The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  In the end, many tears are shed with the last goodbyes. I am unfeeling at the sight of their tears, I long to leave behind the pitying glances. Maria doesn't cry it isn't her way. She holds me and smiles and in her smile there's a flicker of sorrow but its gone in the next blink. The door clicks softly shut and the house is once again silent.

  We're shut away in this empty house the following day, finalizing the shipping of boxes, making trips to the different charities across town, and packing the rest. It’s always that way with a move, the last minute scramble to pack bits and pieces that seemingly appear out of nowhere. It's a tedious day and at the end of it, I collapse into my bed eager for the mental release of sleep. Finally I've worn my body out enough to take comfort in the night. I dream. Dreams of flocks of birds and a conversation with Hugh about whether Sophie should wear shorts or pants to school in November, and a never ending pile of boxes. Its five am when I wake both relieved to leave behind the nonsensical dreams and wishing I could go back to sleep.

  I stumble over to the bathroom and take a look at the damage in the mirror. The dull skin and bags of three months ago have deepened with time. If I was honest with myself, I would concede, I do care. Grief has taken away so much of my energy, I've forgotten myself. With another glance in the mirror I think of Sophie and decide to make an effort for her. After all, its nothing a visit to a salon, a good moisturizer, and exfoliation couldn't remedy. It'll be the problem with my heart that's harder to fix.

  "You look nice," my mother says upon entering the house two hours later.

  I look askance at her, detecting the slight tone of surprise.

  "Thanks..."

  The sun hasn't risen yet but the darkness is starting to thin.

  "Did you rest?"

  "Sure," I say, tensing automatically.

  The lie is not lost on her. She chomps down on her bottom lip, biting back a concerned reply.

  "Just how many bags do you need?" my father says coming to a dead halt in front of the mound of luggage awaiting transport to the car.

  "I'm moving to another continent."

  "These won't all fit in the car! You should have told me to bring the truck, Woman," he says glaring at my mother.

  "Then go get it, if you're so worried."

  She moves to the kitchen without so much as a backward glance at her husband.

  "We don't have time," he says, grumbling as heaves the bags towards the door.

  "That man," I say, glancing at my mother as she fills her water bottle at the sink.

  "Its his way of handling stress. The more gruff, the more he's feeling the pain."

  It’s been remarkable how much of a stalwart she's been since Sophie and I returned from our first trip. Since the day at the airport she's been nothing but supportive and helpful.

  "And how do you handle stress?" I ask.

  Her face flushes but she holds my gaze.

  "I rage and storm a little bit and then I settle down to the work."

  I notice her fingers shift as though she's trying not to reach out and grasp me in her arms.

  "Must run in the family."

  "You're going to be fine. We'll be there soon," she says.

  I'm worried about meeting her eyes, about the rush of emotion, and the pain I'm causing her.

  "I'll try and have the house all settled by then."

  I don't say what I really mean. I don't say how I'll try to survive the next month alone, to have some semblance of normalcy and routine when they come. She purses her lips and shakes her head.

  "Explore your new home. Get settled when you feel like it."

  "I'll miss you Mom...I'm sorry for all of it...for the pain, for leaving..."

  She puts up a hand, silencing me.

  "You're not doing anything wrong. You're my daughter and I love you but you're also a mother and you have to do what's best for your child. Sometimes we have to forget ourselves and let them go," she says and lifts a hand to brush my cheek.

  It is such an intimate gesture. A deep longing springs up inside of me, a longing to be held, to be able to forget, to feel at peace in another's comforting arms.

  "Well they're in, but just barely. Emmeline you'd better not have any more bags or they're going on your lap," my father shouts.

  The front door slams and the moment is gone.

  "Are we ready?" Sophie says from the hallway.

  Her little head peeking out around the corner.

  "Oh aye my wee lassie," he says beaming with pride at his granddaughter with his best imitation of Scottish brogue.

  She gives him a hesitant smile but doesn't approach him. Whether from the upheaval of the last few weeks or the nervousness of moving Sophie outright avoids being touched by other people. I read the silent terror in her eyes and rush forward.

