The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "It should land in a couple minutes," I say laying a hand on her shoulder.

  "Do you think they brought presents?"

  "I'm sure they brought you something."

  "I'm glad they are coming. I can show Grandma and Grandpa my new room," Sophie says, craning her neck trying to catch a view of them coming.

  A shriek issues from the region of my elbow and Sophie darts forward, propelling herself into her grandmother's arms. I watch the three of them, twisted around each other, and smile.

  "Its beautiful, Emmeline," my mother says as we pull in the driveway.

  She's sitting by Sophie in the back seat and craning her head to get a full view of the house.

  "Good. We're here. Now we can get out of this tin can," my father says with an exaggerated eye roll.

  I stare at him.

  "What? Its smaller than some beds."

  "Those beds can fit four people comfortably.”

  He mumbles something about lack of respect for elders but gets out of the car graciously enough.

  "The sea..." my mother says wistfully, staring out across the loch. "And the house!" she says turning and standing dazed by the entryway.

  "It looks better during the day."

  "Yes the small part of the day when the sun is actually up," my father says from the doorway where he's hauling in the luggage. After the twelve hour trip back and forth from Edinburgh, Sophie's sways where she stands.

  "I'll put my granddaughter to bed," my father says proudly and scoops Sophie up.

  "He's missed her," my mother says, watching their retreating figures.

  Her face is drawn and pinched and her words are full of suppressed emotion.

  "We've missed you both. A lot."

  "Thanks sweetheart." She says and gives my hand a squeeze. "All those hours we spent looking at furniture turned out to be well worth it," she continues, looking over the living room and kitchen with approval.

  "We had a rough time the first couple of days. I was close to asking one of our neighbors to help with the heavy lifting," I say, shoving my hands into my pockets.

  The wind rattles the windows ferociously; the predicted snow can't be far off.

  "Who?" she says offhandedly, rubbing her hand over the grey couch.

  "What?" I say, distracted by the howling around the house.

  "Your neighbor."

  "Oh, Ian Campbell. He lives next door."

  "How did you meet?" she says trying to catch my eye.

  "The pizza and wine you bought were delivered to his house and he was kind enough to send them here..." I say, taking a quick breath and decide to nip any errant thoughts in the bud, "...he's a widower and divorced."

  "I was just curious," she says and settles herself down on a chair in front of the fireplace.

  "I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge," I say, collapsing onto the grey couch.

  The upholstery is thick and durable but soft under my fingers. There's no fire in the hearth but its comforting sitting in front of it, safe from the howling wind and frigid temperatures.

  "You don't have to apologize."

  I sneak a look at her, she sits stiff backed, her fingers knotted in front of her.

  "Yes I do," I say with a sigh, "just because I've lost my husband doesn't give me a reason to be rude."

  "You're in pain and someday...I want you to be happy again," she says, drawing out her words, careful not to look me in the eye. I bristle at this.

  "Sophie's in pain as well. Most days I have no idea how to take care of myself, let alone her. Since losing Hugh I feel like I'm continuously grappling in the dark."

  Its quiet but for the soft murmurings of a story upstairs.

  "When I lost my father I felt much the same way. It wasn't anything like your loss, but my father was my best friend. We talked nearly every day. My mother wasn't the mothering type, she spent more time with friends and organizations and governing boards than she did with my brothers and I. When your grandfather died I had no idea how to mother a child. Your father and I had just gotten married. For years, after having children, I had convinced myself I was going to fail you and your sisters. It was paralyzing. I wasn't anything like you in my early days."

  "Mom..."

  "No, Emmeline, you need to understand this. It was when I saw I was becoming my own mother that I understood her. She was afraid and in her fear she made the choice to run away. I was left with a choice: face my fears head on or run...just like she did. So I chose, and kept making the same choice every day.

  “Motherhood has never been easy for me. I thought losing your grandfather was why I had such a hard time being a mother...but it wasn't. My own mother wasn't to blame either. It was fear. Fear stopped me from loving you...fear drained me and left me empty and raw," she says her voice trailing off until it is barely a whisper.

