How to Speak Dolphin Read online

I watch Debra march off, then turn to Don. “How’d you let that happen? And did it occur to you I might have other plans on Saturdays?”

  He looks at me. “Like what? Another couple of weeks and you’ll have all day, every day, to do whatever you want to do. Saturday and Sundays are Suzanne’s days off and they should be for Adam.”

  “Every day is for Adam,” I snap.

  “What difference does it make? That woman is never going to let us come back.”

  “I don’t care. You should ask me first before you plan the rest of my life.”

  Don doesn’t have a clue about my friends, or lack of friends. He’s never bothered to ask. Even if I don’t have kids my own age to hang with, I should be free to decide what I do on weekends. Don’s blown off the Cutler Academy and, now, Adam’s chance to see if dolphin therapy works.

  Nothing’s going to change—for Adam, or me.

  Nori lies in water so shallow it barely covers her flippers. Her back is exposed to the hot sun and her skin has begun to blister. The wash of the waves rocks her back and forth, but not for long. The tide is going out.

  Her mother stays close, clicking frantically and whistling Nori’s name, encouraging her to try for deeper water, but Nori is too weak. They both pick up the sound of a motor and recognize it as one of the boats from AquaPlanet bringing children to this island to swim with the dolphins. Her mother races toward it, changes her mind, returns to Nori’s side, nudges her and clicks, backs into deeper water, and turns to meet the boat.

  “Isn’t that Nori’s mom?” One of the women points at the dolphin, then shades her eyes. “Where’s Nori? They’re always together.”

  The humans gather on the side of the boat to look at her. Nori’s mom upends, squeaks and clicks, bobs her head, turns, and tries to get them to follow. They cut the engine and one of the big humans gets ready to drop anchor. Nori’s mom returns and circles the boat, then heads for the beach where Nori lies. The humans watch her.

  Nori’s mom comes back again and makes tighter circles around the boat.

  “I think she’s trying to get us to follow her.”

  Someone starts the engine.

  People from the boat wet their towels and cover Nori. They form a line and pass buckets of water to pour over her. One of the women sits in the water near Nori’s head and speaks softly to her. She has a nice voice. Offshore, Nori’s mother swims back and forth. Her clicks and whistles are comforting, too.

  Other boats arrive, some to watch, others to help.

  “Shouldn’t we drag her into deeper water?”

  “No, she’s sick. We’ve called a marine mammal rescue group. They’re on the way. It’s important to keep her wet and protect her from the sun.”

  The tide turns and is coming in again before a larger, faster boat arrives. It, too, is full of strangers. Nori’s mother swims closer.

  These people unload equipment: poles and a canvas sling. The woman stroking Nori’s head gets up to make room. One of them puts a disk against Nori’s chest to listen to her heart, and presses his hand to her side. When he takes it away his handprint is a dent in her side.

  “That’s not good. She’s severely dehydrated.” He turns to a woman on the boat. “We’ll need to hydrate her on the way in.”

  They remove the cool, wet towels, and spread white grease on her back.

  “She’s awfully thin,” says the one who listened to her heart. “We’re finding too many of them like this since the oil spill.”

  “Where will you take her?” someone asks.

  “The Bayside Oceanarium in Miami. We’ve called, and one of our volunteers is waiting in Panama City with a plane to fly her over.”

  “Aren’t they just an entertainment facility?”

  “They also do rehabilitation.” He stands. “We’ll need some help here.”

  People line up, roll Nori to one side, and stuff the edge of the canvas sling beneath her. They roll her in the opposite direction far enough into the sling to drag her into deeper water where they can float her to the center.

  Nori’s frightened, and she clicks frantically for her mother as they lift her out of the water into the boat. Her mother swims back and forth just feet away.

  The boat engine fires up, drowning out Nori’s mother’s clicks and whistles. When the boat begins to move, her mother swims alongside for as long as she can, until the throttle is shoved forward, and the bow lifts out of the water. Her mother races to keep up, but Nori’s final sight of her is when she sails out of the water in the wake of the speeding boat.

  “Poor thing,” someone says. “It’s all right, little dolphin. They’ll make you better and we’ll bring you back to her.”

