The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "If Daddy was here we'd make a toast," I say raising my glass of orange juice and look deep into her shining eyes, "To Sophie MacArthur, I've loved you from the first moment I saw you. I grow more proud of you every day and I raise my glass to you, my sixyear-old girl, for your bravery and your love. Happy Birthday, darling."

  Sophie and I clink our glasses together, the clear crystal sound echoing across the garden. Its not just Sophie's eyes which are shining. All of Skye seems to have trotted out the red carpet for her, the grass is more emerald than green and the ripples on the lake could be thousands of aquamarines. I sit watching Sophie and feel her happiness and bask in the warmth of this heavenly moment.

  "I'm going to tell everyone at school Mommy," Sophie says breathlessly, telling me for the fifth time how much fun the balloon drop was.

  I can't even think beyond my abundant joy. We smile and talk and laugh and smile some more. Our plates are long been wiped clean before Sophie's smiles at me in an expectant way.

  "Lets go get dressed. We have a busy day," I say herding Sophie through the front door, still in a haze of happiness.

  I clear the table and pick up the frame Sophie has left in her distraction. There's something taped on the back, thin and papery. Turning it over, there's a handwritten note in Sophie's young hand,

  To Daddy, It’s my birthday. I'm six today. You'd be proud of Mommy, she takes good care of me.

  I miss you,

  Sophie

  I touch the white paper and the puckered up tape. She must have done this before she even came into my room this morning.

  "Where are we going?" Sophie says a half hour later as we pull out of the driveway.

  "Its a secret."

  Sophie twirls her fingers in excitement, so elated she's temporarily lost the capacity for speech. It doesn't last long.

  "Mommy, did you know they cut all the hair off sheep to make wool?" Sophie bursts out as we make our way out of Portree and into the surrounding countryside.

  "The wool grows back, they shear the sheep every spring so they don't overheat in the summer and so they can harvest the wool. It's what your sweater is made of," I say and Sophie casts an appraising look at her cream cable knit sweater.

  "We should watch sometime, Mommy. My friend Andrew says..." Sophie begins, delving into a long story about Andrew MacLeod. It seems she's gathered quite a bit of information about sheep farming on Skye, even how much Andrew's mother and grandmother knit.

  She's still talking about the kids in her class when we pull into a parking lot in the northwest area of Skye.

  We stop at Dunevegan Castle where the MacLeod's have lived

  since the 11th century and Sophie begins to imagine herself as princess of the castle. For a half hour she floats over the grass, swishing the skirts of an imaginary dress, before we continue our drive. I pull into a small parking lot, less than twenty spaces, at the very edge of the island, Neist Point. Looking westward one can see towering cliffs, which look as though they have been caught in the midst of falling into the sea. Far-flung fields lie as far as the eye can see, covered with green grass. Sunlight glints off the water, off the blades of grass, in such force that when I look at Sophie she seems more angel than girl.

  "Its the ocean!" Sophie says, dreamily starting across the grey sea. Her arms hang limp at her sides as though she's melting being in such proximity to such an expanse.

  "Do you like it?"

  "Yes." Sophie says, as walks off as though pulled forward by the call of the crashing waves.

  I call her back to the car and open the trunk.

  "I need your help with this," I say heaving a laden wicker picnic basket from the trunk.

  We trek down the sweeping field and nestle into a small depression overlooking the cliffs. The air is clean, full of the perfume of the heather blossoming on the surrounding countryside. All around us spring sings. A clear blue sky, grass which isn't really grass but a soft supple emerald velvet, and the sounds of birds calling back and forth in glee.

  Sophie plunges into the picnic basket with both hands and squeals as she pulls out all of her favorite food. A sweet smelling cherry pie that's still warm, numerous types of cheese, a stock of crackers, grapes, hearty slices of turkey, chocolate chip cookies, and a still frozen tub of vanilla bean ice cream. She gives another delighted squeal, rubbing her hands together with anticipation.

  "Thanks Mommy!" she says, filling up a plate.

