The Souls of Drowned People

Chapter Seven

Oversleeping hadn’t been part of the plans, but after three cups of warm tea and with the heavy quilt Rachael set at the foot of my bed, it happened. The house was silent when I peeked out from the guest room, wanting to see if anyone else was awake and fully dressed before I came plodding out barefoot and in my plaid shorts. Empty and quiet, the house suddenly felt like something from a magazine article about little Irish villages, with a wind chime singing in the window and boots lined up by the front door. The day’s paper was lying on the kitchen table, already wrinkled and leafed through, the sports page sitting on top.

            Rachael had left me a note on the fridge. Moira – help yourself to anything around the house. We’ll be back from church around noon.

            I looked through their fridge, feeling intrusive. Something about going through someone’s kitchen, even if you were only looking at their bread and cartons of milk, made you feel like you were seeing something you should. I took out of a piece of bread, chewing it boring and plain as I looked out the kitchen window.

            The beach looked forlorn without anyone on it, the sand begging for feet to leave imprints. New shells had been swept to the shore during the night, waiting to be picked up and beaded into necklaces.

            Moira. I wasn’t imagining it, the water was calling my name as it lapped against the beach. Welcome back, Moira.

            Remember the look in Bridget’s eyes, I told myself. Remember the tapping of her jump rope, the foreboding beat it added to the solemnity of her words. Remember that you promised Cillian. Promised him one little thing, when he’s doing everything for you.

            It didn’t work. The child in my brain wanted to fly into the water, splash muddy sand around my ankles, and the nearly-an-adult part couldn’t keep up.

            Stuffing the last of the bread into my mouth, I ran out the front door. The earth felt alive under my naked feet. The water splashed and the gulls cawed and my heart beat, all as one. I stumbled as I reached the sand, the memories catching me off guard. With the sand squished between my toes, everything came roaring back. I dropped to my knees, stretching my hands in front of me, pressing my lips against the ground. The sand was salty and thick in my mouth, rusty like blood. No one was watching – all of Ballycotton was at church or sleeping, and even if everyone was watching, I wouldn’t have cared. I lay on my back, flailing my arms and making sand angels. I collected all the best pink shells, lining them up on the back of my hand. I stood where the water kissed the beach, giggling like a child as it swept the sand from my feet.

            There was a splash coming from the gathering of rocks, and I looked up to see the small red seal sticking his head out of the water, bobbing up and down. 

            “Hello!” I called out to him, unsure why I was talking to a seal.

            The seal paused for a moment, and then did a happy backwards flip through the water. He was showing off me for, and I clapped.

            “Good job, little seal. I guess I should give you a name, shouldn’t I?” I searched my mind, thinking of the names from the mythology books Cillian gave me for my first eight birthdays. “How about something strong, like Cuchulain.”

            The seal continued to bob up and down.

            “No? Well, you’ll have to help me out here. Otherwise I’ll just have to call you Little Seal all the time. How about Ronan?” I had never heard the name before, but I knew it was perfect as soon as I said it. “Ronan.”