The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "Sophie!" a scream tears it way out of my throat. A door bounces off the wall. Light comes on in a blaze. Sophie sprawled on the floor, pounding on the wood with a heavy glass candle.

  "Sophie!" I scream her name again, pulling her body close to mine; her breath comes out like a gasp, rattling her body.

  She coughs, just once, but it brings up mucus-tinged red. Her thin pale skin is turning blue.

  "Mommy...I don't feel well," she gaps.

  Her voice strains with pain, she grasps at her knees from her position on the floor. Her eyes are wide and she licks her lips desperately trying to wet them. I can't move. I can't think but I place my hand on her brow and then jerk quickly away from her burning skin. For one terrifying moment I don't move, I'm frozen, clutching Sophie's limp body. My traitorous mind flashes back, and once again I'm kneeling in that room, staring at a body covered by a white sheet. Sophie gives an involuntary twitch, like she's trying to shake a weight off of her chest. I pull myself look of the memory and cradle her to my chest and tear down the stairs, bouncing off the walls and skidding across the polished floors.

  My bare feet slap against the wood boards of the stairs. I can't remember the emergency number in the UK. Our house is situated between the firehouse and the hospital, and so I grab at my keys, step ferociously into wellington boots, and burst into the garage. Sophie doesn't move but holds her knees to her chest as I place her in the seat, trying to prop her up as best I can.

  Tearing out of the driveway, my knuckles are white from grasping the steering wheel. Fear gnaws at my stomach, turning my mouth to ash. I'm shutting down. Terror claws at me as I watch my only child lying on the front seat of the car, she gasps for air. Did we finish her course of antibiotics for the strep throat? Have I killed my daughter? The hospital is a mile away when Sophie begins to cry in earnest, desperately massaging her legs, hips, and elbows. I don't want to be driving; I want to be clutching her to me, forcing the disease from her. The red emergency lights loom up in front of us and with tires squealing in protest I careen to a halt beside the hospital doors.

  "Help! Help!" I scream.

  And scream again. Underneath my shaking arms I can feel Sophie's shuddering breaths. No one's coming...I scream louder and then they do come, out of the woodwork it seems, like angels. She is pulled from my arms and I grasp at her in the chaos. My fingers snag the hem of her shirt, pulling out a thread, as she's whisked away. The room echoes with cacophonous shouting. The walls spins and I'm pulled magnetically forward, towards the gurney taking my daughter away.

  "Ma'am! Ma'am," a voice says from beside my elbow, "Is your daughter allergic to any medication?"

  Everything sounds muffled, as though I'm underwater.

  "We didn't finish it..." I say, staring at the spot where Sophie's disappeared, two double doors swinging to and fro like a gigantic hand-beckoning me forward.

  "Didn't finish what?"

  "She's been coughing...we didn't finish the antibiotics for strep..."

  My mind reels back to the sight of Sophie sprawled on the floor. Pounding on the wood. Pounding with such force the glass candle cracked

  "When was she diagnosed?" the nurse demands.

  "A couple of weeks ago...but she was fine. She was fine."

  Every moment of Sophie's coughs start to come back to me. I missed all those pills...lost in my own grief and muddled feelings about a man.

  "We are just going to have you fill out some paperwork. I'll be back with news as soon as I can," the nurse hurries off towards the cordoned off section of the emergency room.

  Portree's hospital is small. The waiting room even smaller. There aren't more than ten chairs. It is empty. And so, for the second time in less than a year I'm stuck in the waiting room of a hospital. I try to turn my attention to the paperwork in front of me but the letters won't form themselves into words. My head is over heavy for my neck and my arms are ache for Sophie's comfortable weight. I rest my head in my hands, trying to dispel the nausea and dizziness. My grief, my obsession, my ineptness...I did this to Sophie. I wait underneath the harsh florescent lights, faces grow in my mind...Hugh, Sophie, the faceless man, and my parents...they jumble together, swirling into an indistinguishable haze.

  A door bangs open, there's a surgeon in blue scrubs stands in the doorway, his gaze lands on me.

