The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "Now," she begins with a superior tone, "...the current owners aren't living here at the moment, obviously, so I think you'll be able to move in before all the paperwork is settled. You said three weeks?" She sits primly at the farmhouse style kitchen table, one of the few remaining pieces of furniture, pen clamped between her teeth like a cigarette.

  "That's right," I say glancing around the kitchen.

  "Now will your husband be a co-signer on the house as well?" The agent says without taking her eyes from the tablet in front of her.

  I freeze, my hand half extended towards the window. It should be an easy question to answer. A simple no. I twitch back the heavy linen on the expansive eastern facing windows, which command a beautiful view of the loch. The woman behind me clears her throat and I wonder why I don't know her name.

  "What's your name?" I say, still gazing out the window.

  A strange silence for a moment and I wonder if she's annoyed.

  "Anna. Wolfe," she says, a clear separation between the two names, as if they don't belong together. "Will your husband be signing the mortgage as well, Mrs MacArthur?" she repeats.

  "No. I'm not married anymore," I say.

  Anna peeks down at my left hand and the many diamonds glinting there.

  "Oh...divorce can be hard. Lord knows I've gone through it before," she says.

  I'm not sure why it bothers me, a stranger, judging me, but the indignity of it all rankles.

  "He's dead," I say, levelly.

  "I...I'm sorry. I just assumed," Anna says.

  I stare at Anna Wolfe and I wonder what life threw at her to jade her this much. She perches on the kitchen chair like a bird. She's not comfortable around people, on this island, and her eyes constantly flick towards the door. Long before I stop staring, she twitches uncomfortably and tears her gaze away.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Scotland passes by in a haze. Low lying clouds lay slung over the entire country. The days roll over into each other and soon, distinguishing past from the present becomes difficult. Away from a solid foundation, and with my father to hover Sophie, I lose myself in memories. Hugh lays just out of reach, so close I could reach out and grasp him.

  In the lines crisscrossing his face, I can see my father's concern. He visibly relaxes as we board flight home. It terrifies me how incapable I am of controlling my selfish behavior. All my good intentions slip like captured water from between my fingers.

  The Scottish winter chill lingers in my bones and clings to the fabric of my clothing, even as we land in Colorado. A light dusting of snow blankets the ground and menacing grey clouds grow in the west.

  "Was Grandma coming?" Sophie says settling her backpack on her shoulders and craning her head to see around the other passengers.

  "I'm not sure," my father says, glancing at me.

  I shrug my shoulders. We make our way through the crowd, jostling each other, knocking bags.

  "I hope she did," Sophie says.

  "Mommy, Mommy, I see her!" Sophie says squealing with

  unbridled joy. She stands at the front of the receiving line with wet eyes and arms crossed across her chest, craning her own neck, searching us out.

  "Grandma!" Sophie squeals. She extricates her hand from mine catapults herself into the waiting arms.

  "We weren't sure you were coming," my father says, waiting dutifully.

  She turns her gaze to him, glaring.

  "Why wouldn't I come see my little Sophie?" she says crooning to the mass in her arms.

  "What are we, Woman? Babysitters?"

  "Hello both of you,” she says with a shy smile.

  I shake my head and shrug again at my father's eye roll.

  "Mom..." I start.

  I'm not sure what I'd like to say, how to go about apologizing.

  "There's nothing to forgive," she croons and lays a soft hand on my arm. I'm not sure how long we stand, starting at each other, grief welling up in our eyes.

  "Let's go get our bags shall we?" my father says herding us down the stairs like sheep.

  We make our way downstairs and I see the visible lift in my mother's shoulders. In the way she walks. In her quick smile. I hate what I've done to her, the pain I've inflicted.

  "If you need time...time alone...to grieve...I can be there to help," she says, turning around as we reach the baggage carousel.

  I consider her for a moment.

  "I can't sit in bed and cry. I'm afraid if I let go I'll never stop. I'll fall apart and I'll never get put back together," I say.

