The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  Wexford heaves a great sigh.

  Unwelcome pangs of sorrow for Victor and especially young Darrell pierce my heart. I don't say anything so Wexford plows on, and as he speaks his voice seems to grow, as though weight is slowly falling from his shoulders.

  "This is the part, I'm afraid, that's senseless. The reason Hugh was killed was his resemblance to our dear friend, Gideon Mallory. Victor was driven half out of his mind with hatred and anger of Mallory for what he saw as the reason his brother was dead. He'd researched Mallory, followed his movements, and that day he was pretending to panhandle outside of the courthouse was to wait for Mallory to come out.

  "It was an intelligence gathering trip, he said. He saw Hugh walk out with you and Sophie, and the resemblance really is great, and he made his decision right there. He told my men he heard someone mention a meeting in Denver and so he followed you. All the way to the steps of the capitol. He said he circled the entrances, waiting for, the person whom he believed to be, Gideon Mallory to come out.

  "Victor then went underground. He fled Denver and went to go live in North Dakota, away from the scrutiny. He didn't touch a paper and didn't have access to a computer. He saw nothing about the investigation, nothing about Hugh's funeral. Not until about a week ago. It broke him. He came and turned himself in and asked specifically for me. We'd been on his track for a month or so but he had fled without a trace. We talked for four hours, and Emmeline, he is a broken man. He saw he had left a child fatherless and taken away a woman's husband. Victor told me he spent two days just going through the news clippings, in order to come to grips with what he'd done."

  "So it was all...just a mistake?" I breathe.

  Memories of that day flood my mind, images of the homeless man and his hatred turned on the wrong man. Anger flares in my soul as well, for the injustice, for Victor, and then Gideon Mallory who started this entire episode.

  "Yes. It was," Wexford breathes out. "If Mallory hadn't been so consumed with his conviction rate...none of this might have happened.

  "So he died...for no reason. For nothing at all?"

  I try to contain the hysteria that's clawing at my throat. Maria's words skip in my head. If answers I did receive, they may not be the ones I wanted.

  "I'm so sorry."

  Wexford does sound sorry, as though he wishes he had more to show for his efforts than a twisted prosecutor and a revenge-seeking brother.

  "I thought...I thought I didn't care. That the reasons didn't matter to me." I say.

  I can feel how much they matter, how they tear at my chest.

  "Victor is going to plead guilty. There won't be a trial. There will be a sentencing hearing you are welcome to attend. But you won't have to be put through the public spectacle of a trial."

  "Yes..." I say. "No. No. I can't."

  "Why?" Wexford asks kindly.

  "Sophie," I say and then feel the need to explain. "She has a heart condition, it was only just diagnosed...we won't be able to come back to Colorado."

  Wexford agrees and apologizes again for the timing of his phone call. When I put down the phone, reeling from the overload of information and emotion. I just sit in the room, fall back against the covers of Sophie's bed, and stare at the ceiling. Hugh's death a fluke. A mistake. A fault line expands in my chest and quite suddenly the trappings of my life dissolve into nothingness and I am thrown into the abyss once again.

  Before long my body begins to shut down, perhaps it’s a long dormant survival technique but I slip towards murky dreams where one shadow isn't distinguishable from another. I wake to a shuffling noise in the corner and find both sets of parents standing in Sophie's room along with Sophie herself. I look at them all; their faces tensed with concern and sorrow in their eyes, and relive the pain. It cuts a new gouge in my heart. One more scar. One more wound to live with.

  I lead them all down to the living room. I motion them into chairs and recount the story. In the retelling I feel more human, as if I can wrap my head around the events better. My in-laws faces are mirrored images horror, color drained, leaving a deathly pallor. My father asks for a couple clarifications but beyond that, no one speaks. As I finish, Hugh's mother collapses into tears, but instead of leaving, dispersing to combat our grief, we all remain in the room.

  After a few hours we come back to life. We talk about Hugh and what we loved about him. We talk about Sophie and what quirks of Hugh's she's inherited. We don't talk about the senseless nature of his death, nor the fact that if not for Gideon Mallory and Victor Davies, Hugh would be here with us, and we would be laughing. We don't talk about it because it’s too painful. Because the truth and the answers weren't what anyone wanted.

  When its gets to be too much for Sophie, she flits off to the kitchen and brings back an object suspended on her palms. She seems to float back over the floor towards my chair, her concerned eyes trained on what's in her hands. It’s the dandelion crown. Without saying a word she transfers it on to my head and makes a quick correction to its placement. She stares at me for a moment and then smiles, a smile, which lights her face from within. Then, taking hold of my hand, she leads me outside into the blaring sunlight.

  The day passes. It passes like all days do, one moment at a time. I remember it as I remember Hugh's funeral...small snatches of memory...and the pain. We don't talk about Wexford's call or Victor Davies or Gideon Mallory. We talk about the museum, about school, about my father's jealously over the location of my home. Thus we resumed life. Sophie started school in September, taking time off while her grandparents were here. Sophie became a voracious reader, surprising everyone with how fast she went through books.

