The House in the Cerulean Sea

If one were to ask if Linus Baker was lonely, he would have scrunched up his face in surprise. The thought would be foreign, almost shocking. And though the smallest of lies hurt his head and made his stomach twist, there was a chance he would still say no, even though he was, and almost desperately so.

And maybe part of him would believe it. He’d accepted long ago that some people, no matter how good was their heart was or how much love they had to give, would always be alone. It was their lot in life, and Linus had figured out, at the age of twenty-seven, that it seemed to be that way for him.

Linus was getting flustered. “I never said I didn’t [care]. I merely do what is required of me. There’s a difference between forming attachments and being empathetic. These children…They have no one else. It’s the reason they’re in the orphanages to begin with. They shouldn’t have to lay their heads down at night with an empty stomach, or worry about being worked to the bone. Just because these orphans must be kept separate from normal children doesn’t mean they should be treated any differently. All children, no matter their…disposition or what they’re capable of, must be protected regardless of the cost.”

Jowls coughed wetly. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

“And what became of the children in the orphanages you closed?”

Linus blinked. “That’s a matter for Supervision. I make my recommendation, and the Supervisor handles what comes next.”

“You’ve always wanted to see the ocean.”

“Dreams are merely that—dreams. They’re meant to be flights of fancy. They’re not necessarily supposed to come true.”

“And yet, here you are by the sea, far from your chair and your home.” She stopped and turned her face toward the sky. “There’s music everywhere, Mr. Baker. You just have to learn to listen for it.”

“The little girl. She wasn’t scared of me. She was nice. She didn’t care what I looked like. That means she can make up her own mind. Maybe that woman will tell her I’m bad. And maybe she’ll believe it. Or maybe she won’t believe it at all. Arthur told me that in order to change the minds of many, you have to first start with the minds of a few. She’s just one person. But so is the lady.”

Helen scoffed. “A home isn’t always the house we live in. It’s also the people we choose to surround ourselves with. You may not live on the island, but you can’t tell me it’s not your home.”

“Guilt is a powerful tool,” Arthur said. “For all I endured here, it would fall back on DICOMY if word ever got out. They thought they could use it as leverage. For my silence, they would allow me this house. To keep track of me, yes, but in the end, they saw the island as a solitary and desolate place where the only village nearby could easily be bought off. One where they could send who they considered to be the most…extreme. This was their grand experiment. They thought I was a pawn.”

“But you were playing them,” Linus whispered. “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

Arthur smiled. “Oh yes. I took their huddled masses and gave them a home where they could breathe without fear of retaliation.”

“Of course they listen,” Linus said, exasperated. “They listen to every single thing you say. They look to you because you are their family. You are their—” He stopped, breathing heavily. He shouldn’t say it. It wasn’t right. None of this was. It wasn’t—“You are their father, Arthur. You said you love them more than life itself. You have to know they feel the same about you. Of course they do. How can they not? Look at you. Look at what you’ve made here. You are a fire, and they need to know how you burn. Not only because of who you are, but because of what they have made you into.”

“And I promise you, the thought of using you for anything has never crossed my mind. You’re too precious to put into words. I think…it’s like one of Theodore’s buttons. If you asked him why he cared about them so, he would tell you it’s because they exist at all.”

“Did he tell you?”

“No. I don’t think he’s allowed. But we know. We all know. Just like we know what you both did when you left the other day. He’s one of us. Just like you.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have magic.”

“You do, Mr. Baker. Arthur told me that there can be magic in the ordinary.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.”

She shook her head. “Good. Because I don’t.”

“I can’t just stay here. There are rules to follow. Regulations that must be—”

To hell with your rules and regulations!”

He gaped at her. Then, he said the only thing he could, “Life, it—it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why doesn’t it?” she snapped. “Why can’t life work whatever way we want it to? What’s the point of living if you only do it how others want you to?”

“It’s the best we can do.”

She scoffed. “And this is your best? This?”

“And what happens when he grows up?” Charles asked. “What happens when he becomes a man? What if he decides this world isn’t what he wants it to be? You know who his father is.”

“I do,” Linus said. “His father is Arthur Parnassus. And he’s the best damn father Lucy has, and as far as I’m concerned, the only one.”

“Also, speaking of euphemisms, for the love of all that is holy, stop calling them orphanages. That implies something that has never been the case. These are homes. They have always been homes. And some of them haven’t been good, which is why I recommended they be closed. But not this one. Never this one. These children don’t need a home, because they already have one, whether you like it or not.”

“I think he’s alone. He’s shy, and scared, and doesn’t talk much. Reminds me a little of Sal, in fact. Or, rather, how he used to be. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that boy talk as much as he has in the last few months.”

“Regular chatterbox,” Linus said faintly. “What’s his name?”

“And that’s how I know this could be the place for him,” Helen said, her smile growing. Because you didn’t ask me what he was, just who he was. I don’t know that anyone has ever done that for him.”