  The past week in Scotland stands out sharply in my mind and the abyss lurking just out of sight.

  "You do need to grieve," she says, gripping my hand.

  "Its a little cliché," I say with a sigh. "I am grieving. Every moment of every day. I cannot stop thinking about him. I want his help with Sophie. I want to curl into a ball against him. I want a thousand things I'll never have again."

  "Was Scotland hard?" she says with her eyes on my father and his efforts in trying to obtain our luggage.

  "Yes and no. Here, Hugh and I made ten years worth of memories. Its so difficult to go anywhere in this town because he's everywhere and its not as though I don't want to remember...its just the remembering is so damn hard," I say.

  I don't tell her I can feel myself slipping away, that remaining in the present has become a constant battle.

  "So Scotland is the peace you need while you grieve on your own terms?" she says.

  A slight frown forms on her face and her eyes flit back and forth, searching my own.

  "Yes," I say and at this point I'll do just about anything to feel closer to him.

  As we reach the car the coming storm is gathering in earnest the wind tearing across the valley. Sophie shakes and refuses to hold anyone's hand while crossing the road. There isn't even any time to brace myself for the hurricane.

  "Let's get in your seat Sophie," I say, thrusting the last bag into the trunk of the car.

  Turning around all I see is her scowling face. Damn the inherited fiery personality.

  "NO," she says with arms crossed, yet again, over her chest.

  She regards me with angry eyes.

  "What do you mean 'no'? We're going home Sophie, get in your seat, please," I say and gesture, again, towards the car.

  I'm exhausted and feel disgusting after traveling for twelve hours. She doesn't move but stands with infantile stubbornness. The sole movement, her heaving chest. Out of the corner of my eye I see my parents retreat

  "I want my Daddy. I want him right now. Give him back to me, Mommy."

  All of her suppressed momentum breaks into a flurry of movement. She flails her arms, pounding the pavement with her feet. I'm caught so unawares I just gape. I can't quite catch my breath and my heart is pounding away in my chest.

  "I...I can't. I can't," I say and fall to my knees in front of her.

  The hard pavement makes my knees scream in protest.

  "But I want him Mommy. I thought he'd be here..." she says it as though she's not willing to trust the air with her words, with her secret hope.

  I am stung and soon guilt wells up in my soul. Whatever I had thought about knowing what was going on inside her or how she was handling her grief was a complete farce.

  "I want him too Sophie but I'm afraid all you have is me," I say.

  "Why is he gone? Why won't he come back to me? Why, Mommy, why?" she says with a strangled voice.

  A voice constricted by such an overwhelming amount of pain.

  "I don't know Sophie. I don't know why he's gone."

  There isn't anything else for me to say. I have no idea why Hugh is gone or what purpose it’s serving. In my heart grows a paralyzing fear, that I'm saying and doing everything wrong. I have nothing left at all, no strength left, for my child. I collapse, tears streaming down my face. Hugh would know what to do or say. I feel it potently, in this moment, my ineptness. Sophie just stares, even her tears stop flowing, she is so taken back by the half crazed b
ehavior.

  "Daddy said when you cry I should give you a kiss."

  Her lips brush my cheek, soaking up the tears lying there.

  "Daddy would be so proud of you, Sophie," I say.

  She smiles, broadly and without another word turns away and takes her seat in the car, settling herself down with good grace. I close the door and heave a sigh.

  "Is she alright?" my mother says, called back by the cessation of shouting.

  'Alright' has become one of the many words in the English language I have come to loathe.

  "No. She misses her Dad."

  And so do I. But I don't say it.

  "You're doing wonderful," She says.

  "Thanks."

  I don't mean it to sound coarse, but it does. I can almost hear the words she's biting back.

  Its tense in the car during the short trip home. Grief has torn down line upon line of communication. It lays its firm grip on family and friends, slowing their minds and constricting the flow of thought. Every word sounds hollow and feeble and unworthy of the life lost. For whatever could be said to give justice to the fallen or peace to the living? As I open the door to our erstwhile home, I realize it’s even emptier than when we left. For some reason it’s just a house. Whatever it is that made our house a home is gone.

