Manatee Blues Read online

  “Her head looks better,” I point out. “The peanut shape is gone.”

  Gretchen studies the injured manatee. “The tube feedings have started to rehydrate her and have given her some much-needed calories. But look at her position in the water.”

  Carlos nods. “She’s leaking air into her chest again.”

  “I think the infection is getting the better of her.” Gretchen takes off her earrings and watch and sets them on the counter. “Call everybody in. We’re going to put her under to X-ray, tap the chest again, and clean out the propeller wounds. It’s time for some manatee surgery.”

  Chapter Ten

  I’ve seen surgery at Dr. Mac’s Place, but it’s a little different here. For one thing, the patient weighs nine hundred pounds, so it’s a bit harder to move her around. It takes nearly an hour just to get Violet into the treatment chute, put her in the sling, drain the water from the chute, use the crane to transport her into the treatment room (with a very big operating table), and get her ready for the anesthesia.

  Maggie, Zoe, and I are allowed to watch as long as we say on our stools in the corner. I pretend my butt is stuck to the chair with gum. I’m not going anywhere. Dr. Mac is scrubbed and gloved, but mostly she’ll just watch. She’s the best pet vet around, but she doesn’t have the experience with manatees that Gretchen and Carlos do.

  Gretchen gives Violet a sedative in her peduncle, using a giant syringe with a long needle. With Violet relaxed, Gretchen, Carlos, and one of their assistants hook up Violet to a ventilator, a machine that will take over breathing for her while she’s knocked out. Once that’s all set up, they inject the strong anesthesia, and Violet is out like a light.

  “Let’s get to work,” Gretchen says.

  After scrubbing the left half of Violet’s back, Gretchen makes a small incision through the skin and blubber. She takes a short piece of plastic tubing, about the size of a drinking straw, inserts it into the incision, and stitches it in place. It sticks out from Violet’s skin just a little bit.

  “This is a chest tube,” she explains to us. “The tear in Violet’s lung keeps leaking air into her chest cavity. When that cavity is full of air, the lung can’t properly expand. We tapped it yesterday, but it filled again. This tube will make sure her lung can inflate properly.”

  “You mean she’s going in the water with that tube sticking out of her?” Maggie asks, her eyes wide. “Won’t water get into the tube?”

  “Maybe. The pressure from inside her body should hold much of the water out. It’s the best we can do for now. We can’t keep her on land until she heals. That’ll take months. Manatees really shouldn’t be out of the water for more than twenty-four hours. This is a better choice than allowing the lung to die. That would kill her for sure.”

  Gretchen takes a large syringe, sticks it into the chest tube, and pulls up on it. The tube slowly fills with some nasty-looking pus. She hands the full syringe to Carlos. He hands her an empty one.

  “No wonder she was feeling rotten,” Carlos says. “She has an infection in the chest cavity, too.”

  “I’m glad we caught it,” Gretchen says as she suctions out more pus. “That’s it. All gone. We’ll increase her antibiotics to help kill this infection. The chest tube will allow for some drainage, too.” She checks to make sure the chest tube is secure, then covers it with a small bandage fastened with superglue.

  Carlos starts to peel off the huge bandage covering Violet’s infected propeller cuts. “Since she’s under anesthesia, we can really clean these cuts without causing her pain,” he explains. He and Gretchen both pick up scalpels and start to cut away the dead tissue.

  Zoe winces. “Are you sure that doesn’t hurt?” she asks.

  “She can’t feel a thing right now,” Gretchen assures her. She drops the scalpel on the instrument cart and picks up a brown bottle of disinfectant, which she pours into the open wound. “The contaminated wounds and lung problems are bad enough to kill her. We need to help her fight off this infection.”

  She rinses off the bubbly disinfectant, then pours on some more. “I’ll do this a couple of times until I’m sure we’ve cleaned out all the contaminant,” Gretchen explains. “This will help her form new tissue—scar tissue—that will close up the wounds.”

  Once Gretchen is satisfied that the propeller wounds are clean, she injects the drug that will reverse the anesthesia and wake Violet up.

  “This is going to take a while,” Gretchen says. “I need to wean her off the ventilator, get her breathing on her own. Then we’ll tube-feed her again and get her back in the tank.”

