But Mick has gotten into the swing of things. He and Charlene recently organized a Secret Santa. They urged me to pluck a name from a hat. In vain did I remind them that there were no stores to be found on the Farallon Islands, nowhere for me to get a little shopping done. Mick and Charlene were undaunted. I anticipate that we will all be getting a shark tooth, or a box of crackers, or a stapler, or a worn pair of socks, each gift festively wrapped in moldering newspaper and tied with filthy string.
This is a busy time for all of us. As the elephant seals have come ashore in greater and greater numbers, Mick has been run off his feet. But the other biologists have their own work to do as well. Though the white sharks are out of the picture, Forest and Galen must now tally up the data they collected during the summer. How many kills. How many Sisters. How many members of the Rat Pack. Everything has to be cataloged. Forest has been making copies of all his videos, ready to be shipped to the mainland. Galen has been filling out forms, which he hates. He will sit at the table, running his hands through his hair in exasperation until that white crown stands up in tufts. At his side, Forest will gently correct his work: “No, that was Thursday, not Wednesday. Hand me the eraser and I’ll fix it.”
Lucy, the bird girl, has been taken up with the storm-petrels. This has caused her a certain amount of angst. Normally she would have been able to assist Mick throughout Seal Season. That has been the pattern in the past. Normally Andrew would be in charge of the winter birds, which were his area of expertise. But Lucy must fill in for him now. She has been paler than usual, circles under her eyes.
I did not know there were storm-petrels on the islands at all — but in this case, my ignorance is not my fault. Storm-petrels do not make visible nests. They live in burrows in a sheer cliff face at the water’s edge. In addition, they are nocturnal. Their eerie voices echo all night long. When Lucy mimicked them for me, I realized that I had heard that cry without fully registering it, the sound woven throughout my dreams. The storm-petrels skim over the sea in the darkness, hunting what Lucy refers to as “planktonic animals,” returning to their burrows only at dawn. In the breeding season, they will coordinate their parenting with the phases of the moon, fledging their chicks during the brighter lunar periods. Now, however, they are childless. They are practically phantoms. A few days ago, Lucy located their hidden homes by following a distinct, musky odor, the by-product of an oily, orange goo the birds emit when disturbed. She uncovered a veritable storm-petrel city.
Charlene, of course, has been deputized to help whoever needs her most, following obediently in Lucy’s wake with an armful of equipment or fact-checking all of Galen’s paperwork. That has left Mick and me. We have climbed Lighthouse Hill together, binoculars in hand, to observe the pattern of elephant seals strewn across the shore. We have visited Dead Sea Lion Beach. We have kept an eye out for the elusive fur seals. It is not always possible to travel by boat nowadays. The surf is wild, thundering against the shore. The Lunchbox cannot be safely lowered into such choppy water, and the Janus is little better. White spray bursts against the coastline and rises in ashy tufts. At times, it looks as though the ocean has lifted a hand clear of the water and is trying to pull Southeast Farallon down into the depths.
But every now and then, Mick and I have managed to find a convenient lull. Occasionally the wind has worn itself out. The sea has dozed for an hour or two, as flat and glistening as an ice rink. Mick has dragged me out in the Janus, despite my protestations. Having no weather sense, I am convinced that the climate might turn on a dime. No sooner would we leave the shore behind than a vicious gale would come screaming in out of nowhere — that has been my belief. Mick has laughed at me. One morning we trolled together past the Perfect Wave, a turquoise curl that scrolls perpetually along Shark Alley. It would have been a temptation to any surfer, except, of course, for the predators that lurk beneath the surface in warm weather. On another afternoon, we motored to the Lower Arch, where I snapped photos of the harbor seals: hides peppered with spots, flat flippers gripping rotund bellies.
More than once, I have dreamed about the lost elephant seal pup. I never found out what happened to it. I can only assume it died of starvation and neglect. Mick would not let me look for it, not even to find its body.
But in my dreams, I hear its aching cry once more. I find myself on the grounds again in the mist and rain. This time, I am determined to save the baby. I see its weary black shape in the distance, stumbling and shuffling. The pup is wailing for its mother. There is nothing more primal than that sound. In the dream, I can almost understand its language — a kind of underwater warbling, like speech filtered through fluid. Given enough time, I believe I could figure out what it is saying. It wants its mother, but I will be the one to answer. Bewildered by the fog, I hurry across the granite slope, following that echoing call. My hands outstretched. My heart in my throat. Despite all my efforts, I never succeed. Every time, I am left with empty arms.
OLIVER THE OCTOPUS has reemerged. Recently Lucy decided to effect a massive feng shui reorganization of her bedroom. It took her a while to arrange all her furniture. I did not, of course, venture in to see how the work was progressing. The dragon might have been slain, but I was leery at the thought of entering his former lair. From my room upstairs, I listened to the creaking, the scrape of wood on wood, the occasional burst of cursing. I did not ask Lucy what had motivated this spate of activity. She would not have confided in me, even if I had wanted her to.
She and I have achieved détente, of a kind. She has stopped dropping catty comments, and I have stopped bristling like a hedgehog in her company. We nod and smile at one another in passing. We are civilized. Since Andrew’s death, the others have demonstrated endless compassion for Lucy. They give her hugs. They rub her back. They ask her how she’s doing in honeyed voices. I do not. I am well aware that she does not like me — but her enmity is less focused now. Andrew’s passing has overshadowed such petty concerns. I get the feeling that I am a mild but persistent annoyance to her, like an ugly painting on the wall.
Recently I overheard her chatting with Forest. He and Lucy are close; I have noticed it before. That morning, he dropped by to see how the feng shui effort was coming along. I was in the kitchen at the time. It was my turn to make lunch, and I was staring gloomily into the cupboards, trying to dream up some creative way to turn stale pasta and potatoes that were sprouting roots into a palatable meal.
Forest’s reedy voice carried to me clearly.
“Nice,” he said. “Different curtains.”
“I cut up an old sheet, actually,” Lucy said. “You can see the pattern on the cloth when the light is right. It looks okay, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
I banged around the kitchen a little, alerting them to my presence, but they went on talking just the same.
“I’m surprised that you changed things so much,” Forest said thoughtfully. “I barely recognize the place.”
I heard a sneeze, possibly a sob.
“I couldn’t bear it anymore,” Lucy said in a damp voice.
“Oh, honey.”
There was a rustling, and she blew her nose, a goose’s honk. More rustling. She might have been fumbling with a handkerchief.
“You know why I stayed, right?” she said. “I thought about leaving. Boarding the ferry. Going home. I even dreamed about it. But in the end, I just couldn’t. It’s for Andrew, you see. It’s all for him.”
Listening, I froze, one hand gripping a bag of potatoes.