THE PAST IS a funny place, so far away and yet always there, waiting to trip you up with its memories and regret.
I can still smell the fresh paint of the ship’s railings when I made the long sea crossing from Ireland. I can still taste the salt of my tears on my lips as I walked up and down the deck, trying to soothe Cora and find the cause of her shrill little cries. I’d never needed my mammy more; never felt, more keenly, the gap left behind by her death during my infancy.
I can still hear the panic in my voice as I asked a woman with older children what she thought might be wrong with my child. She told me it was probably wind and showed me how to put the infant over my shoulder and rub her back, but Cora still bawled and mewled as if she knew something was terribly wrong, and wouldn’t stop crying until I set it right.
I remember how some of the passengers cheered when New York first loomed through the fog, but for me the sight of Lady Liberty only left a hollow ache in my heart. When I’d boarded the boat in Cobh, I thought I’d known the worst day of my life, but stepping off it was far worse. The distance I’d traveled from Ireland was emphasized by every unfamiliar accent and noise and smell. The truth of what I’d done struck me like a punch in the chest so that I could barely breathe as I walked off that ship. My guilt has walked beside me ever since.
But Cora and I found a way. I was far from the perfect mother, but I did my best for her. With Da willing to help out in any way he could, and even old Boots taking his turn at playing nanny, we somehow muddled through. When Da and Boots passed away, I didn’t look for anyone to replace them. I didn’t need anyone else, fiercely protecting the little unit of two Cora and I had become.
But the echo from Ireland has always haunted me.
As the long nights on watch were washed away by rosy clouds, the first thing I saw each morning was Cora’s sweet little face, cheeks as pink as summer roses, hair falling across her pillow, like a mermaid underwater. I imagine her now, living in some underwater world, the reflection from the moon silvering her hair.
I might not be needed here like I once was, but I still come to the lighthouse, like a moth drawn to a flame, flitting about through the small hours of the night, moving things that don’t need moving, wiping surfaces that don’t need wiping, finding ways to remember her and to keep myself busy. The alternative—to sit idle and invite in difficult memories—is too frightening.
The skies darken early, the small room at the bottom of the lighthouse cast into shadow by the gathering clouds. I pause at the picture of Ida Lewis as I walk to the kitchen to make coffee. Her image has faded over the years, erased by the sun and the passage of time. She’s been a sort of guardian to me, someone I’ve always looked up to. Ida was a true American heroine, her life was noble and proud. Mine is a fabrication, stitched poorly together between Ireland and America, and it is starting to unravel and fray.
I make coffee and sit by the window, watching the shifting tint and tone of the sky, letting my thoughts drift back across the years, the salt-tang of the ocean filling my nostrils as I breathe in deep. I see her in everything: in sunlight and shadow, in the white tips of the waves and the lingering strands of the sea fogs. For so long, Cora was my reason to wake up in the morning. Cora, and the light. The darkness of her absence is unbearable.
Matilda is my purpose now, for as long as she chooses to stay here. I am curious to know her, enjoy the little clues I pick up as we spend time together. I know that she likes to sing along to the wireless and that she likes the scent of lavender and beach roses. I know that she enjoys cycling and collecting shells from the beach which she keeps in a trinket box beside her bed.
I know these simple little things about her that make a person unique.
Simple little things I should have always known about her, if things had been different.