  "Are you her mother?" he says.

  "Yes. Sophie MacArthur, her name," I say earnestly.

  I don't trust my voice to say anything more.

  "Mrs MacArthur, your daughter most likely has developed rheumatic fever. Fortunately we believe that it was caught early, but we are going to airlift her to the Royal Hospital for Sick Children in Edinburgh. The helicopter should be here in about twenty minutes." He says with the universal, even tone all physicians seem to use.

  I recognize it, even in my panic.

  "I'm going," I say, raising myself to my full height, glaring.

  "Of course ma'am," he says smiling benignly, "A nurse will come and get you in a few minutes. You'll need to be prepared, though, your daughter has a very serious condition."

  "I understand."

  He leaves the way he came. Fifteen minutes later a nurse beckons me towards an elevator. Sophie isn't in this elevator.

  We come out on the roof. The helicopter has just landed; blades whip around, cutting the clear Scottish air. They pull at my hair and clothes and dry out my eyes. The nurse motions me towards the helicopter. I take the seat I'm ordered and from the window I see a white-sheeted gurney, bearing my little girl. She's pale; an oxygen mask covers much of her face. I reach over and brush away stray hairs from her closed eyes.

  Sophie's face is slack, her lips slightly parted. I touch her face, trying to commit its texture and shape to memory. It feels as it did the first time I held her, a new mom, cradling my daughter, enamored by the miracle of life. There was no way to prepare for her; it was like trying to prepare for the sensation of swimming without ever having been in water.

  "I love you," I say and brush my lips against her forehead, wondering all the while whether it'll be the last time I'll say it.

  "Sophie has acute rheumatic fever," the Edinburgh doctor says, hours later. "Its early but we will do an EKG to determine whether there is any inflammation of the heart, pan-carditis. She will need to be put on steroids if there is. We've started her on a course of penicillin and given her aspirin for the joint pain, which was severe for her. Her fever has also broken."

  "How is she?" I say, cutting him off. He seems a bit put out but rearranges his features back into a smile. The helicopter ride seems an eternity ago. Edinburgh is already starting to lighten with the coming dawn.

  "Acute Rheumatic Fever is a terrible disease, and not something that is typically seen in developed countries, but we seem to have caught it early. You have a strong little girl."

  "Her father died last September. We've been through a lot...that's why we forgot to finish the course of antibiotics."

  My eyes shift to the window behind him where the city of Edinburgh sparkles in the pre-dawn light.

  "I did this to her."

  "The stress of your situation must be overwhelming, please don't blame yourself. We are actively watching her heart for any problems."

  Dr Wolfe according to the plaque on the cherry desk.

  "What do we do?" I say, clenching my hands together.

  I haven't slept all night and my eyes itch with exhaustion. It takes extreme amounts of effort to process information.

  "What concerns us most is the control of the carditis. Inflammation of the heart can be progressive and chronic. If she does have carditis, which would most likely be mild, she would receive a secondary prophylaxis for rheumatic fever for ten years after the last attack or until she's 25."

  "Ok."

  "You can go stay with her now. She's most likely awake," Dr Wolfe says, moving to open the door.

  He gives me a wide smile that I don't return. My head swims wit
h medical terms, with the likelihood of long-term heart issues for Sophie. Though I walk, I crumble and though I breathe, I suffocate.

  The hall one floor down is alive. Children scurry around the ward like ants. Children towing IV stands and parents with tired fretful eyes following them. There are even a few cancer patients who have wandered up from the floor below. A couple of squealing four year olds maneuver around on crutches as if they were born to them, unconscious of their amputated limbs. Their eyes are alight with the wonder of childhood, the kind of light, which can't be snuffed out by even the most deadly of diseases. It gives me hope as I press myself against the wall so the children can pass. Sophie's door is ajar.

  She lies still, nubs of oxygen tubes pressed into her nose and hooked around her ears, dwarfed by the bed. I haven't cried since last night. But sitting here with memories of standing beside Hugh's body flooding my mind, it all comes flooding out. I cry for every time I've thought of myself before Sophie, for entertaining thoughts of Ian Campbell, for letting him kiss me while Sophie was gasping for breath upstairs. For those tiny, unused, white pills still sitting in their yellow cylinder. I cry for every moment I've not spent thinking of her. For the life we've lived these past ten months.

