Eyes of the Ocean

Martin sat on his daughter’s bed and read Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat.

His words drifted like snow while Iris sat with her back against the headboard, and a sketchpad on her raised legs. She drew at a frantic rate. When Martin finished, he closed the book and considered his daughter. Straight brown hair spilled over her shoulders. A small lock of hair fell into her eyes. She returned his gaze with her own.

“Well?” he said, waiting for the big reveal.

Iris tightened her lips, and then turned the pad toward him. It was a replica of the Cat in the Hat, but it had its own twist—it didn’t stand on two legs, but walked normally, and had a hint of oddity from Alice in Wonderland.

The feline had a squiggly tail, bulging eyes, and a wide smile.

“You’re starting to get shading down. It’s really a wonderful picture.”

She beamed and he winked.

“Are you ready for bed?”

“No,” Iris said, flipping the page. “Tell me a story.”

“I just told you one.” He showed her the Dr. Seuss book as he got up and put it on the bookshelf near the window.

“Tell me one more.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Something new.”

Martin stopped, and looked at her.

“How ‘bout you make one up?”

He blinked. “Uh, well, okay.” He slowly returned to the bed. “Once upon a time there was this couple.” He paused, eyes wandering. “They decided they wanted to go on a road trip. So they got in the car and went. They drove. It was a long drive. They drove all day and night…” Martin drifted, and looked at his daughter. She was frowning.

“You ever told a story?”

He puffed his cheeks in a long sigh. “Not really.”

“Add twists.”

Martin scratched his head. “Like what?”

Iris rolled her eyes. “Well maybe they get a flat tire?”

“Okay, so they have a flat. So they find a repair shop—”

“Dad.”

“Yes?”

“Start over.”

He clasped his hands together. “What do you want to hear?”

She put pencil to paper, stopped, and looked at him. “Use your imagination.”

Martin winced. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that is.”

Iris looked at him as if he should know better. He opened his mouth to argue that he really didn’t, but stopped himself. He looked away from her, and allowed the silence of the room to settle. Martin gazed through the only window and listened to the hissing tide wash over a white sand shoreline. Feeling his daughter watch him, he spoke the words that bubbled from his throat.

“Once, there was a boy who couldn’t sleep. Something bothered him, but he didn’t know what, and it ate at his mind until the night was old and dreaming was impossible.”

Martin looked at his daughter, surprised at the words slipping from his lips.

“And?” Iris asked. She was drawing again.

Martin went on.

When the grandfather clock struck three a.m., the boy got out of bed and grabbed his banjo. He walked into the kitchen, took the drinking glass by the sink, and ran the faucet. Once he had his fill, the boy studied the glass, then the kitchen—the smudged tile floor, dirty white refrigerator, the banister beside the downward stairwell worn, scratched and beaten, the counters filled with cook books and loose papers, the metal sink stained and filled with dishes of old dried food.

Moonlight filtered through the front screen door. He went outside and crisp fall air embraced his body, chilling his toes and nose. The boy sat on the steps and played the banjo. He observed how the plains went on for miles without a single blemish, a hill, a ditch, a creek. Irrigation systems stood like skeletal dinosaurs, reflecting silver light. It was a serene image, one he was accustomed to, and he noticed the turning leaves and browning grass. The vibrant earth tones had been dimmed, however, for the landscape had been soaked in the inky indigo that undulated from the settled sea of the night sky. Through the canvass of dry and comforting familiarity, he heard water flowing.

He ceased playing his banjo and listened carefully, as if to register what he heard could be true. Nevertheless, he wasn’t mistaken, for the sound was alien to the usual resonance of yipping coyotes and slow oscillating locusts. The boy followed the sound, and it led him to the end of his home’s long gravel driveway. Beyond the dirt road, the flatlands were imminent, but there wasn’t a single clue to where the sound of water came from.

The boy stepped onto the road, and saw something that blurred the lines of the events one perceives in a dream and what happens in reality. What he witnessed, was something he could not believe.

