Whalesong: a short story by Kody Boye
In which a dying young woman undergoes a procedure to become a mermaid
I long to be one with the water.
It is a reality that has consumed me for years. That has caused me to feel great wonder at the best of times, and experience even greater harm during others. It has, for lack of a better phrase, become an obsession. However: it is one I am willing to sacrifice everything for.
As I stand here, at the edge of the seemingly endless ocean, looking out at the gentle tide, the whispering waves, I feel a tug of emotion as I realize that everything in my life is, after all this time, finally drawing to a close.
"Ashley?” the doctor asks.
I turn my head to face the man who said he would make my last wish come true, and say, “Yes, Doctor Harmon?”
“Are you ready?”
I could laugh, because as insane as this seems to others, the undeniable truth is that I have been waiting for this for years.
So, with a nod, and with a quiet, gentle sigh, I say, “Yes, Doctor Harmon. I’m ready.”
The man’s only response is to smile.
For so long he has been waiting to perform this operation—to give me this final gift.
Today, Doctor Harmon will make me a mermaid.
I wait for the final preparations to take place in silence. Knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that this will be the last time I will feel my legs, I take a moment to roll my ankles, to flex my toes, to shift my knees, and push them together.
The unreality is undeniable.
In moments, I will be rolled into surgery to undergo one of the most advanced medical procedures possible.
To say I am scared would be an understatement
“How are you feeling?” the anesthesiologist asks.
I blink as I take in her features—as I consider the unsure look in her eyes, the doubtful frown on her lips. I say, “I’m feeling fine,” and reach down to fidget with the warm blanket that covers me.
“He’s gone over the risks with you,” she says.
“Yes,” I reply.
“And you’re aware that there could be… complications.”
“Yes,” I say, almost automatically. “I’m… I’m aware.”
Though they say I will feel no pain, nor any suffering from the state-of-the-art procedure, the truth is that I am not as scared of physical pain as I am of emotional devastation.
Three years ago, when this entire journey began, I thought I would be dead at the end of it—killed by terminal brain cancer that had left most doctors baffled and others completely numb. At that point in time, I’d almost accepted my fate. I’d even, at several points, considered speeding the process along. But when the chance to apply to the Wish Program presented itself, I’d foolishly hoped, and maybe even wrongly prayed, that I would be chosen.
The woman who oversaw my application to the Wish Program had said that my chances of being selected were one in a million.
Who would’ve thought that a girl like me would get her last wish?
These are the things I consider as I lie here, waiting for the anesthesiologist to consider her watch, the hour displayed upon it. Quiet as it happens to be in this space, it feels so loud inside my brain–so loud, I feel, that it could drive me insane. It is for that reason that turn my head toward the window that overlooks the ocean, and find my heart singing in response.
To think, I muse, that after all this time, my dreams will finally come true.
When it comes time for the surgical nurses to step into the room, the anesthesiologist asks “Are you ready?” one final time.
All I can say, in response to this question, is, “Yes. I am.”
A moment later, she releases the drug into my system.
For a second, I think I will be able to say goodbye to the world as I know it–that I will not sit and wonder, or hope and pray. But as the medicine takes hold, and slowly begins to draw me under, I realize that I said goodbye to this world, and the hardships within it, a long time ago.
Now, I understand, is my time to let go.
As I am wheeled out of my waiting room, then down the hall toward surgery, I close my eyes—
And allow myself to slip into unconsciousness.
I do not understand what exactly I dream of while I am under. What I am meant to see, what I am meant to feel. There are moments of clarity in the delirium, during which I see flashes of imagery, flickers of sensation.
There are calm waters, I am quick to note. Blue waves. Gentle oceans. Shimmering rays.
At one point, I see a shard of light piercing down from the heavens, and striking the crystal-blue water below.
Then, I see it.
Los Angeles.
Or, more appropriately: what used to be Los Angeles: the City of Angels now fallen, returned to the sea. Its countenance is shrouded in mystery, in the telltale signs of dream. But it is its visual importance that drives home the realization that this is where I am meant to be, where I am truly meant to go.
For a moment, I can do nothing but allow my eyes to rise—to climb the highest skyscraper that used to exist in the City of Angels, all the way up to the heavens.
When I reach the top, light pierces my eyes—
—and then, I awaken.
“Miss Wright?” I hear a voice ask. “How are you feeling?”
It takes several moments for me to come to. When I am finally able to open my eyes, I find that I am submerged in water—tubes running into my ribcage, my body suspended by cables.