  She's so small, barely taking up a quarter of the space of the bed. The light touches her face in such a way she looks like a feminine version of Hugh in the strong bones in her face and the slight purse of her lips. I close my eyes and rest my head on the bed and hold tight to her hand. I lay there, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat, listening to the beeping of the machines and the steady thump of oxygen moving through the tubes in her nose.

  There's a small movement near my head and Sophie's leg twitches involuntarily. My heart soars as her eyes flutter a bit. A tiny moan escapes her lips and her nostrils flare at the unfamiliar and cumbersome tubes.

  "Its alright sweetheart," I say, crooning to her.

  Moving closer, I lay my hand on her head and brush down the stray hairs.

  "Mmm," she moans, wincing as she takes a deep breath.

  "Its alright, Sophie," I say. "Mommy's here."

  She heaves a deep sigh and within moments falls back asleep. A nurse comes in, checks Sophie's vitals and then backs out again. I watch the flurry of activity beyond the glass door, nurses going about their tasks, patients walking to and fro, and family members hugging each other in welcome. Hospitals have always felt like the modern equivalent to purgatory, life doesn't seem to move on to those stuck inside these whitewashed walls.

  "What happened?" my mother screeches on the other end of the phone line.

  "Acute Rheumatic Fever," I whisper, glancing back towards Sophie's sleeping figure.

  "I heard. What happened?" she snaps.

  I sigh again; my father can be heard in the background communicating the results of a Google search to my mother.

  "We went out to sea yesterday and she was tired, then after she'd gone to bed she had a hard time breathing, it can happen with this disease, the throat begins to hurt horribly, all her joints were hurting her. We were flown to Edinburgh," I say, repeating what I'd told her when she answered the phone.

  "When can I come out?" she pleads.

  "Mother..." I say, placating, "We're alright. We'll be in the hospital for a couple days to figure out treatment and then I will take some time off work to be home."

  "I feel like I should be there."

  "You're wonderful."

  "How are you?"

  "It is hard being back here," I say, my throat tightening and panic beginning to rise.

  "Edinburgh?"

  I pause for a moment, listening to the sound of Sophie's breathing and the oxygen running through her nose.

  "A hospital."

  On cue, it seems, she begins to discuss at length how this 'visit' is vastly different from our last. As I look at my daughter, lying on the bed, it doesn't seem different at all. I'm stuck, waiting for someone to come in and pronounce the end of my suffering. The end of my daughter's suffering.

  "Mommy..." a small voice ripples across the room where I'm staring out the window.

  "Sophie," I say, my voice dripping with relief.

  Her eyes are tired as they blink through a haze of drugs and pain. I throw the phone down on the couch.

  "Mommy," she repeats, searching me out with her free hand.

  I reach over and take it, grasping it in my own, and squeeze.

  "I'm here sweetheart, Mommy's here. You're going to be just fine."

  They are words I've said a thousand times before. After bike accidents, spills, bitten lips, and loss. They comfort me as much as her, I cradle her, whisper into her ear, and all the while consoling myself with the fact she's alive and well.

  "I saw Daddy."

  I jerk my head up and search her eyes with my own.

  "What?"

  I can barely breathe. I'm waiting for her next words, waiting for the world to change.

  "Daddy. I saw him. He told me he missed me," she says. She stares towards the far wall with glazed eyes, a smile plays on her lips. "He talked about you, Mommy. He said you couldn’t be sad anymore."

  She turns her head towards me, her smile widening.

  "Oh..." I say, at a loss for words. "Did he say why?"

  "Because he loves you," she says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

  Is it? Is it that simple to just choose to be happy again, to set down the life I had with Hugh, and grab hold of our life now?

  "Tell me about it."

  I lower myself down gently onto her bed and let her curl up against my side. It feels almost normal, as if we could be laying in her bed at home talking about school, about life.

