The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "I'm the new historian at the museum," I blurt out, wondering why on earth I'm talking to a complete stranger at my front door with a cooling pizza in one hand, a bottle of wine in the other, in the blistering cold.

  "Its a pleasure to meet you, Ian Campbell, I own a few of the boats in the loch," he says with a hint of pride and extends his hand to me.

  "Emmeline MacArthur. Nice to meet you too."

  His hands are large and calloused from years of handling ropes. He smiles at me, it’s so reminiscent of Hugh's, all the breath from my lungs seems to have evaporated and I sway a little in the doorway.

  "Mommy?"

  Whirling around I see Sophie standing amongst the boxes in the front room.

  "Sophie, this is Mr Campbell. Grandpa sent us pizza and it was delivered to his house. Mr Campbell, this is my daughter, Sophie."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sophie," Ian Campbell says and extends his hand again.

  Sophie looks at it warily for a moment and then raises her gaze to his face.

  "Are you married?" she demands without preamble.

  Ian Campbell stares wide eyed down at her with his hand still extended out in greeting.

  "Um...no. Well I was, my wife died a good many years ago."

  I notice it takes him a great deal of effort to keep his smile in place. Sophie blinks owlishly at him for a moment, assessing the answer.

  "My Daddy died. Mommy doesn't want to get married again."

  I put an arm around her to try and keep her calm.

  "I married again after my wife died, but it didn't last long..." Ian Campbell says, after a moment I can feel Sophie begin to relax under my arm.

  "Did you love your second wife?" Sophie says bluntly.

  Ian Campbell doesn't flinch but observes her with a kind smile.

  "Not as much as my first wife. I married again because I was lonely. Its not a good reason to be married."

  There's such a depth of sadness in his eyes and I find myself feeling rather sorry for him.

  "No it's not a good reason. Mommy says when I marry I should find a good man like Daddy, but Daddy told me I can't get married till I'm thirty five."

  Ian Campbell regards Sophie for a moment, staring down at her with longing in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry we've kept you so long. It was nice to meet you Mr Campbell. Thank you for bringing our food."

  Sophie shakes violently against my leg, in the cold wind, making it hard to stand up straight. The wind cuts across the hills like a knife, slicing through the air.

  "Its no trouble at all, Mrs MacArthur. I was glad to help. If you need any seafood be sure to come to my building at the docks and I'll give you a good price," Ian Campbell says extending his hand again and I take it.

  Sophie even consents to extend her own hand.

  "Good night," he says with a bow.

  We watch his retreating figure as it climbs the incline of our driveway and then as he makes his way down the small stretch of road we can see from the door.

  "Does he like you, Mommy?"

  I gape open mouthed at her for a moment before I can recover myself.

  "No, Sophie. I love your Daddy," I say, pulling her along with me into the house.

  The change is overwhelming; I pause in the warmth, feeling returning to my extremities.

  "Let's call Grandpa and thank him for the pizza," Sophie says bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, "We have to say thank you," she wheedles, hands are perched on her slight hips and there's an air of moral superiority about her.

  "Fine...fine," I say and reach for the phone.

  By the time we've thanked my father and assured my parents we are settled, the pizza is bone cold. Sophie rushes around the house while the pizza reheats in the oven, setting down at the table wrapped in a wool blanket with stuffed owls grouped around her plate. A half hour later when the pizza is consumed, Sophie and I make a final trudge up the stairs to finish putting together her bed.

  "The sheets are in the suitcase by the door, Sophie."

  She scampers over and pulls out the top layer of sheets along with the matching handmade quilt.

  "What are we doing tomorrow?" Sophie says from her position near my head as I bend down to tuck in the corners of the sheet.

  "Grocery store, unpacking, and maybe a trip down to the loch."

  It is cathartic to make a bed. The room more ordered with a freshly made bed in the middle of it. It brings a small piece of our old life with it.

  "And hanging up our pictures, right?" Sophie says, casting a furtive glance at the small frame on the windowsill.

  "Remember what I said about the furniture?"

