it takes an enormous effort to care. To care at all for the state of my
hair or a daily makeup routine. The effort it takes makes me weak, as
though I've been deathly ill for months and left emaciated-all but a
ghost.
"This is breakfast?" Sophie says peering around my waist at the
rather wonderful assortment of food in front of us.
We've gone down to the hotel restaurant and she eyes the food
with wary disbelief. My mind is still wrapped in memories of Hugh,
the heat of his hand in mine.
"Its gorgeous out there today," my father says, a few minutes
later, plunking himself down next to Sophie, eating with gusto. I take a peek out the nearest white curtained window, the sky is
rather clear, or clear enough by Scottish standards. Even under this
calm sky, the blank face assaults me, yet again. I shrink back,
distancing myself from the memory.
Sophie pushes us out the door of the hotel as soon as the last
spoonful of food touches my lips. Life isn't livable, merely
survivable. I live in a constant state of guilt over the state I've drawn
my daughter into. This life, the slower pace of it, we will find on the
islands of Scotland is my gift to her.
November isn't the best time of year to take in the beauty of
Scotland. We've miraculously had the fortune to partake in one of the
few clear days to happen all winter. I've seen the land in late July
when the weather couldn't be finer, the heather and flowers abloom
and the hills full to bursting with the greenery of summer. Sophie
doesn't have any of those beautiful memories so the winter lands, to
her, lack nothing. She sits in the back seat exclaiming over the lochs,
the ruins beside the roadside, and the wandering sheep. Child
enthusiasm is a gift, I think, often taken for granted and seldom given
its just desserts.
We pull up outside of Eilean Donan Castle for a chance to stretch
our legs and Sophie stares in raptures of amazement. There are
remnants of a low-lying mist hanging over the three lochs, which surround the castle. It might have been reconstructed in the twentieth
century but it feels as old as the craigs, which rise around it. "Come on Mommy," Sophie says over her shoulder as she starts
to skip over the stone bridge. There aren't many tourists this time of
year; few want to brave the dreary winter. The castle rises out of the
fog like a waking giant; the weak sunlight bathes its stone
battlements in a warm glow.
"Ancient seat of the MacKenzie’s destroyed after the first Jacobite
uprising, then rebuilt and given over to a trust. This place has had
quite the life," he stares across the bridge to the small island the
castle stands on.
"Yes, they even had 'traitors' heads placed on spikes around the
castle," I say.
"Ah well, those were the times right?" he says with a dismissive
shrug of his shoulders.
"I suppose. Rather harsh on women back then too," I say. My hands fall on the cold stone of the bridge, which rises and
falls underneath my fingers and leaves them damp with the residue of
yesterday's rain.
"I doubt any father in the 1700s would have let his daughter move
alone to a foreign country with his granddaughter in tow," He says. "Dad..." I begin.
"These are the times we live in. If it were up to me, I'd keep you
home. Protect you, as I've done since you were born. It's the terrible
truth of parenting, you're never finished. You don't stop wanting to
protect and hold them when they're hurt. You'd do anything so they
could be happy, even if it means letting them go."
"I don't think I'm a good mother," I say, after a long silence,
looking towards Sophie who's leaning over the wall, watching the
ripples in the water beneath her.
"You're afraid."
"I am. Afraid I'll ruin everything. I'm afraid Hugh was a thousand
times better with her than I am. She lit up with him, came alive. She
doesn't do that with me."
"I still think, some days, you hate me. Or you prefer your mother
over me," he says, putting a warm arm around my shoulders. "I'm thirty years old. I think you can let that go."
"No, I don't think I ever will. What about your mother? She didn't
approve of all this and still doesn't. How do you think she's feeling?
Guilty? Conflicted? Tortured? The love between a parent and child is
such a fragile connection. So much can be lost in translation," he
says.
"It was her choice," I say.
"It was. She, admittedly, could have handled it better if her
emotions hadn't overwhelmed her. This was also your choice and one
I expect everyone will come to see the logic and reasoning behind,
and soon."
"I hope so," I say.
In the resultant silence, we stare at Sophie as she starts back down
the bridge toward the castle. I mirror her movement without
conscious thought.
"Look at her Emmeline. She's happy. Happy to be with you," he
says gesturing towards Sophie's blond head bobbing in and around
the few tourists who've stopped at the castle.
"Everything is new and exciting. Of course she's happy," I say
dismissively.
"No. She's happy because she's with you and you're happy." "That's putting an awful lot of weight on me to be happy," I say
with a sigh.
"Motherhood is a never ending load of responsibility. Or so your
mother tells me," he adds on with a small chuckle.
"I don't see where the balance lays. I have no idea what I'm doing.
I've lost the one person I could talk to about how to be a parent to
her. I'm just lost, Dad," I wring my hands together and then settle for
stuffing them in the pockets of my wool coat.
"He was a good man. I liked him," he murmurs.
"Yes, he was a good man," I say, caressing my wedding rings. "You're not lost Emmeline. In all the years I've had the pleasure to
watch you grow, lost is not a term I'd ever use to describe anything
you've ever done. You are hurting. In time you'll understand how to
live with the pain, and, I think, find a way to live without him," he
says.
