The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "I don't want to press you any further tonight. If you remember anything at all, please don't hesitate to call."

  "I want to know when you find anything. Any changes to the case," I say and standing up I'm made aware that my feet are bare. The soft carpet caresses my soles, like walking on velvet.

  "I'll be in touch...my condolences," Wexford says.

  He turns and walks out of the room. There isn't any of the stereotypical posturing in his walk, the men lolling around the entryway fall in step behind him. I stand at the entrance to the library, watching them exit the house, watching the door shut behind the last black suit, listening to the echo of shoes slapping on the pavement. The victim's advocate walks out in Wexford's shadow, his little stick figure legs moving as if they're encased in plaster.

  The conversation echoes around the house, floating back to me. The vision of the homeless man swims in my vision, he starts to overwhelm my consciousness, the library floats away and it's the man who's real.

  "Emmeline," A sharp voice breaks through the fog and tugs at my elbow. My father stands with a hand clasped around my upper arm.

  "Huh?" I mumble. The homeless man floats away in a haze.

  "Sophie is asking for you. Are they done?" he says, tugging me towards the stairs.

  "Yes. Yes...they're done."

  I stop, hesitating, and then move forward up the stairs. Sophie catapults herself off the bed and starts crying the moment our bodies collide. I hold her and can feel the tug, the tug between vengeance and the darling girl in my arms. I'm not whole. Not anymore. There's evil taking root in my life. The homeless veteran, his face distorted by an all-consuming hatred, replaces the faceless man of my dreams. I wake in the middle of the night covered in sweat. I do not sleep afterwards but sit in bed, hugging my knees to my chest, and struggle to bring Hugh's face into focus in my mind.

  Its Thursday, I've had to look at more documents than I care to and sign more papers than I even remember. In modern American, dying is the easy part. There's life insurance and funerals and property and wills. The list is endless, and exhausting, my already flayed wounds feel as though they are being rubbed with salt. I have no energy, no appetite, no desire other than to lie in bed curled around Sophie and sleep my way into oblivion. Conversations with friends and relatives are strained. I tune out and imagine Hugh walking through the door and my life resuming its usual pace. They all want to talk about my feelings, but I'm acutely aware I'm being ignored; they scoot around when dealing with 'the widow' gets to be too draining. I thought there was nothing worse than the endless chatter. Deemed to be in such an indelicate and hazardous mental state, and therefore shunned, is a hundred times worse.

  "When's Daddy coming back Mommy?" Sophie says from the couch, curled up like a cat. "Sophie, Daddy has gone to heaven and he didn't want to leave you at all but he isn't coming back my love. It's just you and me baby."

  I'm trying to recite this word for word whenever she asks, so it might sink in one day.

  "It's NOT FAIR!" she rages at me, sobbing and screaming out her pain into a pillow. "I want him. Tell him to come back Mommy!"

  Her cries echo like a strangled animal with no hope of life. She beats the pillow with her little fists.

  I'm helpless to do more for her than to collapse on the couch next to her. To grieve with Sophie isn't like grieving with anyone else. No one else who has lost what we have. The smiling face every morning, the baths and books every night, and the small daily declarations of love. It has been wiped away so cleanly, almost as if all it never existed. I wait for Sophie to fall apart and then hold her till she's repaired enough to make it to the next breakdown.

  We eat dinner in silence. I decline all offers to accompany me while I sit with Hugh's casket at the Capitol. It's my last goodbye and I'd like to do it on my own. I can tell this doesn't go over very well, especially with Hugh's parents but I'm too selfish to care. The four of them surround me 24 hours a day. I'm being slowly suffocated. Whenever I turn around, there's another person waiting to make sure I'm not wandering off or tempting me with food. It annoys Sophie even more and she starts avoiding them all. We take unnecessary trips to the bathroom, afternoon naps, and plenty of baths. I wonder if being home will be more freeing than being stuck in a house with so many watchful eyes.

