"I want to know how you are," he gasps, eyes flitting back and forth, trying to peer into my soul.
I open my mouth to give out my pat answer but for some reason I find the words won't come. They are stuck, stuck in the mire of grief. I try to hide my nightmares, calling out for Hugh when I wake, calling out for him to save me.
"I read somewhere grief is like an open wound. The wound may scab over, but it never heals, you have to treat it every day and learn to live with it. I'm nowhere near a scab. I want him. Every day. Every single day," I say and stare out the bay window overlooking the velvety black loch.
Hugh's face swims in my vision. He's never gone but always hovering on the edge, waiting. Waiting for me to come to him.
We stare out of the window and drink in silence. The house is quiet. Sophie has long gone to bed. Finally we break up our sad companionship and head upstairs. I run my hand against the cool stone surrounding the staircase. The rough rock passes under my fingers...like the calming waves of the sea. Closing my eyes, I feel for the peaks and valleys of the stone, up and down...rise and fall...rise and fall...rise and fall.
"When are they coming back?" Sophie begs from the backseat as we cross back over Skye Bridge.
"When would you like them to come back?”
"My birthday," she says with conviction. "May 1st."
"We can ask," I say and Sophie lapses into silence.
Her face is furrowed by a deep frown and she looks out the window with an unseeing gaze. I'm exhausted from winter driving and the invisible black ice lurking on the pavement.
"What do you want to do for your birthday?”
"Nothing."
"Nothing? We could drive down to London for the weekend," I say with bravado.
"No."
"Why not?" I say as we pull into the driveway.
Mounds of sparkling snow lay heaped against trees, masking the shape of our benches and bushes.
"Daddy isn't here. I don't want to do anything without Daddy," she says crossing her arms; her nostrils flare in righteous anger.
"Ok..." I say, stalling for time. "Maybe we could write a letter to him and tell him all about our new house and your new school?"
She regards me haughtily over her crossed arms but gives the tiniest of nods.
January passes in the haze of one long snowstorm. February blows itself into March and the sun begins to rise a little earlier, bathing the loch in its pearly pink shades. Sophie and I begin to settle down into a routine. She's the darling of her class and soon knows more people in Portree than I do. The museum is during the winter but its comforting and familiar, being amongst the documents and artifacts.
"How is the acquisition coming along?" Maggie MacLeod says, poking her head around the doorpost late one March afternoon.
"It’s almost done. I have a call to make tomorrow to discuss transportation," I say, "Is it too cold outside for a bit of tea?"
Within a minute we are standing outside, bundled against the cold, and clutching our mugs. My cheeks sting with the cold and the breeze blowing across the icy loch freezes the tips of my fingers.
"Is Sophie settling in at school?" Maggie inquires, perching herself on the edge of the metal chair.
I follow suit, the cold of the half frozen metal seeps through my wool trousers. For the first time in weeks, Skye is calm. The loch is so smooth the reflection of Portree's colorful cottages can be seen on its face. As though the island itself is taking a great calming breath after the long winter.
"She loves it. I remember in secondary school there was a boy who immigrated with his mom from England and he was so interesting, everyone flocked to him. I think Sophie's the same, especially when she comes home talking like a Scot. 'Ye ken.' Its adorable."
Images of her flitting around, replay themselves in my mind's eye, dancing her way around the white walls of our home and squelching her way out to the shores of the loch in bright red wellington boots.
"Aye, one of Rose's grandsons is in Sophie's class and says she's the prettiest lassie he's ever seen."
We burst out laughing. I wipe away a trickle of tea that spurted out of my mouth in mirth.
"Its the blonde curls. Everyone's always been head over heels for them ever since she was born."
"Aye, she's a beauty...how is she at home?"
Maggie doesn't look at me but rather out towards the rolling hills that seem to fall down into the watery depths of the loch. I pause and follow her gaze. Sheep roam the hillside near the museum, their dingy coats like grey specs against the snow.
"Its not easy. We seem to do all right when we are both busy, but when life slows down...the pain creeps back. She's much quieter than she used to be and her laughter sounds stinted as if it were born handicapped."
"Wait till summer comes, it'll be much warmer and there will be more to do. The summer sun is good for the soul," Maggie pauses, taking a deep breath, "I've heard you met Ian Campbell."
"We did."
"He's a good lad. Its terrible what happened to him."
She shifts her grip on the mug of tea and takes a deep draught of it. Her hand shakes against the warm china
"About his first wife?" I ask.
She looks at me for a moment, frowning.
"Oh aye, but I meant his second wife. She cheated on him with half of the sailors in Portree while he was at sea. It was dreadful. It ruined him. He didn't think he was worthy of his first wife because he wasn't there for her after their baby died. But no, his second wife destroyed much more," Maggie says, her sharp gaze following the progress of the scavenging sheep.
"He seemed wounded still," I say, telling Maggie about our conversation Christmas Eve and the way he regarded the familial scene around the table.
"The poor lad. His father died less than a year before his wife and daughter and never knew his mother. It was a terrible time for him."
"Its amazing he's still able to function," I say raising a toast to the end of the loch where the fishing boats are loosely grouped.
