But I was still a wretch. My misery came crashing back. I felt no lightheartedness at all; I was as heavy as lead.
“I always heard it, whenever I was at the tank, and I couldn’t tell you how I got anything from it, but I knew—something about the way it was, somehow the rhythms were linked, how he’d be moving around and I’d be hearing it. I knew it was connected to him. He’d just been separated from his mother, you know, he’d just been weaned, but in the wild the male orcas stay at their mothers’ sides for their whole lives. He’d been taken away from her, you could tell he was lost, basically, and then there was this—it was a kind of wall of sound, I guess, a wall of sound that also felt like a wall of feeling.”
In the end—to me at least—a baby, a whale, there was nothing more nonsensical there than anywhere else.
Male humpback whales have been described by biologists as “inveterate composers” of songs that are “strikingly similar” to the products of human musical tradition. —Wikipedia 2015
I TRIED TEXTING Ned’s various numbers, the temporary cell phones he’d used recently as well as his old number, the one he’d had for years. I repeatedly typed messages such as I’ll do anything you want me to, I accept your terms, Give her back and I’ll do whatever you say. For several nights there was no amount of abjection I wouldn’t stoop to.
Finally I pulled up short and pretended to be made of granite, went from spineless to fossilized. There wasn’t a middle ground. I knew it wouldn’t last, either, the rock-like immobility, the erasure of my real life.
It was unbearable to submit to my profound weakness and so the only choice was to shore up surface strength.
Plants might be able to eavesdrop on their neighbors and use the sounds they “hear” to guide their own growth, according to a new study that suggests plants use acoustic signaling to communicate with one another. Findings published in the journal BMC Ecology suggest that plants can not only “smell” the chemicals and “see” the reflected light of their neighbors, they may also “listen” to the plants around them. —National Geographic News
ONE EVENING AROUND dusk there was a call from a new number, and when I picked it up after one ring, as I picked up all calls—instantly, slavishly—I heard her.
“Mommy?” said Lena, on the brink of tears.
“I’m here! I’m here!” is all I remember saying.
The phone was passed from Lena to someone else, an adult voice I didn’t recognize. A contract was being faxed, it said, and I would have to sign it in front of a notary. We both understood, technically, that it wasn’t binding, wouldn’t hold up in court since it was being signed under duress, etc., but Ned also knew I knew that if I didn’t stick to its terms this would simply happen again.
“But worse,” said the person, inflectionless.
After I signed the contracts and they were delivered, Lena would be brought back to me.
These events unrolled quickly. The contracts were received and signed, Will and Don read them, as well as Reiner, who turned out to be a corporate lawyer. Will drove me to a notary at the fire station that stayed open all night, and after that a messenger took the packet from me. Then we went back to the motel and waited.
I took no pill and drank no wine, determined to be sober as a judge. Instead of drinking I walked around and around the outside of the motel, my heart beating fast, my cheeks hot, until my calves burned and the soles of my feet were sore. Freezing, I walked for hours. Every brief headlight near the end of the road made me breathless.
It was after midnight when the car pulled up and two men got out, two men I didn’t know, though I wondered in passing if I recognized one of them as a cop.
Then Lena was here, I had her with me again, and the motel guests were close, and Don and Will, Don’s father smiling widely as he leaned on his wavering cane. Everyone was hugging Lena or patting her, congratulating me, whatever. We were in the warm lobby without having walked there—we’d floated, I think now, and when I finally looked up there were no men and there was no car. Vanished.
SO NED HAS BECOME a condition again, a feature of life. Our end date is still the election, contractually, after which Lena and I should be released—but for now we’re indentured. We’re flying to Alaska next week for the official candidacy announcement, to do our duty as mannequins.