How to Speak Dolphin

  I creep down the hall, through the laundry room, and out the door to the pool. There’s a birdbath full of dead leaves in the far corner of the yard. I focus on it, close my eyes, and start across the grass. A breeze stirs the palms. I stop to listen, go about ten more feet before I get the urge to peek. I know there’s nothing between me and the birdbath except a few sprinkler heads. I put my hands out to protect myself in case I trip and fall. I wonder if this is what Zoe goes through—feeling her way through life, every step an uncertainty. I don’t think so. Even with my eyes open, my life is more uncertain than hers.

  Don has left this morning’s Miami Herald on the kitchen counter, folded to a story about a young dolphin flown from the Gulf of Mexico to the Bayside Oceanarium on Key Biscayne.

  Hope Fades for Young Dolphin with Cancer

  Nori, the young coastal bottlenose dolphin rescued near Panama City ten days ago, is showing little improvement since being airlifted to Bayside Oceanarium. Nori and her mother were part of an AquaPlanet summer program for handicapped and autistic children who come to swim with wild dolphins in the warm waters off Panama City.

  More than 650 dolphins have been found stranded in the spill area since the Gulf oil disaster began. This is more than four times the historic average. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration calls it an “Unusual Mortality Event.” Most, by the time they are found, are severely ill and showing signs of liver and lung disease—all symptoms consistent with those seen in other mammals exposed to oil.

  This young dolphin was diagnosed with a malignant lesion under her tongue. The tumor was successfully removed, but the Oceanarium’s veterinarians aren’t sure why the young dolphin isn’t responding to efforts to save her.

  Over the top of the paper, I see Adam sitting on the floor of his play yard, making the sign for eat. He stands and begins to jerk on a side panel, trying to get out.

  Don’s in his office.

  “Did you feed Adam?”

  “Not yet. He just woke up.”

  I bet. I put the paper down and get the egg carton from the fridge. “Why’d you leave me a sad story about a dying dolphin?”

  At the word dolphin, Adam starts to squeak.

  Don gets up and comes to the kitchen. “I’ve been asked to come take a look at her. I thought maybe we’d go out Saturday after my rounds at the hospital.”

  “Why’d they ask you?”

  “Cancer’s my specialty. I think the vet wants to be assured he’s done all he can. I said yes because it might end up giving Adam another opportunity to swim with dolphins.”

  “Do they have a therapy program?”

  “They used to.” He smiles. “Maybe they will again.”

  “I’ve invited Zoe over to swim.”

  “Zoe?”

  “The girl I met in the …” I hesitate. I don’t really want to remind Don that I skipped school. “You remember, I told you about her.”

  He shrugs. “Bring her with us.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  I turn to the stove, grinning. Don has been nicer to me since Suzanne talked to him. “Did you eat?”

  “I had toast.”

  “Want an egg?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He goes back to his office, sits, and turns in his chair so he can see me. “Another thing. Adam starts at the Cutler Academy on Monday.”

  Wow. “Why’d you change your mind?” I open the pantry door so Don can’t see me and pump the air with my fist.

  “I was too rash,” he says.

  I’m glad he can’t see me roll my eyes.

  “It can’t hurt to give it a try.”

  I close the pantry door and break another egg into the glass bowl, add a little milk, and start to beat them. Adam puts his hands over his ears and screams.

  “Now what?” Don shouts.

  “I don’t know,” I say, though I’m sure it was the sharp sound of the fork hitting the glass bowl that set him off.

  I lift Adam out of his play yard to put him in his high chair, but he squirms out of my arms, dodges past me, runs down the hall, and disappears into his room.

  When I catch up, he’s tearing through the toy box. I stand in the doorway, watching. The more frustrated he gets not to find whatever he’s looking for, the louder he shrieks. I close the door behind me so he can’t get out, and sink to the floor.

  He gets quiet and smiles. Not at me, but at the book in his hands. It’s his Little Dolphin finger puppet book.