"He didn't function for a good while. Drank more than was good for him and barricaded himself in the house away from everyone and everything."
"Grief is terrible," I say lamely.
Grief isn't just terrible. It cripples and then claws at any crack, ripping apart life. Grief is terrible because nothing is ever the same.
"Aye, it is, but its natural."
I hang my head over the last dregs of my tea, feeling my sorrow for Ian Campbell grow. The sheep on the hill have given up on their patch of ground and have moved to another, searching for any remnants of the summer's grass. Their black hooves pawing the ground, shoving snow out of their path. In the blink of an ewe's head drops and she ferociously works at the ground, tearing a clump of grass with her teeth. The limp leaves hang from her mouth and for a moment she stares at us, chewing the cud, then drops her head again.
Later that night Sophie proudly stirs the spaghetti sauce and watches the boiling pasta with hawk eyes. She looks like a drill sergeant perched on the chair, ruling over her domain, on the lookout for any signs of mutiny. There's more and more light towards the end of the day and it feels like the very breath of life. We no longer spend our afternoons in darkness but walk the rocky beach looking for driftwood and curious shells. Spring is not far off and the inhabitants of Portree are ready. Even now, as I look out the window, couples walk hand in hand enjoying the sunset...soaking up the freedom of the out of doors.
"Mommy, its read," Sophie says as the timer goes off. She hops off the chair and stands expectantly by the stove. "Can you go get the Parmesan, Sophie?"
"Oh Mommy, the doorbell," Sophie says and skitters off down the
hallway.
I roll my eyes and get the cheese myself, ready to see one of
Sophie's many friends from school, come to play.
"Evening, Mrs MacArthur," comes a familiar voice from the
doorway.
Sophie stands next to Ian Campbell with a crooked smile on her
<
br /> face.
"I told Mr Ian he could have spaghetti with us," Sophie informs
me and settles down in her chair by the table leaving Ian standing
awkwardly where she left him.
"You have quite the talent for being just in time for dinner, Ian." "I'm very sorry. I came to invite you and Sophie for a trip on my
boat in a couple weeks when the weather gets a little finer. You
haven't seen much of the coast," he says, twisting his woolen cap in
his hands.
"Thank you..." I say the feeling seems to have gone out of my
fingers, "that would be nice."
"We can make it out to the Isle of Raasay and around some of the
smaller islands if it’s a good clear day."
Sophie perks up at this and then proceeds to question Ian
Campbell all about his boats, what islands he's seen, what he catches.
The sun has dipped down beyond the horizon by the time she's
finished her interrogation.
"I'm going to take a bath, Mommy," she says scuttling out of the
kitchen, dancing her way up the stairs.
"She's a ball of energy," Ian says, soaking up the last of the cause
on his plate with a crust of bread.
"Yes she is. Some days it's a struggle just to get her to settle down
long enough to finish homework. Or help me clean up," I say
motioning around to the dishes on the counter and table. "I can help," Ian says, deftly gathering up the plates and
silverware.
"Oh no, its alright."
"How are you liking the museum?" he says catching hold of a
drying towel and positioning himself next to the sink.
"Its wonderful. Maggie MacLeod is a great woman to work for." "Aye she is. She and my father were together when they were in
school. My Da always said it was his biggest mistake, letting her go." "Are you serious?" I say, chuckling and thinking of a younger
Maggie MacLeod, breaking hearts across Skye.
"She was a beauty, according to me Da, but she wanted to go to
Oxford and me Da wouldn't leave the fishing business and follow
her. So she left. She told him she wouldn't live a life full of regret, so
he could either wait for her or move on. Being a man he chose the
easier option, well it was easier at the time. He regretted to the day he
died. What about you?"
"What about me?" I say, plunging my hands into the suds. "Did your husband wait for you?"
I sigh a little and contemplate the knots and lines of the marble
countertop in front of me.
"No. He wasn't the sort of man to wait, or to throw away a good
thing. We married right after my twenty-first birthday. I'd barely
finished my bachelor's degree. Hugh said we would make it together. There wasn't a choice...my parents, and his, thought we were crazy.
He was a few years older than me..." I say, trailing off into memory. Those days were wonderful, filled with study as they were; we
were newlyweds, not a care in the world.
"He sounds like a good man."
"Hugh and I were meant for each other," I blurt out, caught up in
the relaxed atmosphere in the kitchen.
"Its strange how that happens."
"One of my friends back home, Maria, said once she was jealous
of how well we fit."
"What do you mean?" Ian asks, the hand holding the tea towel
twitches.
"We just...understood each other. In so many ways we were alike.
Our marriage wasn't easy but he never yelled or punished me. When I
needed him, he was there. Always. He did all this," I say motioning
to the house, to Portree, "I'm here because he wanted me here, my
dreams were his dreams."
Ian whistles softly, a long low drawn out thing.
"It felt like a gift from him. As if he had given his permission for
Sophie and I to begin a new life. It didn't make the starting any easier
but I felt less guilty.”
"Why guilty?"
