Page 145 of What You Wish For

When the Marine Mammal Stranding Network arrived, they agreed with Clay’s assessment, his rescue strategy, and the calls he’d made—especially the urgency of the whale’s situation: Yes, this was probably a pygmy sperm whale. Yes, there might be hope for this one. Yes, time was running out. We had another hour or two at most before the tide would be too low.

The hope became that if we could just get the whale free from the net, it might be able to use its tail to power back out of the surf. Andwhile half-submerged in the water wasn’t ideal, it was certainly better than fully beached.

The scene was undeniably inspiring: Police and firefighters working together to cut away the net—and taking gently spoken instructions from a lady marine biologist, no less: the ranking member of the Marine Mammal Stranding Network. Teachers faithfully working to slosh the whale with buckets of water. The exhausted Clay wrapped up safe in his mother’s arms. And all of us now gently humming “Silent Night.”

All of us on the same team, desperately coming together to work toward the same meaningful, important thing, in a way that human beings almost never do.

I want to tell you that all of this was enough to completely hold my attention—that I was 100 percent dedicated to Team Whale.

And I was.

But I confess that part of my brain was also wondering about Duncan. Where was he? Shouldn’t he be here by now? I kept checking the crowd. I wasn’t worried about him. I just felt like he ought to be here. That he would want to be here. That this remarkable moment somehow wasn’t quite complete without him.

Even though the thought of seeing him again was not appealing.

Even though the humiliation of it felt like liquid agony.

I still didn’t want him to miss it. I still couldn’t help but think about how good it would be for Duncan to see humanity doing something good for a change.

How good it was for me to see it, too.

How much I wanted to share it.

The news crews showed up—but the firefighters wouldn’t let them turn on their spotlights. Vacationers staying in nearby condos and folks who lived in the surrounding area appeared with coolers of water and boxes of cookies to help fortify the rescuers. As the crowd grew, newcomers either added their voices to the humming, or just stood gazing at the sight—everyone seeming to sense instinctively how important it was to stay quiet.

That is, until Kent Buckley showed up.

“What the hell is going on?” he shouted from the top of the seawall. “Nobody texted me!” He clomped down the concrete steps to the sand and then pushed through the crowd, his face red and flustered.

By this point, the firefighters had brought some beach chairs to Babette and Tina, and Clay had curled up on his mother’s lap—totally unwilling to leave the beach, but fighting to stay alert. When Tina saw Kent Buckley, she defiantly stayed seated, tightening her arms around Clay a little.

“You were supposed to let me know when he was found,” Kent said. “I had to hear the whole story on the news!”

“Shh,” Tina said.

The onlookers hummed a little louder, as if they could drown him out.

“You couldn’t send me one text?” Kent Buckley demanded.

“I was busy,” Tina said.

“He’s my son,” Kent Buckley said, sounding notably petulant. “I’ve been just as worried as you.”

“No,” Tina said. “Because you’re the reason he ran away in the first place.”

“I’ve already told you, my secretary didn’t remind me!”

“She shouldn’t have to remind you.”

“You try it!” Kent Buckley said. “You try working as hard as I do and see if you can remember every tiny piece of minutiae!”

But Tina was shaking her head. “This wasn’t minutiae,” she said. “This was your son’s birthday. It was a trip you’d rescheduled three other times. He never complained. Every time something came up, he forgave you. But this time…” She shook her head like she was too angry to even keep talking. “No more.”

But Kent Buckley wasn’t really one to take criticism. Right? He wasn’t just going to sign up for personal growth. He wasn’t going to have an epiphany right here on this beach that he’d ignored all true sources of nourishment in his life in the relentless pursuit of status.

No. He was going to attack back.

“And what kind of mother are you?” he demanded. “This child hasliterally been out all night. He’s wet, he’s half-unconscious. He should be home in his bed, fast asleep. And yet here you sit, in a beach chair, like it’s some kind of all-night party.”

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