The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  "How long?" I say.

  "Its hard to know. I'll keep you updated," she says and leaves, weaving her way around patients and nurses before disappearing into a small office.

  It seems an age before I move, walking back to the room. The window overlooks the wide expanse of Edinburgh; the sun sets on the city bathing it in a dull rose colored light. All those many thousands of people walking the streets, going to dinners, doing errands, playing with their children-leading normal lives, unaware that heartbreak lingers just over the city.

  I watch as night falls and one by one lights flicker on. I'm more alone than I've been in my life, standing on the brink of losing my last treasure. How much time have I wasted buried in grief? Why didn't I see the signs? Why didn't I remember to finish the antibiotics? What price will Sophie pay for my distraction?

  "Here we are." an unfamiliar voice says a long time later, preceded through the door by a hospital bed.

  "Sophie..." I breathe, rushing to her side.

  I am human again. I can breathe again. My Sophie, my daughter. She's once again unconscious; she looks pale and wan, worn down by the last twenty-four hours.

  "Mrs MacArthur?" Dr Wolfe says, entering at the tail end of the party.

  The rest file out behind him and close the door.

  "How is she?" I ask, though it’s more of a plea.

  "Stable. We've started a course of steroids, which will control the carditis. Her heart was slightly inflamed from the rheumatic fever but the steroids will control it. It’s a mild mitral regurgitation. From here on out you'll need to get an annual flu vaccine and be meticulous with her dental hygiene and have annual check ups. No strenuous activity for the time being, she needs to rest."

  "Will she be ok?"

  "With the penicillin, constant monitoring, and steroids, I am certain she'll make a full recovery."

  "I..." I start to ask a question but can't seem to find the words.

  I glance back down at Sophie's inert body and choke back the tears.

  "It wasn't your fault, Mrs MacArthur, remember that," he says looking at me with pleading eyes, understanding eyes, eyes that look as though they are no strangers to pain.

  I wonder what pain it was. What pushed him into medicine? "When can I take her home?"

  He considers me for a moment over the tips of his fingers, pressed together in front of his face.

  "I'd like to keep her under observation for a couple more days."

  "Alright."

  It is all I can say. All I am capable of saying.

  "I have every expectation Sophie will be fine. She'll be ready for school again soon."

  "Thank you."

  He gets up to leave and then pauses at the end of Sophie's bed.

  "There isn't anything more precious in this world than the ones we love..." he says, pausing for a moment. I look up to see his eyes lingering over Sophie. "I suppose you know that," he says and coming out of a reverie leaves without another word.

  "No, there isn't anything more precious," I say to the empty room and lower myself into a chair beside Sophie's bed.

  I reach out for her hand, holding the chilled fingers in my own, and caress them. They're long and thin like Hugh's, fingers made for art. Being able to hold her, to feel the smoothness of her skin and to caress her hair, brings the air back into my lungs and eases tightness in my stomach. But I'm afraid to fall asleep, afraid to end my watch, afraid to lose time.

  I keep my vigil, awake through the long watches of the night, awake as the nurses come and go, awake when the noise of the hospital eases into a steady rhythm. I kept vigil while saying goodbye to Hugh, as though I was walking him out of the world, and now I hold vigil over my daughter, to walk her back to life. The night passes and the sky darkens immeasurably before the faintest traces of light begin to peer over the horizon.

  The faceless man visits during the night, but only once. He stands there, endeavoring to command my attention, my emotions, and my dreams. I push him roughly aside. He isn't anything but a mirage, shifting in a haze. A mirage that's tormented me for too long. I walk past him, vowing not a backward glance, lest I turn to dust...to salt.

  The next two days are quiet. We play games and watch too much TV and choke down the mediocre hospital food. Sophie comes alive under Dr Wolfe's ministrations and even seems happy to have had a serious medical problem arise.

  "Emmeline?"

  Maggie MacLeod peers around the corner of the door where Sophie sits, pale faced, in the wheelchair.

