The Rattled Bones(69)

The waves are dark in the early evening, their rolling motion churning oil-black seaweed in its grip, spitting up the sea with its weeds and seafoam. I inch forward, my toes gripping the edge of the dock. The waves splash against the pilings, jumping up, wetting my toes. The water sings to me, its waves a melody. Calling to me.

Come here, come here

My dear, my dear.

Won’t you come here and be my dear.

Be near, my dear.

I’m here, I’m here.

Won’t you come near and find me, dear?

The song rises across the backs of the waves, its words like dolphins playing, beckoning me.

I am the dear.

The girl wants me near.

Did my mother hear this same summons so long ago?

Is that what she heard when she packed all those stones into the pockets of her long yellow skirt, its hem dark with seawater? My heart surges, remembering how much I feared my mother that night, but I don’t feel that fear now. The song brings peace.

The song of the Water People.

Come here, come here

I’m here, I’m here.

Come to the sea and find me, dear.

It’s an invitation carried on rolling waves.

Calling to me.

I want to be with the Water People. The Water Girl.

Be near, be near

My dear, my dear.

Be with the waves and find me here.

I strip down to my T-shirt and hold a breath. I dive. The ocean rushes its ice all around me. I propel my body under the crashing waves, listening for the underwater song. I want the girl to be here. I want her lullaby to call me. Only me. I swim through the black world of the ocean, let the cold press into my chest.

When I finally surface, I slick my hair back along my scalp and take a breath that expands my lungs, skin, everything.

The sun is gone now. The fat white moon hangs directly above. Darkness floats everywhere. How long was I underwater? A boat bobs close to the shore. Approaching. So familiar. I twist toward Fairtide, the water swirling around me. Our dock is shorter somehow, made of wood now. The Rilla Brae is gone.

The small boat rows to Fairtide’s dock. A rope is thrown from inside the boat. And then the girl. She steps onto Fairtide’s dock, her fingers fastening a quick running bowline knot. She hoists a bundle from her boat and settles it onto her back. She starts toward our deck, which is impossibly no longer there. I follow the beautiful girl in her white dress. She knocks on Gram’s door. Our back door. But it’s not Gram who answers.

A tall, frail woman peeks out of the slit of doorway. I can only see half of her face, though I know she is Gram’s mother, so similar to her hanging portrait above our living room fireplace.

My great-grandmother. The wood dock. The girl with her perfect black braids. The oil lamplight bouncing at my great-grandmother’s features as she holds the flame to the darkness. All signs of decades ago.

“Good evening, Mrs. Murphy.”

“Agnes. Good evening.”

Agnes! My girl. A name.

A shiver crawls over my skin.

My gram’s mother opens the door wider. I don’t miss how she looks to the night, as if suspicious that someone could be watching. I feel heat push forth from the house, our kitchen stove warming bones even then.

“Only one tonight,” Gram’s mother says, handing over a bundle. The girl rests it in the crook of her free arm.

“For you, Mrs. Murphy.” Agnes passes her package through the door.

“You always do such a nice job cleaning, Agnes. I don’t know how you get those tea stains out.”

“The secret is the salt water, ma’am.”

Flickers of light coat my great-grandmother’s features as she lowers her gaze. “Agnes? Is that her?”

“My baby, ma’am.” Agnes shifts her arms, and it is only then I see the infant strapped to her chest.

“Wait here, dear. I have a gift for you.” Gram’s mother disappears from the open door to expose a sliver of our kitchen, the windows just as they are now, the stove anchoring the space. She returns, a small swatch of fabric stretched over one hand. “It is a meager token, only a bonnet. I knitted it myself.”

“It is lovely, Mrs. Murphy.” Agnes’s voice lifts, joy floating her words.

“May I?” Gram’s mother nods toward the infant’s small head.

“Of course.” Agnes brings the infant out from her middle, but only some, as if her heart can’t stand to feel distance from the tiny child.

Gram’s mother settles the bonnet onto the baby’s head. “Eleanor is a fine girl, Agnes. You should be very proud.”

Eleanor?

Agnes nods, her eyes only on her child. The infant coos then, no different from a little bird.

The air warps. Eleanor?

“She looks pale, Agnes. Is she well?”

Agnes’s back straightens. She pulls the child closer. “Pale, ma’am?”

“Her skin, Agnes. Her skin is quite light compared to yours.”

There’s a lift in Agnes’s shoulders. “Yes, Mrs. Brae. My husband hails from Ireland. His skin does not like the sun.” There is a laugh in this last statement. Love sewn in her words.

“Yes, well. What a blood endowment for the youngster5 in this hateful climate.”

Agnes looks to her child. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Brae.”