Gifts from the Sea (8 page)

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 has 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.

“As pretty as the day I met her,” he added.

I sighed.

“Mama wasn't pretty, Papa,” I said.

Papa looked like I'd slapped him.

“She was to me,” he said. In that moment, I forgave him everything.

Or I thought I had until he started lingering over his breakfast tea, telling Margaret stories of his
childhood at sea: of stowing away on a ship to Singapore, of being shipwrecked on an island for three weeks with nothing to eat but coconuts, of seeing icebergs and polar bears in the North Sea and coral reefs and rainbow-colored fish in the warm waters of the Southern Hemisphere. I stared at him in astonishment, for I could scarcely believe those stories were true. All those years of hearing Mama's stories—and even the past two years with Celia, when I'd tried to remember every story I'd ever heard and made up a great many, to keep Celia happy—he'd never breathed a word about his childhood, never let on that he'd had one great adventure after another. It was like meeting a stranger, like watching Rip Van Winkle emerge from his twenty-year sleep, except Papa seemed almost boyish, lighthearted, with something that had been missing in him since Mama died. And it was Margaret that was bringing that out in him, not me.

“I didn't know your father was such a storyteller,” Margaret said.

Neither did I, I thought bitterly.

Margaret was a good storyteller, too, almost as good at weaving tales as Mama had been, and though
I pretended not to care for Margaret's stories, I always sat close enough to hear her tell of Grace O'Malley, the Irish queen who was a sea pirate. Mama had told me about Blackbeard, but I'd never heard of a woman pirate before.

“She even stole a baby,” Margaret said. “She'd come ashore to get supplies of food and water for her ship, and stopped at Howth Castle. The family was eating and wouldn't let her in. Grace was so angry, she stole their son and sailed away with him. She only returned the boy when Lord Howth promised to keep the castle gates open at mealtimes and to always set a place at the head of the table for the head of the O'Malley clan.”

Papa laughed, again something I'd not seen from him since Mama died, but I couldn't help thinking that Margaret was a bit of a pirate herself, for soon she'd be stealing Celia away from us.