Fifteen minutes later Ian Campbell follows Sophie and her grandmother into the kitchen where I've set plates. We make great pains to avoid eye contact. Hugh's father bombards Ian with questions about the fishing business and much of lunch is spent discussing weather, boats, and the quality of Skye's oysters.
"He seems like a nice young man," my mother-in-law says as we clean up after lunch and Ian's gone home.
"Yes he is.”
"Its a shame about his wife."
"Which one?" I say, having told her the story of Ian Campbell's marriages.
"Both."
"Yes it is a sad story."
The dishes are almost finished and Sophie cavorts around the lawn with her grandfather.
"You need to promise me something," she says, turning me to face her.
"Yes?"
"Don't ever let her forget Hugh." She says as a raging fire burns behind the dull brown eyes.
"I couldn't.
"Please come stay with us your last couple of nights. Sophie would love to have you here."
"Thank you."
It is a nice normal, simple phrase, but is infused with meaning. There's gratitude and happiness in her voice but also relief. Beyond the window, clouds billow on the horizon, a great churning mass of grey. I can smell the rain long before it comes.
Sophie comes in a while later thoroughly exhausted. She traipses off with her grandmother upstairs, their laughter echoing off the stairs. I'm standing the sink when I see Hugh's father, slouched against the massive oak, which sits on the edge of the loch. He doesn't look like the man I last saw in Colorado; he's hunched over, the pride and dignity of his own self worth no longer holding up his head. I feel pulled towards the pain and the suffering, as if they were calling out-begging for my help. When I reach him he doesn't turn around. He's immobile, glazed eyes staring at the shifting waves of the loch.
"It's beautiful isn't it?" I say lowering myself down onto the white metal chair of the tea table.
When he doesn't respond I stare out at the loch as well. The water is special here, the colors shift and ebb, its almost as if the magic of Scotland, the fairies and little people, were contained in the waves.
"He hated me," he says, speaking into the silence.
It’s not the voice I remember. It cracks and is thrown out of pitch, as if he had never spoken before. I take a deep, shuddering breath, and then casting prudence to the wind...I take the plunge.
"He didn't hate you...all he wanted was for you to open up your eyes and see who he was. Not who you wanted him to be. To stop using him."
Hugh's father just stares out to the loch.
"When he was little, he wanted to go everywhere I went. He wanted to be me. One day I remember the most, he wanted to go to the grocery store with me, and his mother needed some last minute items for dinner. Hugh was dressed up in one of my suits; he couldn't have been more than six, wearing a poorly tied tie and too large loafers. His face shone with pride...and I remember standing there, fuming about the demands of my wife and my boss, and I spat at him and said he looked ridiculous and under no circumstances could he leave the house looking like a bum.
“I'll never forget how his smile slid off his face and in a moment his eyes swelled with a hundred tears. I regretted it the moment I said it. But I let it go...I didn't apologize to him. I watched him run away from me and heard his door slam and I turned and walked out of the house. Anyways, there you have it. It's what I did to him, his entire life. Never let him be who he was and never stopped to take a good hard look at myself. After all, it was my suit he was wearing," he says, heaving a sigh.
Hugh never told me the story, never mentioned where it had all started with his father, how the gaping divide between the two of them came into existence.
"I never knew," I say, not daring to look over at him.
I can imagine Hugh's pain and wonder whether now if his father's pain is even greater.
"I wondered sometimes whether he remembered it himself. Not that it matters. I remember and so I must bear the guilt," he says and lifts a hand, speckled with age spots to run through his wiry salt-andpepper hair.
His face has collapsed into sorrow. Like a wilted flower long bereft of water.
"You were right," he bursts out, his voice filling with anger, "the night in Denver. I never did deserve my son and I'd never 'had' Hugh to begin with. I'd lost him long ago."
"I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. It was disrespectful," I say, mumbling into my lap.