  Don’s already left for a surgery and I’m feeding Adam when Suzanne calls to say she’s running late, which means I’ll get to school after the first-period bell—again. I hate walking into class after the teacher calls roll and having all eyes follow me to my desk.

  It’s always best to feed Adam before dressing him, and I should have waited to get dressed myself. I put him in his play yard and leave the oatmeal mess on the walls for Suzanne to wipe down.

  She’s still not there when I come out of the bathroom in a clean shirt, and my hair wet where I rinsed out the oatmeal.

  I’ve thought for a long time that Adam knows when I’m stressed and on the verge of losing it, but I can’t decide if he’s upset because I’m upset—like he seemed to be with the sea lion—or takes perverse pleasure in making a bad day worse.

  I give him one of his dolphins to play with, but he whacks me in the head with it and one of the flippers hits my right eye. With that eye closed against the sting, I manage to get his kicking feet through the leg holes of his Tranquility pull-on diaper, but I don’t get it pulled up before he pees a stream like a water fountain, soaking the shirt I just put on. I swear he looks pleased with himself. Tears form, but I don’t cry. I refuse to cry.

  He screams like I’m killing him, but I finally get a T-shirt on him without dislocating one of his shoulders, put him back in his play yard, and go to my room to change clothes. My eye is still bright red and tears clump my bottom lashes together. By the clock on my nightstand, the bell will ring in twelve minutes. If Suzanne pulls in right this second and I run, I might still make it in time.

  Adam is shrieking, so I get his Little Dolphin board book and start reading, hoping he’ll stop the racket before Suzanne gets here. It’s still hard to believe she’s lasted nearly a month already.

  I hear the gate clank open. I slam the book shut and run to the back door. “Sorry, toots,” Suzanne shouts as I run past her car and out the gate before it swings closed again. School is four blocks away, but there are only five minutes left before the bell.

  By block two, I’m winded and sweating and have to stop. I rest with my hands on my knees, but I’m close enough to hear the warning bell ring. One minute to the final bell and I’ll have my third tardy this month, which means my third detention spent sitting in an empty classroom for an hour after school.

  The security guard at the entrance looks at his watch as I trot by, but doesn’t say anything. It’s none of his business what time I get to school. He’s supposed to be watching for lunatics with guns.

  Our lockers line the breezeway wall. I’m getting my books out when the final bell rings. Instead of walking into class late, I sit on the concrete bench opposite the lockers and try to decide whether to go to class and take the detention, or skip all my classes and see what happens. I’m sure the school will call Don, but so what.

  I’m sick of my day-to-day life—the morning race to get myself ready for school so I can take care of Adam until Suzanne arrives. The reverse in the afternoon: running home to relieve her by four. I’m tired of all the rushing back and forth. I’d like to sleep in one morning, and make some friends to hang out with in the afternoons, or maybe try out for soccer, or the swim team. I sit on the cool concrete bench and try to remember what life was like before Adam was born, and before Mom
died. What my dreams were.

  Until she met and married Don, Mom used to try to keep my father alive in my memory. Before the war, he was a marine biologist on Key Biscayne. He studied coral reefs, but was in the Navy Reserve. That’s how he ended up going to Iraq. For a long time I wanted to be a marine biologist, too. I used to catch minnows in the lake in front of Baptist Hospital and keep them in a fishbowl in my room. After Mom married Don and we moved into his coral rock house, I used to inspect the outside walls with a magnifying glass and pry interesting fossil shells loose—until Don caught me. I don’t know whether I outgrew wanting to be like my dad, or whether all that got buried by Adam’s needs. Until this morning, I’d pretty much stopped thinking about it.

  What I’d like to do right now is cross Bayshore Drive and spend the day in the park down the street, but the entire school property is fenced. The only way out is past the security guard, and he’ll want to know where I’m going. Without a permission slip to leave campus, he’ll call the office. I’m trapped here.

  A car pulls up. Alicia hops out and slams the door. Alicia is the girl who came over to swim that time—the one who called my brother a retard.

  “Hey, Lily.”

  “Hi.”

  “Whatcha doing out here?”

  I press my hand to my stomach. “Got cramps. I’m waiting for a ride home.”

