Margaret's voice broke, but I hardly noticed as a shiver ran through me.
“She was here,” I said. “Your sister was here.”
“Now, Quila,” Papa said, “we don't know if that woman was—” But I interrupted him.
“It was her, I know it was.”
Margaret stared at me, wide-eyed.
“Your sister,” I repeated. “Papa rescued her. We saw the ship going down and Papa rowed out to help them, and he did save a woman. He brought her back but she only lived a little while. She had dark hair and green eyes.”
Margaret was crying now, silent sobs that shook her body.
“The baby?” she choked.
Papa shook his head.
“I'm sorry, no, I didn't see a baby. By the time I rowed out, the ship had broken up and I found her floating in the debris. I wish I could have saved her. I'm sorry.”
“You did all you could,” Margaret said. “I'm the one to blame. If I hadn't sent for her, she'd still be alive. Now I have no one left.”
I knew about loss and emptiness.
“Papa buried her next to Mama,” I said gently. “When you're up to it, I'll show you.”
Margaret nodded, her eyes closed.
“I think I'll rest awhile,” she said. I showed her to my bed and tried to keep Celia quiet. I read her a book, but she wiggled out of my lap. I cut out some paper dolls for her, but Celia wanted to bang on pots instead. I got some string and was showing Celia how to play cat's cradle when Margaret reappeared in the door-way. Her eyes were red and swollen and I was sure she hadn't gotten any sleep.
“I'll make you some tea,” I said. “Mama said things always look better after a cup of tea.”
“My mother said the same thing,” Margaret said. “Two wise women. You must miss her terribly.”
I ducked my head so Margaret wouldn't see the tears that sprang to my eyes, and nodded. While I made tea, Margaret took the same string we'd played cat's cradle with and looped a button onto it. She twirled the button between her hands, winding up the string, and when she pulled on the string, the button whirled like a top, making a buzzing sound. Celia squealed with delight.
Margaret drank her tea slowly, and sighed.
“Your mum was right, I do feel better. I think I'm ready to have you show me where my sister is buried.”
I'd visited Mama's grave every day since she'd died. I'd tried planting flowers but nothing had taken root, so I kept the area swept clean. Clods of dirt and rocks marked the fresh grave Papa had dug. When I saw the look on Margaret's face, I was ashamed I hadn't yet raked and smoothed out her sister's grave.
“I'll take better care of it,” I promised.
“I don't understand,” Margaret said. “This is a fresh grave.”
The shock must have been too much for her, I thought, so I tried to be as gentle as I could.
“Yes, Papa buried her ten days ago.”
“Oh, no,” Margaret said. “You must be mistaken. The ship my sister was on went down two years ago.”
argaret went to bed early, exhausted.
Papa and I huddled next to the stove, whispering.
“We have to tell her,” Papa said.
I wanted to weep.
“She'll take Celia away,” I said.
Papa looked ready to weep, too, but he was firm.
“I know,” he said. “But we have to tell her. She has no one else. She has to know she has a niece.” He stood up.
“There's a storm brewing and I must go up to light the lamps, but we'll tell her in the morning.”
He climbed the stairs of the tower and I knew he thought the matter was settled. But I wasn't going to sit still and let Margaret cart off Celia without a fight. As bad as I felt for Margaret, I couldn't be as unselfish as Papa. Celia had saved Papa and me. Losing her would be as bad as losing Mama. I couldn't go through that again.
Celia opened her eyes when I picked her up.
“Where we doning?” she murmured.
“On a trip,” I told her. She nodded and closed her eyes again.
I didn't dare light a lantern for fear Papa would see us, so I stumbled down the stone steps with only the moon to guide me, feeling each step with my foot before I put my weight on it.
It took all my strength to drag Papa's boat to the water's edge. I wrapped Celia in an oilskin and settled her into the bow. There was a strong wind blowing as I pushed off. Luckily, it was blowing toward the mainland, for I was sure I never would have been able to row against it. That wind smelled of bad weather ahead. I hoped I could outrun the storm and reach the mainland before it hit.