  "Let's make sure you have everything Sophie," I say, leading her down the hallway to her room.

  She's quiet. The room is immaculate...immaculate and bare. The flood of memories is almost unbearable in this room. Painting the walls with Hugh, bringing Sophie home from the hospital, her first night in a bed, and all those hundreds of nights of Hugh reading bedtime stories. I swallow down a chocking sob.

  "Let's go, Mommy."

  She stares at the walls too, at the holes where Hugh's paintings used to hang. She pulls on my sleeve but I remain immobile. I'm not sure whether leaving is an act of courage or stupidity because at this moment it’s feeling a lot more like abandonment.

  In the end, we do leave and it isn't with fan fare or a flood of tears. We leave much the same way we left three months ago, on our way with Hugh to Denver. We turn out back to the past. While my father carries on the conversation as though we will only be gone for the weekend and my mother, remains silent.

  The goodbye at the airport is brief. We are all on the verge of tears and my father isn't a man who can stomach the outpourings of female emotions. The longer I stand in front of them the younger I feel, even though my own daughter grasps my hand. Sophie doesn't speak, doesn't bring attention to herself, but walks by my side-hand curled around my own.

  "How far away is Christmas?" Sophie asks. We are sitting at a small table in front of Starbucks. My hands are wrapped around a lukewarm coffee and she's picking at a breakfast sandwich.

  "Twenty four more days."

  "I didn't talk to Grandma and Grandpa," she says.

  She stares out over the parking lot, a frown creasing her forehead. Its alright, I'm sure they forgive you."

  "I talk to Daddy."

  I almost drop my coffee.

  "Oh?" I say clearing my throat and pretending not to be worried. "I hold his picture and talk to him and tell him about school and

  about you and about moving," she says pulling a 4x6 frame from her backpack and cradles it lovingly in her arms.

  "Does it help?"

  Hugh's smile is so broad, so deep, even his eyes shine from behind the fingerprinted glass.

  "Yes."

  I look up to study her face. Her eyes don't sparkle anymore, but when she talks about Hugh I can see the heavy cloak of pain leave her. Even if its just for a moment, in an airport coffee shop.

  "I talk to him too," I say.

  Its true, in its own way. At night when there's no one around and I whisper into the dark as I try to conjure his presence. Sophie smiles at me, there's something in her gaze-an understanding perhaps, but before I can study her more she drops her head to finish off the sandwich. Then she stares out at the crowds of people rushing to their gates, in thrall to the hustle and bustle around her. She's enamored by it all, how through all the chaos and thousands of people going through the airport, they all still manage to come to their destination.

  I am thoroughly worn out by the time we board our British Airways flight in DC. There aren't enough stickers or books or toys in the world to contain the ball of energy I am mother to. Grief and loss may make Sophie quiet at times but she's still a child, still rambunctious, still bored, and still five. An hour into the flig
ht I'm sure I've made the wrong decision and am fervently praying for dry land.

  As with all trials, it passes, and Sophie lies down on my lap, exhausted. As soon as she settles down, I regret those fleeting wishes for a tranquilizer. She looks like an angel in my lap illuminated by the small lights above our seats and the setting sun in the distance. While she sleeps I imagine a child who is whole, someone without the scars of pain. The cabin darkens as fellow travelers shut their windows and slump in their cramped economy seats, trying to eke out a precious few hours of sleep. I recoil from sleep, from the nightmares, which haunt my nights. There is no rest, no safety in slumber, not for me. I hate staring at his face, or rather the lack of it. I am pulled back, every night, into the nightmare of my loss.

  Our second arrival in Scotland is rather the same as the first. Sophie stumbles zombie-like after me as we wend our way through the empty airport halls. After spending the night in Edinburgh we take a taxi to buy a car, a blue Mini Cooper, and then start the fivehour drive to Skye. As I pack the bags into the back I imagine my father's reaction, bent double with laughter, watching me play tetris with our luggage. Failing to learn how to drive a car from the right side seems like a rather large oversight on my part. The salesman at the dealership seems to think so as well. In the end, after jumping a couple of curbs, I make it out of Edinburgh.

