the open window

The sound of the mast cracking was deafening, but I hardly noticed it as I focused all of my attention on the waves that threatened to swallow the small sailboat. Marie had warned me not to go out, that the weather was just going to get worse, but I was young and headstrong. Another huge wave crashed down on top of me. The salt water stung my eyes and tongue. If only I had listened to her, maybe I would still be happy, still be alive – still be with her. Lightening struck and then immediately thunder shook my whole body. Yet another wave. And then darkness.
I jolted awake to the peaceful sound of seagulls and gently crashing waves. The smell of the ocean was now welcome instead of feared. I often had variations of that same dream. That fateful shipwreck had never left my mind and often haunted me, not only at night but all the time. I was never safe from the images and it hindered me from achieving peace of mind. No, it did more than that; it prevented me from living. Once I left the hospital after the accident, I bought a house in Collioure, France. I have not stepped outside of that house for over twenty years. I had always planned on finding my fiancée, Marie, but weeks turned into months and eventually into years and I was too afraid to know what I would find. Surely by now she would have moved on and accepted that I was never coming for her. Perhaps I should move on too – if only I could.
I had only one connection to the outside world – a window. It looked out over the ocean and I could spend my day just looking out at the picturesque little sail boats that came to dock at the harbor. I still loved the idea of sailing and often imagined myself buying a boat and going out everyday to feel the sea breeze in my hair, but I knew I would never have the courage to do it. So I just watched through the window at all the happenings. One day, through that window, I saw a girl. She couldn’t have been more than twenty and she was carrying a pail of fish. She tapped on the window beckoning me to open it. I hesitated – I had never opened that window before. I looked at her and then to the window latch, then back to her, and before I knew what I was doing, the window was already open. I felt the cool saltwater breeze on my face and closed my eyes.
“Would you like to buy some fish?” Her eyes sparkled in the sun and mesmerized me. They seemed distantly familiar to me, but I could not put my finger on it. I said nothing. “Sir?” she persisted.
I shook my head.
“Ok, I’ll just come back tomorrow then.” Or at least I think that is what she said because I had already started to close the window after I had declined. She must have been still standing there when I turned quickly and scuffled upstairs. I went to my bedroom and looked out the keyhole window to see her turn and cheerfully continue down the street.
That girl’s face haunted me for several days. I knew I had seen it before somewhere. I tried to convince myself that she must have been one of the several people that I saw walking down the pier everyday, but I knew that was not it. I felt there was something special that fear kept me from discovering. She came at about the same time each day. Most of the time when I saw her coming, I scurried to another room to wait until she had passed. I don’t know why. It seemed silly, but I was not ready to face her again. It was by accident the next time we met face to face. I had closed my eyes for a moment when I heard the familiar tapping. I contemplated running away again, but then I decided better and opened the window.
“Well this is a nice surprise. I half expected you to hide from me again today.” I was a little embarrassed when I realized she knew what I had been doing. She chuckled. “So would you like some fish?”
“Um, yes please,” I said as I began to take out my wallet.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s free today.” She gave me two big fish and turned to leave.
“Wait.” She stopped. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Camille,” and off she skipped.
Camille was back the next day, and the next, and the next. She always had something new to tell me about how she had just gone on a picnic with her friends or how she had driven out to the country to see her grandmother. My favorite stories were the ones that she told about going out in sailboats with her mother. They reminded me of the days when I was still young and adventurous. Sometimes, when it was not too painful, I told her stories from back then, usually about sailing. She always seemed so interested and it was easy to talk to her. I told her how I used to love to paint and she promised to bring me some paint and a canvass if I would paint something for her.
“I could never paint again,” I told her although I didn’t tell her why. “I haven’t painted in twenty years. I don’t think I would be any good now,” was the reason I gave her. The truth was it brought back too many painful memories. All of the paintings that I had done before were for Marie. I could not paint without remembering her and how I had abandoned her after my accident. Nonetheless, however much I protested, along with her fish Camille brought me a canvass, several bright colors, and the other essentials for painting. I playfully refused to even have them inside the house so she just left them by the window because she refused to take them with her. I stared at the paints night after night but was determined to not give in. Camille saw them out there everyday, but said nothing. I’m sure she was about to lose hope; I had almost won. And then it began to rain. It was torture to watch the supplies get drenched so I brought them inside and I vowed that I would put them right back out in the morning. Yet again, I stared at the paints all night. Then morning came and the way the light fell on the sailboats outside was magical. I began to paint.
Camille came by and immediately noticed the easel set up. She smirked.
“Don’t think that this means you won,” I teased.
“It was never a contest,” she retorted, even though she knew it was. “Can I see it?”
“No, it’s a surprise!” this little battle I was sure to win.
