The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Hello?" I say and try to shake away last night's dreams. "Emmeline..." my mother-in-law's sharp voice slices through the line, "We'd like to speak to Sophie."

  "I'm sorry, she's not up right now."

  I blink in the morning light and try to swallow; my throat is as dry as the Sahara.

  "I see," she says, her voice snapping like a steel trap.

  I look at the clock. It's not even six.

  "Could we call you later? Perhaps after breakfast?" I ask.

  It is, of course, not that easy. They both were set on talking to Sophie and since I refuse to go wake her up, they settle for me. For an hour I am barraged with questions, as though I owe them some sort of explanation or payment for what I've done. We dance around and over the root of the issue. All we've done since Hugh died is fight. In my mind, I replay the confrontation I had with Hugh's father. I'm confused, confused at their anger and the cold distance between us. Standing barefooted on the cold hardwood floor I sway on the spot, pinching the bridge of my nose.

  Its exhausting talking to the two of them. Grief has turned them into different people...or perhaps they were always this way and grief gave them the excuse to let go of their inhibitions. I lay down, dutifully, and feel the tread of their boots, letting them smear their pain into my heart.

  I shuffle across the floor to flop down on the bed as soon as they've worked themselves into a heated silence and end the call. After basking in the morning sunlight the comforter feels as though it’s just been pulled out of the dryer. I pull it around me, breathing in traces of the sea. I could lie here all day, cocooned against the world. Instead of peaceful quiet, my mind starts spinning, thinking of Hugh's murder case, of my in-laws, of life.

  They don't leave me be. Hugh's murderer preys on my mind like a vulture, attacking me in my sleep, when I'm most vulnerable. His face swims in my mind's eye. Theories swell, swirling around and around until I am suffocated under the weight of them. Answers seem just out of reach, like mirages on the road, drifting hazily just beyond my fingertips. Enchanting me. Teasing me. Torturing me. Pressing my knuckles into my eyes, I begin to rock back and forth. I hate myself for not obsessing over Hugh's murder...for trying to push the faceless man away with all my might.

  In a fit of pain I catapult myself out of the bed. The comforter is wrapped like manacles around my legs and I kick out ferociously at its white folds. It ends up tangled on the floor and I find myself staring at it, as though it were the tendrils of grief itself, waiting to drag me down into the depths-tying me to an anchor of pain.

  I'm standing in the kitchen before I even realize I've made my way downstairs. In a haze I make a pot of tea and stand facing the lawn, looking over the sad garden. Sophie comes down not longer after and I make up a plan to free us from the house, to busy myself with work.

  "Why do we have to clean out the flower beds?" Sophie says, slouching across the kitchen, wrinkling her nose at the eggs and toast in front of her.

  The gesture doesn't go unnoticed but I decide not to pick a fight.

  "Because its spring and today is the first clear day we've had in months. We'll do something fun when we're finished," I say and settle down to my own breakfast.

  "I want to play with my friends," Sophie says with a grunt.

  "Its Saturday, Sophie, most of your friends will be helping their parents around the house as well. You'll see them at school on Monday."

  She glares up at me and I raise my eyebrows. We size each other up for a few moments before Sophie rolls her eyes and drops her gaze. We eat breakfast in silence. Sophie broods over her orange juice. The faceless man swims again in my vision, circling vulturelike around my consciousness. A shiver runs down the length of my body and I hastily blink away the image.

  "Alright, why don't you go put on some clothes and come on out and help me," I say as Sophie finishes her food.

  She lets out a disgruntled sighs and walks off.

  "Your plate, young lady."

  For a moment I wonder if she'll refuse me...she pauses, defiantly, and then makes a quick grab for her dirty dishes and shoves them in the dishwasher, making more noise than necessary.