  "Maggie!" I say in relief.

  "I thought you might like a ride home," she says, wrapping us

  both in a tight embrace.

  "Of course we would..."

  "Its not a problem. I was in Edinburgh meeting a colleague,"

  Maggie says, cutting me off.

  She ushers us out of the room and the last bit of weight eases

  itself off my chest as we walk down the long hallway of the ward.

  Sophie, though still weak, is here by my side, alive, the wheelchair

  doesn't even matter. We are walking back towards our life, back

  home.

  "How are you?" Maggie asks as we leave Edinburgh. Sophie has fallen asleep in the back seat, propped up with pillows

  and covered with a thick quilt.

  "Oh...ready to be out of these,” I say, pulling at my shirt. It’s been three days and I'm still in the same clothes I wore on the

  boat. Maggie smiles but presses on.

  "No, I want to know how you are, Emmeline," she says, her tone

  insistent. "What are you going to do?"

  "Live."

  Maggie smiles. I take a deep breath and continue, "I don't want to

  spend my life looking backwards, for as much as it hurts now...it'll

  hurt a thousand times more when I'm at the end of my life and all I

  can remember is misery."

  "You're a strong woman, Emmeline. When you first came to Skye

  I couldn't understand how you could move and start a new life so

  soon after losing your husband. But I know now what it was I saw in

  you, its what I see now, the longing for a new life. To be able to live.

  It takes a strong person to do that."

  "To be honest, I'm not sure why I came. I told my family Hugh

  wanted it. It's true, as you know, but I wanted to escape. I thought by

  leaving I could escape all of the memories we'd built over ten years.

  There was no escape though. He's with me every moment, even if it’s

  just the gaping hole of his absence."

  "There's nothing wrong with being lonely," Maggie says, laying a

  matronly hand on my shoulder.

  "No? It feels as though its wrong. Looking back," I say, dropping

  my gaze to my lap.

  Had I convinced myself of the notion Hugh had provided my own

  escape from the pain and memories? And if I had, what did it say about me? I'd stolen my daughter away from her home and

  grandparents and life to make my own happiness.

  "What is it?" Maggie says, frowning.

  I brush a stray tear away and fight to keep my bottom lip from

  trembling.

  "I feel terrible."

  "For what?"

  "For it all. My selfishness, my inability to move on, forgetting

  those damn pills. Its a long list," I say, twisting my fingers together,

  wishing I could scream into them.

  "Is there someone else on that list?"

  "Yes," I say and pause. "I never meant it to go anywhere with

  Ian...I'm not sure what happened."

  "Ian's a good man. I'm sure he might say the same thing about his

  feelings for you. Don't worry yourself about it."

  "Maybe.”

  "What are you going to do now?"

  "Just go forward," I say with a little sigh.

  Sophie is still asleep in the ba
ckseat as we pull silently into the

  driveway.

  The week that passes is one of the happiest Sophie and I have had

  in recent memory. Maggie organizes meals to be brought to the

  house. Summer fully ensconces itself on Skye. Tourists are here in

  droves, their many accents and languages mixing into a harmonious

  melody. Sophie and I sit outside, day after day, watching yachts and

  fishing boats make their way across the loch and out to sea, the

  sheep's slow graze from pasture to pasture. We drink cool milk and eat fresh raspberries with cream. When conversations peter out we drag blankets onto the grass and fall asleep under the summer sun.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Coming home from the hospital and being able to sleep together in my bed, is like waking from a dream. The first night home, though I don't sleep at all, but simply stare at Sophie's form, curled in the crook of my arm. There are no glaring hallway lights or flickering monitors or a stream of nurses coming into the room. The wind outside now feels like an old friend. I contemplate Sophie's profile, studying the curve of her nose, the soft line of her jaw, the curl of her eyelashes. I drink in her nearness...the miracle of her life. In the long watches of the night my heart calms and I ache for Hugh a little less.