  She smiles up at me and nods her head, setting her curls loose with the movement.

  "Daddy would like it here."

  I turn instinctively to study her face but it’s calm and dreamlike.

  "Yes he would,” I say.

  I lean back against the wall, trying to take a breath. The night is silent except for the faint sound of waves on rock.

  Sophie finally settles down into her bed with good grace and rather heavy eyelids. Before I've left the room, she's asleep. I lug my suitcases of clothes into my own room and set to the task of setting up my own bed. The curses saved with Sophie's bed come tumbling out in whispers as I fumble with the overlarge pieces. Two bruised fingers and quite a lot of sweat and tears later, the bed is assembled. It looms in the room, a monument to the husband I've lost, the man who will never share my bed again. I am Emmeline MacArthur, thirty years old mother to a five-year-old child, and a widow. It’s ten

  o'clock in the evening on December 5th and I am alone. At this dour summation, I slip back downstairs to open the wine. The wind rattles the panes of the windows in its passing but the house is warm with all of the packaged furniture and boxes. Its dark, the expanse beyond the kitchen window, dotted with flickering lights across the loch. I stand there in the warmth of the kitchen as the waves of consequence roll over me. I've never been a heroic person, its just stubbornness and decisiveness I can call my own. The choice of Scotland feels stubborn. In one quick stroke I've left behind an entire life and traded it for what? To be alone, in the middle of a foreign country, because I was unable to let go of my husband? The pain of loss is overwhelming to this day and every thought of Hugh, every moment spent alone, and every tear rips through my body like a knife. My heart doesn't feel like a heart anymore. Time hasn't healed anything, if anything, each passing day illuminates just how terrible and huge the hole in my life is.

  I don't realize I've run outside until the cold hits me like a brick wall. Humidity and wind slice through the layers of my heavy clothing as though they were thin rags. Even as the wind whips around me, pulling at my hair and clothes and body, I can hear the beating of the waves on the hulls of ships and on the rocky shore. The howling wind seems to shriek with mournful cries of suppressed grief. I wonder if mine is among them. Its eerie, so much so that I'm not sure whether I'm shaking from fear or cold. Or both.

  The cries on the wind give way to screams. Its long before I realize the screams are tearing at my own throat. The screams are carried away on the wind...dispersing across the loch. Tears well up behind my eyes, I feel my fingers clenching into fists at my sides, the truth hits with the force of a battering ram. I am the one who isn't at peace, the one with the pain and heartbreak. The wind whips with such force, my eyes water from the sting of it and my extremities are numb with cold. I survey these as though I'm drifting above my body instead of residing in it. Viewing the pain as though it was another person's. It is grief's modus operandi...it tears apart the ability to feel anything else beyond the terrible pain of loss.

  What is it I can accomplish by coming out here to scream into the wind? I feel insane. The pain drives all reason away. Hanging my head, I make my way back once more up the wooden stairs of an unknown house, taking my place in an unknown life. The master bedroom is too big for one person and the queen size bed too empty, but the sheets smell of
home. A strong clean scent with a hint of lavender. The wind still rages out beyond the walls of the house, yet up here, in the warmth and comfort of a bed, it’s calming. Never in my life have I felt so alone. Alone...with enormous responsibilities. A little girl depends on me to live and live well.

  I'm not sure when it happens...yet it does...sometime during the night while contemplating the wooden beams of the ceiling, that my heart begins to beat a little more evenly, stronger. I don't know why. Perhaps for the reason that when I hear crying in the middle of the night I rise from bed, or kiss small hurts, or cook special meals. Motherhood. There is no other choice. The faceless man doesn't visit my dreams. I sleep without interruption, without waking.

  Morning comes with indecent haste. The storm has blown itself out and the sun is barely discernible through the leftover clouds. I don't jump out of bed with glee, even after the self-discovery of last night. All that waits are heaps of unpacked boxes and an empty refrigerator.

  I've showered, dressed, and unpacked two suitcases before Sophie stumbles bleary eyed out of her room. She wobbles perilously over to my bed and sinks down into it; I smile, remembering the steps she took as a baby which were just a wobbly.