  Tears roll down her cheeks freely. She fixes me with such a gaze; I can't stand to look away.

  "So you don't want me to be afraid," I say sitting up, the voices above have died, and a hundred thousand snowflakes have started to fall fast and free outside.

  "No I don't want you to be afraid. Don't be afraid of what people will think of your choices nor of failing Sophie. Stop being afraid of mistakes," she reaches over and grasps my hands in her own, falling down onto her knees in front of me.

  Her chest heaves. She doesn't bother to brush the tears off her cheeks but locks me in her gaze and refuses to let go.

  "I'm afraid of forgetting him."

  "Why?"

  It is difficult to swallow. I don't know how to answer. I cast around for meaning...

  "Nothing will be real if I forget him."

  "Sophie's real. Your memories are real. The life you had together was abundantly real," she takes a deep breath and moves a soft hand to my cheek.

  I feel as though I'm a child again, small and comfortable in her arms.

  "I want you to be happy. Whatever form it takes. I want to see you smile again," she hiccups at the end, from all her crying, and we both smile.

  "I another man doesn't figure into that happiness."

  "Well, I have to say, that suits me just fine,” a deep voice says from the bottom of the staircase.

  My father is leaning against the wall with his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  "And just how long have you been listening?" my mother says standing up, putting her hands on her hips.

  He crosses the room and pulls her against his side, curling an arm around her waist.

  "Now woman, all I heard is your ridiculous hiccup."

  It’s a warm smile. A smile of decades spent together full of trust, love, and respect. I ache for a smile just like it...I ache to see it radiated on Hugh's face.

  "How about some wine?" my mother says ducking under his arm.

  "We are in Scotland...why not Scotch?" he says with raised eyebrows, a forced scandalized look on his face.

  "There are both in the pantry," I say.

  We both watch her walk to the kitchen.

  "She's a great woman, your mother," my father says in a soft voice. I look over at him and he's gazing so tenderly towards the kitchen, I can't help but smile.

  "Yes, she is."

  "She means it, you know, she does want you to be happy. Hugh was a good man, a good husband, and a superb father. He'd be proud of you."

  I let out a snort.

  "Would he? Would he be proud I've taken our daughter thousands of miles from her home? Would he be proud that I cry myself to sleep at night?" I say, collapsing once again on the couch.

  "You're still fighting."

  I don't say anything to him, but squeeze his hand when he walks over.

  I don't tell them about the faceless man, about how he seems to hover ever nearer. The faceless man visits me more often than Hugh does. I watch my parents faces, watch them relax visibly with glasses of amber clutched in their hands. There's no reason why I don't tell them...only that it seems like disobeying some unspoken order, as if I shouldn't thi
nk about the faceless man at all. Later, when we drift to bed, I collapse. In the dream I stand with Hugh. The faceless man comes. His hands are wrinkled and deathly pale. The gun in his hands is old. Rusted. Three shots pop off, each a tiny miniature bomb. Hugh blood fills the steps, seeps in between my toes, stains my clothes...rushes into my mouth.

  I wake up choking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The dreams hover around my consciousness long after I wake. I begin to startle easily and revert back into poor sleeping habits. As I go through the day I study my parents, making sure they don't see what's plaguing me. If there's anything I've learned through grief, is how to pretend. I pretend to enjoy life.

  We do enjoy my parents, Sophie and I. We take them to the museum, amble around the loch. The five of us, layered in sweaters, coats, and scarves, venture out on the hills surrounding Portree. On one such excursion faces peering out of the old cottages, twitching aside the curtains, shaking their heads at our insanity. They are easy visitors, cleaning and cooking and wildly entertaining. On Christmas Eve, just as we've set down to steaming bowls of clam chowder, a sharp rap is heard on the door. Seeing himself as the temporary man of the house, my father rises. I shrug my shoulders at an enquiring look from my mother.

