The Lost Whale
Dedication
To Chris, my ocean and my world.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
1. Arrival
2. Ocean Bay
3. Mum
4. The Phone Call
5. Box of Joy
6. Gray Whales
7. The Museum
8. Hunted
9. The Pier
10. Marina
11. Whale Watching
12. The Spyhopper
13. Happywhale
14. A Lucky Idea
15. The Boat Trip
16. Out on the Ocean
17. Heart-Shaped Rainbows
18. White Beak
19. Smiling
20. Photos Home
21. Special Hearing
22. Invitation
23. Training
24. Happy Times
25. Fran
26. Bad News
27. Missing
28. Whispers on the Wind
29. The Plan
30. Escape
31. Caught
32. A New Plan
33. Hurry
34. No Sightings
35. Sea Storm
36. The Search Zone
37. Listening
38. In Trouble
39. Rescue
40. Saving White Beak
41. Ocean’s Promise
Epilogue: Arrival
Author’s Note
Resources and further reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Hannah Gold
Copyright
About the Publisher
1
Arrival
The first thing Rio Turner noticed when he stepped into the arrivals hall of Los Angeles International Airport was the noise. Airports were never destined to be quiet places and this gigantic, sprawling monster was like a football stadium in full roar.
The second thing he noticed was his grandmother.
Even though it had been five years since he’d last seen her, Rio recognized her straightaway. She towered over everyone in a shiny turquoise jumpsuit, wore thick black-rimmed glasses, and had a shock of white, wiry hair.
Gazing around, it took a few moments for her to register him. “Rio?” she asked. “It is you, isn’t it?” She paused in front of him. “I barely recognized you. You’re so . . .”
Her voice tailed off, and Rio wondered what she’d been about to say. Either way, he wasn’t going to ask. Instead, he crossed his arms protectively against his chest.
“You made it, then.” She hurried on, her eyes full of something he didn’t recognize. “I am so glad you’re here.”
Then she enveloped him in a hug.
Not the kind of hug he was used to—deep, warm, and snuggly. It was all hard angles and sharp elbows and smelled of peppermints. Rio counted to three before he could bear it no longer. Then he yanked himself away.
“Rio?” she asked falteringly, two bright spots of color on her cheeks. “It’s been a long time, and I know all this must seem impossibly strange to you right now, but I want you to feel at home while you’re staying with me. I am your grandmother after all.”
Rio, who had been staring at the floor during the latter part of her speech, looked up in surprise. She had signed Christmas and birthday cards from Grandma, but he couldn’t think of anyone who looked less like a grandmother than her. Not compared to his other grandma anyway, who wore thick rubber-soled slippers and loved to call him “ducky” even though the last time he’d checked, he hadn’t yet grown a beak and feathers. No, this person didn’t feel like a grandmother at all, and he secretly resolved to call her by her first name, Fran, instead.
When he didn’t answer, she rubbed her hands together despite the fact that it wasn’t cold. “Well, I guess we better make a move.”
Refusing her offer to carry his suitcase—he was perfectly capable of that himself—Rio followed her toward the exit where, in the parking zone, she halted by a 4 x 4 covered in a thick coating of dust.
He climbed into the passenger seat, pulled his seat belt across his body, and chewed his lip, trying to ignore the sudden, desperate urge for a wee.
As if sensing his discomfort, Fran turned to face him and seemed about to say something. But again, whatever it was died on her lips. Instead, she just cleared her throat. “I’m . . . sorry about your mother.”
Rio felt the sudden hot sting of tears and rubbed his eyes furiously, hoping she hadn’t seen. To avoid any further conversation, he pointedly turned his face to the window, and after a brief pause, she switched on the engine with a rough twist of the key, and they were off.
California was the place where Rio’s mother had been born and where she grew up. She’d left when she was barely twenty, first on a music scholarship to New York, and then, upon graduation, as a violinist in the London Philharmonic Orchestra. In all that time, she’d only been back once, taking Rio with her when he was just a tiny baby.
So long ago, he couldn’t remember any of it.