  "I'm hungry," Sophie says with her face half plastered with pillows and curls.

  "There are a couple slices of leftover pizza to hold you over until we get to the grocery store."

  Sophie lays back and closes her eyes with a drawn out sigh. I resume unpacking. An hour later the room is free of cardboard boxes but the white walls are bare. They draw my eyes and I stare, feeling as though these half empty walls and the half empty room, mimicking me.

  "Can we get some chocolate?" Sophie's voice says from under both sheets and comforter.

  "Chocolate?" I say, tearing my blurry gaze from the walls and shove suitcases haphazardly in the closet.

  "Grandma says its good for when you're sad."

  "Are you sad?"

  "Yes."

  "Want to talk about it?" I say and perch on the edge of the bed, resting my hand on her shoulder.

  "I had a dream Daddy came home," she says, burrowing farther under the covers.

  "What happened?"

  A long pause follows, with a few steadying breaths, but she answers in the end.

  "I dreamt we were here and he just walked in the door and said he'd brought chocolate and a toy for me."

  I smile and remember the pain. Such a simple dream, an easy one to believe. A dream of life continuing normally and Hugh waiting, ready to pop around the corner at any moment.

  "Sometimes I dream Daddy has come home too," I whisper.

  "You do?" she says, regarding me with one eye visible in the crack of the sheets.

  "Yes, but he brings me flowers and wine," I say and hazard a smile.

  Sophie doesn't smile back; she just fixes me with her one eyed stare.

  "Is that why you're sad? Because you didn't want to wake up?"

  "Yes..." she says, breathing out the word, as they were a secret. "Its ok. Its alright to miss him."

  She gets out of bed and walks to the bathroom, silent all the while.

  Sophie doesn't talk for hours. It's unnerving. My entire being rails against a silent five year old. It is unnatural. But we are all at the mercy of grief. A cruel beast, ignore it and it'll grow ever the larger until you're consumed underneath its terrible weight. I watch Sophie as we make our way back to the house, lugging heavy bags of groceries and I ache to pull her close and bear away her pain. A nagging fear slithers into my heart. I can't stand to see her pulling away.

  Rustling starts behind me, Sophie is fishing out yogurt and an apple from the sacks. She avoids my gaze and sits down on the floor with her back up against the wall to eat. I open my mouth to ask her what's wrong when the phone rings.

  "Hi, Maria," I say and hitch a smile on my face, as if there were someone here to pretend for.

  "How long have you been in Scotland?" an angry voice says through the crackle.

  "Almost 36 hours," I say, glancing at my watch, nestling the phone between shoulder and ear while I continue with unpacking the groceries.

  Sophie's head is bent low over her food.

  "I'm sure there wasn't a spare moment to call me."

  "I am sorry," I say, dumping a load of fruit in a drawer in the refrigerator.

  The connection becomes suddenly and inexplicably clear.

  "I'm sure you are. Well, I forgive you. How was your first night?"

  "Oh well we bought a car, came home to a lot of unpacked furniture, clothes, books, and an empty kitchen."

  "That's nice. How's Sophie?" Maria asks seriously.

  I steal a glance at my daughter who's gotten up to wander back to the living room.

  "Um...alright. Its an adjustment."

  "I bet it is," Maria's voice is low and speculative.

  "Its beautiful here though," I say endeavoring to change the subject.

  "I looked at your house on Google earth. It looks serene. Have you met any of your neighbors yet?"

  "One. Ian. Our pizza and wine was accidentally delivered to his house and he was kind enough to bring it by.”

  Glancing out the window of the kitchen I can see boats bobbing at anchor in the loch, the surrounding hills shrouded in low-lying clouds.

  "How neighborly," Maria says.

  "He's a widower. Sophie's first question was whether he was married or not. She's a fierce one."

  "She's protective. Something I think she inherited from Hugh," Maria says but then takes a breath and continues, "How are you? Really. How are you?" she says, her voice dropping an octave.