I'd never rowed Papa's skiff before and hadn't known how hard it would be. Papa made it look effortless, but I couldn't keep it going straight. It pulled to either one side or the other, sometimes one oar out of the water when the other was in. The beacon from our light gleamed brightly, a comfort in the darkness. In all my fourteen years at Devils Rock, I'd never seen the light from the water. I thought of Papa up in the lantern room, keeping his vigil, thinking we were safely asleep in our room. I hoped someday he'd understand why I'd done this and forgive me.
I rowed and rowed and rowed and it seemed I hadn't moved an inch. How would I ever reach the mainland at this rate?
I braced my feet and yanked hard on the oars. They came out of the water fast and I fell backward off the seat into the few inches of water sloshing about in the bottom of the boat. The boat lurched to one side and I just managed to grab Celia before she slid into the sea. I settled her back into the bow and sat down, soaked and sobered. I'd almost tipped us over. I had to be more careful.
The moon made a path on the water, and I rowed along that silver river. A dark shape bobbed behind us on the moon path, went under, and popped up again. A seal was following us, no doubt curious about what we were doing. Maybe it was one of Celia's seals that always seemed to be watching for her. Seeing its dark head cheered me and I felt less alone.
The night wore on and the storm clouds gathered, hiding the moon. The wind blew fiercer, and colder, and the waves grew higher, tossing our little boat around like a cork. Water sloshed in over the gun-wales. We had oilskins on, but still it was terribly cold and Celia began to whimper.
“Hush now,” I said, “we'll be there soon.” But in truth, the pinpoints of light on the far shore, lanterns gleaming from windows, weren't getting any closer, and I was tired, so tired.
I let go of the oars and picked Celia up, tucking her inside my coat as best I could, thinking that would protect her from the wind and warm her. The wind spun the boat sideways and the next wave caught us broadside, flipping us over.
I gasped as the shock of the icy water hit me, and salt water filled my nose, mouth, and lungs. I flailed with my arms and legs, trying to escape the water, to get air, and my head broke the surface for a moment. I choked and vomited, and another wave hit me, driving me under. Celia was struggling inside my coat, kicking and gurgling.
So this is what it's like to drown, I thought, and I was ashamed for bringing Celia to this. Her parents' love had saved her once. My selfishness was going to kill her.
Lights exploded in my head and I heard a voice. It was Mama's voice.
“Quila,” she said, “remember the orange?”
Once, for no other reason than that he was lonely, a ship's captain had anchored off our island and spent the evening with us, dazzling us with tales of his travels in the South Seas and around the Horn. As he was leaving, he'd held out his hand to me. In his palm was an orange ball.
“For your girl,” he said to Mama, smiling.
I just stared at the object in his hand, not knowing what it was but knowing I wanted it.
“You may take it, Quila,” Mama said gently, and I'd lifted it from his palm as if it were made of glass.
Mama took a knife and peeled off the outer layer, revealing a smaller ball inside. Mama pulled pieces off the ball, and I began to cry, thinking she'd broken my gift from the captain.
Mam
a held one of the pieces toward me.
“Taste it,” she said.
I bit into it gingerly, and sweet, tangy juice flooded my mouth.
I was so startled I sat down, and Mama burst out laughing.
“It's an orange,” she said.
It was rare that we ever saw fruits or vegetables on our table. Mama had tried growing a few vegetables in the only patch of soil the island possessed, but with the bruising winds and punishing salt spray, all that survived were a few lettuce leaves and a radish or two.
I ate the orange slowly, savoring each bite, and licked my fingers when it was gone. Nothing before or since has ever tasted as wonderful as that orange, and the thought now came to my mind: Celia would never get to taste an orange.
I heard a voice again and saw a figure ahead, and I tried to call out, Mama, wait, come back, help me, but the sea was in my mouth and lungs and I couldn't speak, I couldn't breathe, and I was sinking down, down to where the fishes would feast on my bones. The figure turned its head and I saw it wasn't Mama at all, but a woman with dark hair and green eyes.