I hear the rocks shift and clink against each other and raise my head to see him sitting in the chair across from me. His face softens for a moment and there's a small smile behind his tortured eyes. There are soft raindrops clinks against metal roofs from across the loch. We will soon be drenched in a summer rain.
"You were right to do so. I don't remember the last time someone spoke to me that way. I didn't move for hours after you left. Grief loosens our tongues, takes away our inhibitions, our societal constraints. Whatever you wish to call it. It makes us honest, if for a moment, and wakes us up. The world is much more fleeting after death and much more bland."
I've never heard him speak so much in one sitting, not about anything more than politics.
"I wonder why..."
I do wonder. I wonder why I didn't care for so long what others thought, what toes I stepped on, what I said.
"No one can say anything. For a moment in time, you are free. Not from pain or heartbreak, but from other people. But you're not free from yourself. Every regret, every moment wasted, every word left unspoken...its what haunts you and tears you apart from the inside, out."
"Do you regret it?"
I can barely hear myself over the pitter-pattering of the rain creeping its way across the loch.
"I regret everything," he says, hands twisting themselves around and around in his lap.
I can't stop watching them. His face turns back to the water; he's shrouded in the shade from the oak but a sliver of light glints off his face where a tear might be falling. I drop my own gaze, now looking at the sharp blades of grass poking up around the legs of the table. Among them is a small dandelion, hugging close to the ground, but its tiny petals gleam in the last rays of sun. I wonder how Sophie has missed this one. I lean down to brush the petals, feeling their softness against my fingers, delicate, like a whisper against the skin.
"I've destroyed so much yearning for something so fleeting. It has all turned to ash; it tastes like dust in my mouth. I drove my son away, my son who thought I cared more about my own aspirations than I did for him. What a life...what a legacy," he says heavily.
"I know. Now. For whatever its worth."
We've only looked at the loch during out conversation, but he looks at me now with fierce eyes and a chest heaving with emotion.
"Do you forgive me?" he pleads, sounding much more like a child than an aging man.
"I do," I say and lay my hand on his.
I wonder whom I was speaking for, who I accepted the apology for. The first droplets of rain to hit us are warm. I close my eyes; lean my head back, and breathe in the storm, the clear summer air, and the rain upon it. For months I have felt as though I were half buried in the ground, living a stunted life. But now, now I feel reunited to lifeto a heart that doesn't weigh as heavily in my chest.
I open my eyes to watch Hugh's father bend over to pick up a small stone from the beach and fling it out into the loch where it plunks into the water with a splash. I leave him there, silhouetted against the loch, his clothes getting more drenched by the moment. I feel spent, poured out. But calm, and a fraction more at peace. At the doorway I pause, listening to Sophie's laughter which echoing around upstairs. I look back at the dandelion by the little tea table, at the faint bit of yellow between the curtains of rain. I smile.
"We'll come back as soon as we can, Sophie," Hugh's mother says, she holds onto Sophie's hands tightly.
It wasn't as easy as a switch being flipped but we have a
ll, in our own ways, made peace with each other. I hug them both and find their embraces comforting. It’s an unexpected gift at the end of their time here, to part as friends.
"How about September," Sophie wheedles.
The temperature in the room might have dropped ten degrees. In all the time they've been here, I hadn't even thought about the anniversary or to the murder investigation.
"We'll see what happens," she says, pulling Sophie in close.
"Call us when you can," I say.
"Much more than we have been," she says rising to meet me, grasping my hands. "I want you to be happy. Do what you need to do."
"Ok."
She deserves to believe that I will be able to function; just for the small piece of mind it will give her.
They leave without ceremony; I spare a last quick hug for Hugh's father before he takes the wheel. Sophie and I are left, standing in the driveway, watching them go. Sophie heads straight to her room, even more tired than usual.
