Part Three

 

He just couldn’t believe it. The view was amazing. It seemed like he could see forever, even though he knew that wasn’t true. He had read somewhere that at a distance of seven miles, the curvature of the earth comes into play, and a person’s vision would then be limited. But really, who cared? That was the kind of thing best thought about in classrooms, or on meteorological field studies, and he was on neither.

Looking left and right, the shoreline stretched off into the distance, very occasionally dotted by a far-away figure of some other beachgoer, too far off to see clearly. The warm, blue water in front of him was endless, with a million diamonds of reflected sunlight dancing across its surface. A breeze blew in off the water and had a fresh, invigorating smell all its own. He’d smelled it somewhere before, but couldn’t quite think of where. Looking down, he saw that his pant-legs were rolled halfway up his calves, and he was standing in soft, wet sand, as the waves rolled in, gently splashing over his ankles.

He turned and looked behind him. The sand rose up in a series of low dunes that gradually gave way to sparse, scrubby beach grass, behind which was a run down fence, and beyond that a white beach house. Even on a day when the sun was so bright, the stark white color of the house didn’t hurt his eyes to look at. One of the windows was open, and he could see pale yellow curtains billowing out from inside the house, evidence of the strong breeze blowing through the structure.

This looked like his Aunt’s house in Maryland. Not quite though. He knew it wasn’t her house, but it was of the same style, like so many others in that part of the country. It just felt so good to be here, away from all the hustle and grind of work. He hadn’t been here in years-since he was about twelve years old-and he was glad to be back. He’d had so many good times here as a kid, playing along the beach with his cousins. Although the long car trips here from northern Ohio were never any fun, the misery of the trip itself was magically erased when he saw the magnificence of the ocean.

He used to like playing with his cousins and their friends, and his older brother (the main source of his torment on the long drive), but he would always find some excuse to slip away for a little while by himself.

He loved to find a secluded spot, sit down and just watch the waves roll in, letting his imagination take him. He never imagined himself as a seafaring sort. He just didn’t have the desire for that kind of life. In his mind, a sea captain tended to live a solitary existence, someone who was both despised and yet revered by his crew. He just didn’t see himself in that role. His imaginary adventures were no less bold, but they took a different turn; often times he imagined that he was the lone survivor of some mishap at sea, fighting against nature itself, whose towering waves threatened to swamp his leaky, wooden lifeboat. Sometimes his imagination would allow him to rescue a beautiful woman who had also miraculously survived. He would find her struggling to stay afloat, and he would paddle furiously with his hands to bring the tiny, foundering craft alongside her, and then pull her inside to relative safety.

Eventually they would drift to the shore of some deserted island, just as their lifeboat could stand the pounding waves no more, and crumbled beneath them. They would stagger ashore, where he would rescue her from countless other perils on the island, winning her love in the process.

These were his kinds of adventures-not ones where he was the commanding figure, conquering everything before him, but ones where he, like any other man, was subject to the whims of a capricious fate, and was always able to do just enough to win his survival, as well as that of the beautiful woman. These were the kinds of things he thought about, as he sat in solitude on the beach, looking out at the limitless ocean before him, its sheer size making him feel small and almost insignificant.

He turned and walked toward the house, the sand warm between his toes. He breathed deep the salty ocean smell, so gentle. It smelled the same as it had when he was a boy, and with it came the very faint scent of cocoanut sunscreen lotion that they all used to slather on each other at the insistence of their moms. He chuckled at the memory, and looked around but couldn’t locate the source of that particular smell. There must be some kids around somewhere that were using it.

The breeze blowing against his back was so refreshing, and the sunshine so warm that he was tempted to lay down right here in the sand and take a nap. He felt tired, and it sounded like such a good idea!

But he resisted the temptation, wanting instead to get a closer look at the house. He knew it was the home of a stranger, who probably would be none too thrilled at the sight of someone they didn’t know creeping around their house. But he figured that the homeowner would take into consideration the fact that it was daytime, and thus wouldn’t be too alarmed. Beside, his intentions were purely benign. He was so fascinated that he just had to get a slightly closer look at the house. He’d always loved the idea of a beach house. It seemed so bright. So open and airy. Ever since he was a boy, he’d wanted one for himself, and the eventual family that he planned on having. But so far in his life, neither one had come to fruition, a thought he found somewhat depressing.

Nevertheless, the day was far too beautiful, his mood too upbeat to let thoughts of what was missing in his life, get him down. He continued on toward the house, his feet slipping somewhat in the loose, warm sand, and presently found himself at the rear of the building. He paused, looking back out at the ocean, marveling at the view. The pure awe he felt at the spectacle of a serene, yet silent and powerful sea, coupled with the utter beauty of the day itself brought tears. Tears of joy. Of a happiness he hadn’t felt in so long. He wiped his eyes, smiling, and walked up to the house, and peered in through a window.

The glare on the glass made it difficult to see, so he shaded his eyes with his hands, and was surprised when he saw the inside of the house was empty. The many windows throughout, made it bright and cheerful looking, yet it was devoid of any furnishings.

This got the better of his curiosity, so he walked around looking for a door. Finding one, he put his hand on the knob and surprisingly, it turned. The door opened quietly outward. Why would anyone leave a house like this unlocked? Apparently the owners had vacated it, possibly with the intention of selling it, and had most likely left the keys with a real estate agent. But still, any respectable agent would ensure the house was locked when no one was there. He looked around, and saw no one, so he wiped the sand off his feet on a doormat, and stepped inside closing the door behind him.