Something slammed into me, something solid but alive, and then it was several bodies, all of them sleek and slippery, moving first beside me, then beneath, lifting me up. I stopped struggling and let myself be borne along.
r. Richardson often told the story afterward of how he'd gone down to the pier and found Celia and me on the beach. At first he thought we were clumps of seaweed and was pushing off in his boat when Celia whimpered. Both of us were half-frozen and bruised, and Celia had a cut over one eye, but we were alive and none too worse for wear.
He took us to his house, and his wife fussed over us, wrapping us in blankets while she dried our clothes by the fire and feeding us tea and honey, but neither of us could stop shivering. My teeth chattered against the rim of Mrs. Richardson's china cup.
“As soon as you've warmed up, I'll take you home,” Mr. Richardson said.
Mrs. Richardson glared at him.
“You'll not be taking them off to sea again today,” she said firmly. “After what they've been through.”
“But I have to, Bet,” Mr. Richardson said. “Imagine their father thinking them lost for good.” So Mrs. Richardson finally relented, though she hugged us so hard when we said our goodbyes I thought poor Celia's eyes would pop from her head.
While Mr. Richardson rowed us home, I told him about the seals carrying Celia and me to shore.
“You'll not be wanting to tell that story to too many folk, or they'll think you're daft,” Mr. Richardson said, “but I believe you. You can't spend a life at sea like I have and not see some strange happenings.”
It was a bittersweet voyage home. I was glad I was alive and glad I hadn't killed Celia, but I dreaded going back. For sure Margaret would take Celia now.
Papa looked like he'd aged twenty years, and he was shaking when he grabbed us up in a bear hug.
Margaret should have been furious with me, but she hugged me, too.
“I'm so glad you're both all right.”
I could hardly look her in the eye. “I need to tell you something.”
“Your father already told me,” Margaret said, and I hung my head, but she squeezed my shoulder.
“I would have done the same thing,” she said. “Nothing's more important than family, don't you think?” There were tears in Margaret's eyes and I realized with Celia gone, I'd still have Papa, no matter how brokenhearted we'd be. But without Celia, Margaret would have no one.
“What are you going to do, now that you know?” I asked.
“I don't know,” Margaret said. “But would it be all right if I stayed on a little longer, get to know Celia better, and think about what I want to do?”
I squeezed Celia tight and couldn't speak.
“Yes,” Papa said. “You're welcome to stay as long as you like.”
“When I do leave, I can't ask you to leave the light unattended to get me to the mainland,” Margaret said. “Is there any other way off the island?”
“There's Mr. Callahan, the lighthouse inspector,” Papa said. “He comes by about every six months or so.”
“Fine,” Margaret said, relieved. “I'll stay until Mr. Callahan comes.”
e spent the next weeks getting to know each other.
I came to question Papa's decision to let Margaret stay, thinking it might have been easier if Margaret had just taken Celia away then and there instead of prolonging the agony of having her ripped from our lives. I found myself watching Celia, studying her, trying to memorize every detail of her, knowing that when Margaret took her away, memories would be all I'd have left. When I thought of what life on the island would be like without Celia, just Papa and me rattling around in the lighthouse, I pictured my heart falling apart in sections, like that orange.
Margaret didn't look strong, but she was a good worker, and she did her share around the lighthouse, work that Mama had often done: cleaning the copper and brass fixtures, sweeping the tower stairway, and keeping the lantern room clean and dusted. One day I caught her sprinkling salt over Celia while she slept.
“It's to keep the fairies from stealing her,” Margaret explained. According to her, the fairy people spent most of their time feasting, fighting, and playing beautiful music, but would keep misfortune from your door if you left them a bowl of milk on the doorstep each evening. Which she did.