  “How long until we’ll know if she’s better?” I ask.

  “We’ll be able to tell right away if the chest tube is working. But it could take months or even years for a full recovery and until she’s ready to be released. She’s been through a lot.”

  One of the research assistants knocks and opens the door. “Phone call, boss,” she says to Gretchen.

  “Take a message,” Gretchen says. “I’ll call them back.”

  “It’s the bank,” the assistant says. “They said to tell you they’re calling about the loan.”

  “We can finish up here,” Carlos says. “Go.”

  Gretchen pulls off her surgical gloves with a snap. “Wish me luck.”

  “Should we release Key Lime into the tank with Violet?” Carlos asks as Gretchen heads for the door.

  She pauses. “Absolutely,” she says. “There’s nothing like having a kid around to keep your spirits up.”

  While the staff gets Violet back in the water, Zoe, Maggie, and I are put in charge of going through the case histories of the wildlife treated at the center. Gretchen and Carlos have to write up a big report that lists all the animals they’ve treated in the past year, what they were able to release, and what died. It’s the kind of paperwork the government requires.

  Some of it is fascinating. They’ve saved alligators found in swimming pools, pelicans with fishing hooks in their beaks, deer that have been hit by cars, and an egret with a broken wing.

  Some of it is sad. A sandhill crane run over by a drunk driver. A manatee that had some jerk’s initials carved into its back with a knife. Three baby river otters deliberately killed.

  But we focus on the good stories, not the bad, and the work goes quickly. When Carlos brings in boxes of hot pizza for dinner, none of us can believe that the entire afternoon has flown by. He sends me to find Dr. Mac and Gretchen.

  Dr. Mac is sitting on the edge of the dock with her feet in the canal. Gretchen is sitting next to her.

  “Pizza’s here,” I say. “You’d better come if you want any.”

  “Have a seat, Brenna,” Dr. Mac says, patting the deck next to her.

  Uh-oh. It’s that serious, grown-up tone of voice again.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask as I sit down.

  Gretchen tucks a loose strand of hair into her bun. “The bank won’t loan us any more money, and we can’t afford to pay back what we already owe,” she says. “The rescue center has to close.”

  Close the center? They can’t!

  “No!” I shout.

  Dr. Mac knows what I’m feeling. “I realize that sounds drastic, Brenna. We’ve been trying to come up with an alternative all day.”

  “You can’t close this place!” I exclaim. “What about Violet? And Key Lime? And the snakes and alligators? They’ll die without you. Doesn’t the bank know that? Go to a different bank. And what about the fund-raiser? Dr. Mac is giving you money. Everyone is giving money.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Gretchen says. She pries a sliver of wood up from the dock. “This isn’t the first bank I’ve gone to—it’s the ninth. And Dr. Mac has been very generous, but we need really big bucks. Checks with lots of zeros on the end. It costs thirty thousand dollars to care for one manatee for a year. And our equipment is very expensive. Some of it isn’t paid for yet, and the rest has to be maintained. The money just isn’t there.”

  The in
sects have quieted down. The only sounds are the faint radio playing for the snakes and tortoises inside and the gentle slap of the river against the hulls of the rescue boats.

  Gretchen rubs her hands over the wooden dock to feel for more slivers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  I try again. “But Violet …”

  “We’ll work it out. I’ll talk to the other critical-care centers and see who can take our manatees. We’ll find homes for the other critters, too. Then I have to help my staff find jobs …”

  She stops, her voice choked with emotion. Dr. Mac reaches out and squeezes her hand. Gretchen clears her throat.

  “The bankers are coming here tomorrow morning. They want to inspect the property.”

  Dr. Mac lifts her feet out of the river and shakes the water off them. “We’ll stay out of your hair,” she says. “The girls are ready for some beach time, and I have tickets to the baseball game tomorrow.”

  “Did you cancel the fund-raiser?” I ask.

  Gretchen collects the slivers in the palm of her hand. “The fund-raiser is still on,” she says. “We still need every dime to cover our debts. I’ll make the announcement there. I hope you can come.” She looks over at me. “It will be your last chance to say good-bye to Violet and Key Lime.”

