It takes me a long time to get the book to dry. A lot longer than I thought it would. I’m patient, though, and the pages are slowly starting to come apart and I can make out some of the writing, even though the ink is smeared. I read it as I go along. There is the usual stuff the lightkeeper wrote about. All the ships and things he did to keep the light running. He mentions Charlie a few times, and Peter. Talks about taking them fishing, about trips around the island and hunting caribou. I finally come to the part where Miss Livingstone and Emily are born.
Saturday, 16 May 1925—Lil delivered today, a month before her expected date of confinement. We did not have time to get her into the city, so she birthed on her own with incompetent, and therefore somewhat limited, help from me. We have been doubly blessed—surprised by twins! Two tiny little girls with dark hair and dark eyes. They are small and seem so fragile, being born early, but it does explain their hurry to come into the world. Lil is doing well. We will keep careful watch over them and hope for the best. Have named them Elizabeth and Emily.
I learn that the twins not only survived, which I know already, but that they thrive, feeding frequently, becoming squawking and demanding of their mother, so that they all become exhausted, and that little eight-year-old Peter is able to help out his father with the chores. He says that the twins are inseparable; that the little one, Emily, cannot stand to be away from her sister for even a moment without kicking up a fuss. I guess Emily needed Elizabeth even at such a young age.
The date of the mysterious grave marker on Hardscrabble Island is November 29, 1926. The sinking of the Kelowna was in December 1926. There are still many, many more trips into the freezer before I reach those pages.
I’m going to need another pack of cigarettes.
*
It’s long past midnight. The house is quiet. I repeat the process—freeze, blow-dry, blot, freeze, blow-dry, blot . . . I’m halfway through the book, but still months away from the sinking of the Kelowna.
The lightkeeper describes an idyllic life. The girls grow. A year passes, and they reach all the baby landmarks of rolling over and smiling and learning to crawl, while mantles are replaced and kerosene is delivered and repairs are made. Their winter is uneventful. He teaches Charlie to read that year using newspapers that arrive in bundles, several weeks at a time. They hunt caribou and deer. Shipping season opens late, and thunderstorms are frequent and violent. They mark the twins’ birthday, although there are no gifts or cake, just a simple notation in May 1926 that they are now a year old. He seems to be taken by his daughters more than he was the boys, as he mentions the actions of the twins much more frequently. Especially Emily. She is most obviously his favorite.
Wednesday, 16 June—Took delivery today of a little gaff-rigged punt that will replace the old, leaky tender we have been using. She’s a lively little thing and will be excellent for traveling about the islands and for fishing. Named her Sweet Pea. The twins are toddling about now. Elizabeth is much stronger and larger than Emily, but Emily has picked up more words and uses them at times with tiresome frequency. She has become my shadow, following me about on my chores when she can, but never going far from Elizabeth.
Something must have changed. Miss Livingstone claims Emily never spoke. Ever. Except one word, the name of her daughter. Anna.
Saturday, 10 July—Have had no rain now for almost three weeks. I am making almost daily trips to the potato garden to water. Charlie is always eager to accompany me and particularly enjoys adventures in Sweet Pea. He is shaping up to be a strong sailor.
Monday, 9 August—The berries are not plentiful this year, but we have spent several long days on Edward Island picking. The girls amuse themselves, playing for hours with sticks and leaves while Lil harvests, filling their mouths with the purple fruit until their lips and cheeks are stained. They are inseparable, and seem to share a bond and language all their own. Emily is certainly the brighter of the two, crawling into my lap, demanding stories, pretending to read along using incomprehensible language, mimicking my actions in a most adorable fashion.
I drift off around three in the morning while the book is doing a turn in the freezer. I sleep longer than I want to. When I wake, I’m still dressed in my clothes, and the lamp on my desk is glaring accusingly at me. It takes me a while to remember what I was doing, and why I’m lying like a passed-out drunk on top of my covers. It’s dark outside, even though it’s late in the morning. Everyone must be out because the house is quiet; even the TV is silent. When I look out the window, there’s no car in the driveway, and I’m relieved I have the place to myself. The sky is low and heavy, and the wind is tossing about tiny specks of white. I return to my task. It isn’t long until I discover the secrets the book holds. But they’re not the ones I expected.
Thursday, 18 November–An illness has found its way to our home. Peter and Charlie have both been suffering from fevers. They have been confined to bed, alternately shivering beneath piles of blankets and kicking off the covers as the heat overcomes them. They are in capable hands. Lil has been steeping concoctions for them from the herbs hanging in the pantry, and I am confident they will recover soon.
Sunday, 21 November—The boys both show signs of improvement, their fevers have broken, but they remain lethargic, barely sipping broth. I am reading them a story by Jules Vernes called Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. It keeps them amused, although they are asleep more than they are awake. My concern has switched to the girls. They have both become listless, and I fear they will be the next to succumb to the illness.
Monday, 22 November—Both Elizabeth and Emily are now quite ill. Their faces are flush with fever, and they are refusing to take any nourishment Lil offers them. I am most concerned about Emily. She does not have the strength of her sister. She is so small and fragile.
Freeze, blow-dry, blot . . .
Saturday, 27 November–It has been five days now that the girls have been ill with this fever. They grow more and more lethargic. Unlike the boys, they are now covered head to toe in an angry, red rash. The weather has become irritable or I would pack them all into Sweet Pea and head to Port Arthur in search of a doctor. Lil is doing all that she can, and the strain of this illness, first the boys and now the twins, is beginning to show. I am helping as much as I can. My concern grows.
Sunday, 28 November—Emily’s fever broke last night. Her tiny body has rallied, bolstered by Lil’s herbs. Elizabeth still suffers, her body gripped by seizures, her breath coming in short, rasping gasps.
Monday, 29 November—Elizabeth died this morning. She took her final breath a half hour after sunrise. I have removed her body from the cot, from the side of her sister. Emily is inconsolable.
I’ve been reading the pages while I’m blowing hot air from the hair dryer over them. But when I read these words, I turn it off. The silence is loud. It doesn’t surprise me. It happened a long, long time ago. But still, it touches me.