Each day, when our work was done, Celia and I showed Margaret our island: the nesting sites where we gathered eggs, the tidal pools where we collected shells, the tiny wildflowers nestled in the rocks. Sometimes Celia would reach up to hold Margaret's hand, and it twisted my heart to see it, but I knew I didn't have to worry about Celia's future. Margaret would take good care of her, of that I was certain.
Margaret was cheerful, willing to jump in and help with what had to be done, her laughter like sunshine after a storm, someone Mama would have loved. Perhaps that's why I disliked her. What right did she have to be cheerful when she was going to break our hearts again by taking away Celia? What right did she have to act like part of the family when she was going to tear it apart? I resented the way she'd slipped into the hole left by Mama, as if she belonged, as if she could take Mama's place.
There were little agonies every day—watching Margaret stir up cornbread in Mama's blue china bowl, using Mama's sewing kit to mend Papa's pants (even squinting the same way to thread the needle)—and it was worse because Papa didn't seem to notice the way she was wiggling into his heart, pushing out Mama.
I first noticed it when we painted the lighthouse. Papa had waited for a mild day, with little wind, and Margaret and I painted up as high as we could reach while Papa did all the high work, dangling from a rope out of the lantern room. Even Celia helped, or tried to, and Papa pretended to scold all of us, saying we'd gotten more paint on ourselves than we had on the lighthouse. Margaret looked down with dismay at her dress to discover it was true.
“You can tear it up for rags,” Papa said.
“That's easy for you to say,” Margaret said, “but I didn't bring much with me when I came here, since I wasn't planning on staying long. But I wouldn't expect a man to notice such things.”
I hadn't noticed, either, being that I didn't pay much attention to clothes. Secretly, I'd always longed to wear pants, to be able to run and climb and not have to worry about silly petticoats, or being ladylike, though I'd never quite dared admit that to Mama.
“I'll just have to wear it, paint and all,” Margaret said. “I can always say it's the latest rage.” But I could tell Papa felt bad.
“I guess Marion's clothes would fit you,” he said slowly. “You go on in and help yourself to what you need.”
For just a moment, I stopped breathing. Mama's clothes had sat untouched in her wardrobe since she'd died, except for the times I'd buried my nose in them, the smell of her bringing her face to mind. Every day, I tried to remember her exactly as she'd been, though now the face was blurry, like a photograph where someone ha
s moved. It scared me that Papa was pushing his memories of her out of his life, the way you put away clothes you've grown out of.
“Oh, I couldn't,” Margaret said, glancing at me. “It wouldn't be right.” But Papa shook his head.
“Those dresses and things are just going to waste,” he said, “and Quila won't want them.”
My eyes stung. Papa hadn't even asked me whether I wanted Mama's clothes or not, but even if I didn't want them, I didn't want to see Margaret in them.
I was afraid Margaret would select Mama's pretty green delaine, the one she wore at holidays, but she picked the most worn of Mama's dresses, a faded yellow calico that Mama had already patched once. Still, it was a shock to look up and see Mama's dress without Mama in it.
I think it was Mama's dress that made Papa start noticing Margaret. She and I were doing the laundry, and Margaret, little as she was, was struggling with carrying the water from the cistern. Papa lugged the pails for her, then carried the basket to the clothesline, where I pegged up the wet clothes.
“You never helped Mama with the laundry,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.
“Your mother didn't need help,” Papa said. “She was strong. Margaret's not like her.”
No, she's not, I wanted to shout, but bit my lip and pulled another sheet from the basket. The wind tried to tear it from my hands, so Papa grabbed one end and held it until I could get both corners pegged tight.
“When did you get so tall?” he asked. He was frowning, looking at me like he hadn't seen me for a long time. “You look just like your mother.”
I'm ashamed to admit that my heart sank at his words. I'd loved Mama with all my heart, but she'd said herself she was as plain as a hedge fence. I'd never seen a hedge, or a fence, either one, but I knew it wasn't a compliment. Mama's beauty was inside.
Papa smiled, not knowing the thoughts in my head.
Gifts from the Sea Page 4