  She turns, but her mother has already pulled away. “Want me to flag Mom down? She could take you home.”

  “No. Our nanny’s already on her way. Why are you late?”

  “Dentist.” She draws her lips back in a grimace to show me her braces, then peers at my hair and curls her lip. “What’s that?”

  I touch my head. Oatmeal. “I don’t know.”

  “Looks like bird poop.”

  I shrug.

  “How’s your brother?” She smiles, and I hate her all over again. “Better run,” she says. “See ya.”

  I go to the girls’ bathroom and wash the oatmeal out of my hair and then go back and sit with my back against one of the posts holding up the breezeway roof. I read until first period ends and kids boil out of classrooms. When the second period starts, I gather my stuff and head for the library.

  The library is in the southwest corner of the school. I find an overstuffed chair opposite the row of windows facing a side street. From this seat, I have a nice view of the trees and can look up from my book to watch the palm fronds dipping and swaying in the breeze. The silent movement of the fronds makes me feel deaf. I’m thinking I’d rather be deaf than blind when two girls walk past the window. They are giggling and looking back over their shoulders. One of them glances my way, but, for whatever reason, doesn’t see me. Maybe the windows mirror the trees, so she can’t see me watching. It’s a familiar feeling—invisibility.

  After second period ends, I go to lunch with the third-period kids and fix myself a salad from the salad bar. When I turn, I see a girl who’s in my language arts class sitting by herself at one end of a long table. She glances at me and kind of smiles. I pretend not to notice and take my tray to an empty table in the corner. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself that I don’t have any friends, but the fact that I don’t is my own fault. I prefer being alone to acquiring another Alicia. Our school is very strict about bullying, or I would probably be bullied. Instead, I’m ignored, which suits me fine.

  When the cafeteria starts to empty out, I hide in the girls’ bathroom until the fourth-period bell rings. I follow them into the cafeteria and have a bowl of soup this time. When fifth period comes in for lunch, I have a ham-and-cheese sandwich.

  I keep thinking any minute someone is going to notice that I’ve eaten three lunches and have been hanging out most of the day, but no one does.

  For sixth period, I go back in the library, find my corner unoccupied, and read until school lets out at three thirty, when I leave for home, satisfied with my day.

  The automated message on the answering machine says, “Your child missed one or more classes today. Please call the office at your earliest convenience.” I delete it seconds before Don comes into the kitchen.

  “How was school?”

  Of course, I think, he knows. “Why?” My tone is defensive in spite of the fact my heart is now lodged in my throat.

  He lifts an eyebrow, and I think he’s going to threaten me with … with what? He can’t ground me. I never go anywhere. What can he do? Send me to my room without dinner? I had three nice lunches.

  He shrugs, and I realize he asks me most days how school went, I say fine, and our dance ends. My guilty conscience made me jump to the wrong conclusion.

  Don pours himself a glass of orange juice and walks to the window that looks out at the pool. “Did the yardman come today?”

  “How should I know? I was at school, remember?”

  He turns. “Doesn’t look like he did,” he says, like it’s my fault. “What are you smiling about?”

  “I’m not.” But I was. Don always finds a way around what he considers an obstacle to getting what he wants. I’m smiling because I can be a rule breaker, too.

  He puts his empty glass beside the sink, leaves the orange juice carton on the counter—for me to put away, I guess—and goes outside, probably to measure the height of the grass.

  I don’t know if the school bothered to call Don again. If they did, he never confronted me, so on the following Tuesday, when Suzanne is late again, I don’t make the same mistake. After she arrives, I dart down the driveway like I’m racing to get to school, but as soon as the gate closes, I turn right and leisurely drift the four blocks to Kennedy Park.

  Sweaty joggers circle the vita course, stopping at exercise stations. A carload of boys honks and laughs at a bunch of old people in a tai chi class doing slow-motion kung fu moves. I walk straight down to the bay. The water is murky and full of trash—plastic ice bags, Styrofoam cups, other bits of unidentifiable plastic. People are pigs.