A moment of panic assaults me.
Then, he is speaking again.
“Miss Wright,” the man says. “You need to remain calm. Please, listen to me.”
I focus my eyes, which have been surgically manipulated to withstand the water’s oppressions, and center my gaze on the man on the other side of the tank.
I mouth, Doctor Harmon?
And the doctor says, “It’s me, Miss Wright. You have nothing to fear. Please—take a moment to breathe. We cannot release you from your suspensions until we know you are stable.”
A moment passes. Then two. I am exceptionally aware of how much my body has changed, how much it has been surgically altered; and as a result, allow my brain to work through the motions to properly filter oxygen into my lungs.
When my body finally responds, I feel water filter through my gills, then my mouth open in response.
“Good,” Doctor Harmon says, before gently lowering his hand. “You can breathe.”
I offer a slow, yet hesitant nod.
“We have worked with advanced bioengineering surgeons to form gills along your ribcage. This is how you are breathing.”
I inhale another breath. Feel the telltale signs of oxygen rushing into my brain. Grimace as a familiar pain stabs into my skull, much like I have felt before.
“Your procedure is almost complete,” the doctor said. “However… I will not lie. There were… complications that emerged.”
I blink. Watch the extra film wash over my eyes. Wait for Doctor Harmon to respond.
He sighs, then, before finally saying, “The brain cancer has worsened. I am… sad to say that you might not have long.”
A tug of emotion surges through me–like hot lava striking frigid water. I had anticipated this news, but to hear it so soon? So quickly?
Struggling to hold it together, I mouth, How long?
Doctor Harmon says, “We do not know.”
This time, I feel it within me: the siren’s cry of grief, rushing through my body, my brain.
Doctor Harmon turns his head to regard a screen I can vaguely see is recording my vitals, before finally saying, “We are pumping your body with specialized stem cells as we speak. We anticipate your injuries to heal within the day, possibly even less; and once we determine you will not succumb to infection, we will honor your final wishes and release you into the Pacific Ocean. Do you understand?”
I slowly, but hesitantly, nod.
“Good,” Doctor Harmon says.
He lifts his eyes to face me—and though I cannot yet see how he has changed my body, or what incisions the bioengineering surgeons have made, I understand that he is looking upon what he has worked toward his whole life.
For years, Doctor Harmon had claimed he would be able to bridge our divide between the land and the water. With my surgery’s success, he can honestly say that he has succeeded.
“I will be back to check on you soon,” he says.
When he turns to leave, I feel that same flicker of sensation within my mind once more.
I realize, now more than ever, that I want nothing more than to cry.
They will free me from what many consider to be the “human” world in roughly thirty minutes. During this time, which seems to stretch endlessly and without regard, I watch the nurses as they review information, doctors as they come forth to examine charts, and technicians as they work to coordinate my release. This, they claim, will be my official discharge. What they fail to mention is that I am not being removed from not only from this facility, but life itself.
Drifting here, in this saltwater-filled pod, I find every insecurity I’ve ever experienced bubbling to the surface.
What will I do, I think, when I finally leave this place?
Will I travel to Los Angeles? The long-gone City of Angels? Will I swim among the reefs? Take note of the many fish alongside me? Or will I simply wander for whatever time remains, only to consider what life really means and how my existence will have ultimately been cut short?
While considering these things, I look down at my webbed hands, and feel a frown pull my lips down.
“Miss Wright?” I hear a voice ask.
I lift my eyes to survey the world outside my tank, and watch as a nurse steps forward.
Yes? I mouth.
“There’s someone here to see you,” she says.
When she steps back, and gestures to someone coming around the bend in the hall, I expect to see Doctor Harmon, or even someone from the international news.
Instead, I see my mother.
My mother.
Who, throughout this entire ordeal, has been nothing but supportive, even though she had reservations, doubts, worries.
As she turns to face the tank, she pauses to consider me. Her eyes sweep from my shock of black hair to my medically-darkened skin, then to the tail which I have only briefly seen as a shock of mutated flesh. When her gaze finally settles on me, she says, “Oh, Ashley.”
Free of my suspension, I use years of study and practice of swimming like traditional Hollywood mermaids to propel myself forward.
When I come to swim opposite her, I press my hand to the glass, and spread my webbed fingers in response.
I thought— I mouth.
But my mother says, “I know. You thought I wouldn’t come. That I wouldn’t want to see.”