  Sophie and I crawl into bed after a tense dinner. I lay wide-awake as she drops off. I'm a desert. Where there once was life and greenery in me, it has been washed away by a monstrous flash flood. Barren. I cry and mourn and bear my pain but there's nothing left of the person I was. In a vain attempt to reconstruct a bit of myself I focus my mind with memories of Hugh and I's life. Our marriage, the honeymoon, blissful trips, getting pregnant, meeting Sophie for the first time, parenting...but I can't reconstruct that life, like trying to paint the Mona Lisa with only black paint and a flat headed brush.

  I can't recall whether I've slept. The sun isn't up, Sophie's deep rhythmic breathing issues from beside me. She looks like an angel when she sleeps. The pain and heartbreak and cares of the day leave her and all that is left is purity. Its as if she leaves the world of grief and is transported back to the happiness of our old life.

  I pace the room with tears running down my face, hugging my arms around the crack in my heart. Hugh fills my dreams, my entire consciousness all day, and spills over the rim. When I let my mind drift, I can feel the soft caress of his lips on my neck and the warm pressure of his hand in mine. If I close my eyes long enough I can make him appear before me, pour my love into him, and try to will him back into my waking moments. He's there but it’s only a hazy outline. I lose myself in reliving my own life. For a few precious moments I can escape from a future laying swathed in darkness.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I'm in a car. It's uncomfortably quiet. My eyelids feel as though they're made of steel and behind them my eyes are dry and scratchy, my body aches all over. Every movement is torture. I drift between long stretches of oblivion and trying to lift a massive weight off my chest. I don't see us pull up to the Capitol Building. The crowds of silent watchers fall away as a vision of Hugh climbing these steps floods into my mind.

  One foot.

  Then the next. Hold Sophie's hand and walk. I stand in the rotunda, clutching at Sophie. I can't hear the Governor's speech through the roaring in my ears. People line up, proffering their hands and moving forward for an embrace, but I can't move my eyes from the black coffin at my side, and the flag draped over it, fluttering in the breeze of mourners passing by. I don't notice when the circle of VIPs leaves of the doors open to allow the public pay their respects. The day wears on; my parents take Sophie away so she can sleep. As much as it hurts to have her gone, I'm rooted to the spot and couldn't move even if I wanted to. I stand for as long as I can, grasping a bar on the coffin for support. I'm not conscious of when my legs start to crumble underneath me.

  The ache in my legs, the thumping of my over exerted heart, and the clawing dryness of my throat, I can feel all of it but I'm separate or have been separated from the workings of my own body. In this room I could be traveling the same path as my husband. The air is so still, so quiet, so empty, this could be the land of the dead. It’s been four days and might as well be millennia. The night brings a strange magic with it, as though whatever separates death from life thins so Hugh and I might share one last night together. I stare from behind closed eyelids, searching for him. I loose myself in intimate moments; in our wedding night, the moment we became parents, nights under the stars planning our future, and the feel of his arms around my naked body. The hours morph into one long moment, the sun has set and risen before my eyes.

  The faceless man is gone today. I hardly notice his absence. The black coffin, and its contents, draws my mind as it does my eyes. Reality is what lies before my very eyes.

  In a haze I'm ushered around into a room, change one black dress for another, helped into a car where Sophie is, walking down a long aisle of a church. It’s not the lack of sleep. I can't d
o anything besides stare straight in front of me. Its a sea of black, which is just as well, I focus on the little beams of light coming through the windows on the back doors of the church. I recite whatever is written on the paper in front of me and hear myself parroting the phrases I lashed out at yesterday. They are all clichés, falling utterly short of encompassing the enormity of Hugh's life and heart. I do realize something though, while the mourners sing a hymn, I'm not allowed to stand still. Life doesn't stop for grief. Life doesn't give you the option of letting the waves of grief roll over you. Life looms on the horizon, children to take care of, bills to pay, an ever-marching procession of decisions.

  Before I can process the speech I made, the cacophonous sound of the bagpipes reaches my ears. The first few notes are hesitant as the bags are filled. With a great bellow, the melody of Amazing Grace is belted throughout the church and echoes into the depths of my heart. I rise, for some unknown reason, and stand with my head bowed, and manage to lift my eyes to the coffin for the first time. Resting on the lid is a small bouquet of flowers, perfectly formed tiger lilies. My favorite. 'They don't have to flaunt their beauty, they know they're beautiful...just like you,' Hugh used to say. Today, the lilies present themselves as a last gift from the man whose casket they decorate. Hugh reaching out to me, comforting me at his own funeral.