  "We were playing. Just playing. I told him all about Scotland. He was smiling, Mommy, and I was smiling," she says, pausing for a moment, reveling in the sweetness of the memory. "I got my wish."

  Her face lights from within, her eyes are wide and bright with joy.

  "What wish?"

  "I got to see him. One more time."

  I cry there and then, tears roll down my face and to plop onto Sophie's shoulder. I feel so ashamed of myself, hot boiling disgust at my own pain and my own jealousy.

  "Mommy?" Sophie says, feeling the tears.

  "I'm sorry," I say, hastily wiping my shame away.

  "Was that your wish too?"

  "Yes..."

  "Daddy said to give you this," she says, taking my hand, holding it lightly between her own, and plants the softest of kisses.

  I don't see her do it, but closing my eyes, I can feel the remnants of a last goodbye.

  Sophie doesn't talk anymore about her experience with her father. As the minutes tick by, her breathing begins to slow into the steady rhythm of sleep I've known since she was born. I treasured those moments, cradling her in my arms, feeling the soft weight of her presence. The peace of the moment creeps over me, drawing me towards sleep.

  I'm not sure what I dream about but feel as though I'm strung between this world and the next. Hugh flits in and out of my field of vision and every time I move toward him, he drifts further away, just out of reach, it’s infuriating. I reach my hand out towards him, calling his name, but he doesn't look at me. There's something just over my shoulder his eyes are fixed on. I turn to look and hear his voice floating like a whisper, a caressing whisper filled with love.

  "Emmeline."

  BEEP. BEEEEEP. BEEP. I awake with a snap, alarms going off all over the room, tearing apart my peace. Laying beside me Sophie is a terrible blue color. Her eyes shift to mine, wide with fear; silent tears run in tracks down her cheeks. I open my mouth to speak, to comfort her, but nothing comes out. My mouth and mind are overcome with terror. Nurses storm the room and roughly shove me off of the bed, calling for space. I am shunted to a far corner, unable to see my daughter through the forest of blue scrubs. One nurse takes a quick glance at the large monitors and starts screaming orders. Sophie's gone before I can even clear my throat. My entire body is numb
. I stand in my corner with wide eyes staring at the spot where my daughter lay.

  "YOU HAVE TO TELL ME!" I yell.

  Standing at the nurse's station I tower over the grey haired

  middle-aged woman. Finally managing to move my feet, I careened out of the room like a drunk, stumbling over to the station where I'm told they have no information.

  "Please Mrs MacArthur, I'll let you know as soon as I know anything," she says, extending her hand palm out to placate me.

  "Do you have children?" I say, glancing down at her name tag, "...Terri?"

  "Yes..." she says eying me suspiciously, "...and a grandchild."

  "Ah good," I say clapping my hands together, "Then you'll have no problem understanding why I need you to go and figure out what is wrong with my daughter."

  Nurse Terri looks at me, I wonder whether I've been sufficiently convincing.

  "Ok..." she says, sighing a little.

  I wonder whether she'll get into trouble for this, then I decide I don't care. I start to walk away when she calls me back.

  "She's a fighter, Mrs MacArthur," Nurse Terri says before disappearing through a door.

  I smile, but as I turn towards the room, the smile disappears. Fighters are made for...battle. I remain where I am, where I can see the hallway where she disappeared.

  My legs begin to ache, standing stock still in front of the nurse's station, and my knuckles have long since turned white from gripping on the counter. The hallway stretches out in front of the nurse’s station as if it never ends. As though you could start walking down it and never come out again, lost forever to the purgatory of hospitalization.

  "It'll only be you," I whisper as though Sophie was in front of me and I could make that promise.

  It all fades into nothing...the extraneous details of life, house, money, career, even Hugh...it’s all lost because Sophie is gone from me.

  "Mrs MacArthur?" says a voice at my elbow.

  Terri, the Nurse, is back looking worried.

  "Yes."

  "She's having problems with her heart. They are starting her on a course of steroids."

  Nurse Terri lays a comforting hand on my arm and pats it like I'm sure she's done thousands of times before.