  We weren't whole. We forgot some nights that three plates weren't required and we would stare at the extra plate; stare until one of us could work up the courage to put it away. I turned over countless times, in bed, to tell Hugh all about the wonderful things Sophie had done and said during the day, just to be confronted with an empty pillow and an ache in my heart. The faceless man has left my dreams. Left as though he had evaporated.

  "You didn't cry last night," Sophie says. Its late October, we are sitting in the living room, buried under blankets, holding mugs of hot cider, and watching the crackling fire as the sun makes its final descent.

  "No I didn't." I put down my mug, wrap my arm around her, and turn my thoughts away from the guilt and smile instead.

  "Are you happy?"

  "Yes," I say and squeeze her shoulders.

  "I didn't cry either. But I probably will...some days," Sophie says.

  Though her eyes glisten with tears they also sparkle with life.

  "How do you not cry?"

  "Well...memories of Daddy make me happy more often than they make me sad. I smile when I remember instead of crying."

  "Does it mean you 'accept it?'" Sophie says with raised eyebrows.

  "Umm...well, yes. I suppose so. Where did you learn that?"

  "Grandpa and Grandma were talking, your mom and dad," she clarifies, "They said it’s why you're not as sad anymore. They said you accept Daddy is gone and he's...he's not coming back." Sophie says, a hint of a sob escaping her lips.

  I pull her in close. The room smells sweet, with the scent of apples and fire mingled together and the crisp autumn air outside. It is relaxing, homely.

  "I suppose so. But that doesn't mean I stop loving him. I guess its more of...letting go."

  "How do you let go?"

  "Well," I say, trying to buy for time to collect my thoughts. "I know he can't come back and he's gone, so I try to treasure our memories instead of wanting him."

  It sounds feeble, my explanation, and I can't find the strength to smile. Instead I look towards the fire and lose myself in the constantly shifting colors, watching orange turn to red then blue and then back again to orange. What makes fire so beautiful to look at, that for a moment we are tempted to touch it, even though we know full well it will burn?

  "I have to stop wanting my heart to get bad," Sophie says
into the stillness, the fire crackles in response.

  "Yes I think so."

  "What about you? What do you have to stop wanting?"

  She turns her face towards me, expectant.

  "His hugs," I say and feel the urge to explain, "Sometimes, I get lonely."

  "I'm here, Mommy."

  Quite suddenly I'm the one who is being held, the one being comforted, the one being mothered. She plays the part so well, her head buried in my shoulder and her thin arms flung around me.

  "You're more important, Sophie. You're more important than anything. I know everyone was upset we can't go back to Colorado but you're more important than their feelings. Every time I look at you I see your daddy, we will get through the hard days and I promise you, whatever happens, I will always be here. You'll always be number one."

  As I promise myself to her, I remember the conversation with her grandparents, how we broke the news we would never be able to come home. There were tears and sorrow but in the end it didn't matter, we don't live there anymore. Our home is no longer the mountains of Colorado but rather a rain soaked island of Scotland. I lose myself in thinking about our new life; about the beauty we have found here...the freedom...the hope. We gave ourselves a new life, a new start, and a reason to live.

  "You're my favorite..." Sophie says in a soft whisper, tickling my neck, and making my heart soar.

  "Look," she cries, "the sunset!"

  In a moment she is off through the living room and out the door, stepping into her wellington boots.

  "Sophie!"

  I catch up to her as she stands in the middle of the lawn, surrounded by late blooming flowers and vast hedges; look like an ancient druid, standing with rapt gaze on the westward horizon. The sky has broken into breathtaking beauty; soft trails of clouds are left behind like an army's rear guard.

  "Mommy..." she says.

  Her voice comes out as a whisper because one can't speak loudly in front of such beauty. The sky is arrayed in a magnificent display. Every ruffle and whisp of cloud in the sky is festooned in glory, fiery reds and cold blues and bright pinks and eye watering oranges. The sky more beautiful than any master's painting.

  We stand there, staring in awe of the majesty before us. There is nothing I regret. No sacrifice was too big. Looking down at her awestruck face and the deep contentment there, I find my peace.

  Sophie stirs and wraps her arms around my waist. We stand in rapture as the colors deepen and even as they fade to a million facets of blue. We stand there as lights flicker into existence and Portree becomes a necklace of orange and white and light blue.

  "Look, Mommy..." Sophie says, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to the cooling night and the darkening clouds, "The clouds aren't white."

  "No they aren't," I breathe.

  Sophie gives an appreciative nod and then takes off towards the house. I take one last look at the sunset. It's almost gone now. The sun has dipped below the horizon, the last light of day reaches out with grasping fingers, circling the houses and trees and soft hillsides.

  It is then, as I turn towards the house, that I catch a glimpse of something in the retreating light, almost a shadow, it's so faint. Squinting, I can just make out the wingspan and the gentle gliding flight of a hawk.

  He hovers gently on the air, gliding on the breeze. I stand in rapture to his movements, watching as he gives a great beat of his wings. In the space of a heartbeat, without hesitation, he dives towards the ground, towards sustenance, and then disappears completely from my vision.

  I smile and turn towards the house from which a faint melody echoes. Sophie dances in the kitchen, singing at the top of her lungs. I'm too far away to catch the words but rush in through the front door to join her.

  ***