He touches my arm kindly and guides me gently forwards. We
walk across the bridge to Sophie, who at finding herself too far from
me, sprints back and clings to my hand. The chill of the Highlands
seeps into my bones and I long for the warmth of the car. We stomp
around the castle, working hard to warm up our feet, but do not dally
too long. Sophie's hungry and we are still an hour from Skye.
The city of Portree overlooks Loch Portee and the Sound of Raasay. It's a small town, which doubles in size from May to August when tourists rain down on Skye. It looks much like any other fishing village, a nucleus of homes and shops clustered around the harbor and outliers dotting the hillside. Skye is bathed in mist as we drive over the slippery bridge. The land rises majestically out of the fog, cutting through the grey clouds. We wind our way around the quiet streets; Sophie's smile grows wider by the mile.
"You go on in, Emmeline. I'll take Sophie to get lunch," my father says with a soft pat on my arm.
We stop outside a whitewashed stone building. I stand on the step and smooth down my dress. My hands drip sweat. Caught off guard
by a sudden gust of wind, I lurch forward and grab at the steel door handle.
"Ms. MacLeod, please," I say to the receptionist, an older woman with steel grey curls, freckled skin, and a soft welcoming smile.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks.
"Yes, Emmeline MacArthur."
"Coming home for a bit of research?" she asks enthusiastically, looking at me over the appointment book.
"Uh...well...I'm the historian she's hired."
"There aren't many MacArthur's on Skye, but I'm sure you'll fit in nicely," she says with a soft pat on my hand.
"Thank you. I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," I say.
"Och, yes, its Rose," she says.
I'm flabbergasted by how she manages to smile while talking; I extend my hand to her over the short wall.
"Pleased to meet you Rose."
"And ye as well, Mrs MacArthur."
I swallow hard but return her smile and consent to wait as she leaves to fetch Mrs MacLeod. Beyond the window the mist starts to clear, giving view to the white cottages across the loch and the dull green of the hillsides, which peek out shyly.
"Mrs MacArthur! Such a pleasure my dear."
Mrs MacLeod's voice reverberates through the large entry room and I turn from my musings at the window to greet her.
She's a petite woman, not the towering matriarch my imagination had conjured.
"Just Emmeline, please," I say with a smile.
Mrs MacLeod reminds me of Maria. The sheer volume of her presence astounds me her glow fills the room.
"Emmeline and Maggie, then, as agreed?"
"Yes Ma'am," I say smiling down at her. I'm not a tall woman by any means, but I tower over Maggie's petite five foot two frame.
"So you've met our Rose. Not to worry my dear, we aren't all old women here. Come let's talk in my office."
She leads me down a hallway so covered in black and white photographs and vivid paintings that not a stitch of the white wall can be seen.
"How was your flight Emmeline? Did Sophie do well?" Maggie asks as we enter a spacious room with views of the hillside.
She pours two glasses of water and settles down, not behind the desk but in a chair beside me. Its impossible to feel anything but comfortable in her presence, like a warm fire on a cold winter's day.
"It was wonderful. My father came to help in the house hunting. Sophie did well, thank you for asking," I say and take a drink, taking the opportunity to steal a glance around the room.
Its so unlike most historian's offices. Maggie's domain is tidy and well apportioned and the books on the shelves are lined up gracefully.
"Its wonderful to meet you. I would love to have you over for dinner while you're here. My husband loves to have company to eat what he catches in the Loch," Maggie says.
"We would love to. Thank you."
"I'm sure you're busy tonight, perhaps tomorrow?"
"That would be lovely. We are looking at houses tomorrow during the day but we will be free in the evening," I say.
Maggie smiles, but remains silent. I wait for her to decide to ask the question that's already formed in her mind. It hangs between us unspoken...and I wait.
"Emmeline, I know you said you were ready for this and I believe you. I want to know whether you need any extra time. It hasn't been three months," Maggie says, a slight crease between her brows as her eyes search my own.
"I've been asking myself the same thing for the past few weeks. I need purpose. I need work. So I guess no, no I don't need any more time."
I want to tell Maggie more. I want to tell her how the fear of failing Sophie has me in a death grip and everyday I wonder whether I'll be suffocated by it, that I barely sleep because I can't bear the sight of the faceless man. But I shove it all back down. I swallow every last word and remain silent.
"I am sorry. Its no easy thing to lose a spouse," she says it kindly, but her gaze drifts as though she's thinking about someone else.
"No its not," I say.
"I pray you find peace on Skye. You and Sophie."
"Thank you," I say awkwardly, waiting for a new topic.
Fortunately, for us both, Maggie turns the conversation towards business matters. We walk around the museum and I am introduced to the ten odd members of staff. As we make our way down the same picture laden hallway, Maggie nudges a door open. It’s another, slightly smaller, office commanding a beautiful view of the Loch. A glass door opens to a small patio. The room is empty of everything but a desk and bookshelves and some boxes piled to the right of the door.
"Your office, Mrs MacArthur," Maggie says gesturing to the room.
"Its beautiful..." I say.
