Gifts from the Sea (2 page)

It wasn't until I dropped my eyes that I saw something, something dark in the white froth of the waves. At first, I thought it was a seal, but when I saw a door float by, I knew a ship must have gone down in the storm.

Items were forever washing up against our island, items Papa managed to fish from the sea: chairs, coils of rope, barrels of salt cod and oil, shoes, and once a woman's parasol. I'd twirled that parasol on my shoulder, imagining myself strolling down a street in New York, or London, or Paris, until I'd felt an icy hand touch my shoulder and knew another ghost had come to live with us on Devils Rock. Mama may have wondered why I never asked to play with the parasol again. But we used the chairs, and cod, and coal that Papa pulled from the sea. It would have been wasteful not to.

I knew there were places, coastal communities, where people made their living from shipwrecks. They were called “wreckers” and used lanterns at night to
lure ships onto dangerous rocks so the ships would sink and scatter their cargoes where the wreckers could “harvest” them. But I couldn't imagine such a life, luring people to their deaths just for their belongings. Finding items from shipwrecks only made me sad, and I always thought of those poor people and what their last moments were like. What did it feel like to drown, to scream and know no one could save you, to disappear beneath the waves, unable to breathe? … I shuddered and hoped I'd never find out.

I picked my way down the steep stone steps that some lighthouse keeper had chipped out of the cliff face. The object was a few feet offshore. I picked up a piece of driftwood and tried to fish it out, but it bobbed just out of reach. From what I could tell, it looked like some bedding with rope wrapped around it.

I lifted my skirts and waded into the water. I knew I was taking a chance; currents swirled around Devils Rock, that's one of the reasons it was such a dangerous place for ships, and it was certainly no place to swim. Papa would have my head if he knew I had as much as one toe in that water, but my curiosity was stronger than the swirling tide.

The current pushed hard against my legs. It was stronger than I'd expected; if I went down, I probably wouldn't be able to get to my feet again. I'd be swept under and Papa wouldn't know what had happened to me. I knew I should go back, but now I was close enough to see that the object was two tiny mattresses lashed together with rope. Why would someone tie two mattresses together? I took two more steps and was able to hook one end of my driftwood under the rope.

Once I was back on solid footing, my knees shook so, I almost fell. I stared at the odd bundle. I tugged at the rope, but I couldn't loosen it, so I picked up a sharp-edged rock and sawed away at the rope until it let go. My heart thudded fast as I pulled away the top mattress … and then I was pounding up the steps, screaming at the top of my lungs, “Papa! Papa! Papa!”

Papa met me at the cliff top, wild-eyed and shaken by my screaming. He grabbed my shoulders.

“Quila, what is it? What's wrong?” And before I could answer, a high, thin wail rose from below.

“A baby, Papa!” I whispered. “I found a baby.”

e named her Cecelia, which means
a gift from the sea,
but we called her Celia, and before long, we couldn't remember what life had been like without her.

Papa rowed to the mainland and brought back a goat so we'd have milk for her. I cut up an old sheet to use for diapers and had to keep water hot on the stove for washing them out. How I wished Mama were here to show me what to do and how to take care of her, but I did the best I could. I fed her, bathed her, rocked and sang her through bouts of colic, and told her stories of mermaids and selkies, those seal-like creatures that
spirit children off to the sea, though it seemed this time that the selkies must have brought Celia to us.

For months after Mama's death, it was Celia alone who could bring a smile to Papa's face. He carved her a cradle from one of the ship timbers that washed ashore, but I'd often find him cradling her in his arms instead, crooning lullabies to her, and she'd gurgle something back at him that only he seemed to understand.

On nights when Celia refused to sleep, I carried her outside to show her the stars.

“There's Cygnus, the swan, and Pegasus, the flying horse, and that one over there, that's Aquila, the eagle.” I remembered Papa holding me up to the stars, pointing out the one that had the same name as I did. I'd thought he'd put it up there just for me.

Papa appeared in the doorway.

“You should be asleep,” he said. I wasn't sure whether he meant Celia or me.

“I was showing Celia the stars. Remember how you used to bring me out here?”

Papa acted as if he hadn't heard me. He lifted Celia from my arms.

“It's late,” he said. “You go on to bed.”

“She needs changing.”

“I'll do it,” he said. When I didn't move, he added, “I know how to change a diaper, Quila.” Papa had never been snappish before Mama died.

“I know,” I said. “It's just that …” I didn't continue. How could I make him understand that the Papa I'd known all my life had disappeared and I missed him, almost as much as I missed Mama? I'd always loved being his helper—“Papa's shadow,” Mama had called me—and he'd seemed to love my company as much as I loved his, but all that was in the past now.

Papa slept so little that he often fed Celia at night so I could sleep, but mostly I took care of her so Papa could take care of the light.

