Petronilla

It was beckoning me.

I could hear its silent call repeating my name over and over again, relentlessly, like a mantra, but with no peace — only warning.

I tried to look away, but every time I did, its pull drew me back. I stood frozen in fear, somehow knowing there would be no escaping this.

The air around it crackled, charged with something ancient. Something that did not belong to this world.

I had asked for this; I had prayed for this, and now there it was — within my grasp.

And where was I?

Sitting on the sidelines — afraid of everything and everyone, especially the beautiful relic that had just washed up on the shore.

It was the last days before high school, before everything would change, and I had never felt so alone.

I was sent to live with my great-aunt for the summer break so my mother could recover. Her nerves had gotten the better of her when my father left — or that is what they told me. Everyone thought it would do me good to spend some time by the sea, to get away from the stress of life and be somewhere new.

But living with Aunt Kathryn was far from peaceful.

Aintín Caitrín, as she would often correct me, had a tiny little Cape Cod on Monhegan Island that she affectionately called Sayornis House, after the birds that always seemed to gather near the cottage. It was a tragically small, forgotten piece of land off the coast of Maine. It boasted exactly fifty-four year-round residents. The locals didn’t count summer people like us. Even the summer bungalow owners were still considered “runners,” which was island slang for outsiders — and not a compliment.

My guess is that the term was coined during one of Monhegan’s famous storms. The island’s weather was legendary in its moodiness. When it rained it felt like the sea would literally swallow the island whole. The waves would crash onto the rocky shores. The wind was relentless, howling like a banshee in the night, beating the houses as she made her way through town. The sound was terrifying, but I learned that no matter how scary the storms were, they invariably pass. Secretly, I loved the calm right after, when everything was so still and quiet. That was my favorite.

Even with the moody weather, the island was not without its charms. Everywhere you looked there were giant cliffs overlooking a majestic sea below, quaint little houses dotting the landscape like freckles on a cherub’s face. It was truly breathtaking. In the mornings when the mist would rise off the ocean, it was like we were living inside a dream.

Aunt Kathryn talked endlessly about the islands’ golden days (when there were all of 300 residents) and it was an artist colony, teaming with actors, writers and painters; a time she obviously preferred. But that was long ago.

Now Aunt Kathryn and I were forced together on this desolate island, sharing a very small, cramped house filled with ancient things.

Aunt Kathryn’s home was nothing like mine.

For one thing, it came with Roan.

Roan was Aunt Kathryn’s tortoiseshell cat — a “tortie” — with mottled black-and-tan fur, one ridiculous orange paw, and bright green eyes that made her look as if she knew things she had no business knowing. I didn’t realize how beautiful she was at first. Roan, however, seemed fully aware.

She pranced around the house daring people to admire her, though touching her was apparently a punishable offense. The guest room had been her room until I arrived, so there was a bit of a war going on between us. In fact, she had already claimed my favorite U2 concert T-shirt as her new blanket.

Whenever I look at that shirt, I can’t help but remember when my dad gave it to me. It was one of our “dance party” nights. That is, before the fighting began. We would listen to my father’s favorite songs into the wee hours of the morning. My dad had put on “Elevation”, and I played the air guitar so hard he said I earned it. We laughed so much that night, everyone was so happy. I think that is why being here is so hard because I’m alone.

Let me start off by telling you, Aunt Kathryn is Irish. I am too but not like her. Everything, and I mean everything, looks like it came over on the boat from the old country. I don’t know anyone who actually uses hurricane lamps with oil in them anymore. I have to light the wicks with a match. It’s like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. And all the lace doilies. Everywhere. There are some couches I am afraid to sit on. But the worst part of the house is the old-fashioned sayings. You can’t look at a wall without seeing an embroidered phrase somewhere. Mostly they’re telling me to hope I get to heaven before the devil knows I’m dead. Aunt Kathryn said that is the Irish wit. She also said it skipped my generation. I found that insulting.

In fact, I found most of what she said insulting. But she didn’t care. Whenever I got upset, she would say I was a soft yank. Which meant I was an overly sensitive Yankee, which I wasn’t. She was just mean and had a terrible potty mouth. Her curses were mainly in Irish, but I knew what they meant and I did not appreciate being called a wee eejit, which seemed to be my new nickname.

The rest of the world, however, called me Nilla. I think my mother felt bad for listening to Aunt Kathryn and naming me Petronilla, so thankfully, she shortened it. Apparently, my aunt had a dream when my mom was pregnant with me. In it our great, great, great, great, great grandmother Petronilla de Meath came to her. She told my mother it was a sign and that she needed to honor her spirit. I wouldn’t have minded so much if her name was Kelly or Erin or Fiona or literally any other name. But this is the tragedy of my life.

And now here I am, like usual; having escaped the tiny cape cod, sitting on the beach in my favorite, though slightly stained, mustard yellow t-shirt, and blue and white striped shorts, with my short dark auburn curls blowing in the summer breeze.

I should have been thinking about my mother. Or my father. Or the fact that Roan was probably shedding all over my clothes.

But all I could think about was what washed up on the shore.

It was the answers to my prayers, and it was waiting for me.