“Of course.”
Galen made a gesture I could not interpret, his finger orbiting in space.
“Is that why you came here?” he said.
“I think so.”
“I see,” he said. “I see.”
The wind had begun to moan outside. The cry of the elephant seals was entangled with the thunder of the ocean. I was breathing hard. I had the feeling that Galen was making up his mind about something. He nodded several times, as though agreeing with a private train of thought.
“That expression is interesting,” he said. “You lost your mother. I lost my wife.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ve lost them. You’ve misplaced them. That’s exactly how it is. Something you always had with you, something you were so accustomed to that you never even thought about it. Like your keys or your wallet. I still find myself wondering, ‘Where is she? She was just here a minute ago.’”
I looked down at my hands.
“And now Charlene,” he said. “I’ve lost her, and so have you.”
I heard the distant rumor of the storm-petrels singing. The noise outside was almost symphonic — the deep bass of the sea, the wind wailing like a violin, the treble of the seals, the piccolo of the birds. Wild music.
“I remember the first time I met my wife,” Galen said. “She was so young. So wide-eyed. It was a blind date, of all things. Our friends had matched us up. She and I were walking to the restaurant together. A fine summer night. This little Italian place I liked. All of a sudden she blurted out, ‘Tell me the story of your life.’” He chuckled. “That was her way of making conversation, I guess. ‘Tell me the story of your life.’ I didn’t answer. I told her it was an impossible question.”
I nodded.
“I could answer it now, though,” Galen said. “When you’ve lost someone, that is the story of your life. It’s the only story you’ve got.”
All at once, I was so tired I could barely breathe. I found myself slumping, sagging. A weight seemed to have settled on my shoulders.
“Go to bed, Miranda,” he said.
I lifted a hand to restrain a yawn.
“Go on,” Galen said gently. “I think we’ll both be able to sleep now.”
27
TODAY IS THE first of March. The new month started on a high note. The radiophone squawked into life in the early morning. Galen went to answer it. He came back beaming. The call had been from the hospital. Charlene was out of the woods. Her concussion was healing nicely. Her cuts had been sewn up. The doctors had run a final test, verifying beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no brain damage. The dislocated elbow had been reassembled and placed in a sling. Galen told us these things over our standard breakfast of macaroni and cheese. There were cheers, glasses clinking, toasts to our brave little intern.
Galen had spoken to Charlene personally — her voice distorted by static and distance. She had told him that her parents had flown in, renting a hotel room in San Francisco with a nice view of the water. She would stay in their company, pampered and cared for, until she was strong enough to make the journey home to Minnesota. There she could finish her convalescence in peace. This idea brought me comfort. I liked picturing Charlene, her head still bandaged, arm in a sling, surrounded by her parents and siblings. In my mind, her relatives were all as red-haired and genial as she was — a crimson poppy-field of a family. I imagined Charlene in an armchair, being served tea and toast. Charlene being grilled by her brothers and sisters about her time on the islands. Charlene reveling in the glittering pull of the television set, the gush of hot water from the taps, the grease of a freshly ordered pizza.
I went to the window. I gazed out at the sea. All around me, the islands seemed to be growing progressively wilder by the day. Charlene had left this place behind. She had crossed the horizon line. She had crossed over. She was so far away now that I wondered whether I would ever see her again.
In that moment, I wanted to be among the elephant seals. I wanted to be close to them, to photograph them while I still could. I grabbed my digital camera and went out in the mist. I followed the roar of their voices, the scent of their musk. A group of them had settled on Marine Terrace, reshaping the shoreline with their bodies. In the fog, they were lumped like clouds, as soft as pillows.
The pattern of their lives has begun to change. The females nurse their babies for a month. At the end of this time, they mate with the alpha male of their harem. Then they return to the ocean without a backward glance. Pregnant, they leave the islands. They leave their pups alone. There is something ruthless about these mothers. Their business on the Farallon Islands is pure biology. Birth, suckle, breed, depart. No emotion. They do not form lasting pair bonds; they attach themselves to the strongest male, receive a deposit of sperm, and move on. They do not teach, protect, or nurture their progeny. They offer milk, and when the milk is gone, they leave.
The juveniles will never see their mothers again. They must learn to swim, hunt, and thrive on their own. They must learn what it is to be an elephant seal without guidance. Over the next few weeks, the babies will remain on land, deserted, figuring out the pulse and swell of the tides, gradually growing hungry enough to risk that first vital dive into the briny blue. They will depart into the sea, following the schools of fish, following the deep rhythms of their own instincts, discovering their true nature, leaving the archipelago in their wake. Next winter, the ones who survive will return to the Farallon Islands to begin the cycle all over again.
On Marine Terrace, I set up my tripod. I had Gremlin with me, one of my digital SLR cameras. The most expensive and flashy of the group. The fog had wiped away the horizon and obscured the border between the ocean and the rocks. The elephant seals seemed ghostly. Their cries were disembodied in the mist. The air was strangely warm. I wondered if the fevered whirl of their mating had heated the coastline. I removed my sweatshirt. I peeled off the cardigan beneath.
Then I heard it. A high, desperate keening. The sound was coming from behind me. It was a seal pup. On land. Somewhere near the cabin. At once I was in motion. I pushed through the damp air, squinting against the haze.
“This way,” I shouted. “Come here. Come to me.”
A dark shape appeared. The baby moved with an irregular gait, lurching and snuffling. As it drew closer, it lifted its muzzle and wailed.
I had dreamed so often of this moment. I could not help but believe. Probably it was not the same lost pup I had seen on my walk with Mick all those weeks ago. Probably it was not the poor creature who had been haunting me ever since, inhabiting my nightmares. I knew the odds. But there was no way to be certain. All the babies looked alike, black and smooth. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. I did not want to startle it away. The sensation was like wings beating in my chest. I forced myself to believe it was the same lost pup, finally found.
I did not touch it. I was not supposed to touch it. My hands floated in space, encircling its sleek head, miming a caress. Its expression appeared to be pleading. As it approached, I backed away, moving in slow, gentle increments.
“Follow me,” I whispered. “Come on, now.”
The baby obeyed. I led it toward the water. With each step I took backward, the animal bounced forward, as though we were dancing. I stopped at the crest of the hill. My tripod stood skeletal against the mist. On the other side lay a pile of sleeping elephant seals. Gray females. Mountainous males. Inky pups. I waited for the baby to see them — to smell the milk — to hear their throaty breathing — to lunge down the hill — to return to its family at last.