  He brings it to me, turns, and sits his butt in my lap with his back to my chest. I put my finger in the puppet and open the first page. The book is showing the wear of having been read a million times. I start on the first page.

  “ ‘Little Dolphin wants to play … but where are all his friends today?’ ”

  I wiggle the puppet and turn the page. My heart is not in this. It brings back too many memories of Mom, the dolphins at Ocean Reef, and us as a family before Adam showed the signs of autism.

  “ ‘Someone must have heard his call! Here comes a friend. They’ll have a ball!’ ”

  Adam flaps his fingers against his palm—his version of dolphins swimming, I guess—and squeaks.

  The next two pages are sticky. I pry them apart with my fingernail.

  “ ‘While splashing and swimming and spinning around, they talk to each other with dolphin sounds.’ ”

  Pages seven and eight are stuck together, so I skip them.

  “ ‘But in the light of the setting sun …’ ”

  Adam screams and kicks his legs.

  “What?”

  He grabs the book and tries to pull apart the pages that are stuck together.

  “Gimme that. You’re going to ruin it.” I pry his fingers loose and hold the book up out of his reach. “Let me do it.” I stand and open the door. Adam, shrieking, follows me down the hall and across the living room to the kitchen. He falls to the floor and kicks at my legs while I use a steak knife to pry the stuck pages apart.

  Once I’ve fixed it, I sit beside him and put my finger in the puppet. “Hush, or I’m not going to read to you.”

  He quiets, sits up, then crawls into my lap and presses his back to my chest. I go to the pages I pried apart.

  “ ‘They take turns leaping through the air, like acrobats, they make a pair.’ ”

  Adam flaps his fingers.

  “ ‘But in the light of the setting sun, the friends must end their day of fun.’ ”

  Adam giggles.

  “ ‘Little Dolphin swims home through the deep, looking forward to peaceful sleep. Sleep tight, Little Dolphin!’ ” I lean and kiss Adam’s cheek, then look up. Don is standing over us.

  “Remember this book?”

  He nods.

  “Two pages were stuck together and Adam made a fuss when I skipped them.”

  “He probably saw that you skipped them.”

  “He wasn’t looking at the book. He was flapping his fingers.”

  “Your mother read that book to him a thousand times. He’s probably got it memorized.”

  “That was nearly half his life ago.”

  Don shrugs.

  Adam grabs the book from me, closes it, and hands it back, then begins to flap his fingers against his palm.

  Don says, “You’re no longer in danger of getting suspended.”

  “Was I?”

  “Yes, you certainly were. But I told the school you missed because I had an emergency and you were taking care of your brother.”

  I try not to show my surprise.

  “And I told them you’re going to have to miss Monday, too.”

  “I am?”

  “Don’t you want to be there for Adam’s first day of school?”

  “Sure,” I say, but am pretty sure the real reason Don wants me there is he needs me to help handle Adam.

  Saturday noon, and Don’s still not home from the hospital when I hear the buzzer for the driveway gate. I look at the camera and see Zoe in the front seat
of her mother’s white Prius. I press the intercom. “Hi, Zoe. The code is 0514.”

  Her mother lowers her window and punches in Don’s birth date.

  After Zoe introduces me to her mom, I tell them about the sick dolphin and ask her mother if it’s okay for Zoe to go with us to the Oceanarium.

  “It’s sad about the little dolphin, but I think the Oceanarium sounds fun. Call if you’re going to be late.” She pats Zoe’s cheek.

  Like she did in the park, Zoe says, “May I?” and holds up her left hand.

  “Sure.” I turn my back and lean toward her until her fingertips touch my right shoulder, then I lead her to the back door, remembering to warn her about the step up into the laundry room.

  Adam is in his play yard, lining up his stuffed dolphins from small to large. He’s been squeaking to them, but for these few moments the house is quiet.

  I lead Zoe to the kitchen’s center aisle, and pull a stool out for her. “I was fixing Adam lunch. Are you hungry?”

  “I ate, thanks. Where is he?” Her head is cocked, listening for him.

  “He’s over there in his play yard with his stuffed dolphins.”