But technically, by virtue of his mother’s birth, he was half-American. Although it was a very small half because he’d lived in London all eleven and a quarter years of his life and spoke with a decidedly English accent. And so, this exotic, faraway world of endless sunshine; tall, fluttering palm trees; and golden beaches had always felt like a dream. And in truth, Rio had been looking forward to coming back nearly all his life.
Just not like this.
Opening the car window, he took a deep gulp of the Californian air. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the cleverest thing to do on a highway. Rio coughed and spluttered and felt the smog on his lungs.
This was California?
Everything was so big here. The cars, the road signs, the buildings—even the sky, looping above their heads in a vast indigo silence. As if the car had been picked up and thrown into a world full of giants. London was a city, but it didn’t feel anything like this.
Rio’s mom had always said that California was different. That it was peaceful. That its temperament would suit Rio. That . . .
He closed the window with a snap. Then, ignoring his grandmother’s attempts at conversation, he shut his eyes and tried to pretend he was still in a universe where his mother hadn’t sent him away to the other side of the world to stay with someone he barely even knew.
2
Ocean Bay
At some point, Rio must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew the car had ground to a halt. “We’re here,” his grandmother said. “Welcome to Ocean Bay.”
Dusk had stolen in, and he had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing properly. The small coastal town of Ocean Bay was about an hour north of LA. Not that he could spot the town right now. His grandmother lived on the outskirts, and the moon shone down on a huge, rambling beach house made of wood. It was a higgledy-piggledy-shaped building three stories high and painted top to toe in a soft pastel green. In its presence, Rio felt his insides soften. As if the house had magic healing properties and could smooth away even the most jagged of edges.
He rubbed his eyes. The flat he shared with his mother was so small, it could probably squeeze itself into this house half a dozen times over.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Fran murmured, a note of pride in her voice.
But if he thought the house was special, when Rio stepped out of the car the noise was something else entirely. A magnificent, almighty roar. The kind of noise only something extraordinarily powerful could make.
It was the roar of the ocean.
And Rio, who didn’t even like loud noises, discovered to his surprise that this noise was different. He could feel the force of it coursing through his body and had a sudden intense desire to suck the feeling right down into his belly and dislodge the tight band of pain trapped in his chest.
“Plenty of time for you to explore the beach.” Fran beckoned to him from the front step. “Come inside for now.”
He reluctantly followed her through the wide hallway and into the kitchen, where unlike back home, there were no photos, school drawings, or shopping lists tacked untidily to the wall. There weren’t even any dirty mugs or discarded plates or half-eaten ginger cookies. Instead, the room was full of cool steel appliances that gleamed so brightly he could see his reflection in them—a thin, pale-faced boy with a guarded expression and a thatch of unruly light brown hair that never looked neat, no matter how much he brushed it. The only sign of color was his favorite yellow T-shirt—the one his mom had bought him for his last birthday.
After a few moments, Fran placed a steaming plate of food in front of him. “Vegetable chili. I made it earlier from my own secret recipe. Eat up now.”
“Th-th-thank you,” Rio replied, hating the way his voice wobbled whenever he felt nervous. The only things he knew about his grandmother were that she was once a school principal, she’d lived in Ocean Bay all her life, and that she spoke with an American accent.
As he ate, she chattered away from the other side of the kitchen. “I thought tomorrow I could give you a tour of Ocean Bay,” she said. “Maybe we can go shopping or, or . . . perhaps I could show you the marina or even take you to the lighthouse! Up there you can see for miles and miles. It’s quite the sight. Or, if you’re feeling tired, we could just take a walk along the beach together?”
She looked expectantly at him over her glasses.
The words Rio really wanted to say remained stuck in his throat. That he hadn’t come here to have fun or go shopping, and he most definitely hadn’t come here to spend time with someone who hadn’t even been part of his life when he’d needed her the most.
Luckily his grandmother was distracted by the entrance of a long-haired white cat with a black patch of fur over its left eye who announced its presence with a plaintive meow.
“Pirate! There you are! Would you like to meet our guest?”
The cat didn’t seem particularly bothered about getting to know Rio, but nevertheless something in his chest softened. He’d always wanted a pet—even just a hamster—but the apartment rules had forbidden it. He leaned down to stroke the cat behind its ears and was rewarded with a loud purr.