"Our last historian did not use the patio often, but I hope to be invited to tea occasionally," Maggie says with a smile and a wink.
"Maybe I'll just work outside," I say with a sigh.
"Och aye, when it isn't raining or when the mists lay so thick it might as well be raining," Maggie says with a snort.
We laugh together and are still enjoying the view when Rose appears in the doorway.
"Mrs MacArthur's father and daughter are here," Rose says, flitting away before her sentence is fully out.
"Please come meet them," I say to Maggie.
She smiles pleasurably and we once again start down the hallway. While we walk I'm able to catch glimpses of the subjects lining the wall. There are groups of fishermen, decrepit castles, and paintings of beautiful women. It enchants me, the cluster of photographs and paintings. Its, enamors me, the closeness Skye seems to share with its history, by the magic which seeps through even from a faded photograph of a crofter's cottage.
My gregarious father is deep in conversation with Rose when we reenter the front room. Sophie eyes an assortment of claymores with fascination. Her gaze travels up and down the length of them as if measuring their length against her own strength.
"Did you hear we are invited for dinner?" my father says wrapping an arm around me and turning me back to face the two women.
"Yes, thank you again Maggie. You're too kind," I say with gratitude.
"Think nothing of it, my dear. Miss Sophie, would you like a biscuit?"
Sophie glances up at me and then back at Maggie MacLeod, confused.
"She means a cookie," I say with a smile.
A dawning look of comprehension breaks over Sophie's face.
"Yes please," she says in an excited whisper.
"Here ye are. Some for the road," Maggie says handing a bag of cookies over to Sophie who smiles from ear to ear.
We leave the museum with the cookies, Maggie's address, and wealthier by two new friends. A crinkling sound fills the air as Sophie walks behind me. I pause at the passenger door and breathe in the air. Its cold and damp but there's softness to it, a purity of the smell that's part sea and grass covered hills. Purifying. Before I can stop myself, my mind bounds down the path of a memory. Hugh and I crouched on rocks like children on the Isle of Arran watching the tide pools. The ocean smelled quite the same as it did a decade ago. I can feel him beside me, his musky cologne, the steady hand on my back, and the melodious tones of his laugh. Newlyweds marveling in so much time alone and away from life's constant pressures, we were boundlessly happy. Oblivious to everything but each other.
I am caught between two worlds. Caught between the past and the present. I hear my father and Sophie laughing and arguing over her small stash of cookies while Hugh laughs-threatening to push me into a tide pool. After a few minutes I can't separate the two worlds, they've blended into one. Sophie's laugh and the feel of Hugh's bearded cheek on my face.
"Real Estate office?" my father says, shutting Sophie's door with a snap.
"Oh...uh...yes.”
I don't see the picturesque scenery or the white cottages as we pass by. All that's before me is the shape of Hugh sitting on a rock smiling back at me; at times I am living with a ghost. By the time I've pulled myself out of the past and out of my stupor we've parked along a side s
treet and in front of the office where I have a meeting with an agent. The woman is polite, but the smile she plasters on her overly red lips doesn't meet her dull brown eyes. We are shown, first, to a dingy loft apartment.
"I did ask for three bedrooms," I say, endeavoring to keep the rudeness in my voice to a minimum.
"I'm not sure that was clear on our questionnaire," she says with a maddening air of superiority.
Her cold brown eyes glance disdainfully at me.
"I've corresponded at length with your office. I'm not buying a summer property or an apartment. I'm here for a three bedroom house with a garden, good size kitchen, a yard, and a view of the loch," I say with venom.
"Ah."
"There's another real estate office we saw on the drive to yours. I'm quite sure they would be more than willing to take my business," I say, reaching for Sophie's hand and turning on my heel.
"You know...Mrs MacArthur I must have you confused with another client," she says hastily, rearranging her features back into a smile.
"I daresay you have," I say.
She gestures with a large hand out the door and I graciously make my way to the exit. Each house she shows us fails to inspire any in our party. Either Sophie wrinkles her nose at the bedrooms or my father surreptitiously pokes my elbow, raising his eyebrows, at the price or the cracks in the foundation. The soft light wanes as we are shepherded to the last cottage.
The whitewashed rise from beneath a sloping drive. The home commands a gorgeous view of both Loch Portree and the hills surrounding the small town of Penifer across the water. Sophie lets out a long low whistle as we make our way down the drive and park next to the house.
The wide lawn retains a fleeting trace of summer's green and the house sits in splendor next to it. The agent rattles off a list of amenities the property has to offer. She mumbles something about renovations, which are still needed, but I walk right by her to the boundary of the property. The house is a modest two-story building with brown shingles and a glass enclosed front entry. It faces the loch; the eastern walls showcase ivy crawling seductively up the whitewashed stone.
"Home," I whisper.
"How about this one Mommy?" she says looking up at me with soft eyes, gripping my hand.
"Ok," I say.
On the whole, once our exhausted (and annoyed) agent leads us through, the house just needs a few coats of paint, furniture, new lighting fixtures, and a good scrubbing. The paperwork is started before I've even seen the rest of the house.
The Clouds Aren't White Page 11