“Hello?” he called. There was no answer, so he called out again, this time louder. Nothing except the echo of his voice, coming back to him. The door through which he’d entered was beside the kitchen. He looked at the sink, countertops and appliances. All were immaculately clean, looking as if the house were on display. He walked past the kitchen, and down an adjoining hall, the tile floor cool against the soles of his feet. The walls, he noticed, were a very pale shade of blue, nearly white. Several doors off the hallway opened into bright, empty rooms, all of which had the same paint scheme; pale blue walls, accented with bright white trim around the door fames and windows. The whole place had a look-no… more than a look. It had a feel to it. But the feeling was something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. If he had to assign it a name, that name would be refreshing. Or perhaps relaxing. Possibly even inviting. But the feeling belied description really. It was all of these and more. And he was in love with it.

A fresh breeze blew through the entire house, as if all its windows were open. Even here, inside, the scent of the ocean water and cocoanuts was intoxicating. He continued on, and found himself in a large open room, that he supposed was the room where the owners had entertained countless guests. It was open, like the rest of the house, but had a tall, vaulted ceiling, and a stone fireplace. He saw pale curtains, the ones he’d seen from outside, blowing out through an open window. The curtains were the only sign of anything even remotely like furniture.

He stopped, took a breath, and wondered if the house was indeed up for sale. Perhaps, this was the house he was meant to buy. He looked around. It was perfect. It was exactly what he’d always wanted. He walked over and leaned an elbow on the mantle above the fireplace, and surveyed the rest of the room from this vantage point. Indeed, this would be perfect! He began to imagine what sort of furniture he wanted, and exactly where he would put it. He could see a room full of friends, drinking from sparkling glasses, laughing, lounging, enjoying his home and each other’s company.

Summer gatherings would be ideal, but even on cold winter nights, when bitter gales blew in from a malevolent ocean, they could still have social get-togethers. They would just build a fire in the fireplace. A huge, glowing crackling fire. He closed his eyes, and saw the dancing flames, smelled the burning wood, felt the warmth. It was all so good. He sat down on the floor and looked around, already planning for what kind of loan he would seek to buy the place. If indeed it was for sale, he just couldn’t pass up the chance to buy it. Hardly able to believe his good fortune, he was intoxicated by the very thought of it all. Just then, he became slightly aware of a dull metallic taste somewhere far back in his throat. He swallowed, but it was till there. It irritated him, and he smacked his lips, trying to make this sudden intrusion go away. It threatened to ruin his mood, and he was enjoying it far too much to let this little annoyance get in his way.

Then a small flutter in his belly made itself known. A slight nausea came upon him, now, and he sat on the stonework in front of the fireplace, trying to will it all away. Where had all this come from so swiftly. Maybe it was something he ate. He tried to remember his most recent meal, hoping to pinpoint the probable source of his sudden misery. But he was unable to come up with an answer. He couldn’t even remember when he last ate, let alone what it might have been. His head was sweaty, spinning; and the flutter in his belly had become an all-out ache. Perhaps he needed to use the toilet. Maybe that would help. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d better locate the bathroom in here, just in case. He tried to stand, but as he did, the whole room tilted crazily, and he tumbled to the floor, his whole world spinning. He was reminded of the many times in his youth where he’d drunk too muck alcohol, and wound up lying flat on his back, with the world spinning around him. This is what it felt like, and the memory was too much. He closed his eyes, tightly, sweating profusely now. No good. Closing his eyes, just made it worse, and suddenly he felt the contents of his stomach rushing up his throat.

The muscles in his abdomen contracted violently, and he doubled up in pain, vomiting with terrible force. Even though his eyes were still closed, he knew that it was bursting from his mouth like water from a fire hose. He could hear the sickening splatter against the floor. Oh God, it hurt so bad! He just wanted it to end. He wanted to go back to the pure ecstasy he experienced not five minutes ago. Anything to get back there!

The smell of the sea air was replaced now by the repulsive smell of stomach acid and half-digested food. His muscles contracted again, so tightly he felt as if some giant was rolling him up like a tube of paint, trying to wring out every last bit of fluid. He screamed in agony, and felt the muscles relax a bit. Then a bit more. He was gasping, spitting out remnants of the vomit that hadn’t made it out of his mouth. He rolled onto his back, feeling the pale, cold floor beneath him, grateful for it. He opened his eyes, letting the green speckles that had flared behind his closed eyelids, go away.

No! The ceiling above, had a metallic sheen. He swallowed hard, shuddering at the taste in his mouth, and looked around, dreading what he might see. Terrified was really the word for it. All around him was not the stark openness of the beach house, but dull stainless steel surfaces. Lights blinked on and off on the instruments he was supposed to monitor, and all was quiet, except for the low, insistent throb of the machinery, which at times was almost soothing, but now felt like the malevolent heartbeat of a monstrous, invisible creature seeking to swallow him. He tried to stand, but found no strength, as well as a pain deep in his nose. He reached up touching his face, and found tubes protruding from his nostrils. He grasped them, angrily yanking them out, ignoring the searing pain that resulted. He dragged the back of his hand across his upper lip, wiping away the blood that streamed from his nose. He staggered forward a step, and slipped in his own vomit, catching his balance before he hit the floor.

He now knew the harsh reality; he had been here the whole time, and just dreamed of being back in Maryland. Had just dreamed about the beachhouse, and the ocean. He had never left here. He fell to his knees, and went forward until his forehead rested on the cold, metal floor, and cried, his tears mixing with the blood from his nose, dripping to the floor. He sobbed, the wracking cries of a child, shaking his entire body, in disbelief that he had done this to himself yet again.

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