“This is my grandson, Rio. He’s come all the way from London to stay with us for a vacation. Do you want to say hello?”
Rio wasn’t sure if it was the silly voice she used to speak to Pirate—the kind grown-ups put on for babies—or the fact that he was exhausted after a twelve-hour plane journey, or how she used the American word for holiday. Maybe it was everything. Either way, the words burst out of his chest before he could stop them. “It’s not a vacation! I’m not here for fun! I’m only here because I have to be!”
Fran opened and then closed her mouth. Rio thought she was going to say something, but she just shooed Pirate off the table and then busied herself with removing strands of white fur from her jumpsuit.
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
When it was time for bed, Rio followed his grandmother up a flight of rickety wooden stairs, where even through the walls he could hear the ocean. After pointing out the main bathroom—which had the hugest shower he’d ever seen and could probably fit at least two elephants—she led him up some more stairs to the very top of the house.
“Here’s your room,” she said, pushing open the door.
It was a large, vaulted attic space, and Rio’s eyes immediately feasted on the double bed—much larger than his own tiny bed back home. There was a rectangular-shaped window, hidden by dark blue vertical blinds, and the space smelled clean and fresh and ever so slightly of disinfectant.
It was a peaceful room, he decided instinctively. It had a warm, comforting, familiar feel. And there wasn’t a single car, bus, or motorcycle noise. All he could hear was the wash of the sea.
Expecting his grandmother to just disappear, he was surprised to notice she was still there, hovering indecisively in the doorway. Rio placed his suitcase on the bed. Snapping open the clasp, he recoiled from the scent of ginger that wafted out from the cookies his mom had packed. The smell of them so sharp in the air, it almost took his breath away.
“This was her room, you know.”
“What?!” He spun around. “This was my mum’s room?”
His grandmother nodded. “She used to practice her violin for hours standing just there. In front of the window. You can still see the grooves of her feet on the floorboards.”
Rio glanced to where she was pointing. To a slightly darkened, furrowed patch where the grain was noticeably more worn than the surrounding boards and where, if you looked hard enough, you could just about make out the outline of a pair of feet.
Without stopping to think, he moved across, carefully placing his own feet where his mother’s had been all those years before. Because she was so petite, it was a perfect match. The wood felt warm under his toes. And something else too. Something raw and alive. Standing there in her footprints, it was as if he could feel her music coursing up from the soul of the house where it had been hiding all these years.
Rio closed his eyes, and it was as if his mother were there, right in front of him, holding her violin against her neck, her eyes lit up as—
“I’m . . . I’m sorry things have turned out the way they have,” Fran said, faltering. At the sound of her voice, his neck and shoulders stiffened and the music abruptly faded. “But she’s in the right place.”
“Sh-sh-she’s going to get better!” Rio retorted angrily. “I’ll be back home in four weeks and . . . and you’ll see! Everything will be normal again!”
Fran opened her mouth to say something but then seemed to decide against it. “Sleep well, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”
3
Mum
It was exactly one month ago, when Rio found out he was being sent to California. It was a Tuesday evening in December, and he’d been sitting next to his mom on the sofa while they watched a documentary about polar bears in the Arctic. They were sharing two thick, gooey slices of chocolate cake dished up inside an empty violin case along with a pot of tea.
“Rio-cat,” she said tentatively. This was her special name for him because his ears were ever so slightly pointy at the tips. “I—I—I have something to tell you.”
“Mmmmm,” he answered distractedly, wondering if she’d let him eat the last bit of cake even though he’d eaten almost all of her slice already.
“I have to go away for a bit,” she said so quietly Rio thought that he’d misheard.
“Go away?” He turned to her in surprise. He couldn’t even remember the last time they’d left London. “Where?”
His mom tucked a stray strand of red hair behind her ear and swallowed nervously. Her face was alarmingly flushed. “A . . . hospital.”
Rio’s throat tightened so much he could barely breathe. He looked at her aghast.
“A hospital? Wh-wh-what kind of hospital?”
“A special one.” His mother sighed, wiped some crumbs from his chin, and explained how some hospitals weren’t just for people with physical illnesses. Some hospitals were for people who needed help in other, more invisible ways.