I offer a slow, hesitant nod.
My mother smiles, then, and says, “I wanted to see you off. Before you take your final journey into the sun.”
That is what she’d always called the end of things. Not death, or crossing over, or even going to Heaven. No. She called it the journey into the sun—which, I imagine, is not completely untrue, considering our origins. From stardust we had come.
My mother steps forward, then carefully lifts her eyes to consider me. “I also wanted to apologize,” she said. “For… for what nature has done.”
I blink, stunned at her submission, at this apology she has made countless times and now just made once more. Then, I sigh, and shake my head. It’s not your fault, I mouth.
“But it is my fault,” she says. “You know it is.”
I want to say something more–to tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that there was no way she could have possibly known. Unfortunately, doctors had confirmed this truth with genetic testing. Had said that my mother had inherited the aggressive cancer genes from her mother, and then passed them on to me. Both my grandmother and my mother had escaped those fates, leaving me to be the unfortunate victim in nature’s cruel toss of the dice.
My mother sniffles; and though I cannot hear the sounds of her suffering through the tank, I can see the tears flaring at her eyes, then slowly running down her face.
She turns to look up the hall, then says, “We don’t have much time. They’re… they’re waiting for me to finish before releasing you. But I just wanted to say one last thing before you head off into the sun.”
I settle my gentlest, most understanding gaze upon her.
“I wanted to say: I love you.”
She reaches forward, then; and though nothing could have prepared me for the emotional toll of this goodbye, something gives me pause, and allows me the strength to accept what is happening in stride.
I love you, I mouth back. I then say: Please… don’t blame yourself.
My mother’s only response is to sob.
It takes a moment for her to regain her composure. For her to come back to earth. And when she finally sets her gaze on me once more, she says only two words:
“Goodbye, Ashley.”
She then turns—and with the burden of the world between her shoulders, walks down the hall.
I know I should feel thankful. I know I should feel blessed. I know that I should also feel fortunate, because at least this way, I will die on my own terms. But knowing that I will never see her again? That I will never feel her touch, her hear voice, see her smile? That is beyond saddening. It’s torturous.
I know, however, that I cannot afford to allow grief to take hold of me. Because if it does…
I do not know what I will do.
I am officially discharged from the Harmon Institute of Advanced Biomedicine in the early hours of the morning. It is at this time, whereat I am beginning to feel the weight of the world upon me, that Doctor Harmon accompanies both me, and the vehicle transporting me, to the edge of Pasadena, now called the Gulf of California. There, the engineers who have worked tirelessly to arrange my safe transport unload my tank and ferry me over the grounds of what was once a thriving city, but is now a land filled with ghosts.
As they set me at the edge of the Gulf, and wade into the waters to prepare and open the tank, I lift my eyes to regard Doctor Harmon through the glass opening.
“I wanted to thank you,” Doctor Harmon said as he crouches down to consider me. “I… I know it’s saying a lot, all things considering, but your willingness to allow us to perform this procedure has shown that we are capable of taking to the sea, whenever that time comes.”
He turns his head to regard the distance; and though in this tank I cannot see what he is seeing, I know that he is looking out at what was once one of the largest cities in California, before nature had reclaimed the city, before time had taken its toll.
With a nod, Doctor Harmon centers his gaze on the technicians at the sides of the tank, and says, “Open it.”
They twist two levers. Pull aside the metal locks. Open, above my head, the gateway that will release me into my destiny.
As seawater rushes into the tank, invigorating me with added sensations and new stimuli, I allow my body to condition itself to the new temperature, as well as the unfortunate knowledge that my life will soon end.
When I reach up to take hold of the handles, I inhale a deep breath.
When I begin to pull myself out, I close my eyes.
When I finally feel my head burst into the Pacific Ocean, I twist my body about to regard Doctor Harmon and the two engineers who carried me here.
“Goodbye, Ashley,” I hear Doctor Harmon say, “and Godspeed.”
Godspeed, I think.
I wait for the man who changed my life to turn his head back to the west before descending into the Gulf.
A moment later, I lift my eyes, and begin to swim toward my final destination.
The path to the City of Angels is marked by devastation. With skyscrapers crumbling, roads cracking, and buildings disintegrating all around, it is almost impossible to believe that this place was once above water. However, it only takes one look at my surroundings, as well as the jagged crack in the earth, to realize how quickly the world had changed.
