Unspoken Page 14

  Silently berating myself for my stupidity, I hurried to punch the power button, then lowered my head as the screen went black. I’ve always been careful to shield Sema from unpleasantness, so how could I have forgotten the tragic events of this film?

  Maybe I could change the subject and distract her. Brightening my voice, I pasted on a smile and turned. “Look what I have, sweetie. Apple juice, your favorite. I even punched the straw for you.”

  Sema didn’t look at the juice box, but gestured in frantic, sloppy signs: Men hurt gorilla. Why?

  I sank to her blanket as cold reality swept over me in a choking wave. I had tried to teach Sema about life’s most important concepts, but I had failed to teach her about death.

  Where gorilla? Where Glee’s friend gorilla?

  I hesitated, blinking in confusion, then I realized what she meant. She had transposed the movie characters and real life; in her mind, I was Dian Fossey, she was Digit.

  “Oh, sweetie. The gorilla died.” Carefully, I made the open-palmed sign for die . “He’s gone.”

  Where gorilla?

  I shook my head. “He’s nowhere, sweetheart. When you die, you go away.”

  Sema didn’t answer, but hung her head and stared at the floor. Respecting her silence and her sorrow, I gave her a hug, then left the juice box on the straw and stepped outside.

  Sema usually drifted right off after lunch, but that afternoon she sat in her nest and cried for nearly thirty minutes before finally falling asleep. Her sad hooting echoed down the hall and lifted the hair at the back of my neck—I’d never heard her express such sorrow, though Penny Patterson had written that Koko mourned in a similar fashion when her favorite kitten died.

  Desperate to help my girl, I went in search of Fielding and found him at his desk. “May I ask how we’re doing on the time line for Sema’s habituation?”

  He shot me a frown. “I thought you were in no hurry.”

  “I’m not, but Sema is. She’s driving me crazy with wanting to see the others. She’s—well, I think a little more exposure will be good for her. She’s ready.”

  Fielding took a deep breath, then checked his calendar. “We could move her into the night area this week and try the first face-to-face contact this Sunday—which means we should move her into the exam room Friday or Saturday. If we don’t feel confident about proceeding, we don’t have to.”

  “Okay.” I pressed my lips together and stood. “I’m going to run home to pick up a few things. I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  Fielding looked at me with a smile in his eyes. “You mean you still have stuff at your house? I thought you’d moved all your earthly possessions into Sema’s room.”

  “Very funny. You’re a regular laugh riot, Fielding.”

  “I’m only half-joking. You need to break the connection, Glee. You can’t expect her to bond to the other animals if she’s still tied to you.”

  “I’m working on it. She’s here, isn’t she?”

  “Yeah, but you haven’t let her spend a single night alone. I don’t know what you’re afraid of—”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  The question hung between us, but I wasn’t about to answer. I was afraid of hurting Sema, having my work amount to nothing, watching my girl suffer—but Fielding didn’t need to know my fears.

  “An hour.” I rapped on his desk. “I’ll be back.”

  The house smelled stale and musty when I walked through the door. I hit the switch for the fan, then noticed the telephone answering machine blinking in a steady rhythm. I dropped the mail onto the kitchen counter, jabbed the play button on the machine, and moved to the refrigerator to pluck a Diet Coke from the shelf. My grandmother’s voice filled the kitchen as I popped the lid.

  “Hi, Glee. Listen, I know you’re really busy right now, but we missed you at dinner Saturday night. Rob and Cheri came, can you believe it? So don’t let us down this Saturday. We want to know how you and Sema are adjusting. Call me if you can. Love you!”

  I gulped at my soft drink, closed my eyes against a sudden onslaught of carbonated bubbles, then sighed as a telephone solicitor tried his best to convince me that I needed to subscribe to the Wall Street Journal . As if I had extra money to invest!