  "Mr Ian Campbell," my father says dourly and the three of us seated at the table turn around. Standing in the doorway Ian Campbell is smiling. His wool sweater worn, but painstakingly clean, snowflakes clinging to his hair before melting quickly in the glow of the fire.

  "Mr Campbell, its nice to see you again," I say.

  It seems polite to shake his hand.

  "Mrs MacArthur, I just brought a present for you and for Miss

  Sophie. If its alright," he says politely, holding out a bottle of wine and a silver wrapped box with a little red bow perched on the top. He smiles at Sophie's expectant face; it’s a hungry sort of smile as he takes the festive atmosphere.

  "Thank you..." I say, unaware of what to do next until I hear my mother clear her throat behind me, "um...won't you stay for soup? Clam chowder.”

  Ian Campbell smiles, thanks me, and settles down with good grace next to my mother.

  "Emmeline said you're a fisherman..." my mother says, ladling soup into a bowl until it almost overflows.

  "Yes ma'am. I own five boats and have a building down at the docks. My Da was a fisherman and my grandfather was a fisherman and served in the Royal Navy during World War II. Its the family business you might say," he says with pride, but casts a wary glance at my father.

  "Your father was lucky. All I got was girls and none of them wanted to carry on my legacy," my father says with a conspiratorial wink.

  "Dad!"

  "Is any part untrue?" he says raising his glass of whisky in a sarcastic toast.

  "Not exactly," I say, drawing out the words.

  "Well Scotland is lucky to have such a great historian, sir," Ian Campbell says with a shy smile.

  "I wonder what my grandparents would think to see her back here. They immigrated from Scotland...our family originated in Edinburgh..." he says, and then continues on as all Scots do, taking pleasure in reciting their lineage and the small deeds of their ancestors.

  Across the table my mother smiles knowingly at me and pours out a generous portion of wine in my glass. Sophie polishes off her chowder, while my father prattles on, and then unwraps the box Ian Campbell brought. It’s a delicately carved wooden owl whose beak and wings move with a lever on the back. She gazes at it with wonder, parading it up and down the table.

  It’s an easy dinner even with the advent of a little known guest. My father has the wonderful, and rare, ability to converse with anyone and Ian Campbell doesn't pose any sort of difficulty. Once I catch him gazing towards a large framed photo above the fireplace. Hugh and I are holding Sophie between us, smothering her with kisses. It’s intimate and unadulterated by a photographer's instinct to pose. Ian Campbell's face goes blank as he looks at it.

  "If you'd excuse me. It was a wonderful evening but I best be getting home," he says to the table at large.

  "I'll show you out," I say and rise from my chair.

  My father promises to stop by his warehouse on the loch with a hearty thump on the back.

  "I am sorry. I didn't mean to intrude on your family dinner. It’s been a while since I've been to one."

  We are standing outside the house while the snow swirls around us, pilling up against the tree, falling in drifts around the hedges.

  "It was nice to have you," I say and then add before I can stop myself, "Do you live alone?"

  "Aye," He says quietly, looking off at the loch.

  The sea is beating steadily against the pebbled shore, tapping out a melody, the soft notes of an adagio.

  "Remarrying doesn't sound easy.”

  Its quite true but I'm bothered. Ian Campbell is an almost unknown entity and yet the words spill out of my mouth.

  "It’s not easy and sometimes it is the absolute worst choice."

  "What do you mean?" I say, frowning up at him.

  He's a tall man, a few inches over six feet and built powerfully from years of hard labor.

  "My first wife, Helen, she was a gem of a woman. We were made for each other. We'd known each other our whole lives and marrying was the natural next step. As natural as me following me Da into the business. She committed suicide a few months after our daughter died of SIDS.

  “I wasn't there for her. I was out at sea, trying to drown my own sorrows. I left her to deal with hers. I hated myself a good many years. Thinking I'd moved on, I married again. My second wife was a good woman but we weren't good together. Always fighting. The worst was once when we were...ah...intimate...I called her Helen," he says breaking off abruptly.