"It felt like betrayal, but I couldn't stay in that house." The pain I felt then is as raw as it was four months ago. "I clung onto it all. The house, her clothes, our daughter's nursery.
I imagine Maggie MacLeod said I went through a rough time," he
says, shifting in his chair.
"She said something along those lines."
My ear catches Sophie's voice wafting down through the
ceiling...she's singing in the bathtub, which she hasn't done in
months.
"You're a lucky woman, Emmeline. Sophie is a great girl." I wonder whether he regrets bringing up his past in the first place.
His face is weather beaten and lined. I see again, the strong
undercurrent of pain.
"I am. You can get lost in pitying your situation, being a single
parent, after a loss. I did for a while."
"I appreciate you letting me stay for dinner. Its not often I have a
home cooked meal. Just not worth it after a day on the water,” he
says and rises swiftly, backing up as he does so.
"I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Its rare to have
someone who knows..." I say trailing off and dropping my gaze to
my lap.
"Mommy! I've finished my bath!" Sophie sings as she prances
into the kitchen.
Her curls are slowly dripping water onto her pajamas but she's
oblivious. I relax as some of the tension dissipates with Sophie's
sudden and welcome appearance.
"Time for bed then, Sophie-girl," I say as she dances over to me
and plops down on my lap.
"I'd best be going. I'll let you know which day's best for the boat
ride."
"Thank you."
I gather Sophie up in my arms because for a second I recognize
the impulse flitting over his eyes.
"Thank you for the invite, Miss Sophie," Ian says, making another
of his little bows to Sophie.
"He's nice," Sophie says when we close the door and trek up the
stairs.
She burrows her face into the crook of my shoulder and neck and
wraps her arms securely around me. I close my eyes and inhale the
lavender coming from her hair. Her skin feels like silk under my
fingers.
As we lie in her bed and read the required bedtime stories I lose myself in memories. At times Hugh seems so distant I can't remember half of what he used to say to make me laugh. Yet now he could be sitting in the room with us, listening to Sophie's laugh, correcting me when I do the voices of the book characters wrong, and smiling as Sophie starts to tire. He could be here. If I close my eyes long enough, the smell his cologne, his deep rhythmic breathing, the warmth of his body, permeate the room. I can conjure him, the feeling of his presence. But Sophie stirs next to me and the mirage is gone.
I slip from her room and as I pull the door closed behind me I see her smile in her sleep. A small tenuous grin flits across her face and then she burrows down deeper into her quilt, reminding me of an animal settling down for hibernation. I stand there, watching her, in the dim light of the hallway long after my knees start to ache. I yearn to pull her into my arms and hold her through the night, or even better to bring her back into my body so we would never have to part.
In the end I do leave. My room is cold and lonesome. I don't do anything in here except clean and sleep. Sophie's room, conversely, is the heart of her imagination and the center of the worlds she creates during play. Her room is alive, veritably breathing with childhood magic. Before Hugh died our room was a sanctum, a retreat from life, and a place of rest and intimacy. Sitti
ng on the edge of the bed I feel nothing in the air around me. I shut my eyes against the distractions of reality. In the dark behind my eyelids I search for his presence. He swims hazily in front of me and then with a singular loud crash, pitter-pattering starts on the roof like a drum roll. For hours I sit in the growing darkness and in the midst of a spring storm with my memories. Even the most potent ones seem to slip through my fingers like water and I'm left to search out the droplets to begin again.
I let out a strangled cry and slap my hand over my face. Every time I believe I've made progress in accepting his death and in setting my energies towards loving Sophie more completely, I fall back to where I've started. Hugh was never upset by failure. It was an opportunity to grow. Every setback was a chance to learn and every disappointment, the option to pursue something greater.
My eyes snap open again and I leap towards my desk. Grabbing pen and paper the words flow from the pen, my hand flies over the paper smearing the pen before it can dry. I write everything I can remember. A list of his qualities, his determination, positive outlook on life, hunger for knowledge, his 'devil may care' attitude. Then come the recollections of our life together. Every detail about how he smiled, first dates, the wedding, the flowers he gave, and gifts he bought. My hand stiffens and seizes up but I write in a flurry, for as I write one another comes to mind and I race to get them all on paper...to give them permanency. To give them life. I write to save my own soul.
A bright light is poking its way though my eyelid. I squint in an effort to block out its disturbing effects; my cheek is stuck to a piece of paper. The sun is shining in full, cloud free, glory through the bedroom window. It bounces off the white walls with dizzying brightness. I throw my hand up in front of my face and, blinking rapidly, lift my head up. Stiff necked, I try to twist out the kinks and gaze blearily down at the paper in front of me. There's a bit of drool coming out the side of my mouth. Looking down, I bite my lip. There on the paper is Hugh, coming alive by the power of the pen. I touch the paper, brushing my fingertips across the woven fibers. For a moment my aching neck and the uncomfortable feeling of having slept in jeans and my parched lips and dry throat fade into the background. All that's real are the words in front of my eyes and the memories they conjure.
Startling me out of my memories is the shrill ring of the phone. I try and blink away the sleep from my eyes and see on the screen, the last person I want to talk to.
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