  I moved to my room, turned on the small television on the dresser, and listened to the local news and weather channel as I fumbled through a drawer for clean lingerie. I desperately needed a shower—several days of paper towel baths in the small employee restroom had taken a toll. My hair, which was supposed to be worn in a carefree, fluffy style, looked far more flat than fluffy.

  After stepping into the bathroom, I stripped off my filthy khakis and detestable tan shirt. I would wear one of my old T-shirts back to work; I had neither the time nor the inclination to do laundry. If Matthews saw me out of uniform—well, he wouldn’t, because I’d be wearing my lab coat.

  I was about to step into the shower when a phrase from the television grabbed my attention. “Ken Matthews,” a helmet-haired anchor declared, “director of Thousand Oaks Zoo, announced a stunning new attraction at a press conference today. From the jungle-themed dining hall outside the gorilla pavilion, Matthews announced that Sema, the world’s second female talking gorilla, had recently returned to the zoo and was in the process of being introduced to her new gorilla family.”

  I gripped the shower curtain, alarm needling through my veins. What in the world was Matthews thinking? How could he go public with this news now?

  I yanked my robe from the back of the door and threw it over my shoulders as I padded into the bedroom. The camera panned a crowd at the zoo—no mistaking those painted walls or that vendor-studded sidewalk— and settled on Matthews, white hair perfectly in place, gold-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. Wearing a light blue dress shirt, red suspenders, and a red tie, he stood outside the gorilla pavilion with Dakarai and his family in the background. As the camera zoomed in, a microphone picked up his voice: “ . . . and we look forward to the thousands who will come for an opportunity to have a conversation with a genuine talking gorilla.”

  I dug my nails into my scalp as the camera cut back to the newscaster. He smirked at his female partner. “By the way, Marie, do you know how to talk to a fish?”

  “No, Don.” She flashed a bleached smile at the camera. “How do you talk to a fish?”

  “You drop him a line.”

  I closed my eyes, waiting until the urge to leap back into my filthy clothes had passed. Every particle of my being wanted to fly to the zoo and confront Matthews about this latest idiocy, but what good would it do? The zoo owned Sema. The zoo director had every right to invite people to see her.

  I would be completely unable to prevent Sema from becoming a tourist attraction unless I could convince Fielding that Sema could not adjust to life in the habitat.

  First, though, I needed to speak to Fielding and warn him about his boss’s foolhardy action. And since I wanted Fielding on my side of this debate, I should go to him smelling of something other than gorilla.

  An hour later, still steaming, I pulled into my parking spot behind the gorilla pavilion. My temper had spiked when I first heard the news; now a dozen indignant questions kept my anger at a slow boil. What gave Matthews the right to schedule a press conference without first speaking to me? Had he discussed this with Fielding? If so, had Fielding kept the news from me? He might have, because he knew I’d be furious, but how dare he!

  I slammed the car door and covered the distance between my car and the employees’ entrance with long strides. My hands trembled as I fumbled for my key card, but I finally found the card at the bottom of my purse and zipped it through the lock.

  The sound of Claire’s laughter echoed in the hall as I came through the doorway. From the shadows on the floor I could tell she stood in Sema’s room, her hands flying as she signed and spoke aloud: “You want me to scratch you?”

  What was going on? Was the entire world conspiring against me today?

  I took two quick steps, then hesitated as I watched the interplay of shadowy figures. Sema was talking to Claire. She often talked to other people through me, signing her thoughts while I interpreted. This was something new, something important.

  Transfixed despite my anger, I leaned against the wall and remained out of sight.

  “Oooohhh.” Claire laughed. “I get it now. You want to be tickled! Come over here, then, and I’ll tickle you.”

  I stepped forward in time to see Sema knuckle-walk toward Claire, her mouth open in a pink grin.

  I couldn’t allow this. “Claire, do you want to get hurt?”

  She whirled, a flush brightening her face. “What?”

  “I thought we had a policy of not touching the animals.”

  “Sure, but Sema’s—”

  “She is not a pet, Claire, and she’s very strong. She could hurt you without intending to.”