  I heave a sigh, watching as she mounts the stairs. But as I open the front door, shoes in hand, I forget it all. The air is clear and fragrant; the rain from last night has left behind a comforting aroma, clean and new. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and smile. The sun dancing on my skin feels like a familiar embrace. After a moment even I don't feel like settling down to the work, the sky is such a brilliant clear blue and the water of the loch entrancing with every lap of the pebbled shore. The white cottages across the loch look like sheep dotting the hillsides.

  "I'm here," Sophie says, announcing her presence.

  She's frowning but the frown wilts swiftly in the spring sun.

  "Let's get started then, the sooner we get done, the sooner we can have fun."

  I gather trash cans, rakes, and gloves from the garden shed and delegate the various bushes and flower beds. After setting Sophie to her first project I move on to the largest hedge and start trimming the errant stems. The sun is warm on my exposed neck; a trickle of seat runs down the small of my back.

  "Sophie! I told you to clean out the flower bed," I say as I turn to take off my sweater.

  She pulls out one dead stalk and slowly walks it to the trashcan. I stare at her, heat creeping up my cheeks, frustration start to overwhelm my senses.

  "That's enough dawdling."

  "I don't want to do this," she says a minute later and holds out her gloves as though they are dead animals she's sickened to touch.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I don't want to clean up flower beds," she says, lifting her chin, holding out the gloves a little further.

  "Sophie! Enough, let's get back to work," I say, refusing to acknowledge the gloves.

  "I don't want to! I don't want to do it! I don't want to look at you!" Sophie says bursting into hysterics.

  With a great wind up she throws the gloves straight at my face. I don't even see it coming. All I do is stand with my mouth wide open, and stare. Without warning, tears fall desperately from her eyes and she bolts towards the house. Its as though my heart was smacked with the leather gloves. I turn in time to watch her catapult through the front door. I stand, in shock, rooted to the ground, pruning sheers dangling from one hand. The front door swings in the breeze, adrift from its moorings.

  The house is quiet as I move through. There's no destruction from a rampaging five year old. A good sign. She's sitting on her bed with her head wrapped by her arms. Lingering in the doorway I see that tears are still rolling, in great rivers, down her cheeks. I can't seem to move my feet forward. Sophie collapses sideways onto her bed, her small frame racked with sobs.

  "Mommy..." she chokes out.

  It works on me like a stimulant and I'm curled up beside her before she can take any more shuddering breaths.

  "I'm here Sophie...I'm here..." I say, soothingly, whispering in her ear.

  I wrap my arms around her and pull her body close to mine. She convulses even more, her sobs come out more ragged.

  "What's wrong sweetheart?" I say, one hand smoothing down her wild curls and the other patting her back.

  Bit by bit she begins to calm, relaxing in my embrace.

  "Do you remember what Daddy looked like?" Sophie says, her voice muffled, her head buried in my chest.

  "Yes..." I say and then when Sophie lets out a strangled breath, I change tactics, "Sometimes...its a little hard to remember everything."

  "I don't remember..." Sophie breathes, so quietly I almost don't catch the words.

  "Is that what's wrong?"

  She nods her assent. My next comment gets caught in my throat and I can't seem to think of anything to say. How unfeeling was I to push her out in the yard, not recognizing the signs, not seeing how much she was hurting.

  "I try to remember everything...but I can't..."

  She
rolls over onto her back and fixes her gaze on the wooden beams laid into the ceiling.

  "Do you need help remembering?”

  "Yes."

  "Tell me."

  I pick up her hand and fold it into my own and gaze as well on the darkened wood of the beams.

  "When he would play with me…"

  I smile in spite of myself, thinking the memories she values the most are ones we thought so inconsequential at the time. Wrapping her in my arms I begin to tell her everything I remember about their adventures and what it felt like from my perspective. Occasionally she asks about a certain detail, but is content to lay cuddled against my side with closed eyes and a wide remembering smile. We lay there until I've forgotten the time, forgotten the work out in the yard, forgotten the months separating us from Hugh. In the land of memories, Sophie and I lose ourselves; between us we can recreate Hugh and feel closer to him. For a time.

  "When I close my eyes...I can't see his face anymore," Sophie says, sitting up.

