I lost my dog.’ He sniffed and with his good hand wiped his nose.

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah. Me, too,’ the boy said. The moment Albert died, the dent in his skull. The boy shook his head, clearing those thoughts, and instead chose to remember who Albert had been. The roll down the hill. His family. He sighed.

  ‘Good thing you made it though,’ the doctor said. ‘Good thing.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Son,’ the doctor said, ‘if you were adrift for a few days, you’re darn lucky to be alive, let me tell you. People go without water for less time than that and fare much worse.’

  ‘I had water.’ The boy tried to smile.

  The doctor returned the smile and said, ‘Just keep that hand on your chest for a bit now.’

  ‘Will I need more stitches?’

  ‘It’s a bit late for stitches now the wounds have healed. We’ll just let it heal itself. We’ll keep it clean and wrapped up for a bit. It’ll heal alright, but you’ll have a scar down there …’ He traced his pen across the back of the boy’s three fingers. ‘Don’t worry about that though. It’s a good thing.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. Ladies dig scars. Makes you seem mysterious.’

  The doctor soon left and he gazed around the bare room.

  Eventually a nurse came with food. A hot plate with a brown plastic lid. Beneath were mashed potatoes and overcooked meat. He ate it all without pause. She watched him, clearly fascinated. Soon she said, ‘You called anybody yet?’

  He swallowed. ‘To say I’m here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No. Not yet.’

  ‘You want to? We would have, but the man who brought you in didn’t leave any details about you.’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘You will in the morning.’ A motherly smile. ‘You can wait until then if you like.’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you.’ He leaned his head back and studied the ceiling.

  In the morning he found someone had placed a phone on his bedside table during the night. He dialled his grandparents’ number then held the receiver to his ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Grandma.’

  ‘Oh, Sam!’ she exclaimed, and immediately began to sob. She was talking, too, but the boy couldn’t understand what she was saying.

  ‘Grandma?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Sam. Sam.’ And she sobbed again.

  The sobs were replaced by another voice. ‘Sam?’

  ‘Dad?’

  His father’s voice cracked. ‘You alright, mate?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Noosa hospital.’

  ‘Yeah?’ his father said, and sniffed. ‘I’m on my way. Right now. Just stay there.’

  The boy had forgiven his father on the boat, he realised, but had not yet begun to trust him. He hadn’t forgotten how he had been abandoned, again and again.

  ‘I love you,’ his father said. ‘Alright?’ There was a moment during which his father might have been waiting for the boy to respond, but the boy said nothing. Instead he hung up.

  The boy leaned back in his bed and the nurse soon came and collected the phone and offered him a sad smile.

  The boy waited. There was nothing of interest on the ceiling or in the movement of the nurses and doctors in the corridor outside his door. He went to the bathroom and relieved his bowels for the first time in days. The smell of disinfectant stuck to him, the smell of his mother’s death. He climbed back into bed and pulled the blankets up and shut his eyes but couldn’t sleep, the thought of his father’s arrival frightening him. His father had not sounded angry, only relieved, but there was no telling what the long drive might do to his demeanour. The boy found himself growing resentful that his father would be angry with him, that the man would dare, but then he felt forgiveness, and pity. He, too, had made mistakes.

  Around an hour later his father rushed into the room. He threw himself at the boy, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight. His father’s crying shook his whole body as though all that he had kept within was finally given release.

  Soon his father pulled away and slumped into a chair. He wiped his eyes and laughed and sniffed. ‘Never cried like that in my life.’

  ‘Not even when mum died?’

  ‘Not even then. So, what happened?’

  ‘I got lost,’ the boy said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘How’re the fingers?’

  ‘They’re alright. The doctor said I just needed rehydrating and antibiotics.’

  ‘Should’ve just done what the doc on Tangalooma said then, yeah?’ His father clearly meant this in jest but the boy did not take it that way.

  He said, ‘I lost Albert.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I lost Albert,’ the boy repeated. ‘I was out at sea and I had him and in the night he fell off. He ran into my boat. And it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken him.’