  Dr. Mac stands up and motions to me with her hand. We should leave Gretchen alone.

  “I’ll save you a slice of pizza,” I say as I get to my feet.

  “Um-hmm,” Gretchen answers.

  We leave her at the water’s edge.

  Chapter Eleven

  After breakfast the next morning, we head for the beach. Maggie and Zoe both glop on handfuls of thick white sunscreen.

  “You’d better put some on, too,” Maggie says as she tosses me the bottle of lotion. “You don’t want to take a sunburn home as a souvenir.”

  Zoe stretches out on her towel. “Ah, the sun! Don’t you love it?”

  I rub sunscreen on my arms and face. This is an awesome beach. The sand is clean and dotted with shells left by the tide. There aren’t any noisy motorboats out yet, and the breeze keeps things cool. Still, I wish I were at the rescue center instead.

  “I’m going swimming,” Maggie announces. She leaps up, sprints to the water, and dives in. She shouts for me to join her.

  “No, thanks!” I call back.

  Zoe sits up and crosses her legs. “Brenna Lake, I know you’re bummed, but this is a vacation. You are supposed to have fun. F-U-N spells fun.”

  I pick up a shell and draw a manatee in the sand. I’ve got the manatee blues. “I keep thinking about the center. I can’t believe it has to close.”

  Zoe fills her hands with sand and opens her fingers to let it dribble out. “I know, but they’re going to take care of the animals. Carlos told us about the other places that they can go.”

  I wipe away the sand manatee with my hand. “It’s not right. I can’t help being sad about it.”

  “That’s ’cause you’re a good person,” Zoe says.

  Maggie flops down between us. “The water is great! You guys don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “Brenna’s bummed about the center closing,” Zoe says. “I’m trying to cheer her up.”

  “It stinks, I know,” Maggie says as she squeezes the water out of her pigtails. “But Gran said they tried everything. Sometimes things don’t work out. Come swimming with me. That will make you feel better.”

  After lunch, we pick up my photos from the FotoHut and head for the ballpark with Dr. Mac. The Bay City Stingers are playing the Hurricanes again.

  Yippee.

  We wade through the huge crowd to take our seats in the stands. This is only the Stingers’ second season. The ballpark is pretty spiffy. It has two giant twenty-foot-high screens in the outfield and comfortable seats. We’re ready for the game: popcorn, cotton candy, and nachos with cheese.

  But all I can think about is the center. What will happen to Key Lime if he doesn’t find a mother? Is Violet strong enough to be moved to another center? Who will answer the next manatee rescue call? I can’t shake all the questions out of my head.

  Maggie, however, is in sports heaven. “Stingers are going to win,” she says confidently. “I can just feel it.”

  “Nope, you’re wrong,” Zoe says. “The Hurricanes will win.”

  “You don’t know anything about baseball,” Maggie protests.

  “They won the last time, didn’t they?” Zoe says, peeling off a strand of pink cotton candy.

  “Who are you rooting for, Dr. Mac?” I ask.

  “I’m neutral territory,” she says. “How about you, Brenna?”

  I shrug and eat a handful of popcorn. It doesn’t matter who wins, as long as they do it quickly. If the center had half the money spent on this ballpark, they could save hundreds more manatees.

  The Hurricanes bat first and get one run. Good, that was fast. Stingers at bat. The first player strikes out. The second one gets to first base, then moves to second when the third Stinger hits a single. It’s Ronnie Masters’s turn.

  The crowd starts to chant. “Ron-nie! Ron-nie! Ron-nie!”

  “Here he comes!” Maggie shouts. She turns to me, totally pumped. “He hit fifty-two home runs last year and batted .312!”

  Zoe rolls her eyes.

  “Come on, Ronnie!” Maggie screams. “Bang one out of the park!”

  Great. He’s going to hit a home run, and we’ll be stuck in this inning forever.

  Ronnie steps up to the plate and takes a practice swing. His face fills the giant screens in the outfield. The pitcher throws the ball. Ronnie swings.

  “S-s-strike!” calls the umpire.

  The giant screens zoom in on Ronnie’s face again.

  Wait a minute.

  “I’ve seen him before,” I say.