  Sophie and I stand as the cathedral lapses into silence and the final notes are pushed out of the bagpipes. The entire church waits with bated breath, their many hundreds of eyes resting on my back. It’s the warm constant pressure of Sophie's hand; which grounds me, that feels real. I'm not much use to her. Before I can begin to process the ceremony, I find myself sitting on a leather seat with Sophie's head in my lap with her weary eyes closed.

  I stand next to our car, the one I have to drive back over three mountain passes. I shout down both sets of parents and leave Denver in high dudgeon. The fall night start to chill in earnest and Sophie shivers as though she will soon shatter into oblivion. I place Sophie into her seat and drive away. There's no cure for what has happened. There's no cure for a child who has had her father ripped from her life. There's no substitute for those strong arms and the crooked grin. The shock has worn off for Sophie and the harsh reality of what we are facing has begun to rear its ugly face.

  They are visible in the rearview mirror, Hugh's parents, standing at a distance from my own parents, with folded arms and anguished faces. Smaller and smaller they grow as I drive away and soon they're lost to the night. For a moment it feels liberating, driving away from the city, being alone, being left alone.

  The lights of the city pass us by and Sophie stares out the window with red eyes. She's more than tired. Her head lolls on her neck and her shoulders slump forward. She's exhausted...body and soul. A veritable wasteland inside. Leaving isn't liberating, leaving is reality.

  We mount the mountains outside of Denver, which are no more than darker shadows against and already dark sky. There's minimal traffic on the roads and soon the city of Denver is left behind, its lights swallowed by the monolithic mountains. It's the most alone Sophie and I have been for a week. The silence is cathartic. The tires rumble, the sound lulls me into sweet memories of Hugh. I can remember him more completely at night without the distractions of life. In the dark I can pull fragments of him around me, wrapping my heart in memories made solid.

  Slowly though, the happy memories fade into serious twinges of fear. I fear I'm not cut out for any of this. Never was it supposed to be like this. Whatever my shortcomings might have been, Hugh always made up for them. The fear of what my failure will do to Sophie freezes my heart.

  At midnight our subdivision is unsurprisingly quiet. Our modest house stands just as it did when we left Monday morning, no hint of the tragedy that has befallen the family. After all, it’s just a house to those who pass by. Much like a book is just bound paper or photos just a collection of minute dots. True and false at the same time.

  Lugging bags out of the car seems pointless; instead I pull in the garage, close the door, carry Sophie's dead weight into the house, and ensconce the two of us in her bed. The lavender wafting from her sheets lulls the two of us to sleep within moments.

  It's going to be one of those days. The doorbell shatters the near perfect silence of the house and it feels as though I've just dropped off to sleep. Bleary eyed and suffering from an emotional hangover I stumble down the hallway, using my hands to keep myself from smacking into the walls. I can't even form a coherent thought before the door is open and I'm staring at the welcoming party of my parents.

  "You forgot to call!"

  "I got in a midnight, Dad," I say, rubbing my eyes. "Oh, did we wake you sweetheart? It's after eleven," my mother says from the doorway, a subtle hint that eleven o'clock is not an hour to be devoted to sleep.

  "No of course not Mom, I just decided to wear my exact same clothes from the night before and not even brush my teeth.”

  "Oh," she says and hangs her head, twiddling her thumbs.

  "I'm sorry. Just exhausted. Come on in," I let them in and make my way back to Sophie.

  "Hi..."

  "I'm going to go shower alright sweetheart? Grandma and Grandpa are here if you want to go pop in a movie or have Grandpa start you some breakfast," I say.

  She nods at me, accepting fate.

  "Sophie," I say, stopping her before she leaves the room, "I am just going to shower and then your grandparents will head home."

  "Ok."

  I watch her go and feel the air leave my body as if I'd been punched in the stomach. My head falls into my hands and I'm nearing the edge of total collapse when a voice issues from the doorway.