  "Are we seeing the new house today, Mommy?" Sophie says, unable to tear her gaze from the scenery soaring by.

  The sky is a dull grey but there's no fog to speak of. We can see for miles around. The clouds start to gather and darken. As we approach the bridge the skies darken even further, with clouds heavy with unspent snow.

  "Yes we are. I have to get the keys and then we will go home and set up our beds?"

  "And Daddy's pictures."

  "They should be at the house, we will put them up just as soon as we've decided where all the furniture will go."

  "Can I help, Mommy?"

  "Absolutely. I couldn't do it without you," I say, smiling.

  She desperately wants to be of use. Her heart and head and fingers ache to help, to work.

  "Are we going to go see the castle we saw with Grandpa?" Sophie says.

  "Not today, too much to do. How about in a couple days when we've got the house settled?"

  "Well...ok," she says, begrudgingly.

  I smile again. As torturous as the flight was for the both of us, the new day has returned Sophie to her normal self. She's just as reserved as she's been since Hugh's death but there's also new lightness in her voice. I am the problem. Here we are alone, devoid of support and the comfort of knowing that help is available if I want it. I don't feel the peace I had imagined. If anything, I'm even wearier.

  Our real estate agent hands over the keys to our new home with little ceremony.

  "You had a rather large furniture delivery the day before yesterday. I signed for it, of course, but if there's anything missing, here's the number they gave to call," Anna says, she's still stiff backed but her eyes could almost be described as empathetic.

  "Thank you,” I say and move to leave the office.

  "Oh, Mrs MacArthur!" I turn back and she begins again, "I hope you find what you're looking for. And if I may say, I hope you find a home on Skye."

  Her face is heavily caked with makeup and her lips are a garish shade of pink but her eyes are kind and her tone sincere.

  "Thank you," I say again and leave before I burst into tears.

  A final five minute drive brings us to the sloping drive that ends at the sea and the white house, which stands beside it. After two days of travel with many tears shed on both our parts, we've finally arrived at the end of the road. A light dusting of snow covers the yard, a day or two old, but the house is much the same as we left it. The garage is quite another matter. Our thirty odd boxes, packed up at the old house, have been delivered and placed in the garage. Inside the front room only a small strip of hardwood floor is visible. I stop in my tracks at the sight of it. Sophie topples into me.

  "Which one's my bed?" Sophie says inching around me and starting to look at the photos on the boxes.

  I'm asking myself much the same question and taking a quick inventory of what's in front of me I decide to head upstairs.

  "Oooh look Mommy! This one's my room," Sophie says and makes a break for the first door off of the landing.

  The whole house was painted white after the sale. Its pure, untainted by our loss, as if anything were possible here. I touch the wooden railing of the staircase and feel the silk smoothness of the wood, worn down over the decades by many hands. I find it comforting, as if the house itself were breathing, welcoming us, encouraging friendship.

  "And here's your bed," I say with a sigh of relief, after gathering my senses and trudging after Sophie.

  Her room is filled with boxes, the brown cardboard dull against the bright white walls. At the end of the hall I open the dark wooden door to my own room. The bed, mattress, nightstands, and vanity have all been deposited. I close the door again, not wanting to see the room, to be alone in it.

  "Let's set it up!"

  "First we need to unload the car," I say, poking my head into her room.

  She's already spread out on the floor, taking stock of the boxes and I find little sympathy for my plan. Sophie does consent to follow me out into the garage and takes her small manageable bags up to her room. I've always been strong but after lugging two fifty-pound suitcases through the house and up the stairs I'm sweating profusely. The sight of so much cardboard and chaos in the living room is overwhelming. Moving before had always been such an adventure; Hugh and I would spend a day unpacking and then settle down to pizza and wine. There were two of us, two to share the load, the chaos, and stress. There were warm arms at the end of a long day's work to lose oneself in. The garage is cold and clammy even through my thick wool sweater and corduroy pants.