  "Its so wonderful to be back," my mother sighs as she extracts herself from the car.

  The other doors open and disgorge my father and in-laws. A faint chill rides the air, this early September day, as the wind rustles through the hedges and trees and across the loch.

  "And we didn't have to ride in the tin can," my father says.

  "Grandpa! Grandma!" Sophie squeals, running from the house, screaming like a banshee, a giant, blonde-haired magnet exploding from the house.

  My mother-in-law tisks, as if getting her heart rate and breathing might kill Sophie on the spot. Sophie beams brightly in all the attention.

  "You're getting so tall!" my mother says crooning over her.

  "How do we stop it?" my mother-in-law asks.

  Sophie laughs and pulls them inside to show off her room.

  I turn and see both fathers standing on the water's edge, looking out across the loch. They stand as men do, arms crossed below furrowed brows. They are calm, silhouetted against the rising hills, talking as though they were old friends. I pick my way across the grass towards them and they hear me, turning as I reach the shore, the stones crunch and rumble beneath my feet.

  "I'd better take the suitcases in," my father-in-law says, hurrying off towards the house.

  I watch him go, wondering how heavily this trip lays on him, whether he's thinking of our last conversation in this spot.

  "I could stay here for the rest of my life," my father says wistfully, staring out across the water and the houses perched on the hills beyond.

  "If you lived in my house for the rest of your life, I'd go crazy."

  "You're a good girl...well woman I should say."

  The pebbles move a little under his feet as he shifts his weight.

  "Thanks, Dad."

  We stand in silence for a good while, listening to the gentle rush of the loch against the rocks, the calls of the gulls, the gentle wind tinkling the leaves of the oak tree above us. It could be paradise, this land, with its rolling hills and beaches and cliffs. I close my eyes to listen.

  "Hmpf," he grunts frowning over the water.

  My eyes snap open and search for what he's looking at. It is the unmistakable colors of one of Ian Campbell's boat moving out across the loch.

  "What?" I say irritably.

  "What?" Hhe echoes, looking confused.

  "You 'hmpfed' when you saw Ian's boat," I say, pointing across the loch.

  "Oh...hmm."

  "What's wrong, Dad?"

  "I don't like him," he says, knitting his eyebrows together.

  "Fine. Good," I say, relieved he didn't start a diatribe about proper mourning time periods.

  "I think he went a little beyond the scope."

  "Beyond the scope?"

  "He was trying to get you to like him."

  "Yes...isn't that what men do when they are interested?" I say, laughing a little.

  He turns back towards the water, biting his lip furiously.

  "It wasn't fair."

  "What wasn't fair?"

  "You told me about him. He isn't over his first wife, he's divorced, what made him think it was ok to...to..." he says, sputtering into silence.

  "Dad...what's this about?" I

  His back is still towards me and he doesn't speak. He just stands there as though he'd like to become a permanent statue on my property, or a guard dog.

  "You were vulnerable," he says with a suppressed groan.

  "I think he is too," I say, lowering my eyes.

  "I miss your husband," he says, whirling back around so fast pebbles fly in all directions.

  "Hugh?" I say.

  "Of course Hugh. Do you have another?"

  "You could have said his name."

  "You're just like your mother at times. So fiery. So decisive. So..." he says, searching for the right word.

  "Independent?"

  "Yes...that."

  "Are you going to tell me what's wrong or do I have to guess?"

  A vein, which runs down the center of his face, starts to pop, livid blue against his pale skin.

  "Hugh's not here, I'm not here. You don't have someone to take care of you,” he says, as though getting the worst over with.

  My mouth drops open, I'm flabbergasted.

  "I don't need anyone to take care of me," I say, with no small amount of venom.

  "You know what I mean," he says, waving off my comment as though it were a pesky fly.