  "Where do you keep your pots and pans, Emmeline?" my mother says.

  "To the right of the dishwasher," I say with my head still buried, desperately hoping she'll take the hint and not try to talk to me.

  She does. I can't tell whether I'm relieved or not. I extricate myself from Sophie's little white wrought iron bed and find myself facing a closed door. I haven't even been able to face that room. It was a haven for us, the crisp white sheets atop a cherry bed, a patterned grey rug on the hardwood floor, an antique gold mirror hanging above the dresser. My breath comes in quick bursts and I brush my sweaty palms against my day old jeans and start to reassess whether I need a shower.

  In my fear here's something else, seeping underneath the door, pouring out from the walls...love. I could always feel love in this house. We brought Sophie home from the hospital to this house, we found our way as parents here, we grew closer as a couple, launched our future from the safety of these walls. Love permeated everything and now it is that same love that's looming behind my bedroom door. My love for Hugh. Hugh who I never want to forget...I walk straight forward and burst through the door, rush to the bathroom and throw on the tap.

  I throw myself into the shower but jump back out of the still cold stream and stand cramped against the back wall, shivering. Hugh used to tease me mercilessly about letting the water run for a good five minutes before I would attempt reentry. Memories break like waves and I buckle, sobbing under the weight of them. There's no escape, so I give in and let it happen, perhaps I'll drown here in the shower. In my grief. In my tears.

  The water has run cold before I can pry myself off the floor. I haphazardly run a bar of soap across my body and work shampoo and conditioner through my hair. I don't feel clean at all. I stand, frozen, on the rug, feeling water droplets eke their way down my body. I'm an empty shell of a person whose one remaining job is to be a mother...a job that I have serious doubts about my qualifications for. I can't even be awake for five minutes without giving way to grief.

  I don't know how to be a mom. I don't know how to even get through the day.

  I don't even know that I want to. I'm frightened of my tendency to want to join Hugh. What sort of mother entertains those ideas? A selfish one, I remind myself. Selfish and fatalistic and weak. It's easy to sit in a chair and watch the world go round and wal
low in grief. It's another thing entirely to pick up the pieces of a shattered life and try to put them back into some sort of order. There is a piece, though, that has disintegrated...I'm not a wife. I'm a widowed single mother who has trouble even showering on her own.

  There's a hesitant knock on the bedroom door.

  "Emmeline, we've made eggs and bacon if you're hungry," my mother's voice is soft, the way a mothers is when she's trying to coax

  an emotionally unstable child out of a fit. It bothers me.

  "Coming," I say, toweling off.

  I grab at a sweater sitting on the dresser and pull it over my head.

  I look up at the woman staring at me in the mirror. She's a little worse for the wear. The lank hair, bags under the eyes, and collarbones, which stick out a little too far. The portrait of a modern day widow, I think.

  "NO, Grandpa, I don't want to go to your house!" Sophie says with her nostrils flaring.

  I walk into the kitchen to find her eyes wide, looking like a spooked horse.

  "What's wrong Soph?" I say, furrowing my brow.

  "I told Grandpa you said we could stay here and now he says I should go over to his house!" she says this all in a rush, a sure sign of a meltdown.

  "Sophie, it's alright, Grandpa was just offering. We can stay here if its what you want," I say, mimicking my own mother's voice from less than a minute ago.

  "Ok..." she says sniffling a little then turning back to hunch over her eggs.

  "I was just trying to help," he whispers as I start some tea, his brown eyes skirting back and forth-searching my own.

  "She's not ready for it yet Dad. Neither am I. She just needs time to be able to process what's happened."

  The four of us are awkwardly quiet. I have no idea what to say and it seems neither do my parents. We eat in complete silence.

  Before long we've finished the eggs and bacon and my parents have loaded the dishwasher. I'm not sure what to do with them while they are here and I have no idea what I'll do when they go. They sense this; my father inclines his head towards the door when he catches my mother's eye. I can't even work myself up to inviting them to stay longer...all I do is latch the door behind them and slump back against the door.