  Zoe smiles.

  “Sorry,” I say, remembering that over there means nothing to her. “He’s in the living room, which is on your left. He’s been quiet for almost a full minute. I don’t expect it to last.”

  “I read up on autism online.”

  I blurt. “How?”

  “I have JAWS on my computer.” She smiles, then clacks her teeth together. “It’s a text-to-speech software.”

  “Someone reads everything to you? That’s cool.”

  Zoe smiles again, and I realize how little I understand what it’s like to be blind.

  “How old was Adam when he was diagnosed?”

  “Two, but Mom thought there was something wrong a year before that.”

  “My mom was hoping to meet your mother. Is she home?”

  A lump forms in my throat, and I shake my head.

  “Lily?” She turns her head, thinking, I suppose, that I’ve moved or left the kitchen without her hearing me.

  “My mother’s dead. She was killed in a car accident two years ago.”

  Zoe gets up and follows the edge of the counter around to where I’m standing. She puts her arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”

  I don’t want her to hug me, and stiffen. She lets go and steps back.

  “I’m a touchy-feely kind of person, obviously.”

  “It’s not that. I don’t want people feeling sorry for me.”

  “I know what you mean.” She smiles, and with one hand following the edge of the counter, goes back to her stool.

  “I guess I feel sorry enough for myself without help from anyone else.” I get Adam’s divided plate from the drain board, put applesauce in one section, carrot sticks in another, and bite-sized cubes of chicken in the third.

  Zoe’s head is tilted like she hears something. “I think your dad’s home.”

  “He’s my stepfather.”

  The back door opens and Don walks in. Zoe turns and smiles at him. “Hello, Dr. Moran. I’m Zoe.” She puts her hand out—a little to the left of where he’s standing.

  Don looks at her hand, then at those pretty fake eyes, then at the white cane leaning against the counter. “You’re … you’re—”

  “Blind.” She laughs.

  I want to kick him in the shins.

  “Lily didn’t tell me.”

  “That’s good,” Zoe says. “It means it wasn’t that important to her.”

  Don steps forward and takes her hand. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, then crooks a finger at me. “May I speak to you in my office?”

  I follow him across the living room, and he closes the door behind us. “She’s blind.”

  “So?”

  “I need you to take care of Adam while we’re there. How can you watch him and lead her around at the same time? And if she can’t see anything, how is she going to enjoy herself?”

  “Zoe doesn’t need to be led around. You’ll be amazed at what she ‘sees.’ ” I make quotations marks with my fingers.

  “I don’t think so. Go out there and tell her some other time, and that we’ll drop her home on our way.”

  “I’ve invited her and she’s going.” My hand is on the doorknob when I turn to look at him. “Or we both stay here and you and Adam can go.”

  “What has gotten into you?” he snaps.

  I shrug. A spine? Or maybe it’s because I don’t feel so alone with Suzanne willing to speak up for me. Still, I’m not quite brave enough to say a spine out loud.

  Zoe has located Adam and is sitting on the floor by his play yard. He’s not looking at her, but he knows she’s there. He’s squeaking and holding one of his dolphins in her direction.

  Zoe copies the sound and Adam goes silent.

  “You and I can talk to dolphins. That’s a special gift.”

  Don is standing behind me. I hear him breathing.

  Adam scrambles his neat line of dolphins with his feet, then throws his dolphin finger puppet book over the side of the play yard. It lands with a thud a few inches from Zoe’s right knee. She reaches and picks it up.

  I turn and grin at Don, then realize Zoe won’t be able to read it to him, which may set Adam off.

  Zoe feels the cover and finds the puppet. “This is one of the finger puppet books. I had them all when I was little.” She feels the puppet. “It doesn’t have ears, so it must be Little Dolphin.” She looks up and smiles in our direction, which means she knows we’re there watching.

  Zoe wiggles the puppet and squeaks, and Adam, without looking at her, holds up one of his dolphins and squeaks back at her.