  "We even have sparkling apple juice to celebrate," I say pulling out the champagne-like bottle from the basket with a flourish.

  Sophie beams with pride, clapping in earnest. We sit and listen to the waves and after a while Sophie lapses into silence, her hands wrapped around her knees gazing out to the sea. Content.

  "I have a gift for you," I say and pull out a package from my purse with a flourish, "Happy Birthday, Sophie."

  The package I hold out to her is wrapped in a pale silvery paper and finished off with a dark sparkling pink bow and ribbon. I place it in her hands. Sophie rips off the paper, inside lies a leather bound book with ivory pages.

  "What is it, Mommy?" She asks running her thin fingers over the smooth leather.

  "Read the first page."

  And so she does, haltingly at first, sounding out the words, and then as though a switch was turned on, she starts crying.

  "Memories of Daddy..." she breathes through her tears.

  I watch her bottom lip tremble and her chest heave with emotion and for one terrible moment I'm afraid I've gotten it all wrong. "Do you..."

  I want to ask if it was all right, I want to apologize for not buying her toys and clothes and dolls. Before I can even blink Sophie launches herself across the blanket and into my lap with her arms clasped around my neck.

  "Thank you," she says into my ear.

  She settles against my side and cradles the book in her lap, letting her fingers trace over the gold filigree work on the cover.

  "Its everything I could think of. I've been writing in it for a couple weeks. Remember when you told me sometimes you forgot Daddy? This is to help you. A piece of him with you, wherever you go."

  "Would he be proud of me, Mommy?"

  It’s a supplication, a plea for validation.

  "He will always be proud. Always," I say, drawing her close to me, settling her head against my chest and wrapping her in my arms.

  After a few minutes, Sophie recovers enough to eat cherry pie and cookies with relish.

  "Let's give the rest to Mr Ian," Sophie says when we replace the much lighter basket in the back of the car.

  I nod and watch her take off through the grass, running parallel with the cliffs. The plaid scarf wrapped around her neck trails in her slipstream, with her blonde curls bouncing ferociously she looks as though she belongs on these hills, a little Scottish shepherdess.

  We play tag and practice throwing stones from the cliff faces into the surf below. Its the first of May, the tide of holiday-goers and tourists isn't far away, but the locals are out in force, taking in as much of the good weather as possible. While I twirl Sophie, feeling her fingers twist around my own, so much more seems possible for us. Sophie could be happy again, she could blossom, and I, I would be happy just to watch. Just to have a portion of her world and to share in the beauty of her life.

  There isn't pain here. We exist outside of Hugh's death, out of Ian Campbell's tortured past, out of Wexford's investigation, outside of the faceless man. For this one moment, we are free.

  "Where's Mr Ian's shop?" Sophie asks, an hour later, as we reenter Portree, parking near the inlet.

  "He said it was down here somewhere." I say and unloads the pie

  herself, carrying it as though it were the crown jewels.

  We walk for a few minutes, the smell of fish growing stronger

  with every step.

  "There it is, Mommy!" Sophie says, jumping up and down,

  pointing to a large 'Campbell's Fishing' sign hung over a white

  wash
ed building with a corrugated metal roof.

  "Can I help ye?" a large, muscle bound, red headed fisherman

  says in rough Scottish brogue as we near the building.

  "We're looking for Ian Campbell."

  The fisherman takes a long look at me with a wary eye, twisting a

  long piece of line in his hands, taking note of my American accent. "Aye, I'll fetch 'im," he says and glides off into the depths of the

  warehouse.

  I'm held in thrall by the grace with which this hulk of a man

  moves, its as though he's performing a ballet. Sophie looks

  everywhere she can, taking it all in. In the six months we've lived in

  Portree we haven't had the chance to make it to the docks. The burly fisherman returns with Ian Campbell striding in his wake. There's a

  wide smile on his face and he walks with a bounce in his step. "Emmeline! Sophie! This is a surprise. How are you?" he says

  and shakes both our hands with gusto.

  "It is my birthday and Mommy took me on a picnic to Nest

  Point."

  "Neist," I hiss.

