Gifts from the Sea Read Free

door. Mr. Callahan shook the sea spray off his oilskins andstepped 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.
    “Mama died,” I said. The words grated like gravel in my mouth. It was the first I'd said it out loud to anyone.
    Mr. Callahan looked stricken. Celia began to cry, and her howls startled him.
    “I didn't know you had a little one,” he said. “I can see you've got your hands full. Looks like I ought to head down the coast today and stop at the Matinicus Light for supper.”
    I could picture Abby Burgess serving Mr. Callahan a delicious meal and telling him about her latest heroic deed. She'd probably saved a whole shipload of people by now, or rebuilt the living quarters at her lighthouse, all by herself. Besides, Mama would have been mortified at turning a guest away.
    “Oh, no, Mr. Callahan,” I said. “Please stay. I'll have supper ready soon, and I'm even going to make pie, though it won't be up to my mother's standards. I'm afraid I'm not the cook or the housekeeper she was.”
    Mr. Callahan looked down at Celia.
    “Well, you're doing a fine job with that baby,” he said. “She seems healthy enough.”
    I didn't tell him how thoughts came swirling into my head now and then, like waves around Devils Rock, of how much simpler my life would be if I
hadn't
seen that bundle of mattresses floating in the water. For certain, Abby Burgess would never have such horrible thoughts.
    Mr. Callahan and Papa climbed the tower to check the light while I finished making supper. My gravy was lumpy, the carrots overcooked, and the piecrust soggy, but Mr. Callahan was a good sport and cleaned his plate.
    Instead of stories, he and Papa talked politics, then went on to discuss lighthouse engineering, the merits of various lamp oils, and lens construction. I found such talk exceedingly dull and longed to get my nose in one of the books Mr. Callahan had brought. In my rush to get supper on the table, I'd only had time to peek at the titles:
Moby-Dick
and
Uncle Tom's Cabin.
Mama and I'd never had enough books. She'd told me she'd take me to a library someday. A library was what I imagined heaven to be, rooms and rooms of books, enough to read through eternity. I wondered if Abby Burgess longed for books as much as I did. When I finished with the books Mr. Callahan had brought, maybe I'd send them on to Abby, and she could pass them on later to someone else. We could start a traveling library for lighthouse families.
    Mr. Callahan's voice broke through my thoughts.
    “What were you saying about a lighthouse library?” he asked. He and Papa were staring at me.
    I hadn't known I was talking aloud and felt my face grow hot.
    “I … I was just thinking there ought to be books available to the lighthouse families. Why couldn't a box be delivered to each lighthouse, and then when you visited, we'd trade our box with another lighthouse?”
    Before the words were even out of my mouth, I wanted to snatch them back. My idea sounded foolish and childish. Why couldn't a wave appear right now and carry
me
out to sea?
    Mr. Callahan cleared his throat and looked at Papa.
    “Your girl's