Gifts from the Sea (9 page)

It wasn't the only thing she was taking, for when I looked next in Mama's wardrobe, three more of her dresses were missing, including the green delaine. I didn't mention it to Papa; he'd told her she could have them. But it seemed like stealing to me.

I started to let go of Celia, preparing myself for the day she would leave. I was less patient, snapping at her when she climbed into my lap wanting a story. “I don't have time for you right now. Have Margaret read to you.” Her green eyes would well up with tears, and I'd have to turn away so she wouldn't see my own.

At the same time I was pushing her away, I found it harder and harder to see Margaret and Celia together, the way Margaret rested her hand on Celia's head or licked her finger to clean a smudge off Celia's cheek, the way Celia would snuggle her head under Margaret's chin when she was tired. But once, when I suggested that Margaret take Celia out alone to explore, Margaret looked at me and slowly shook her head.

“Oh, Aquila, you're as dear to me as she is,” she said softly, and my breath caught ragged in my throat. I'd had a father, mother, and sister, but I'd never had a friend before. I felt guilty for thinking such bad thoughts of her, but I was sad, too. In any other circumstances, we might have been friends.

Nights were long, as sleep did not come easily for me, and I'd slip out to sit on the cliffs, listening to the wind and the groaning sea, and think “if onlys.” If only
Papa had taken Mama to the doctor. If only Margaret hadn't come to Devils Rock. If only the ship her sister was on had not gone down.… But here I had to stop, for without that shipwreck, we would never have known Celia. It was going to be heart-wrenching to lose her, but I could not imagine those two years without her.

Some nights I'd hear wild geese, too, hurrying south. I thought of Margaret and how she'd soon be moving on, too, like the geese, before the cold set in. Never before had I dreaded a winter on Devils Rock as I did now.

On one of those nights, I rose from the rocks, stiff from the damp chill, and climbed the hill to say good night to Mama. Margaret and I startled each other. She stood silhouetted against the sky, her face bathed in moonlight.

“I miss my sister on nights like this especially,” she said. “Our mum told us the fairies lived in the Land of Light but the door to their land was open only on nights when the moon was full. It was said that if a piece of metal shaped by human hands was put in the doorway to their land, the door could not close, so on moonlit nights, my sister and I stood on the hill near
our home with a horseshoe, waiting for the door to open. I guess I'm still waiting.”

Times like that, it was hard to hate her. That, and when she was singing.

Margaret sang even more than Mama had. She taught Celia Irish lullabies she'd heard her mum sing, and she taught Papa and me some shanty Irish songs she'd learned from her da. Music was as natural to Margaret as breathing. Often I saw Papa pause on the stairs or in the doorway, listening to her, and once he asked her the name of the tune she was humming.

“‘Lovely Leitrim,'” Margaret answered, and sang:

Papa didn't say anything, but later, as he climbed the steps to light the lamps, I heard him humming it to himself.

Margaret and I were cleaning the clutter from the closet when she found the fiddle case.

“Does your da play?” she asked.

“He did,” I said. “But not since Mama died.”

“'Tis a shame,” Margaret said, “for a fiddle's meant to be played. I could teach you the Irish jig.” I remembered the joy I'd felt when Mama twirled me around the floor and the words flew out of my mouth before I could snatch them back.

“Couldn't you show me anyway?” I begged, and Margaret laughed.

“Sure, and why not,” she said. “To dance, you only need music in your heart.”

Margaret clapped and sang while I shuffled across the floor, but my feet felt as clumsy as rocks. I decided I must not have a musical heart.

“Nothing comes easy at first,” Margaret said. “It just takes practice.”

Each morning, we'd wait until Papa had gone out to check storm damage on the boat landing, or climbed the tower to polish the reflectors, and we'd push back the table and chairs to make room. Celia loved the dance lessons, and she'd stand on my feet while I
skipped from side to side. Sometimes all three of us held hands and spun in wild circles till we were too dizzy to stand.

Margaret was calling out the steps of a new dance one morning, and so focused was I on my feet that I didn't realize she'd stopped singing. I looked up and caught my breath. Papa stood in the doorway, holding his fiddle.

He lifted it to his chin and played “Lovely Leitrim” as if he'd practiced it for years. Margaret looked like she was going to burst into tears. Then Papa played “Aura Lee” and “Barbara Allen” and “Lorena,” all sad tunes, and his fiddle spoke of such heartbreak and longing that I was sure Mama must be crying in heaven.

Papa finished and looked at our faces.

“If Marion were here, she'd say, ‘Goodness, Franklin, play something cheerful!' Isn't that right, Quila?” And I nodded. That did sound like Mama.

“We need a dance tune,” Papa said, and lit into “Highland Laddie.” I grabbed Celia's hands and we hopped and skipped and slid across the floor, Celia shrieking with laughter. Papa played “The Fairy Dance” and “Blue Bonnets over the Border” till Celia and I collapsed.

Margaret put her hands on her hips and gave a nod to Papa. He played “Lark in the Morning” and “Paddy's Leather Breeches” while she jigged round the kitchen, the click of her feet sounding like stones washing against the shore, faster and faster, until the door flew open and she fell into Mr. Callahan's arms.

Papa's fiddle stopped in mid-tune, and the music and laughter died away. All my preparations for this day, the way I'd steeled myself against losing Celia, disappeared, too.

For weeks, the question of when Margaret would leave had been like an elephant in the parlor: it was on everyone's mind, even if no one mentioned it. But we hadn't been expecting Mr. Callahan for months yet, thought we had lots more time. Now the elephant had trumpeted its way into our living room, for Mr. Callahan had arrived early.

