Those Eyes

Passing a ship is common on the high seas. Every ship hoists her flag as a matter of maritime law, and when it doesn’t, it is a matter of life and death. Your ship either exchanges news, goods, mail, or cannonballs. Such is the necessity of men upon the sea. No ship passes unnoticed. The ship we remember out of thousands is therefore never normal, and always out of place. There’s a reason the memory never leaves us, not of ships, but men who control a small keel. It is the men, capable of good and evil that ignites the memory; a complete stranger who you needed, or needed you, that you have not forgotten.

This is not a love story. It is not a tale of ships. It is not a moment in time for soul-mates. But it was a time a man should have acted whom God has not allowed him to forget. Passing ships, cars, faces of millions until one struck his soul, and his soul leapt. It was twenty years ago; and yesterday:

The marine had just come back from war and was strong and confident, but his training had not prepared him for this. He was alone in a middle-of-nowhere diner like a thousand other days. Nothing was out of normal until he looked up from his food. There she was.

The nine-year-old was completely off. The energy a happy family normally has was not with her. She was accompanied by a father figure and a toddler who were both happy as can be. Except for her. She knew something. Something was off. Something wasn’t right. Something was terribly wrong, and the marine who had seen that look picked up on it as clear as day. He couldn’t help but stare.

They sat at the table and the father caught me staring and said hello. I barely managed a smile because I knew something was off. The pre-teen was grim looking at the table and nothing else. Not even flinching. Those eyes had a look of deep experience, deep sadness, deep horror even as the happy father figure got food. It was a thousand-mile stare as if she were looking through the table to hell below. The marine once had that stare. He knew it. It was not a look that belonged to a nine-year-old.

The marine searched for something to do. There was absolutely nothing he knew save that face. It was not the face of a child who had been spanked, or disciplined, or corrected. It was not even explainable save to another veteran who had been to war. And since the child couldn’t have been to war in middle of nowhere America, the marine concluded that she experienced horrors. Abuse. Unnatural, inhumane things. Yes. THAT was the look. What could the marine do?

He blinked. He blinked a lot trying to get her attention, but she never looked up. It was like she was dead inside. What to do? Did anything need to be done? The shock of that face clung to the marine ten feet away. There was no doubt something was wrong. He had that face just a few months ago, and he felt dead. He felt like walking into the ocean and drowning. The war made him grey and the furrows of his face bit deep. Yes. He knew that face, and blinking was doing nothing.

The marine finished and got up to leave. He studied the apparently normal scene and left the restaurant. Young, thick blonde hair past the shoulders. Pale, with blue eyes clouded with red veins; over four feet tall. Beautiful, if she would smile, and a pointy nose. The father put his hand on her shoulder, and she cowered. Afraid. Alone, locked in a mind with an awful secret. The marine got in his jeep. He just sat and stared through the window at the family. His brain was locked and practically useless, agonizing as the family got up and left.

And just like that, they were gone.

For years after the marine thought of things he should have done. He should have “accidentally” spilled his drink on him. He should have punched him in the face. He should have written the plate number down. He should have called the police. He should have…he should have…

The only thing he knew was that he was meant to see it. He was meant to prepare for the next time it happened. He would spill the drink. He would call the police. He would write the plate number down; he would follow the car at a distance. He would…he would…

Nothing is a coincidence. Years later the marine saw that face again. He saw the face of his young niece and acted upon it. He said to his wife “Something is not right with her. Something is off. I have seen that face. That is the face of unnatural, inhumane things; the face of abuse.” In court that followed he was found to be right. Now she is out of a horrible situation. Now she is safe, growing up as a normal girl. Yes. Nothing happens by pure chance.

The lesson is clear: don’t forget the moments that stick with you. You are meant to see them. You are meant to act one way or another. Be ready. Be alert. You never know when someone might truly need you.