In the quiet of Sophie's room that night, I listen to the sound of her breathing. It’s strange to have the house quiet, again, and even more strange we've become accustomed to life being the two of us inhabiting the cottage. At times I can't even remember what it was like to have a husband, to have help parenting, or even what it felt like to be held in a tight embrace.
The next few days at the museum are hectic. Tourists have flooded into Skye and our normally quiet town is now a seething mass of smart phone wielding tourists and loud children. Sophie comes a couple days with me before begging to be able to spend the day with friends.
The dawn of our trip across the loch is grey and frosty. We get up before the sun rises, or at least attempt to. Waking Sophie and getting her clothed is like trying to dress a fifty-pound sack of flour. Her extremities are completely limp and when we reach the living room, she collapses on the sofa and starts to snore.
"Is Sophie up then?" Ian says, rubbing his hands together, as I let him through the front door.
"She was a few minutes ago," I say motioning towards the couch as I grab the heavy backpack from the kitchen table.
Ian goes to the couch and scoops Sophie up in his arms. Its strange, she should be full of energy-early as it is.
"Are you ready?" Ian says, pausing in the doorway, drawing me out of my reverie.
"I think so," I say, surveying the kitchen and living room for items I might have missed.
"I have food, water, and extra coats. We should be fine," he says, opening the door to an old blue Toyota truck.
Within minutes we arrive at the abandoned harbor and Sophie begins to show signs of life. I miss having coffee shops so close at hand at they are in the United States, early mornings such as this are the exact reason I am no fisherwoman.
"Shall we?" Ian says, after we are taken out to the boat.
Sophie and I climb aboard clumsily but eventually find our feet on the deck of the boat. I look out over the harbor to the colorful pastel houses, which line the harbor.
"Let's hope we don't get sea sick," I say, more to myself, but Sophie nods solemnly, casting a wary eye at the cavorting waves.
In an hour we are out of Loch Portree and churning our way to the Isle of Raasay. It looms in front of us, a great mass of green rolling hills and speckled by white cottages. I stand by Sophie at the railing, pulling her close to my side. We pretend to be birds, soaring over the isles of Scotland, the wind fluttering underneath our wings, the smell of salt overwhelming our senses. Sophie soon tires of the game and goes to curl up in the bow of the boat with layers of blankets and I see her wince as she moves.
"I'll never tire of this. Not if I'm still fishing at 100," Ian says, standing at the helm.
"Its beautiful."
My mind feels elated, as though the salty sea air has blown out the cobwebs, the nightmares, and the grief.
We spend all day exploring the islands. Ian takes us to his favorite spots along the coasts of Skye and Raasay. Sophie is quiet but smiles expansively at the passing shorelines. Ian's lunch spread rivals the best restaurants on Skye and we are even treated to oysters. Strangely enough, Ian isn't at all hard to be around. Laughter between the three of us comes easily. I could be tempted to want more of this.
As we set back for Portree, quite late in the afternoon, a brisk wind picks up and Sophie curls up again under a blanket. I wonder whether she's just cold or if she's sick again. Something tugs as the back of my mind, something I've forgotten. Ian clears his throat.
"I hope I didn't frighten you off with what I said...that day..." he says, trailing off.
"I wasn't frightened," I say, and then decide he deserves more, "It was a compliment. Sophie and I do enjoy being around you. Its..."
"Your husband," he says simply, gazing off towards Skye with the setting sun casting an orange glow over his face.
"Yes. Is it too much to ask you to be our friend?"
"No, we can be friends."
My mind is a jumble, at times it seems impossible to separate the strands of loved ones, they've all become a tangled mess.
"You're a beautiful woman," he says, "You shouldn't close yourself off forever."
"What does beauty have to do with it?" I say, turning to face him, seething with anger.
"Oh, I meant..."
"You meant because I'm 'beautiful' a man should have the pleasure of enjoying my 'beauty' and my body? I should be available to be brought down and enjoyed and looked at like china or crystal? 'Beauty' doesn't make me any better than a plain woman on the street, or more worthy of a man's attention and love. I am..."