  For one terrible moment I am on the verge of venting every ounce of frustration I've built up during the last two days. I struggle to reign it all in. To deny its existence.

  "Struggling."

  "With what?"

  I take another glance back at Sophie. She's finished her food and starts up the stairs to her room. I heave a sigh.

  "There are boxes everywhere and I don't have help. Sophie stopped talking to me this morning because she dreamt Hugh walked through the door of our house and life became normal again. And I want the same; I want him to walk back into our life. I know I'm going to fail...fail spectacularly,” I say, collapsing against the butcher-block countertop.

  "You know the answer to this," she says and pauses before continuing, "One thing at a time, one box at a time, one day at a time. You don't have a choice to fail Sophie. You're her mother. If she needs time to be rude to strangers or grieve in silence, than you need to give that to her. But you don't need me to tell you this, Emmeline."

  "I know."

  "You can't save her from the pain, and even if you could? Would you want to?"

  "There are days."

  "Motherhood, huh?"

  We are silent for a long while and I hear water start running through the pipes. I shove it all away, all my pain and grief and swallow my fear. I ask Maria about her life. She obediently lapses into a discussion about her brood and the challenges of raising four. Its comforting listening to her passionate voice and the underlying current of love when she speaks about her family. She sounds like a clucking mother hen. A smile breaks over my face, I laugh and murmur approval at the appropriate times.

  As a last ditch effort to get Sophie to speak again I pull out every box of pictures and we spend hours deciding where they'll be hung. As soon as we are finished, Sophie relapses, pulls her favorite picture of Hugh out of the pile, and heads upstairs to her bedroom. I watch her go and feel the buildup of terror clawing at my heart. In the space of a moment I see the consequence of allowing her to shut herself away from the world...from me. She'll end up hating me, blaming me for everything from her father's death to the pain suffered because I wasn't sufficient for her.

  I don't follow Sophie; I turn away and resume unpacking. I touch item after item, putting them away, but my mind isn't on the objects. Its on Sophie, the expression on her face when she realized her father wasn't coming h
ome. It haunts me, the way her eyes lost their spark, when the naivety was cut away. I trudge up a few minutes later and sit on her floor and watch as she organizes box after box of toys, stuffed animals, and books. We don't talk. In fact, we barely make eye contact, but its warmer when we are together, our combined efforts keep the darkness a bit further at bay.

  For a week Sophie and I don't venture much farther than the confines of our yard. The boxes are put away, the paintings and pictures hung, and our life begins to find a new rhythm. A thick film of frost lies permanently on the dead grass of the yard. It sparkles like an expanse of crystal whenever the sun manages to peek through the clouds. The few neighbors we have stop by with hearty highland meals and seem happy to enfold us into the Portree family. After a few failed starts, Sophie opens up to the children and is soon begging me to start school.

  There's a marked improvement in her propensity to shut others out. I maintain routine calls with both Maria and my parents, but my in-laws continue to be silent. If I had the energy to be frustrated with them, I would be. Instead I spend my days trying to settle into a new life and trudging with Sophie through our grief.

  Some days are almost easy, days when we are so busy there isn't time to stop and think. Others see us wake up from dreams about Hugh, every sight and sound bringing back its own flood of memories. During these days we cling to each other, when it feels as though our souls are crumbling in pain.

  December drags by in a haze, all the while dreading Christmas holidays. Thanksgiving was easily ignored because we were moving but there's no escaping Christmas. Portree, like every other city in the western world, bedecked in garlands and red bows and wreaths.

  It seems like an age before we are on our way to Edinburgh to pick up my parents. For the first time in weeks we cross the bridge and leave Skye. Sophie points out her friend's houses along the way. It has begun to feel like home, this wild landscape. A generous snowfall from last week has left the white cottages well camouflaged. We're a mile past the bridge when Sophie twists around in her seat and pulls out the cache of snacks.

  "Are they coming yet?" Sophie says, at the airport, jumping up and down trying to see over the crowd of well wishers waiting for their own family.