Me, diagnosed with cancer—
The San Andreas Fault line, split in two—
The city as it had crumbled, the people as they had died—
It’s been three years since that terrible event in 2077, and still, I am haunted by news coverage of the earth cracking, the world shattering. Even now, as I swim above the devastated remains of this city, I find myself wondering if I am right to intrude upon this place, if it is proper to swim above this graveyard of hopes and dreams, of lives that were taken too soon. Then, I look into the distance, and realize this world is not humanity’s anymore.
It’s theirs, I think.
I see them quite clearly now: the creatures of the water, living, persisting, thriving. Fish swimming among the desecration, pockmarked with spreading coral and aquatic plants; dolphins dancing amidst the debris, motes of light caught by plankton and other aquatic life shimmering. Distantly, I can make out a number of sea turtles, coasting the current that runs along a once-main street, as well as jellyfish maneuvering through alleyways, flaring their bulbed heads, extending their many limbs. Here, the sun still shines, allowing me to see everything—from rusting street signs, to the husks of automobiles, to metal, glass, and more.
It is, without a doubt, beautiful. To know that nature has reclaimed what was once destroyed, and will do so time and time again, so long as life continues to persist.
But, I imagine: all things are beautiful when you are dying.
It is a thought that occurs to me almost unconsciously, and is prompted, I imagine, by the inhumane feelings of suffering raking through my system. Doctor Harmon had been quick to tell me that the stem cells, and the painkilling medications, would eventually run out. But as the pain begins to stab into my skull, inflicting tremors of agony across my brain, I find myself trying, with everything I possess, to hold it together.
Drifting here, within the waters above what was once Los Angeles, I lift my eyes to gaze into the distance, and take note of a long, drawn-out sound.
Not a sound, I then think. A song.
Whalesong.
The knowledge pulls at me like gravity, prompting me to extend my arms, to pump the muscles that control my tail. I swim, ever so carefully, through the destruction, the devastation, and try my hardest not to crumble.
For years I had waited for this life-changing moment, this world-altering experience, fighting with tooth and claw and nail and bone to make it to this point in time even despite the emotional trauma, the physical pain. Now that I am here, I can’t help but wonder if I would have been better off somewhere else—maybe at home, with my mother, my older brother, my best friend.
Would hospice really have been so bad? I am quick to question.
I don’t know; and though a part of me longs to imagine it, I know I cannot.
It is for this reason that I push myself forward—that I coast these currents, swim these shallows, brave this wreckage of my life and body and this cruel and unfortunate world, until I break free of the largest cluster of skyscrapers.
Then, I come upon them.
The humpbacks.
They are beyond breathtaking, these creatures, these titans among the animal kingdom. Dozens of feet long, and almost larger than the eye can see, I look on at their fragile beauty, their colossal hearts.
I raise my hand to acknowledge them. Then, I hear one cry out.
It takes only a moment for me to realize that they are singing for me.
Me.
Ashley Wright—the girl who wanted nothing more than to lose herself to the sea.
As I draw closer—pushing my way not just beneath their shadows, but their light—I take note of one’s kind eye as it looks upon me, and watch as it extends a flipper toward me.
A moment of weakness consumes me, and for a moment, I feel I will suffer in silence.
Not silence, I then think. Song.
It is with trepidation I feel only comes to those who cling to life that I reach out and take hold of the humpback whale.
For a moment, I wish nothing for nothing more than life—that it was not my time to depart, that I would not have to go into the sun.
It is only when I close my eyes, and feel an unfathomable darkness take hold of me, that a fleeting thought enters my mind.
For so long, I thought I had desired life. Now, I realize, I only desired peace.
Peace.
For myself. My family. My friends.
Drifting here, within the waters of the Gulf of California, I am reminded of a time when I stood aboard a boat with my mother at my side, and looked out at the ocean as the whales breeched the surface. I’d laughed as the waves rolled forward, as the boat rocked, as the crowds waved.
I’d asked, Mama?
And she’d replied, What is it, Ashley?
I’d asked, Why do the whales sing?
And she had said: The whales sing because it is what they know.
What they know, I think.
As the whale begins to swim into the distance, I am left with an overwhelming sense of belonging.
To the earth I once was born, I then think, and to the ocean I will now return.
I take a moment to consider everything that has happened in my life–all the hopes, the trials, the trauma, the tribulations. Most importantly: I think of everything I have lost, and everything I have now gained.
Then I lift my eyes–
And make my way into the sun.
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