  Sophie doesn't linger in the entryway like I do. She heads off for her room. I can hear her rummaging through her closet, rooting around for pajamas.

  Later that night I lay in bed, eyes fixed on the white ceiling and the chandelier hanging from it. The silence and stillness overwhelms my exhausted mind. I have no earthly idea why I'm sitting here, scared of my dreams, scared of the morning, scared of both life and death. Incensed I vault out of bed and head towards the panty for a glass of wine. The bitter liquid rolls down my throat and I remember that alcohol in the long term is a depressant. A fact, which is a depressant in and of itself.

  I don't want to be bothered by facts or medical notions of grief. I want to sit and enjoy the wine in my hand. I want to be able to indulge myself. For once I'd like not to have any responsibilities, items on my to do list, or demands besides sleep. At this moment, I'm failing Sophie and Hugh and the truth is, I wasn't made to be a single mother. She deserves far more than I am capable of. A mother who knows how to speak to her in her grief, a mother who choses the perfect words for a five year old to understand, a mother who doesn't drink wine in the middle of the night to coax her body to sleep. A depressant indeed.

  "Damn," I say, chipping the glass as I slam it back down on the counter.

  Sophie's room is quiet. Her rhythmic breathing is hypnotic. I feel around for her bed. I pull back the covers to crawl in. She wraps herself instinctively around me like a moth to flame. I wonder whether it’s shameful to draw strength from her. Shameful or not, its not the last time I'll do it. My last coherent thought before sleep is how great of a mother she will turn out to be.

  Sophie doesn't question my presence in her bed when we wake up. We begin the moving process and I list as many pieces of furniture online as I am able. Buyers come and go over the next week until Sophie and I are left eating our meals at the bar in the kitchen and watching movies on lawn chairs in the living room. At the end of the day my mind spins with orders of furniture delivered to the new house in Portree, lists of what to bring to Scotland, endless forms for the move, and ever near drawing date of our departure. Drawn into the busyness of the move, Sophie and I collapse each night from sheer exhaustion. I do not dream at all.

  In the end, three weeks is a terribly short time. There isn't the time for all the goodbyes I want to say. I sit on one of our last remaining pieces of furniture, a worn out leather chair, that no one wanted, contemplating the falling snow. I sink farther into the soft cushion and curl my legs underneath me, feeling like a child as I do so. Before I realize what's happened, I start forward. Something in the snow catches my eye. A black speck hovers, airborne on the wind, the wind that tosses up great heaps of snow around on the air. It's a hawk, hungry, battling the elements. So desperate, in fact, its not cowed by a winter storm and so powerful, it can battle the winds, which buffet his feathery armor. Soon enough though, the hawk gives up on the area of land its hovering around and leaves in search of more luck elsewhere.

  I wonder where the bird finds the strength for his flight into a blizzard, whether it's drawn on by nature, by the threat of starvation. My mind wanders on, past the hawk, past the snowstorm, it hovers overhead looking down at the desolation. Not long ago I would have thought it base treachery to be able to survive this long without my husband. Yet here I stand. Alone in an empty house. Waiting to pick up my daughter from school. Moving. Leaving, like the hawk. Heartlessly abandoning any place devoid of sustenance. I turn from the window, convinced that I too am driven by something deeper, something primal.

  "I don't want to talk to them," Sophie says with both a scowl and terrified eyes.

  Such a strange combination lies on her face; I'm awed by how she's managed it. Only two days remain until we leave and have the unfortunate duty of a farewell party (mostly for everyone else's benefit). It's the third time Sophie's come into the kitchen in as many minutes since her grandparents have arrived early.

  "Sophie, its just your grandma and grandpa," I say opening the packs of paper plates and silverware and setting them next to the pizza, salad, and wine.

  "I don't want to talk," she repeats.

  A Flat out 'Don't argue with me on this one' tone. It sounds like something I'd say.