Martin fell quiet. The sound of Iris’s frantic sketching—a scratchy, scraping sound—stopped, and was followed by a jab in the side. He looked at her.

She leaned forward with curious eyes and clutched her pad tightly.

“Well, what did he see?”

Martin rubbed his chin, then glanced at his watch. “It’s late, you should really get some rest.”

“What?” She grabbed him. “No way! You gotta finish, Dad!”

“I’ll tell you more tomorrow night.”

“No! Right now!”

“Iris,” he said, his voice became stern. “Now you got school in the morning. I don’t want you to be late because you didn’t get out of bed on time.”

“But…but, the story!”

“Tomorrow night,” he repeated.

She groaned, then said, “Promise?”

He nodded. “Yes. I promise.”

Martin tucked Iris in and gave her a kiss. He went downstairs to the living room where his wife, Lily, sat on a gray loveseat between two lounge chairs in front of a TV. Her long legs were pushed against her thin frame while she read TIME Magazine. Her hazel eyes looked at Martin. “You were up there a while,” she said, and brushed black hair from her face.

“Yeah, Iris wanted to hear another story.”

Lily chuckled. “That sounds about right. Did you notice how she’s really gotten into drawing?”

She marked her page and set the magazine on the coffee table. Martin sat down and Lily snuggled next to him. He kissed her forehead.

“Yes I have, but you think she would find time to do it during the day,” he said.

“She gets it from you,” Lily said, tapping his nose. “That artistic gene, that’s all you. I couldn’t do anything creative to save my life.”

“Yeah right. I’m no more imaginative than a rock.”

“Stop that.”

He looked at her. “What?”

“Don’t run yourself down; you were great, still are.”

He didn’t reply, just stared at the TV, which was tuned to the evening news. His mind numbed. He sighed deeply and let his mouth drop open. The color in his eyes faded. Lily touched his cheek, and he blinked a few times to find himself in the living room again.

“What stories did you read her?” Lily asked.

“Cat in the Hat, and then she asked me to make up a story.”

She brightened. “Really?”

A cool breeze blew from the open screen door, and Martin shivered. He suppressed a smile. “Don’t get excited. It wasn’t very good.”

She looked at him sardonically.

This time he did smile. “Don’t even. Stop giving me that look.”

“What look?” she said in a dainty voice.

“That look, that same dang look I get from Iris when I don’t want to do something.”

Lily leaned in, whispering, “But I’ve got more power.” She kissed him, just missing his lips.

“How about one more, eh? Right here?” He touched his lips.

She shook her head, chin raised. “Nope. Not doing it.”

He pushed her over and rubbed his stubbly face into her neck. “Give me the kisses!”

Lily laughed uncontrollably, then took his head in her long hands and kissed him on the lips. She ran her hand through his hair, clutched it, and released. Her eyes sparkled in the soft light, and he kissed her once more.

Martin put his back against the loveseat’s arm, and Lily carefully laid on him. He put his arms around her and let go a deep breath. His attention went to the TV, but when the cool outside-air tickled him once more, he was reminded that he had no idea what to tell Iris tomorrow. Sorry honey, I’m not sure how I began last night. I’m going to have to break my promise. How about more Dr. Seuss, instead?

That wouldn’t go over very well.

While working at the grocery store, Martin thought about the story he had started last night. After his shift ended, he drove home with the windows down, and dug into his pockets, removing something small, turning it in his hand, taking short glances at it before rolling it into his fist.

Martin pulled into the driveway, and listened to the surf after he killed the engine. He watched palm trees sway in the breeze before going inside to the kitchen. Flowered wallpaper glittered in the white light. The silver refrigerator, smooth counters, and tile floor all shined like polished chrome. Garlic sizzled in a saucepan, its scent filling Martin’s nose, and making his stomach growl. Lily was getting a pack of hamburger out when he embraced her from behind and kissed the back of her neck.

“What’s the occasion, Professor Sanders?”

