Songs of the Humpback Whale: A Novel in Five Voices

55 JOLEY

When Jane and I were very small, before the swimming accident at Plum Island, we used to build cities in the sand. Jane was the engineer; I was the slave labor. We fashioned pagodas and English castles. She’d form the furrows and I’d come after her with a bucket of ocean water. “The waterfall,” I’d announce. “ Construction of the waterfall ready to begin!” Jane did the honors, pouring the water in for the moat, or digging rivulets that ran right into the ocean, a permanent source. We drew windows with light pieces of driftwood, and we edged gardens made of stones and shells. Once we made a fortress so big that I could hide inside and toss tight-lipped mussels at people walking by. Even after we were finished playing, we left our buildings standing. We swam in the waves and we bodysurfed, keeping an eye on the slow destruction of our handiwork.

This is what runs through my mind, like a grainy home movie, as Sam lifts my sister and brings her into the pond. This, and how slowly things change, and how malleable are boundaries. He picks her up and she is fighting, like we all expected.

I may be the only person in this world who understands what Jane needs. And perhaps I don’t even know the half of it. I have seen her cut and bleeding on the inside. It is me she always turns to, but I am not always the one who can help.

Jane stops kicking and resigns herself to the fact that she is going underwater. Sam says something to her. It’s there in her eyes, too, whether or not she will choose to admit it to herself.

I learned a doctrine long ago from an ancient Muslim in

Marrakesh: in this world, there’s only one person with whom you are meant to connect. This is a God-woven thread. You cannot change it; you cannot fight it. The person is not necessarily your wife or your husband, your long-term lover. It may not even be a good friend. In many cases it is not someone with whom you spend the rest of your life. I would hazard a guess that ninety percent of all people never find the other person. But those lucky few, those very lucky few, are given the chance to grab the brass ring.

I have believed in Jane for so long, and I have loved her so. I could never find anyone that measured up to her, which is why I’ve kept from marrying. What is the point of love unless I can have the ideal?

Take her, I find myself whispering to my friend Sam. The water closes in over their heads. I tell myself I am the lucky one, to have given Jane away twice. I wonder why, this time, it hurts so much more.