There is a lot of work to “keeping a light.” The lens has to be cleaned and polished, the brass casing of the lens and all the brass fittings polished, too, the reflectors cleaned of soot, the oil lamps cleaned and filled, the wicks trimmed, the floor and the stairs dusted with a hand brush, the windows of the lantern room washed, and all of that done every day. Papa climbed the stairs to the tower at least three times a day: at sundown to light
the lamps, at midnight to check the oil supply and trim the wicks, and again at sunrise to blow the lamps out. In bad weather, he might go days without sleep. Every evening, the log had to be written up, recording weather conditions and any equipment problems or repairs, and every year, Mama and I helped Papa paint the lighthouse, a clean, shining white that took my breath away. Papa always said you had to tend the light like a baby because people's lives depended on it, and now I found out how much work tending a baby could be. Whereas Papa's life revolved around the lighthouse, mine revolved around Celia.

The days blurred together as if they were one, and I couldn't remember what it was like not to be tired. There was no rest even when Celia was sleeping, for then I had to be milking the goat or washing out her dirty diapers to hang by the stove so they'd be dry for when I needed them again. No sooner had I washed the dishes, swept the floors, and fallen into bed than Celia would cry and it would all begin again, heating the milk, feeding her, changing diapers, and rocking her back to sleep. And I could never go to bed without
making sure that the lens cover was clean and ironed for the next day.

Because linen does not scratch the lens the way wool might, all lightkeepers were resquired to wear linen smocks, and every morning (unless there had been a storm and the light was still needed) the lens was protected with a linen cover. Both the smock and the lens cover had to be washed and ironed without a wrinkle. Mama had never let me iron the linen, for fear I might scorch it. There was no choice but for me to do it now, but my mouth went dry and my hands shook every time I held the iron over the cloth.

Gone was my life of hiking along the cliffs, looking for ships and watching sunsets. I wondered if I'd ever have time for them again.

Mama had made keeping house look so easy. Caring for Celia was a full-time job, and there was the laundry, and sweeping, and mopping, and mending, and cooking on top of that. I ended up fixing meals that were easy and quick. If Papa grew tired of eggs, oatmeal, and fried fish, he never complained, but I was sick of them. Every bite was a reminder of how much I missed Mama's cooking: the fish soup called “cullen
skink,” crisp oatcakes baked on top of the stove, mealie pudding, and melt-in-your-mouth shortbread. My oat-cakes looked and tasted more like shingles, and you could have cut glass with my shortbread.

We'd had Celia only a few months when Papa poked his head in the door to tell me to set an extra place at the table. Mr. Callahan's boat was in view.

Mr. Callahan was the lighthouse inspector. I'd always looked forward to the stories he brought us, like that of Abby Burgess, the daughter of the lighthouse keeper on Matinicus Island. With her father on the mainland getting supplies and medicine for his sick wife, a storm had washed away the keeper's house on the island. Abby had moved her mother and sisters into the light tower and kept the light burning for four weeks until the storm had passed and her father could return. Mr. Callahan had also told us of Mary Patten, who'd sailed her ill husband's ship around Cape Horn, and of the storm that destroyed the Minot's Ledge Light. The two keepers had been killed when the tower toppled into the sea, but they'd kept the light burning to the last.

We'd get so caught up in his stories that when the
clock chimed midnight, we'd stare at it in astonishment, certain that Mr. Callahan had only been talking a few minutes.

“Gracious, look at the time!” Mama would exclaim, and march me off to bed, where I'd lie awake thinking my heart's desire would be to travel from lighthouse to lighthouse, gathering stories at every stop.

Most lightkeepers were nervous about having the inspector visit, but we were always glad to see him. Mr. Callahan said Papa kept the best light along the whole coast of Maine and that he only stopped by Devils Rock to taste some of Mama's cooking. He especially loved her dried-apple pies.

I looked around the kitchen and felt ashamed. Diapers, washed but not yet dry, hung from door-knobs and over the backs of chairs. The floor was unswept, the breakfast dishes still dirty in the sink. Mama had always kept such a clean and tidy home and now Mr. Callahan would see what a poor housekeeper I was.

I only had time to set a bowl of dried apples to soak before I heard Papa and Mr. Callahan at the door. Mr. Callahan shook the sea spray off his oilskins and
stepped inside, his face lighting up when he saw me. He handed me a package.

“This was at the post office, and I knew your mama would be eager to get it. I'm guessing it's more books.”

Each year, Mama had ordered two or three new books that the lighthouse tender delivered when it brought our yearly supplies of coal and lamp oil, and those books were more precious to us than silver. We savored them, to make them last, but they never lasted long enough. But Mama's most treasured book was one Papa had ordered to surprise her, a copy of Mr. John James Audubon's
Birds of America,
all the way from London, England! It had been dreadfully expensive, a whole month's salary, but Papa said it was worth every penny to see the look on Mama's face. She and I'd spent hours poring over its pages, looking at the beautiful paintings.

I clutched the package to my chest. Mama and I wouldn't get to share these books.