Lily rolled her head back and closed her eyes, smiling broadly. “My students turned in their first English papers, going to find out if I’m doing okay.” She turned in his arms and kissed him. He watched her. She huffed and said, “Okay, I’m cooking because I’m stalling.”

“I thought so; you never cook.”

She turned and threw meat into a pan. “I am tonight. Hope you’re hungry.” Martin looked at his hands.

Lily turned, followed his eyes, and then froze. Hamburger sizzled in the pan. “You still carry that?” she said.

“Yep.”

Martin held up a yellow guitar pick.

“It’s still downstairs,” Lily said.

He looked at his wife. She nodded in confirmation. “Wouldn’t it be something if you were to play again?”

“Lily…”

“You could use it. Give you some guidance.”

“I’m perfectly happy right here,” he said, sounding defensive.

“I don’t doubt it. But…” she hesitated, thinking a moment. “You’ve lost something, Martin. I used to see it in your eyes, a spark. I miss seeing that part of you.”

Lily turned and continued cooking. He left the room and wandered into the den—the windows were open and the cool wind grazed against him. Iris lay on the floor with math sheets spread out before her. She wrote answers in big curly numbers. Martin knelt beside her, watching until Iris looked up and waved him away dismissively.

“I’m busy, buzz off.”

He smirked. “Don’t need help?”

“No way,” she said, flipping her hair at him.

Martin smiled and stood up, watching her for a moment longer before going downstairs. He stopped in front of a white wooden door, and opened it.

Inside was a spacious, almost empty room covered in cobwebs and dust.

Against the far wall was his acoustic guitar sitting on an old creaky rack. Martin approached the instrument, running his fingers along the dusty maple neck. He picked it up and sat down, brushing the body off. With great uncertainty, he brushed the pick over the strings. The sound that came from the instrument was incoherent and broken. He tuned the guitar, first with hesitance, then with a somewhat more confident hand. He hit the strings again, and the tune resonated a moment before two of the guitar strings snapped. He rested an arm on top of the guitar and sighed heavily. He tossed the pick on the floor, but decided to pick it back up before leaving the room.

After supper, he turned on the evening news, watching but not listening. Martin lay his head back and stared at the white ceiling until Lily came in and noticed his blank stare.

“How was it?”

He shook his head slowly, played with her hair. “Damn strings gave out.”

He paused, then said, “I thought I’d gotten rid of it.”

Lily sat on the back of the loveseat. “I told you not to, remember?”

He didn’t, and though he tried to recall the time when the equipment had been sold, it seemed that remembering was like recalling a dream.

“You know, I felt something when I picked up the guitar.”

Lily slid down the couch’s back and rolled to a sitting position. Martin scratched his head. “I don’t know what exactly. It’s a strange thing. When was the last time I played any music?”

“Years,” Lily said. “You were getting really good, too. Had a record deal within reach. Then you just…stopped.”

Martin was going to argue that, because there was a deeper reason, but Iris dashed down the stairs and jumped on him.

“Dad, Daddy, Dadd-o!”

He grunted in surprise. “Yes?”

“It’s story time!”

Lily smiled, then nudged Martin in the side. She feigned the voice of a child, “Yeah, Dad, you gotta keep your promise.”

Martin smiled, and then kissed Lily’s cheek.

Iris covered her eyes. “Ewwwwwww!”

He carried Iris upstairs, and into her room that was decorated with posters of unicorns, forests, and elaborate landscapes of fantasy worlds. He set her down on the indigo bed. Iris grabbed her sketchpad and flipped to the page she had been working on the previous night.

She waited.

Martin bought himself an extra moment by looking out the half-open window. The tide was in; he could tell by the way it sounded, growling forward, and then sighing away.

He turned to Iris, and the words flowed.

The boy woke the following day with a roaring headache, and no idea how he got back to bed. But he remembered what he’d seen. In school, he thought of the night that remained in his mind like a splinter. For weeks, he sat outside on the deck and played his banjo while gazing out to the plains, listening until evening arrived, but never hearing what he wanted. One day, he remained until after sunset, passing on supper, and playing his banjo relentlessly, hoping for a change.