  "What have I done?" I whisper into the conquering dark.

  I've come to another country, for what? To follow Hugh's dream? A dream, which feels more and more insane. I collapse onto the concrete floor, the cold seeping like ice through the fabric of my clothes. I'm not sure when the tears come but they rack my body with convulsions so harsh, I forget who I am. I forget my daughter and the argument with my in laws and the pain of standing in the dark by a black casket bearing my husband. I forget the faceless man who haunts my dreams.

  Reality is the sound of my misery, of my grief, of my pain. Pain ripping me apart from the inside out, clawing away at my heart, changing the entire fabric of who I am. The arms I've wrapped around myself aren't strong enough to fight the forces pulling me apart. I am alone and there's no knight in shining armor to save me from my grief.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After the pain subsides in the half-light of the garage, I look up and my eyes alight on a shape on the floor. Beside the car is Sophie's owl. A beat up little thing, well loved. I'm not sure what propels me through the door, but I feel myself rise and scoop up the owl. Sophie's right where I left her. Ensconced in her room. She's already hung up her clothes and proceeds to take the pieces of her bed out from their cardboard packaging and laying them delicately on the hardwood floor. I smile at her from the doorway, smiling at her tiny little body struggling to lift the pieces. The picture of Hugh she carries everywhere is set lovingly on the windowsill overlooking the loch. She smiles up at me and resumes the unpacking. I slouch against the door, spent. There's no energy left to bother with being overwhelmed. For tonight it'll be beds, dinner, and showers.

  Sophie and I trek back downstairs in search of tools. I labeled every box before it was shipped from Colorado but it seems to have done little good. When we find the toolbox at long last, I am dripping with sweat from heaving the boxes to and fro. We are halfway up the stairs when the doorbell rings. My legs seem to quake with frustration.

  "Who's that?" Sophie says, craning her head around towards the door.

  "I'm not sure...here take these tools, Sophie, and
I'll meet you in your room."

  The door looms in front of me and I seized with fear. All alone in this house...but I open the door anyways, taking hold of the brass knob with sudden force.

  "Mrs MacArthur?"

  In the doorway stands a tall man with dark wavy hair, a weather beaten face, and a low gravely voice.

  His eyes are a pale blue and in the light from the house. He looks like a marauding Viking raider.

  "Yes?" I say, aware my face is shining with sweat and my hair is in tatters.

  "I'm Ian. I live down the way," he says, jerking his head to the left motioning down the road, "These were delivered by accident to my home. I think the driver was confused about the address."

  In his hands are a large pizza box and a bottle of wine.

  "I didn't order anything," I say, feeling more than nervous about opening the door.

  "Oh, ah...here 'tis." Ian says and reaches into his pocket for a piece of folded paper.

  Emmeline,

  Do you know how hard it is to find a pizza place in Portree that'll deliver?Your mom reminded me you’d be hungry. Enjoy the pizza and wine.

  Dad.

  "Was it funny?" Ian's deep voice rumbles out. The smile slides from my face.

  "Oh no, just sweet," I say, ogling the ten-year-old ChateauNeuf Du-Pape merlot.

  "Ah, from Mr MacArthur?" He says with a kind expectant smile.

  There's no warning, my throat constricts like a vice and my palms begin to sweat. I look up at the man standing on my threshold. He doesn't seem dangerous. If anything he seems sad, a strange pain lurks behind his eyes.

  "No. My father. We just moved in."

  "Ah well, Ceud Mile Failte, Mrs MacArthur."

  I stare blankly at him and he grins back.

  "Its Gaelic, a hundred thousand welcomes," he says with a small smile.

  I take a more complete look at my new neighbor. His skin isn't so much brown but slightly darker than the normal pale Scottish skin. Freckled skin, a heavy wool sweater, and the smell of the sea coming from him, I hazard a guess at fisherman.