  His father looked at the boy. It did the boy good to see the solemnity written in his father’s features. ‘That’s alright, mate. People make mistakes.’

  ‘No, it’s not alright,’ he said.

  His father stood and again wrapped his arms around his son and whispered to him that it was okay. The boy was relieved that his father had accepted what he had done to the dog and felt the weight of death lifted from him.

  FORTY-NINE

  The doctor gave them some advice about how to care for the boy’s wounded hand and handed them some tablets in a small grey packet, then the boy and his father bundled the boy’s still-sodden clothing into a rubbish bag provided by a nurse and left the hospital.

  The boy was surprised to find their car in the car park without all of the possessions he’d stuffed in it before he left their camp.

  ‘Where’s all our stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘Your grandparents’ place,’ his father said. He unlocked the boy’s door and helped him in, then walked around the car to his own door. As he opened it he said, ‘Except the tools. They’re in the boot.’

  The boy smiled. ‘You found the key?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Where did I put it?’

  ‘You don’t remember?’

  The boy shook his head.

  ‘You’d put it under the tyre like we used to when we went fishing.’

  His father turned the key and the old thing sprang to life and they bumped out of the car park. The boy leaned his head against the window and watched the world he’d forgotten wash by him as his father drove on in silence.

  Eventually his father said, ‘So what happened to you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to your grandparents like I said?’

  The boy countered, ‘How come you’re back?’

  His father drew a long breath in and released it. ‘I only stayed a few more days after I sent you back. Realised I’d made a mistake. I couldn’t let you …’ He stopped. He kept his gaze fixed on the windshield as they made a turn. Then, ‘It’s hard. Since your mum died I thought I’d just sort of fold you into my life. Like another layer, another job. You know? You’d end up just like me, life wouldn’t change. I didn’t realise that of course it already bloody had, whether I wanted it to or not. You’re not me and I gotta look after you a bit now. It’s not just me on my own anymore.’

  The boy said, ‘You looked after mum.’

  His father’s voice was quiet as he said, ‘No. I didn’t.’

  They were silent for a time and his father did not press him further about his journey and the boy was sure he’d never really tell it. Soon the boy said, ‘Why’d you lie?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About buying the land.’

  ‘Oh,’ his father said. ‘That why you tore it down?’

  The boy nodded. ‘Plus I was mad at you.’

  His father laughed at this. ‘Yeah?�
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  ‘Yeah.’

  They turned onto another road and soon they were passing farmland, stalks of sugar cane standing green and strong.

  His father said once they’d passed, ‘I went stupid when Mum died. That’s all. I did lie. I know I did.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  His father looked at him and then back at the road. ‘I didn’t sell our house, either.’

  ‘You lied about that, too?’

  ‘I know, mate. I just … After she died, I went into our room and I just sensed her there, you know? And I was bloody gutted she wasn’t alive. And so I went stupid. Bloody idiot to keep running from her.’

  ‘Why the shack?’

  ‘Why build a shack?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘You know you broke the law?’

  His father nodded. ‘How’d you find that out?’

  ‘A cop came by and asked after you.’

  ‘He did?’

  The boy nodded. ‘We should go see him.’

  His father said softly, ‘Yeah. We should.’

  They went straight to the police station and walked in together. The policeman behind the counter was the same one who had visited the boy. He took one look at the two of them and grinned and came out from behind the counter and shook his father’s bad hand. He looked at the boy’s bandaged hand and instead of a handshake rubbed the boy’s hair.

  ‘Keogh,’ he said. ‘I thought you’d done a bloody runner, mate.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But you’re back?’

  The boy looked at his father.

  ‘I am. So I gotta pay a fine or something?’

  The policeman nodded and retreated behind his counter. He called the hardware store and asked about his father’s outstanding debt. Then he asked if the man knew someone who could tear up a concrete slab and how much that service might cost. When the policeman relayed this figure, the boy’s father took a roll of notes from his back pocket and paid it on the spot.