Later that night, the boy lay in bed, and stared at the ceiling. When the grandfather clock signaled one a.m., he went into the kitchen and grabbed the glass sitting beside the sink. He reached for the faucet, but stopped. The boy turned to the windows over the downward stairwell. Moonlight poured over the beaten banister and onto the floor.

The boy stepped outside. It was unseasonably warm, and the moon was high in the sky, making the plains a blue-lit world decorated with lightning bugs. Normally, the air smelled of hay, dirt, and hogs from up the road, but that night it smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. He heard water again.

At the end of the driveway, the boy saw what he had seen weeks before. The flatlands morphed into a jungle. He watched in awe as trees rose and exotic foliage grew, once more ripping apart what was real and replacing it with something equally beautiful and unknown. The event wiped away any sense of tranquility or normality, but the transformation brought a strong sensation to the heart of that young boy. It was curiosity, and he entered the jungle.

Trees stood like ancient noble pillars. Chirping and singing filled the boy’s ears in an orchestra of song coming from white furred deer. They skipped through the woodlands with elegance. Purple luminescence lined all the plant life. Fireflies danced in the sugary atmosphere, showing off their multicolored sparks of light. The smell of vanilla grew stronger, tickling his taste buds and making him believe he had bitten into a warm cinnamon roll. The boy trekked through the vegetation; plants brushed gently against his legs the whole way. It wasn’t very long before the boy found what he unknowingly sought after.

Light blue water shined like a reflecting mirror. It stretched into the darkened horizon until it merged and became one. Ripples swirled as if it were silk in the wind. The boy bent and twirled his fingers through the warm water. When he removed his hand, his fingers glittered. With caution, he knelt and sipped. The water tasted like blueberry waffles, his favorite food. He dropped to his stomach and drank until his belly bulged out.

When he lifted his head, there was a man sitting beside him on the shore, dressed in indigo robes. His knees were raised to his chest and his arms rested on top. The boy—startled—backed away, but the man made no response. Instead, he reached out his hand, and pointed to the distance.

“What was it?” Iris said.

Martin pursed his lips. “You know, I think...bedtime is now.”

“Dad!” She threw the sketchpad onto the floor. “You can’t! You promised— ”

“I never said anything about finishing the whole story.”

Iris threw her fists in the air. “That is so not fair!”

“Iris,” he said, waiting until his daughter calmed down. “Mind me, hear? I need some time. Tomorrow, I’ll wrap up the story. Okay?”

“You swear?”

“Yes.”

“Stick a needle in your eye?”

He nodded.

Iris held out her pinky. Martin looked at her a moment, grinned, and then wrapped his own around it.

“Don’t break your promise,” she grumbled.

“I won’t.” He reached for the pad she’d thrown on the floor and Iris screamed.

“No!” She snatched it before he could and held it to her chest.

“What in the world are you drawing?”

She shook her head. “I’m not telling! Keep your promise and maybe I’ll show you.”

He laughed, tucked Iris in, and went downstairs. The living room was empty, the TV turned off. Soft music and shuffling papers crept through the closed door of Lily’s study. Martin went to the open screen door, feeling the cool and crisp air, and walked outside.

Martin walked along the open shoreline, warm ocean water washing over his toes. Salty air blew his hair and graced his nostrils. He walked a great distance before stopping and turning to the living ocean. He removed the guitar pick and watched it gleam in the moonlight.

Martin called in sick the next day. He said hello to his wife, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and told her to have a good day as she headed for the door. There was a look in his wife’s eyes, a look he had seen many times, the kind that demanded an answer to what was going on. He smiled at her, and assured everything was fine. Lily gave him a kiss and left with Iris.

Martin drove into town, where he stopped at a guitar shop and bought two packs of guitar strings. When he returned, he took the guitar from the basement and carried it outside to the deck that overlooked the glittering sea. He cleaned, restrung, and tuned his guitar. All afternoon, he ran his thumbs over the strings, attempting to play a few songs but never heard what he wanted.