  "Neist Point. We had leftover cherry pie. Its for you," Sophie says

  holding out the glass pie pan as though she's taking part in an

  investiture ceremony.

  "That was very kind of you," Ian says graciously accepting the

  plate, "And no, Murray, there'll be none for you," he says to the

  fisherman at his elbow.

  Sophie takes off down through the corridors of the warehouse

  looking in barrels, skirting fish entrails splattered on the floor. I

  watch her go. She plugs her nose as she passes deeper into the

  building.

  "Thank you for the pie, it was kind," Ian says, laying a hand on

  mine, which is resting on the counter.

  "It was Sophie's idea. We could never finish it all," I say,

  removing my hand on the pretense of shifting stray hairs from my

  face.

  "She's a wonderful girl."

  "Yes she is."

  We are silent for a long while, watching Sophie milling about the

  fish and smiling at the other fisherman.

  "I'd like to ask you something..." Ian says slowly, his eyes skirting

  between the on looking employees and me, "...I know it hasn't been long but...if you'd be willing...I'd like to take you out on a date," he

  asks haltingly, his accent growing broader by the syllable. I'm struck dumb and then realize why he was so happy to see us. "Ian..." I begin, unsure of my words, "I'm sorry if I gave you the

  wrong impression. I just can't. There's no room in my life for another

  man. It would be unfair to Sophie, to you, and to me."

  "I understand," Ian says in a flat voice, not looking at me. "Ian, I value your friendship. But I can't date you. You still grieve

  for a woman you've lost and I still want the man I've lost. I couldn't

  use you to fill his void."

  "You're right. Its easy to forget when a beautiful woman comes

  calling."

  "Can we still be friends? Is that too cliché?" I say looking into his

  sea grey eyes.

  "Aye," he says sadly but pats my hand all the same.

  I move to go to Sophie but he holds me back.

  "I'll not make the mistake my Da did. I'll wait. If the times comes

  when you want me, I'll be here."

  I am at a loss to do more than smile faintly before I pull away,

  calling to Sophie that its time to go. I catch a glimpse of Ian's face as

  we leave the warehouse; misery resides there once more. No sooner do we reach our threshold than the phone starts to ring

  and I hand it over to Sophie. Her laughter fills the house as she chats

  away to her grandparents, telling them every minute detail of her day.

  She coughs a little and then resumes laughing with equal fervor. I can

  hear my father's jokes ringing through the phone as Sophie wanders

  the house. Somewhere between washing the dishes and putting

  leftover food away my thoughts turn towards Hugh and Ian. It’s the first time I've ever thought of them at the same time. Ian, for all of his attractiveness and kindness towards Sophie and I, is still a man with a large amount of emotional baggage. And if I were honest with myself, so am I.

  Sophie lives in eager anticipation of the end of the school year as June inches along. The population of Portree swells as seasonal residents flock back to their condos and apartments in droves. The museum is a mecca of sorts for the tourists who spend hours going from room to room, gazing tenderly at the artifacts.

  We are met with a slight hiccup less than 48 hours after school ends. Strep throat. Sophie wakes up one morning complaining of a sore throat. I wait out the day, hoping it’s just a cold, but she develops a fever and has difficulty swallowing.

  "Its strep throat, alright," the elderly male GP says, coming back with Sophie's throat culture.

  "What do we do for it?" I ask, making sure to articulate every word.

  Hearing aids poke out slightly from each ear along with mounds of fluffy white hair.

  "Oh antibiotics, dear! You can pick them up at the chemist," he says cheerily, finishing off a prescription with a flourish. "Be sure to finish the dose!" he says as we are ushered down the wallpapered hallway and out into the lobby.

  A twenty-something secretary sits chewing gum with a wide-open mouth, lips smacking. She doesn't even pretend to work as the elderly doctor hands back Sophie's notes.

  "The chemist?" Sophie says, bewildered.

  "The pharmacy," I say as we take a short walk towards the bottleladen windows of Portree's chemist.

  We are once again told to make sure to finish the dose. I smile and take the pills from the middle-aged woman. She prattles on about the kids catching everything from each other at school. I nod politely and we take our leave as soon as possible.