  Claire stiffened. Though her blush betrayed her embarrassment, her eyes revealed her anger. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to threaten your dangerous gorilla.”

  I leaned against the door frame and studied Sema, who was observing our exchange with interest. Because her moods vacillated with mine, I needed to restore peace . . . as smoothly as possible.

  I pushed a smile across my lips. “Sorry for nearly taking your head off.” I kept my voice low. “By the way, where’d you learn to sign?”

  Claire gaped at me, probably wondering if I’d developed multiple personalities in the last hour.

  “Church,” she finally answered. “I used to interpret services.”

  “You’re pretty good. But Sema doesn’t understand straight American Sign Language. Some of her signs are a little different.”

  Some of the frostiness left Claire’s eyes. “I noticed that. I also noticed that you’ve invented unique signs. I didn’t know the sign for tickle .” The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of her mouth. “That word never came up in a Sunday sermon.”

  I laughed. “I can imagine. Sema taps her underarm when she wants to be tickled.” I remained silent a moment, waiting for Sema to realize that I was not angry with Claire. “How long have you two been talking?”

  A wall sprang up behind Claire’s eyes. “I don’t know. A few minutes.”

  I smiled again. “I’m not mad, Claire, just concerned—and curious. I don’t think Sema has ever directly conversed with anyone but me, so I’d like to know how the situation developed.”

  The girl leaned against the wall. “It was no big deal, really. I was walking by and saw Sema was awake. I opened the door and casually signed, ‘Hi, Sema,’ and she responded with the sign for C-person .” She shrugged. “I figured that’s what you had taught her to call me, so I asked how she was feeling. She signed fine , so I asked if she wanted anything, and she started tapping her underarm. She had her mouth open, like she was laughing. That’s when I figured out that she wanted me to tickle her.”

  I nodded, absorbing the information in a pleasant haze of disbelief. How amazing. Sema had behaved as naturally as any individual being greeted by another. She had not only responded appropriately and logically, but she had demonstrated her ability to recall a name and place it with the proper person . . . I had to record every detail.

  “Thanks, Claire.” I gave her a genuine smile. “This is a red-letter day.”

  Claire snorted softly and sidled toward the door. “If you say so.” Moving out of the room, she raised her hand. “Bye, Sema. Catch you later.”

  Sema leaned sideways, watching Claire walk away, then righted herself and looked at me. Claire gone?

  “She’s going to work.” I slipped my lab coat over my nonregulation T-shirt. “And I’ve got to go talk to Brad. Would you like some juice before I go?”

  Good juice. Apple juice. Hurry hurry want apple juice.

  I laughed. “I get it; you’re thirsty. I’ll be right back.”

  Leaving a happy gorilla girl slurping from a sippy cup and watching The Wizard of Oz, I went in search of Fielding. I found him outside, sweating in the sun as he and another khaki-clad employee unloaded baled straw from the back of a pickup truck.

  Fielding grinned when he saw me. “What’s the problem now, Glee?”

  “Did I say there was a problem?”

  “You’re wearing that look.”

  I pressed my lips together, purposely waiting in the shade until they had finished and the driver pulled away. When Fielding and I were alone, I stepped forward and crossed my arms. “Why does Matthews think he can schedule a press conference about Sema without talking to me first?”

  Fielding pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “If you’ll recall,” he spoke in an even and measured tone, “Sema belongs to Thousand Oaks Zoo. Despite the agreement the lawyers hammered out, I don’t think Matthews is required to consult you about any of his decisions.”

  For an instant my head buzzed with angry words, then one question shot to my lips: “Did you know?”

  “As a matter of fact”—his gaze rose to meet mine—“I did, but only about five minutes before Matthew stepped out to speak to the reporters. I wanted to warn you, but you’d already left the pavilion.”

  “What was Matthews thinking? We’re trying to accomplish something on a slow and steady course, so why did he go public with the news now?”

