Page 22

22

CALIFORNIA, 2011

After last night, I’m not sure how I can possibly stand up in front of five hundred people and pretend that the seals and their welfare are at the forefront of my mind. The potential reward of getting this petition submitted and actioned has paled into insignificance now that the life I’ve tried so hard to create and preserve is hanging in the balance.

“OK, let’s get you mic’d up,” says a smiley woman coming at me, with no concept of what’s going on behind my tired eyes. She rummages around the underside of my blazer, which I’d bought especially for the occasion, hoping it conveyed that I was friendly and approachable to the community while meaning business to local government, whose votes we need to sway with this one final push.

I peek around the side of the stage, my mouth drying out as rows and rows of expectant faces look through the booklet I’d so lovingly prepared, back when my life resembled the one I’ve spent the past twenty years cultivating.

“You’re good to go,” says the smiley woman. “You ready?”

I nod, but I feel I no longer know what I’ve signed up for.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” starts the announcer, her voice booming around San Diego’s revered convention center. “There’s not a soul among us who doesn’t love our city’s seals, for all that they give us , and the world further afield. We’re the lucky ones because they’ve chosen our beaches to live, play, swim, and birth pups on. But human intrusion on what should be a safe and protected environment is evermore prevalent, and it’s fallen to one woman to be their voice. And thank goodness for her… Please welcome Nicole Forbes.”

My ears fill with the whooping and hollering, but the noise still doesn’t drown out the doubts and bewilderment that seep into my veins as I try to hold it together. A week ago, I would have been seen as an upstanding member of the community: a devoted mother, a loyal wife, someone who only ever wanted to do good. But now I crumble under the glaring spotlights as I hazard a guess as to how many of these well-meaning expressions are actually asking what kind of a mother loses their child. And I can’t help but wonder to myself, What kind of a wife has lived a life her husband doesn’t know about?

I scan the faces in front of me, paranoid that someone here knows more about me than I want them to. Or perhaps they know even more than I do. Do they know that my life is about to implode? Is there someone here who is going to be instrumental in that, and they’re just waiting, biding their time, for the perfect moment to cut the strings and watch me fall?

I stumble through my well-rehearsed speech, hoping that my impassioned plea for just a few more signatures is better received than how it feels to deliver. My voice doesn’t seem loud enough, and my eyes are fervently surfing the audience looking for Brad, my stalwart supporter, who up until twenty-four hours ago wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Though now, that world has turned upside down, and I honestly don’t know how it will ever be upright again.

When I finish, the floor is opened to questions and I numbly answer them, as if on autopilot, because all I can think about is getting home to salvage the wreckage of my marriage.

“I don’t think you’re being entirely honest about your motivations here,” booms a voice over the microphone.

A collective gasp ripples through the audience before an awkward silence descends.

“Ex-cuse me?” I say, sure that I must have misheard, but also because I need to hear her speak again.

“I just think she should be honest, is all,” reverberates the woman’s British accent around the conference hall.

She’s here. The woman who seems intent on destroying my life is here. But where ?

My mouth dries up and there’s a pull at the back of my throat as I frantically search the hundreds of faces, as if in a race against time.

“I’m sorry,” I say, willing myself to focus. “I don’t understand…”

“I had the pleasure of your husband’s company the other evening,” she goes on.

I grip the lectern as my insides twist against each other, fighting to control the swell of nausea.

“And he was telling me that if this petition is passed, you stand to get a grant from the city council…”

Where is she? Where is she? Her voice is bouncing off the walls, but I can’t see her.

“And in order to get the petition passed, you need to prove that the seals need protecting.”

“The seals do need protecting,” I counter, resisting the temptation to jump down onto the floor and blindly run around the auditorium to hunt down the faceless voice. “There are, on average, three public assaults on them every week. It is causing them great distress and impacting how they interact with human beings and each other.”

“But creating a petition gives you more impetus in the community and a better chance of proving the point.”

“What exactly is your agenda here?” I ask, even though I’m terrified of the answer.

“I want to be sure, before I sign this petition, that the seals’ best interests are being preserved and that this isn’t all part of a shameless money-grabbing exercise by someone who could use a little windfall.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, but I can’t tell if it’s from me or the audience.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to imply,” I say, my voice wavering ever so slightly. “But any money we receive will go directly toward ensuring the welfare of the colony.”

“So not toward the extravagant holiday you’ve booked to Barbados later this year…?”

My knuckles turn white as I picture the marine biology bachelor’s degree that proudly hangs in my office. I didn’t go back to school for four years and dedicate my life to the preservation of sea life to have it be suggested that I have an ulterior motive.

“What I do in my private life has nothing to do with the conservation effort, and it certainly has nothing to do with you.”

“I just want to make sure that everything’s out in the open,” she says cryptically, as I lock my knees in an attempt to stop my legs from buckling.

“I have nothing to hide,” I say, though the tremor in my voice and the viselike grip around my chest, squeezing my rib cage, would suggest otherwise.