  "When are Grandma and Grandpa MacArthur coming?" Sophie says two days after our visit to the doctor, already feeling much better after starting the antibiotics.

  We are sitting on the rock shore of the loch, not a hundred feet from our front door, dangling our toes in the water. The hems of our jeans are rolled up past our knees as we lounge in the weak sunlight that's filtering through the clouds.

  "In a week."

  "They're a lot late for my birthday," Sophie says, picking up a rock and tossing it into the water.

  "Grandma wanted to come when it was warmer and when you were out of school."

  "Are they staying with us?"

  "They are staying at a bed and breakfast in town, but you'll see them every day."

  "Oh," Sophie says, gathering up a fistful of rocks and throwing them pell mell into the loch.

  I look over at her as she bounces up and picks her way over the rocks, dancing like a gymnast in the middle of a floor routine. My stomach churns with the thought of my in-laws in town for over a week. The sole communication I've had with them is a short email informing me that they'd be in Scotland the first week of July, all the while complaining about the cost of tickets to Scotland during the summer. There was no hint of an apology or short-term reconciliation. Nothing acknowledging the strife that hangs over us. The week speeds by us in an alarming fashion as though it was hastened by the stress itself.

  "Mommy!" Sophie calls from the kitchen, on the day of their arrival, where she's sitting surrounded by crayons and paper, "Your phone's ringing."

  I run out from the bathroom, droplets of water splattering on the floor from my dripping hands.

  "Hello?"

  "Emmeline, its your mother-in-law," a formal voice issues from the other end of the line.

  "Hi! How was your flight?"

  "As tolerable as economy can be," she says dourly with a heavy put-upon sigh. "I'm visiting some shops before we leave. Don't expect us for
dinner."

  "Oh...alright..."

  "We will go straight to the hotel."

  "Ok..." I say and it's all I can get out before the line goes dead.

  "Are they coming?" Sophie says from her spot at the table.

  "We'll see them tomorrow."

  "Oh good. My friend Andrew and his Mom invited us to go for ice cream," Sophie says, thrilled.

  "When did this happen?"

  "Can we go?" Sophie pleads.

  In the end I relent and we walk into town. It is a perfect summer afternoon, a clear blue sky and chirruping birds, the harsh winter has been forgotten. Tourists mill about everywhere but we, without cameras or heavy backpacks, blend in like locals. Sophie gallivants among them all. I watch as she tugs Andrew through the crowds, as they throw their heads back in laughter and when Sophie bats her eyes and receives a free ice cream from a stall owner. Hours later when we end up at the beach, Andrew and Sophie erecting a magnificent sand castle, I catch her eye. She stares at me for a moment, silhouetted against the setting sun. I nod at her and she nods back at me and in the shortest space of a moment we become something different. Something better.

  We are sitting down for breakfast the next morning when the doorbell rings. The hall clock chimes seven; Sophie and I are still in our pajamas. We look at each other for a moment before Sophie bursts out, "Maybe its Mr Ian."

  I open the door to my in-laws.

  "Oh...good morning," I say, nervously flattening my hair and pulling my long grey sweater tighter around me.

  "Now where is our granddaughter?" my father-in-law booms out, bursting through the entryway and into living room beyond.

  "Eating..." I say, "...I'm sorry we weren't expecting you for breakfast. Neither of us is dressed."

  "Well we aren't here to see you," my mother-in-law quips.

  I motion them into the kitchen where Sophie dutifully endows them with hugs and kisses and I excuse myself upstairs. I shower with indecent haste, rushing through my normal morning routine.

  "We'd like to take Sophie to Loch Ness for the day," comes a sharp voice from behind me.

  I turn around, incensed. Standing in my bathroom, looking down her pointed nose at me is my mother-in-law. Only a white towel protects my body from her judgmental eyes.

  "Uh...what?" I say clutching at the thick cotton.

  "We'd like to take Sophie to Loch Ness for the day," she repeats, keeping her eyes trained on me.