  “Yeah, right. On TV in the hotel room,” Maggie scoffs.

  “No, really. I mean in person. Can I see the program?”

  Dr. Mac passes it down to me. I flip quickly through the pages. Here he is:

  RONNIE MASTERS: OUTFIELD, LEADS THE LEAGUE IN HOME RUNS, ACQUIRED IN THE OFF-SEASON, PLAYED FOR PHILADELPHIA FOR FOUR YEARS.

  There is a half page of statistics that Maggie probably knows, then a quote from the home run king himself:

  I LOVE FLORIDA. THE WEATHER IS GORGEOUS, THE PEOPLE ARE FRIENDLY, AND THE FISHING IS SPECTACULAR.

  Under the quote is a picture of Ronnie and his family on his boat. A red speedboat.

  “It’s him!” I shriek, pointing to the picture.

  “The guy on the boat. Remember, yesterday? That obnoxious speedboat at breakfast? He was driving.”

  “No way,” Zoe says.

  “Yes way,” I insist. “Wait, I can prove it!”

  I rip open my backpack and rummage around in it. I pull out the envelope from FotoHut and flip through my photos: the airport, Sunita and David, the palm trees we saw on the first day, Violet, little Key Lime struggling in the canal, and …

  “Bingo! Here he is driving the boat that was buzzing the beach yesterday! Remember? We talked to that waiter about it.”

  Maggie reaches for the photo. “I don’t believe it.”

  “See for yourself,” I say as I hand it to her.

  On the field, the Hurricanes’ pitcher winds up and throws again. Ronnie swings.

  “Strike two!”

  Maggie peers closely at the boat photos. Zoe needs just one glance. “Yep, that’s him,” she says. “No doubt about it.”

  Dr. Mac slips on her bifocals and leans over to look for herself. “They’re right, Maggie. Mr. Masters may be a great home run hitter, but he’s a lousy boat driver.”

  “I can’t believe it,” Maggie says as she hands the picture back to me. She looks a little shaken up and sad. “I thought he was a good guy. When he played for the Phillies he was always visiting sick kids in the hospital, being a great role model. I can’t believe he would do something so stupid.”

  She looks down at home plat
e. Ronnie waits for the next pitch. “I hope he strikes out,” she says.

  The pitcher fires a fastball across the plate.

  Crack!

  “Home run!” bellows the announcer over the loudspeaker. The crowd around us leaps to their feet, shouting and whistling. Ronnie jogs around the bases and stomps on home plate with both feet.

  “What a loser,” Maggie grumbles.

  By the end of the game, Ronnie Masters isn’t just a loser. Maggie thinks he’s the biggest jerk who ever lived in the history of the universe. Me? I’ve got a bone to pick with him.

  “I suppose you girls don’t want to stand in line for Ronnie’s autograph now,” Dr. Mac says as we leave our seats after the final out.

  Maggie tosses her empty popcorn box in the trash. “Gross. I wouldn’t touch anything signed by him.”

  “I do,” I say firmly. “Dr. Mac, will you wait for me?”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, puzzled.

  “Positive,” I assure her.

  “Why?” Zoe says. “You saw what he did.”

  “You’ll see,” I promise.

  The line in the autograph area is fairly short, probably because the Hurricanes ended up beating the Stingers, 9 to 4. Ronnie Masters and his teammates sit behind a long table, signing whatever is put in front of them. A guy in a Stingers jacket is in charge of keeping the line moving. His I.D. badge says PUBLIC RELATIONS.

  “Next!” he calls, waving to me.

  OK, Lake, I tell myself. You can do this. Keep cool—don’t lose your temper. Think before you act.

  “Hi,” I say as I step up to the home run king.

  “Well, how ya doing?” Ronnie asks, flashing a million-dollar smile. “Do you have something for me to sign?”

  “I have a picture of you,” I say. “I took it myself, yesterday. This is your boat, isn’t it?” I slide my photo across the table.

  Ronnie looks at the picture. “Yes, it is. That’s a pretty good picture there. You going to be a photographer when you grow up?”

  Here we go. Be smart.

  “Mr. Masters, you were driving your boat too fast,” I say politely. “There could have been manatees out there. I want to show you something else.”