When the sun hung low, sending streaks of purple and red into the sky like torn fruit, Martin paused to watch the sea rise and fall. The ocean smelled of vanilla, and in the distance where the waves were larger, there were the multicolored lights—fireflies. Martin rubbed his stubbly chin and looked at his guitar. He took the beaten yellow pick from his pocket and grazed it across the strings. A soft tune carried out, and a chill shot up his spine, making him quiver, but also smile.

Lily stepped out, a glass of wine cupped in her palm. Martin looked at her. She wore a deep blue sundress that flapped in the sugary air.

She met his gaze with a warm smile. “Well, Mr. I-don’t-have-creativity, look at you.”

He smiled and set the instrument aside.

She sat in the chair beside him, took a sip from her glass, then set it down and crossed her legs. It was an elegant motion. “Remember how we met?”

Martin nodded. “I was sitting by the lakeside playing my guitar. You came up to me.”

“I was nervous, really nervous. There was a look in your eyes when you played, like you weren’t really there because you were somehow riding along the melodies you created.”

“You bought me this pick.” He held it up.

She nodded. “I didn’t know what else to get you. After five dates, all I knew was that you loved playing guitar. It centered you.” Palm leaves rattled in the wind. “Why did you stop playing?”

Martin chewed his lip before answering. “Guys at the label liked my music, wanted to promote it, but they had a vision in mind that was different from mine.” He looked at her. “They always gave the impression they would work with me, but after only a week of trying to find a hook for an album, they said they found someone else who could do what I could, and was more interested in appealing to the label’s vision.”

“So…you gave up, got rid of everything.” She raised her eyes to him. “That’s why you never told me?”

He nodded, looking out at the ocean.

Lily leaned in. “It’s okay, Martin. I don’t care.”

“I should’ve told you, but it was my dream they took away...”

“I’m happy you’re playing again.”

They looked at each other for a long time. Martin pulled her close, kissing her deeply. When they pulled away, Lily’s cheeks were flooded with color.

“Oh, wow,” she whispered, closing her eyes and rubbing her lips together.

“We’re going to have to finish this, but there’s another lady looking for you.” Martin stood.

Lily held onto his hand. “How do you feel about playing?”

“Excited.”

She smiled. He tightened his grip and then went inside. Once in Iris’s bedroom, he shut the door. She was in bed with the sketchpad resting on her thighs. Martin looked to the window. It was open, wind flirting with the curtains.

“So, how’s it going to end, Dad?”

Martin sat down, smoothed the covers, and told her.

The sight had terrified the boy so much that he ran out of the forest and swore never to return. He focused on school and homework, and his banjo sat in the corner of his bedroom, neglected. But eventually, his thoughts returned to the sea hidden within the great jungle. He returned to his banjo, playing it in the living room where he could peer through the windows at the whitewashed prairie, but nothing ever happened.

One day, after playing for hours, the boy came upon a melody, one unpracticed but beautiful to his ears. It carried itself from one crescendo to the next. The connecting melodies became its own song, and the memory of the man in robes came back to him. It replayed itself slowly, and the boy realized that the mysterious man had not pointed towards the sea, but had reached out with a shaking hand. The song ended, and he was left to look at the hands that had played the music he could not remember.

Another full moon arrived. The boy reflected on how life had been since he’d ran away from the jungle. What had life become? There was something missing, and his mind came back to the unknown man reaching for the very thing that had frightened the boy. What was it?

He went outside, trekking through several inches of snow, and then entered the jungle that waited for him. Foliage cracked under his boots. When he reached the shore, light flashed in his eyes. He shielded his eyes with a raised hand. When the light dimmed, he found the man where he was before. This time he was on his knees, and once more reaching for what was in the great distance of the endless mirrored water.