Originally I had planned to paint the scene with the window closed as I saw it most of the time, but that made it feel distant and insincere. I decided to paint the window open and straight away it felt more inviting than I had ever seen it. The picture beckoned me to go and sit by the ocean – the ocean that gave me nightmares; the ocean that I hated; the ocean that ripped me from a good life; and predominately, the ocean that I feared – and yet, the ocean that I loved. The ocean that whispered gentle encouragement; the ocean that challenged me; the ocean that gave me thrills; the ocean that still embraced me even though I was so desperately trying to run from it. The flawless waves called me to come play in them, like I did when I was young, but I could not. It was fear that kept me back, but that moment, the feeling was too much to handle and fear was pushed aside. After twenty years, I took my first step outside of my house. I went to the pier and just sat – I enjoyed the fresh air, the seagulls, the crash of the waves.
Pleasant memories started to run through my mind. The way I used to love getting my sail boat ready for launch and the joy I used to take in walking down the pier in my old town. I remembered the night I proposed to Marie on that very pier. It looked just like the one on which I was sitting. I felt the tears rolling down my cheek. “This was a mistake,” I told myself as I hobbled back to my house. When I entered, I went crazy. All that I remember from the frenzy was the terrifying fear that gripped me. The blocks of color and flashes of pain only lightly touched my mind as a whirlwind struck the room. The pain I felt that night was worse than the broken bones and stitches that I got when I had the boat accident. And worse, this pain could not be healed, only suppressed and ignored I hoped in vain. When my fear, my anger, my pain, was spent, I could finally see through eyes that were almost mine. Tables were tossed, glasses broken, curtains ripped, the painting… the painting had been knocked over. Although unharmed, it no longer had the same meaning to it. It was just some empty half finished picture. My body, no longer capable of holding emotion or thought, went upstairs and fell dead asleep on the bed.
The next day when Camille came by, I did not come down to see her. I glanced out my keyhole window upstairs and saw her pause when she saw the painting lying on the ground. She must have seen me, because she started speaking, assuming I could hear.
“I was planning to go sailing with my mother today and was hoping you would come. I understand if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be fun.” She spoke softly, but loud enough that I could hear the confusion and worry in her voice. She left two fish and a note by the window. Later, I was to find the note had her address on it.
Camille kept coming everyday, but I never went down to see her. Soon enough, she began to skip a day here and there until she only came about once a month. I started to feel guilty and I decided that the next time she came I would have to explain to her why I couldn’t see her anymore. Somehow she reminded me of my old life and it tore a piece from me every time I saw her. I was prepared to give her my speech, but she never came.
I waited for weeks, then months, then finally a year until I forgot completely about the girl with the fish. The house had been cleaned and the painting stored safely away out of sight. The whole incident was becoming a foggy memory and the pain had begun to heal, or at least I thought so. Life went back to the way it had been, if it could be called a life. Days were spent looking out the window, nights dreaming of boating accidents until one day I was cooking and spilled some milk. I went to the closet to fetch a mop and finding none, I moved on to the attic. There it was. The painting was staring me straight in the face. I was pulled toward it and a rush of emotion hit me. I could not stop from setting the easel up in its original place and beginning to paint again.
The months spent finishing it went by in a blur. It was as if someone else was painting while I just watched. I didn’t need to think; the vision practically painted itself and the end product held so much emotion and passion, it was a much better representation of how I felt rather than the actual image through the window. The colors inside the house were cool and melancholy, but through the window, the world seemed bright, hopeful, and ready to welcome anyone that might want to join. The ivy framed the window as if it were a screen that had finally been broken through. The blocks of color, although haphazard and a bit hectic, worked together to complete the harmony. The ocean was rosy, the sky beautiful and the little sailboats – that was the only part of the painting that was hard to look at sometimes. I contemplated just putting it away and never giving it to the girl, but that felt like cheating. It could never be truly done until I had given it to her. I rummaged through the house to find the note she had left over a year ago and prayed that she had not moved.
I grabbed the painting and paused. I hadn’t left the house since the night I sat on the pier. Remembering what a complete catastrophe that had been made me rethink what I was doing. I wanted to go hide under my covers like a little boy, but I made my self take that first step. The steps grew easier as I went. Even though I had lived in Collioure for half of my life, I did not really know my way around, but I was able to ask my way until finally I came to a little café. I thought maybe I had the wrong address, but then I noticed the fish market that was part of the café. Summoning up all my courage I walked in. There. A perfect angel rendered in all her splendor and grace. The loveliest creature I had ever set eyes on who had only gown more beautiful with age.
“Marie!” I almost cried with the happiness I felt. Her look changed from boredom to confusion to fear and finally to pure delight in a single moment.
“Henri? Is that really you?” She could not believe her words; she was just as confused as I was. As we embraced, a wave of comprehension crashed down on me. I understood why Camille, a young girl, would go out of her way just to come everyday to see a hermit of an old man; why the address she had given me, her address, had brought me to Marie; why she had been so persistent in wanting me to go sailing with her and her mother; why the features in her face had reminded me of my past life, my fiancée – and her mother. I saw Camille walking down the stairs, somewhat surprised, but a knowing smile grew on her face.

Mary Margaret Groves