  "Why Sophie?" I say, abandoning my work, and kneeling down in front of her.

  "I don't like it when you leave."

  "Sophie, I'm not going anywhere," I say, rubbing her arm.

  She pulls herself into my embrace.

  "Ok..." she says.

  There's something else in her tone besides frustration. Fear perhaps.

  "Why don't you want to talk to your grandparents?" I say.

  "They were mean to you," she pouts.

  "Oh," I say, comprehension dawning.

  "Why were they mean?" Sophie says before I can rally my thoughts.

  "Well...um, I don't think they meant to be hurtful but they do love you an awful lot and when people are sad or upset sometimes they say or do things they don't mean. You get upset at me when I don't let you watch TV all day."

  "Because I like watching TV," Sophie says, matter-of-factly.

  "And your grandparents like you."

  "Can I stay with you?" she says.

  "Sure sweetheart," I say pulling her in tight.

  "Am I interrupting?" Hugh's mother appears in the kitchen entryway and Sophie moves back against my leg.

  "Not at all," I say.

  For the smallest space of a moment I wonder how much she heard. Her face is inscrutable, her hands are clasped like shackles, and her head is cocked to the side. I wonder if the angle affords her more clarity.

  "I don't want to be here," she says raising her head a little higher.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I don't want to be here. What you're doing is ridiculous. You're acting like a child who thinks running away will make problems disappear. The worst is, you are taking my granddaughter from everything and everyone she knows because you're too weak to stay," she seethes.

  My teeth ache long before I realize I've clamped down hard on my jaw. It comes out of her mouth in such a silky tone though her face is contorted with rage.

  "You can't talk to my Mommy that way. It isn't nice! You can't be mean to her," Sophie shrieks.

  It's out of her before I can move, before I can manage to marshal my thoughts.

  "Shh, Sophie. That's not polite," I say and gather her into my arms, patting her back, trying to pull her further into what protection I can offer.

  "I can't bear what you're doing," Hugh's mother says as she tosses the sugary tone aside.

  "I only ask one thing of you. One thing only: never speak this way in front of my daughter again. By all means confront me but don't you
ever talk that way in front of Sophie again," I say flatly.

  I brush past her, eager to leave the stifling judgments behind. The rest of the house is subdued. The injustice of her malediction rankles in my mind. An air of finality hangs about the gathering. Hugh's mother avoids my eye and all contact with others. She perches herself in the remotest corner of the house, determined not to join in any conversation.

  "Did you argue with her?" Maria asks bluntly, nodding over to my mother-in-law's haughty profile.

  Sophie readjusts her grip on my leg.

  "Well I'm not sure you could call it arguing. She called me a coward and said grief was a problem I'm not handling well," I say, piling plates into the trashcan.

  "Oh, is that all?"

  "That's about the gist of it.”

  "Some people have no grasp of consequences," she says laughing sardonically.

  "What do you mean?”

  Maria turns towards me, leaning in conspiratorially.

  "What does she think is going to happen? All the anger and resentment she pours out is some how going to convince you to stay? Or maybe you'll come to your senses through insults? No. The consequences for what she is doing are: you stop talking to her because it hurts you and Sophie stops talking to her grandma because she's angry you are hurt. In the end, Madame Know It All is left all alone."

  "Shame she couldn't just figure it out now.”

  "You know I expect weekly calls-at least," Maria says abruptly. "I promise, " I say, and mean it.

  "Well, better get back to the party or they'll know we've been gossiping."

  "Wouldn't that be terrible?"

  Maria smiles and loops her arm through mine, steering me back towards the guests while Sophie and I walk like entrants in a three legged race.

  I mingle but my mind remains on Maria's words, consequences for everything. If we could know these consequences before handwould we make the same choices? And what of the choice I am making right now? What lays before me, and am I willing to pay the price?

  In the midst of the party, I find myself staring at the barren walls of the house. They have been this way for over a week. Barren walls for a barren soul. Hugh's pictures and presence made this house a home just as much as his love made me bloom.