  The words tumble out of his mouth like an avalanche; as if he'd been waiting years just to say them-to release the secrets and the weight.

  "My second wife was a different woman, I wasn't fair to her. I wanted Helen so badly I drug myself and another woman through rough, rough times for it."

  His face is half turned and swathed in shadow. His broad chest heaves with a shudder.

  "Hugh and I were soul mates, made for each other, best friends...whatever you want to call it. I know what its like to have it ripped away. You'd give anything to have that feeling back."

  Ian Campbell feels safe, as though talking to him could ease my pain.

  "You have a bonny lassie though. She'd make any father proud," he says, his accent becomes remarkably pronounced as he looks through the window where Sophie is playing with my parents on the floor.

  "He was enormously proud of her. We both were...are..." I say smiling at Sophie. "I'm very sorry about your daughter. It must have been terrible to bear."

  "It wasn't easy," he says, trailing off.

  I'm not sure what more to say and already caught unawares by the story he's just shared.

  "Good night, Mrs MacArthur. Thank you for the dinner."

  "Emmeline, please, and you're welcome. Come anytime, Mr Campbell."

  "Call me Ian. Mr Campbell makes me think of me father. I don't want that much grey yet," he says with a good-natured grin.

  "I am sorry."

  I'm not sure why I say it...why I've said anything, why this man told me the horrors of his life.

  "I didn't tell you to make you feel sorry for me. You seem like a good woman. Maybe I can make my Helen proud by sharing what I've learned. Good night...Emmeline. I hope Sophie likes the owl," he says and without a pause, pivots on his heel and strides from the yard.

  He's halfway up the high driveway before I've turned back to the door. I pause in the doorway, watching as his dark form disappears into the swirling snow. Something happens as he turns left and makes his way out onto the road. I feel a stirring.

  "I'll be sad to leave tomorrow." I turn from my place at the kitchen sink where I'm washing the remnants of our final dinner together. The snow has abated and the darkness outside is absolute. The house is quiet, peaceful e
ven as if a warm blanket encircles us all. My father stands in the doorway, slouching over to the table with his dram of whiskey.

  "It'll be hard to have you both leave. Sophie is getting spoiled," I say, chuckling, and turn back to the sink.

  "I worry about you, out here all alone."

  "I'm close to town," I say, grabbing my wine glass, I settle next to him.

  "I meant in Scotland, so far from home," he says with a crackling voice.

  He stares at the amber liquid lazily sloshing around in the glass. His fingers caress the top of the glass.

  "I thought you were alright with me doing this."

  "Its not about that, Sophie said something to me. She said...she said you cry a lot at night."

  The words catch in his throat as if he is choking on them.

  "I do," I say, fingering another layer of guilt, "It would be the same no matter where I was living."

  "What about this Ian Campbell character?" he says, tearing his gaze at long last from the table.

  "What about him?" I say, startled from my reverie.

  "What does he want?"

  "Nothing.”

  A familiar tide of frustration rises in my chest. The heat of it flushes my cheeks, bristles the hair on the back of my neck.

  "I don't believe that."

  His lips are set and thin and he clenches a fist on his leg.

  "I'm not going to remarry," I say bluntly and take a long swig of wine.

  "I'm not saying you're going to marry Ian Campbell or anyone else. I just want you to be careful."

  "How much more careful could I be? Widowed single moms aren't high on the dating market..."

  I take a large gulp of wine; it stings my throat when I swallow.

  "Emmeline, this isn't whether I trust you..."

  "What is it about then?" I say, cutting across him.

  "I guess...I wish you still had Hugh."

  I sigh and reach over to grasp his fisted hand.

  "So do I," I say and pause; "Ian told me after his first wife died he married again thinking he could get back the love and connection they had. He ended up divorcing his second wife because he expected too much of her. I won't do it to Sophie. I won't do it to myself. I want to love and remember my husband in peace."