Starlight shined in the night sky, and at first, the boy believed that was all he saw on the faraway horizon. But…no, it was there, he barely saw it—a faint, yet unique glimmer of light, flashing like a beacon. The man turned to him, and though he was tempted to run, he didn’t. There was something familiar in the man’s eyes, something he would see in the future.

The man held out his hand, saying, “Together, we’ll obtain it.”

He looked to the horizon once more, and though that speck of light was hardly distinguishable from the rest of the stars, there was the flash that made it stand out, a brilliance making it as real to the boy as the man on his knees.

“Yes we will,” the boy said, and grabbed the man’s hand.

Martin fell silent, and watched the curtains sway. He raised a knuckle to his eye and was shocked when it came away wet. Martin observed Iris’s room.

The lights were here, flickering, no longer fireflies but Christmas lights Iris had refused to take down after the season ended. They were slow, then fast, then flashed in unison, then separately. It was a dance, and even when the lights appeared to be out of sync, they found a way to come together.

But the light that caught his eye was outside, and he saw it from where he sat now, through the open window and between dancing curtains. He turned to Iris. She was drawing with a fever he had never seen before. He left the room and went downstairs where the guitar had been propped against the wall. He returned to Iris’s room and sat down.

Iris noticed the guitar, wiggled the pencil in her hand and said, “Are you going to play?”

He gave her a smile and removed the yellow pick from his pocket. Martin put his hands in position, and waited, closing his eyes. It wasn’t long before his hands moved, and yes, the feeling was magnificent. But there was a difference, and Martin noticed this with pinched brows. The song was the same, this was certain, but the sound was altered; it was deeper. He had tuned his guitar differently, and he hadn’t even thought about it.

The song carried on for as long as it demanded, and it seemed to grow in strength the longer it went on, taking on new life and richer tones. The old memory returned, and he was on the beach once again. This time, he was on his knees and wearing the indigo robes. Instead of fruitlessly reaching for that dim star that seemed out of reach, it was there, within his grasp.

His hands played faster, the song grew louder and stronger.

The light grazed his soft palm; it was warm and embracing, enough to make him cry out in joy. He reached out to grasp it, but the song ended, and Martin returned to Iris’s bedroom.

She was watching him, and Lily was standing at the door, watching with the same awed expression. He set the guitar aside and placed his hands on his knees, eyes shifting here and there. The sigh of the ocean drifted through the window. Iris poked him in the side to get his attention.

“My god, ” Lily whispered…

She showed him her picture—a collage of images that were interconnected by musical notes. The upper left showed the boy walking through the jungle, the exotic deer leaping through the forestry. Next was the boy standing before the endless sea, looking toward a dim light on the horizon. The bottom half of the drawing was of himself, sitting on the bed playing his guitar, musical notes all around him, doubled over like stars, and in the background was the ocean. The reverent light rested above a pair of eyes that rose from the water. Eyes that watched him play while his own were closed.

“My god,” Lily whispered, kneeling beside Martin. He gently took the drawing from Iris and held it before him, touched it to confirm it was real.

“He was you wasn’t he?” Iris said in a sleepy voice. “The boy.”

He nodded.

She smiled, then stretched and laid back. “Sleepy time, Daddy. Tuck me in.” He did, and stayed to watch her fall asleep. Then he left the room with Lily. They went downstairs, where Lily further admired the sketched image. “I can’t believe this, Martin. She created a masterpiece.” She looked at him. “I thought you were telling her a story?”

“I was.”

“That music, Martin. It was beautiful!”

He took her hand and they went into the basement. They entered the former studio, and Martin set the guitar on the stand. After a minute, he turned and took Lily in his arms.

“Will you play more?”

Martin considered it, and peered over his shoulder at the instrument. Faint, multicolored lights sparkled. The song began again, progressing with each flash of light.

“I think I’ve had my fill.” He winked at her. “But as for us, we have business together.”

She raised her brows, gave a small smile. “Yes we do.”

He took her by the hand, and led her along the shoreline, stopping occasionally to lock eyes. As they stood, looking out at the ocean, she said, “I can see it; that light in your eyes, it’s back.”