“You must be the lovely lass Mr. Richardson told me about. I understand I'm to transport you down to Boston,” Mr. Callahan said.

All this time I thought I'd been preparing myself for Margaret to leave, too, had thought I'd be glad to see her go, and I found I wasn't prepared at all. I could
no more imagine a day without seeing Margaret than I could a life without Celia.

Margaret looked at Papa as if she expected him to say something. He was looking at her as if he expected her to say something.

I was watching them both. I could see Papa's jaw muscles working; he was turning over something in his mind, but there wasn't any sound coming out of his mouth.

All he had to say was “I hope you'll stay awhile longer.” But he didn't.

I looked at Margaret. All she had to say was “No, thank you, Mr. Callahan. I've decided I won't be leaving just yet.” But she didn't.

Looking back, I can recognize that they were two wounded souls who were afraid to love again. But I was too young to understand it then.

Papa was the first to drop his eyes, so perhaps I'm the only one who noticed Margaret's shoulders droop, or how her voice came out flat and listless when she spoke.

“Thank you, Mr. Callahan, that would be most kind of you. I'll pack my things after supper, and be ready to go first thing in the morning.”

Margaret put apples to soak and mixed piecrust while I pared potatoes and stirred up biscuits. While we ate, Mr. Callahan told Margaret the story of Abby Burgess, and told me that the Lighthouse Board (and Abby, too) was quite enthusiastic about my idea of a lighthouse library, but I hardly heard him. Mr. Callahan was here, and Margaret would be leaving with him in the morning, taking Celia with her.

Mr. Callahan tried to entertain us at supper, but when he saw no one was listening, he stopped talking and just ate. It was so quiet we could hear him chewing. As for the rest of us, our food sat untouched on our plates. Celia didn't understand what was going on, but she knew things were not right, and kept looking from one to the other, a puzzled expression on her face.

As soon as Mr. Callahan finished, Margaret stood to clear the table.

“Quila, would you help me get Celia's things together?” she said.

I followed her into the room Celia and I shared and watched as she began to pull things out of the dresser: Celia's dresses, stockings, her woolen coat and hat.

I didn't say anything because I could feel the sting of tears in the back of my throat and knew if I started crying, I wouldn't be able to stop. It wasn't until Margaret picked up Celia's driftwood seal and her doll that we realized Celia had followed us.

“What you duning?” she asked, and it came to me we hadn't prepared Celia at all for what was about to happen. She had no idea she was leaving us. I swallowed hard and crouched in front of her.

“You're going on a trip,” I told her, trying to sound as cheerful as I could. “You're going on a trip with Margaret.”

Celia frowned.

“Go smimming with Marget?” she said. I puzzled over her words until I realized the only time Celia had heard the word
trip
was when I'd run off with her and ended up almost drowning her. No wonder she was suspicious.

“No, honey, a good trip. No swimming.” I pulled her to me, and my arms ached when I realized this would be the last time I'd ever hold her. I felt sick at the thought of losing her, but I was also envious of all she would see and experience. Margaret had told us some
about her life in Lawrence, about the mills and boardinghouses, the lectures and concerts that she and the other mill girls attended at night. Someday I'd see the sights that Celia was about to see, know what it was like to ride in a carriage down a street lit with lamps, listen to an orchestra play, sit in a library and know that every book there was just waiting for me to read it.

“I'm sure some of her things are in my room, too,” Margaret said. “Your room,” she corrected herself. “You'll probably be glad to get it back.” But I didn't feel glad, even after I followed Margaret into her room and saw, draped over the back of the chair, the dresses I'd noticed missing from Mama's wardrobe: the blue print, the red calico, and the green delaine. What I felt was anger, white-hot anger that boiled up in me like a storm-tossed sea. Isn't it enough that you're taking Celia? I wanted to shout. Do you have to take Mama's dresses, too? Margaret wasn't even trying to hide them. In fact, she scooped them up and held them out to me.

“I took them in and shortened the hems,” she said. “The green should look especially good on you.”

Shame flooded over me, putting out the fire of my
anger. She hadn't stolen them at all. She'd altered them to fit me.

“Thank you for being my friend,” Margaret said, and I saw she was fighting back tears. “It's not everyone that gets to experience life in a lighthouse, and to have such a good teacher.”

I wanted to slink away, like a dog with its tail between its legs. I'd treated her horribly. I hadn't been a friend to her at all. But she had been one to me, and now I was losing her, too. Why was it that whenever I loved someone, they were taken from me? First Mama, and now Celia and Margaret.

“Margaret?” Papa's voice startled us both. He'd come to the doorway, but seemed afraid to come in. “There's something I'd like to ask you.”

Margaret turned toward him, and I could see she was holding her breath.

“I want you to take Quila with you,” he said.

It wasn't the question she'd been expecting and it caught her off guard. It caught me off guard, too. Papa was sending me away?

“She could tend to Celia while you're at work in the mills,” Papa went on, “and then in the evenings go
to some of those lectures and concerts you've talked about.”

“Quila's welcome to come with me,” Margaret said, keeping her voice even. “But have you asked her what she wants? She's not a child anymore.”

“I know that,” Papa said. “That's why she should go with you. She needs a woman's influence. She needs more than I can give her.”

Papa walked away, so he didn't hear Margaret's answer.

“You mean she needs more than you're willing to give,” she said. I did hear her, but I didn't understand what she meant.