"Emmeline," Ian interrupts forcefully, "If you would listen to me?" He says, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't mean your face or your...body. I meant...all of you...your intelligence and strength and love and care for your daughter. The beautiful woman you are on the inside. Any man would be blessed to call you his own."
His eyes are soft as he looks at me and lays a calloused hand on my own.
"I...I'm sorry I yelled."
"Ah well...you thought I was another of those...ah what do feminists call them? Male chauvinists," he says with a laugh.
"Yes I suppose I did," I say, my cheeks flushing with horror.
"My Da was one. I hated the way he treated my Mum, nothing physical, but he didn't treat her as an equal. I promised myself I'd be different and I like to think that I am."
"Quite impressive." I say, "Not everyone can overcome what their parents modeled to them."
Ian nods his agreement as I glance back towards Sophie.
"Is that what you're worried about?" Ian says, interpreting my thoughts correctly.
"With Sophie?" I ask. "Yes...everyday I worry whether I'm doing too much, or too little, or overthinking my entire life."
"You're her mother. Worrying is...normal," he says.
I watch Portree come nearer before answering him.
"I can't change the fact that her father is dead or I am now a widow. I can't change it. I just have to...to...give her me. If it makes sense.”
If I thought life became clearer after the reconciliation with Hugh's parents, I was wrong. Grief's tendrils still have themselves wrapped around my heart, reeling me with by loosening their grip, then clinching back down with terrible force. There's always something new to grieve...some part of my life, which has lost meaning.
"Is it why you're afraid of being with someone else, you fear you wouldn't have enough to give to her?"
"She always comes first. Is it fair to a man to give him leftovers?"
"You're a fine woman.”
His voice is soft, it purrs slightly at the r's. He takes his hand away and falls back into silence.
Night is falling in earnest by the time we've made it back to Ian's truck. Sophie is once again asleep and curled up in Ian's strong arms. Both residents and tourists in Portree have given up their outdoor pursuits and head inside in droves. As the house looms closer and I find myself dreaming longingly of bed, of the warm down comforter and silk pillow
case. A shower first, though, I decide, taking a sniff of my sweater.
"Thank you for coming," Ian says as the car slows to a stop in the gravel driveway.
"I'm sorry for what I said earlier. Judging you."
Ian waves off my apology and extracts Sophie deftly from the truck. Following my lead, he takes her upstairs and sets her lovingly. I am amazed at his grace, at the patience he takes with her. I think I catch a small sigh as he lays her down, watching her grin sleepily.
"Thank you," he says again when we've reached the front door.
Ian has his hand on it but turns back towards me.
"For what?"
"Its been a long time since I...it was a good day," he finishes, blushing.
"It was. Thank you for taking us."
He smiles at me for a moment and then behind his eyes, there's a change, his gaze contracts, like the zoom on a camera. In the smallest space of a moment I realize he's come closer, bridged the gap between us, and towers over me.
"Just once,” he breathes, leaning down so close I can see the stubble of his beard, the reflection of the kitchen lights in his eyes.
I don't move. I'm rooted to the spot, whether from denial or attraction, I'm not sure. He smells of the sea, not of fish, but the salty clear smell of the open ocean. Of fresh clean air and sunburned skin. His kiss is light and soft and his lips aren't forceful but move tenderly against my own. I don't know whether I kiss him back. He overwhelms my senses, leaving me numb to all else.
"Good night," he says, whispering it against my hair and laying a kiss on my cheek.
He disappears into the night without a backward glance. I am left standing, staring at the front door, uncomprehending, unable to clear my head. I stand open mouthed in front of an open door, the cool air of Skye twists around me, hammering my body. My head pounds and I'm still rooted, like a fool, to the spot.
The pounding continues, beating out a fervent tempo. Like fists hitting a wall.
I blink once. Twice.
Then I begin to run.
The Clouds Aren't White Page 20