  “He didn’t announce a date,” Fielding pointed out, “and he knows our first priority is getting Sema safely habituated. After that’s accomplished, why not give the public a chance to meet her? A few minutes of social interaction shouldn’t interfere with your work—it might even prove interesting. How many other signing gorillas are regularly exposed to the public?”

  “None, and with good reason. We can’t let people come up to her. She could be exposed to all kinds of illnesses—”

  “Matthews can’t be planning on face-to-face interaction,” Fielding interrupted. “Whatever he does, it’ll be safe. Maybe we can rig something up with cameras or closed-circuit TV—she could interact with people from the safety of the observation room.” He mopped his face one more time, then grinned at me. “Why wouldn’t that work?”

  Because I’m not planning on being here. I had to bite the inside of my lip to keep from screaming the words. If my plan succeeded, Sema wouldn’t adjust to habituation and Fielding would agree she’d be better off at home.

  This conversation might have been a mistake. I’d come on like an adversary and I desperately needed him as a partner.

  “Fielding,” I injected a worried note into my voice, “what if Sema doesn’t adjust? I’ve been trying to help her—you have to admit that— but I’m not sure this is going to work. She may be fascinated with the others for a while, but you were right: she is used to being the center of attention. I’m afraid she will fail to thrive after a while . . . and we may realize she is better off living in human society.”

  Fielding stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and gave me a wry smile. “I think she’ll do fine. And I think the move will be good for both of you. Sure, Sema’s going to have to learn how to be a gorilla. She’s going to have to learn that the universe doesn’t revolve around her, but isn’t that part of growing up? Kids do it. Sema can do it too.”

  “But she’s not a kid—”

  “Did you ever stop to think, Glee, that maybe this move will be a good thing for you, too? I mean, think about it—can you name another thirty-year-old woman who has focused her entire life on the well-being of an animal?”

  For an instant I was speechless, then names sprang to mind: “Dian Fossey. Jane Goodall.”

  “Fossey? She cared for a species, not a single animal. Some folks say she cared more for gorillas than for people, and look what all that caring got her—a machete through the skull. Goodall, on the other hand, cares for chimpanzees, but she also has a husband and family. She learned how to balance her work and her life.”

  I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. “You think my life is out of balance? How would you know, and why on earth should you care?”

  Fielding stepped back into a sliver of shade, then leaned against the wall. “We used to be friends,” he said, his brown eyes lit with a golden glow. “And friends look out for one another. If we’re not friends anymore, well, maybe I should keep my mouth shut. It’s your call, Glee. If you want me to keep quiet, all you have to do is say so.”

  I couldn’t find words to answer. This conversation had not proceeded the way I wanted it to; he had wandered into topics I never meant to discuss.

  So I responded the way any self-respecting researcher would—I lifted my chin and met his gaze head-on.

  “We might still be friends,” I answered, “if you hadn’t been so intent on leaving Sema alone the night she was born.”

  A sudden spasm of regret knit his brows. “Will you never forget that night? I’m sorry. You were right and I was wrong. But that was eight years ago. We’ve both learned a lot since then.”

  “Yeah, we have.”

  I looked down and nudged a clump of grass with my sneaker. He’d never apologized before, but an apology couldn’t restore the closeness we had once shared. We had learned about each other. I knew he would always be by-the-book-Brad and he knew I would always be a boat rocker. How could two people of such differing perspectives be good friends?

  We could work together . . . but no more than that. We were just too different.

  “When you’re ready to talk about our work,” I avoided his eyes, “I’ll be with Sema.”

  Wrapped in as much dignity as I could muster, I turned and walked away.

  16

  Sema and I were watching the Wicked Witch of the West screech her way into a puddle when Fielding leaned into the observation room. “Just got a call from Matthews’s secretary,” he said, his face locked in neutral. “He wants to meet with us.”

  Turning so Sema couldn’t see my expression, I looked at Fielding and frowned. “When?”