  It’s hot and still, but later, when the breeze picks up, there will be sailboats to watch. I look around for a shady place to sit where I can read. The only bench facing the water is occupied by a sleeping homeless man. He’s covered himself from head to ankles with sheets of the Miami Herald. His boots, with the upper parts separated from the soles, expose filthy toes, which are pointed skyward. Every once in a while he shakes a foot to rid it of flies.

  Now that I’m here, I wonder what I’m going to do all day. I’ve got a book, but I’ll be done reading it in a couple of hours. I think about walking to the Grove and wandering the shops, maybe see a movie, but nothing’s open yet.

  I decide to go watch the tai chi class and walk back toward Bayshore Drive where the morning traffic, headed for downtown, is bumper-to-bumper. I take a bench facing the old people.

  There’s nothing unusual about people honking at each other in Miami traffic, but I do look up when I hear a guy shout, “All clear, girly.” Some of the people in the tai chi class also pause to look.

  Traffic has stopped in both directions to let a girl cross the street. People in Miami never stop for pedestrians, except maybe in school zones. One car, driven by a man talking on his cell phone, pulls forward to plug the gap left by the car in front of him and moves into the path of the girl. I see him jump, like maybe she whacked the side of his car. His window goes down. I can’t hear what they say, but she nods, turns to her left, and walks around the front of his car. That’s when I see the white cane. A moment later, she taps the curb, steps up, and crosses the parking lot without her cane hitting a single car, even though the lot is nearly full.

  The jogging path is made of tightly packed wood chips and feels spongy underfoot. She crosses the grass, finds the edge of the path with her cane, steps to the center, tucks her cane into the crook of her arm, and walks it like a sighted person.

  I get up and follow her, staying on the grass so she won’t hear me.

  As we get closer to the water, a breeze kicks up. The blind girl stops, lifts her chin, and takes a deep breath.
If occurs to me that, till now, she has been walking through thick, humid silence. I wonder, when there are no sounds, if it’s like moving through nothingness. Hearing the palm fronds rattle and leaves rustle must furnish the landscape for her. I’m reminded of sitting in the library last week when I cut classes, watching tree branches moving in the wind and deciding I’d rather be deaf than blind.

  To get to the bay, she has to either continue on the path, which circles the entire park, or cross the grass and dodge the trees. If it was me, I’d stick to the path, but she uses her cane to find where the lawn starts and, with her nose held high, heads straight for the water. Maybe she’s planning to drown herself. I might if I was blind. This gives me a good excuse to stick close. If she wades in and goes under, I’ll be there to sound the alarm, and jump in to save her.

  Instead of swinging her cane widely from side to side, she’s sweeping it in a narrow arc just ahead of where she’s stepping. I move around to get in front of her and realize she’s making a soft clicking sound with her tongue—like water dripping. I’m tempted to warn her she’s headed for a tree, but something about the sureness of her pace makes me think she knows it’s there. When she’s a yard or two away, she tucks the cane into the crook of her arm and keeps walking. The clicking turns to humming, and she begins turning her head from side to side. Two feet short of the tree, she reaches out, touches the trunk with her fingers, and runs her hand over the bark. “Gumbo limbo,” she says, and turns back toward the bay.

  I walk over to the tree, close my eyes, and feel the trunk. The bark on gumbo limbo trees peels in sheets, leaving the deep maroon–colored trunk smooth and cool to the touch. Locals call them tourist trees because the thin, papery bark looks like sheets of skin hanging off sunburned Yankees.

  I trot after her. She’s using her cane again but hasn’t stopped humming or clicking, or moving her head. She reminds me of an owl homing in on a mouse. There are trees on both sides of the route she’s taking, the largest of which is to her left. When she tucks her cane and veers straight for it, I decide she’s only pretending to be blind—until she bumps into a metal mesh trash can. She feels the rim of it, gives a little laugh, steps around it, and begins to hum again. A few feet short of running right into the tree, she reaches out and touches the trunk. It’s a ficus tree, but she’s having trouble figuring that out since there are usually masses of thin roots hanging from the branches. This one’s been trimmed. The aerial roots are starting to grow back but dangle from branches way above her head. She circles the tree, swinging her cane until she finds a branch with leaves low enough for her to reach. She feels a leaf and smiles. “Ficus.”