  "No I'm not sure I do. Do you think what happened to Sophie happened because I didn't have a male..." I say, laying heavy influence on the word, "because I didn't have a male to look after me? Or maybe because I'm a woman I'm not capable?" I begin to shout the words, spitting them out as they pass my lips.

  "I'm saying..."

  "What? What are you saying?"

  "You were lonely."

  My mouth open and closes like some ridiculous fish. Numerous diatribes come to my lips and are halfway out before I can swallow them.

  "Yes, I was,” I say, agreeing on what is, without a doubt, the truth.

  "I want to protect you,” he says, looking twenty years older. Lines of worry and fear cross over each other.

  "It never goes away, does it?”

  "No."

  "I didn't have sex with Ian, by the way."

  My father sputters, looking at me with wild eyes.

  "I...um...I didn't suggest anything..."

  "Well, now you know."

  I don't resent the fact I am alone. It’s of no consequence anymore.

  "Sophie loves you."

  "I know."

  "He would be proud of you. Everything you've done and gone through and you're still standing. Still fighting."

  "I have to, for Sophie, and maybe that's what love is. It’s none of the romance and passion and butterflies. Love is holding someone tenderly in your hand and heart, for a time, and then letting go, opening up your hand."

  The whole of my life with Hugh flies through my mind, the memories of every moment spent together. Moments captured in photographs. Moments captured only by my eyes. Moments branded on my heart. Hugh doesn't call to me as he once did, I don't feel the pull anymore to follow him, to be by his side. There's a terrible ache and a hole in my heart but it’s not as debilitating as it once was. I've finally found a way, a way through the pain, because in the end its love which saves us. Its love that allows us to let go and to live.

  "Wouldn't you love to have this view?" my mother says with a sigh leaning against my mother-in-law as they start dinner.

  It's loud in the kitchen. Sophie laughs up a storm as her grandfathers trade off telling jokes. With dinner being prepped and Sophie well entertained, I am useless.
After so many months of quiet with just Sophie for company and the relative safety of the museum, the noise is overwhelming.

  "I'm going to go get the mail," I say, to no one in particular.

  The sky is a dirty sort of grey; fast moving clouds build on the horizon. A clean scent is on the wind and a melodious pattering on the surface of the loch grows louder by the moment. I step out onto the road, listening to the soft crunch of gravel beneath my thin shoes.

  "Evening."

  Ian Campbell stands in the road beyond me, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans.

  "Hi," I say, clearing my throat.

  He shifts a little. His face is more weathered and freckled than I remember.

  "I've been out at sea," he says, reading the expression on my face. "How was your catch?"

  I'm acutely aware of his presence. He's a large man and the months away at sea seem to have made him even larger.

  "Good," he says turning his face back towards the sea. "I heard about what happened."

  "Yes..."

  "How is she?" Ian asks, a severe amount of pain lies behind his eyes.

  "She's wonderful, but...she'll always have to have her heart monitored."

  The mailbox lies a few yards behind Ian. I'm seized with an overwhelming desire to make a break for it and retreat to the safe confines of the house.

  "I'm sorry, Emmeline. I didn't mean to make you

  uncomfortable...with the kiss."

  His face is so tender and worried that I want to laugh.

  "You didn't. It was unfair to lead you on."

  "I doubt I'll ever leave my demons behind me, though it’s easier to forget them when you're around."

  He reaches for my hand and holds it tenderly in his own. They're rough and warm; calluses lay heavily on his palm.

  "I can't be what you need, Ian."

  "No, I wouldn't want to lay that heavy of a burden on you. Besides, your daughter needs you."

  "Yes, she does," I say. "You'll find it someday, Ian. You have to let them go though, both of them. You have to stop punishing yourself."

  Ian doesn't look at me but glances at the house behind him, his house, the house so full of ghosts.

  "Aye, though what's the saying? Easier said than done?" he heaves a great breath and then continues on, "Perhaps I should take a leaf from your book? Move...find a new life."

  I smile, laughing at little at the thought of being the fount of advice on grief.