  "You have pictures of him."

  "No," she says, shaking her head, "I like thinking about him at school and at night. I can't remember his face."

  "Sometimes I have trouble with it too," I say, thinking about the times when Hugh's face doesn't come as sharply into focus and I can't remember much beyond what it felt like to rub the stubble on his cheek.

  "I don't want to forget you either," Sophie whispers and chokes back a sob.

  "You won't forget me. Why are you worried about that?" I say wrapping my arms around her petite shoulders.

  "Daddy left," Sophie says, not looking at me.

  "Daddy didn't leave. He was taken away. I'm not going anywhere, Sophie."

  "Mr Ian might take you away," Sophie says and shrugs herself out of my arms.

  "Ian Campbell?" I say, rather confused.

  "Grandma asked me if I liked him."

  "Sophie, I'm not going to marry anyone. I miss your Daddy too much."

  "Ok," She says, skeptically.

  "I like you. I love you. That's all there is. You and Me.” Sophie turns back and smiles but it slides right off her face. "Daddy won't be here for my birthday."

  "No he won't. I'm so sorry," I say, feeling more and more like a fraud, as if some government agency will come forcibly take me from my daughter due to my radical ineptness.

  Eventually, we make our way back outside, clutching each other for support. Sophie's pale face is blotchy and her eyes swollen but her smile is light and honest. She picks up her abandoned gloves and returns back to the same flowerbed. I don't have a heart for the work anymore.

  "Mommy! Come on! If we finish we can go get some ice cream!" Sophie calls, mimicking my voice.

  She prances around the yard with arms flung out, coming to life underneath the sun's rays. It's wonderful to have a moment's peace out here, watching her celebrate life, as a child should. I wish I could tell Hugh how much she's changed, how much he's missed, and how she grows more and more like him everyday. I wish I knew what to do for her birthday to ease the transition and make his absence a little less painful.

  It comes to me in one shining moment of inspiration, peace rushes through me and I think there's a chance I could make a decent mother.

  We are back out in the garden the next afternoon; Sophie plays on the lawn with a friend from school. From my spot under the oak tree, sipping tea, I can see them crawling around on all fours, pretending to be horses, their hair flying as they toss their heads to and fro. Sophie cavorts around in the grass, her eyes bright and alive. A swelling pride warms my soul looking at her. And for this moment I can breathe and the weight of life disappears. Its as if I too am a child again. The sharp ring of the phone shatters the peace.

  "Detective Wexford, Mrs MacArthur," a heavy voice says. Still caught up in the happy scene playing out before me, it takes me a moment to place the name.

  "Oh...hello."

  "Is this a good time?" Wexford says.

  His voice sounds tired, discouraged even.

  "Yes, its fine," I say, gazing wistfully over at the two girls now weaving dandelion crowns.

  "I wish I had more to give you than what I have," he pauses, heaving a great sigh. "I believe we are getting closer to identifying the suspect. We've been pouring over the footage from the security tapes and have even sent it off to be digitally enhanced but the downward facing cameras hamper what we are able to discern. ..."

  "There has to be...something."

  "Your husband seemed to talk with the suspect for a few moments before...well before the pistol was fired. I'm not sure what it means. Maybe the man didn't look threatening or he was asking a question. Or maybe he recognized him."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The area around the Capitol Building is home to a lot of transients, the suspect could have been dressed like one of them and blended superbly into the crowd. The homeless are generally faceless...unless they are causing a disturbance; no one takes much notice of them. No one wants to. But whatever the assailants attire might have been, he might not have been homeless."

  "So, what does this mean?"

  "It means I still have a lot of work ahead of me. There is the homeless man your husband gave money to before you left for Denver..." Wexford says, trailing off.

  "Why on earth would he kill Hugh? He gave him money, was kind, treated him like a human...why would someone who has received such generosity turn around and...and..." I take a deep shuddering breath. "We were two hundred and fifty miles away. You mean to say a homeless man was able to travel that distance with no money...to kill a man he didn't know?"