  That’s the second time in three weeks that he’s done something in response to something someone said. Debra and now Zoe. I give Don a see-I-told-you-so look.

  “I like your friend,” he whispers next to my ear.

  Zoe hears like an owl, and I see a hint of a smile on her lips. “Good, Adam. That’s exactly how dolphins talk to each other.”

  I’m sorry Zoe felt she had to win Don over, but I’m glad she did.

  The main parking lot of the Oceanarium is half full, but there’s a line of cars to pay the parking fee.

  “Eight dollars,” the parking attendant says when it’s our turn.

  “Dr. Moran,” Don says.

  The guy stares at him blankly.

  “Dr. Moran,” Don says again. “I’m expected.”

  The parking guy steps into his booth and picks up the phone. He turns his back when someone answers, but I still hear him say, “Well, nobody told me.”

  He tears a blue ticket in half and hands it to Don through the window.

  A high school–aged kid waits for us at the gate to a rear entrance. He’s fumbling with a set of keys when we pull up and keeps glancing over his shoulder at Don, who isn’t helping by drumming the steering wheel with his fingers. When he finally gets the gate open, Don drives through and nods thanks.

  We park near four round concrete tanks, all of which are painted blue. Three of them are nearly ground level and look like they might have once been a sewage treatment plant. One is full of green algae; two are empty except for puddles of rainwater, pine needles, and pollen.

  The fourth has walls higher than Adam is tall so he can’t see the dolphin inside. She’s floating on the surface near a raft chained to two rusty metal rings embedded in the wall. The dolphin rolls to look at us, but is otherwise listless.

  I can see Biscayne Bay through a gap in the Australian pines that line the shore, and behind us is the gold dome of the Oceanarium. I came here once on a field trip a couple of years before Mom died. I don’t think Mom liked this place, but I remember having fun.

  The Oceanarium’s vet comes along a path from the opposite direction and joins us at the railing around the tank. He’s carrying a medical chart, nods at me and Zoe, and shakes Don’s hand. “Nice of you to come.”


  “Not at all. The kids are excited.”

  When Don says that, the vet actually looks at us for the first time. Unlike Don, who has honed his bedside-manner skills so his face is nearly always a mask, the vet’s expression hides nothing. He sees Zoe’s cane and studies her eyes. I can see his mind working. How can she be blind with such perfect-looking eyes? Then I see it dawn on him that they’re not real. His gaze switches to Adam, straining against his Kid Keeper harness, the top of his diaper showing above the waistband of his pants, then to me. I bore him. He turns sideways to stand beside Don, and flips open the chart.

  “As I told you on the phone, it was a squamous cell carcinoma large enough to deviate the tongue to the left. The mass was removed in a series of five sections until we got clean margins. Postoperatively, she did very well. She received 100 mg carprofen IM after the procedure—”

  Zoe interrupts. “What does IM mean?” Which is what I wanted to know, but never would have asked.

  “Intramuscular,” Don says. “Into the muscle.”

  The vet studies Zoe again, and goes on. “Follow-up has included flushing the wound with a fifty percent vinegar solution and monitoring for any recurrence at the incision line.”

  “Any indication of metastases?”

  “None, but I’d still like you to look at her X-rays. The lungs and abdomen appear clear and the mass did not infiltrate the mandible. The surgical wound healed, and we’ve kept her on antibiotics, but she’s not improving.”

  Somewhere, on the other side of a high wall, a loudspeaker announces the next dolphin show will start in ten minutes in the upper deck tank. Adam hears dolphin and starts to squeal.

  “He loves d-o-l-p-h-i-n-s,” Don says, and gives me a warning glance, like I could possibly stop Adam from throwing a tantrum if he thinks there’s a dolphin here and we’re keeping him from it.

  Zoe listened to what the vet said, then left us. She’s walking the circumference of the tank, the diameter of which is about twenty-five feet. Our swimming pool is much longer than this tank is wide. Zoe leans over like she’s watching the dolphin, but I hear her humming and clicking softly. The dolphin drifts over and rolls to look at her.