  "I don't know. There's a lot about this case which doesn't make sense."

  "I'll do whatever I can," I say.

  "Your memories of the day have been quite helpful. I'll call to let you know if there are any new leads."

  Wexford hangs up and I sit back again in the chair feeling more confused than ever. The sun is bright but the warmth of the day seems stolen away. Its as though I've been sent back to those days, when breathing was torture. Maria's emotionally charged outburst comes flooding back to me...there are no guarantees. There is no peace in seeking out answers, which may never come.

  In the breeze long strands of brown hair cover my vision, distorting it. The cool air blows the cobwebs out of my mind. I'm free out here, here in the open, without walls bearing down on mecrushing life and thought from my body. The world is better where the grass is green and life goes on. Where the sun rises in the east and sets in the west without regard to human feelings. Hugh's death wasn't the end of the world. It didn't send the earth spinning off its axis-whatever it may have felt like to me.

  I suppose no matter the answers, even if they never come, the world will keep on. The winters will come to Skye and the heather will grow in the spring and tourists will come flocking over the bridge in the summer and life will cycle on. I wonder what Hugh would have thought of our daughter, frolicking around in the grass, thousands of miles from all she'd ever known, caught up in the new life of spring.

  The waves beat a tattoo against the rocks behind me, the laughter of Sophie and her friend echoes across the garden, and the breeze blowing across Portree rattles the nettles and leaves across the town. I close my eyes, letting the melodies mesh and blend, and I smile, sitting here, living in the midst of a natural symphony. In the music Hugh could be standing just behind me, hands on my shoulders and head thrown back in laughter, watching Sophie cavorting in the grass. We could be together.

  We will be whole again, Sophie and I. It’s not the answers, or a successful trial; it's the moments of quiet, of remembrance, which are peace. Heaving a great sigh and slumping forward, I move out of the metal chair. I leave the phone where it lays and walk forward. It doesn't feel momentous. It feels like a quiet sort of rebellion. The midwinter flower poking through the frost. I play with my daughter and her friend; join them in her imagined, magical, world.

  "Mommy! Wake up, wake up wake up!" The next morning there's an ex
plosion of sound before a fiftypound child jumps onto my spleen.

  "Ugh," I say and clutch the blankets righter around me.

  "It's my birthday, Mommy, you have to wake up," Sophie says, vigorously shaking me.

  "It's still early Sophie, why don't you sleep for a little longer?" I wheedle, trying to push her off the bed.

  "Mommy! Its my birthday you have..."

  Whatever it was I had to do did not come out of Sophie's mouth. With a deft movement I grab a cord hanging down by the bed and give it an almighty pull, down comes the sheet, and before Sophie can do anything more than look confused a great shower of balloons and confetti cascade down from the ceiling. Balloons in every color and confetti in beautiful metallic. I sit back in bed and watch Sophie leap up and prance around, kicking the balloons back and forth around the room. Her face is alight with joy; her eyes sparkle more than the confetti lying in heaps around us.

  "I thought you forgot!" Sophie says with a hearty kick of a balloon that results in a few inches of movement.

  "If there's one thing moms know how to do, it’s to surprise," I say, tossing a handful of confetti in her face.

  "Grandma says its fixing things," Sophie says sternly, pausing in her attempts to drop kick the balloon.

  "You got me there."

  We breakfast in the garden with waffles, fresh fruit with a generous dollop of whipped cream, and tall glasses of orange juice. Even the slight chill in the air can't dampen Sophie's spirits, bits of confetti drift down occasionally onto our plates.

  "Wait!" she cries as we sit down to the waffles and tears across the lawn and into the house.

  "What was that all about?" I say laughing, a minute later, as she skids into the table breathing hard and coughing.

  "This...I had...I had to get Daddy. So he could be here," she places the framed picture of Hugh on the table, marking the place where her father would be sitting.

  Tears well up in my eyes, threatening to spill over like an overfilled glass.