Cloud in the Sky

Cloud in the Sky
         For the first time during the day he was left alone in the house and it gave him a tingling chill which traveled down his spine. The house was cold since the late afternoon sun had been blinded out by the tall evergreens that stretched along their yard. He walked the twelve steps up to the second floor of the three story house and in the dimness his hand felt down the scraped flowered wallpaper to the wobbly doorknob of the second room on the right.
         He came to the door and went through. What was left of the sunlight was struggling through the half closed blinds in the only window of the small room. There were two beds against opposite walls. One was well made, with the green wool blanket neatly folded at the bottom. The other bed’s contents were strewn about onto the floor, the pillow dangling close to the edge of the mattress. He almost picked it up to place it securely on the bed but didn’t when he noticed a dirty magazine trying to hide itself between the mattress and the box spring.
         He let out a short laugh and though only his brother would bring one of those into his mother’s house. Sitting on the neatly made bed, he looked across the room. His brother’s half of the tiny room was dirty and messy with an empty beer can in the corner with some fishing supplies; the pole leaned in the corner of the room next to his brother’s dresser whose contents were plunging out of the half opened drawers. His side of the room was tidy and untouched. There was a Spiderman poster on the wall by the bed and some K’nex in a Rubbermaid box under it. The window was closest to his bed so in the windowsill he had placed his collection of smaller toys: horses, war figurines, cowboys.
         Everyday at this time there was the same routine. His father worked hard in the field and after lunch would always return to work until just before dinner. He hadn’t had a real conversation with his father in years. Partly due to his father’s tiring schedule and mostly to his own selfishness and stubborn disposition. All conversations seemed one sided and his ‘good mornings’ were never greeted with anything more than a look in his direction.
         His only sibling was a twin brother, Lucas, with whom just last week he had shared a 16th birthday. His family wasn’t much into birthdays, or any holidays for that matter and this one passed just like any other. He only remembered it was their birthdays when a young woman snuck into their room through the window in the darkness and slithered into his brother’s bed. When Lucas asked what she was doing, she simply whispered, “happy birthday.”
         By this time in the day, Lucas was eager to drive to town and visit with some of his school mates who he wasn’t able to see everyday since it was summer and classes were not being held. So his brother would drive away. Lucas never asked if anyone else would like to join him.
         He never knew where his mother would go when she was finished cleaning up after lunch. She would walk from the house and be gone sometimes till late that evening, making the rest of the family sit at the table unable or unwilling to cook their own dinner. His mother never asked if he would like to walk with her on her long walks, but he knew he could travel along if he had wanted. Often, he made bad excuses to get out of being with his mother, or any of his other family members. He’d rather be alone and that made it hard for him to make friends or to talk with his family. Before each walk, his mother would stand in the kitchen and let the dirty water drain from doing the dishes. She wouldn’t say anything to him and that bothered him. She would often mumble something like, “I’m gunna go now,” or “I wish I weren’t so lonely.” But he never truly listened to what she was saying. He would tell her he was too busy to go or he had something to get done. She wouldn’t reply, just hang her head low towards the steaming sink.
He remembered a time when he was younger when his mother was happy, but these memories never float past his 8th birthday. Something changed in his mother he couldn’t pin down. His parent’s relationship drew further apart and often he would catch his mother crying downstairs in the dark when everyone else had long gone to bed. 
         Later that night when his family had returned from doing their separate endeavors, they sat around a long wooden table. His mother looked strained and tired; she looked old. She coughed and it sounded as if her lungs were gasping for their last breath. He could hear the mucus streaming up her throat with every plunge of air and her face turned red with lack of oxygen. His father looked at his wife with worry, but once the coughing ceased she shook her head as if to say, “I’m ok. It’s over now.”
         His stomach wasn’t agreeing with him that night and he wasn’t able to eat the potato soap his mother had cooked all day. His father didn’t say anything to him about this, just glared on his direction. Lucas was full of talk and spoke mostly about this girl he had met. He assumed it was the one who crawled up into their window, but possibly it may not have been. All of them were glad Lucas was starting to date girls. There was a long scar stretching across Lucas’s cheek which he was self conscious about. He got the scar after a bad accident the boys had been in when they were about seven or eight. The family spent an afternoon canoeing in the creek close to their house when a canoe had flipped over and they boys had been trapped underneath it for some time, all the while been drug through the current. His brother’s face had been ripped by an underlying tree limb and received over fifteen stitches for the cut. He could see the scar now when he would glance at Lucas. It glistened in the light but its visibility was fading with the boy’s age.
         He lay in his bed that night and with the summer heat he didn’t use the blanket but kept it folded at the bottom of the bed. He could hear his brother breathing heavily across the room and knew he was asleep. The coughing coming down the hallway was unbearable to hear and it kept him up most the night. In the morning, he was surprised to not see his mother at the breakfast table. Instead, his father had prepared oatmeal and toast. Before he could ask where Mother was, his brother spoke up.
         “Is Mom not feeling well again this morning?”
         His father was slow in replying. He couldn’t tell, but he though there were tears welling up in his father’s eyes.
         “The doctor’s on his way. She says it’s worse today than most.” The three sat at the table and didn’t touch the steaming oatmeal on the stove. Time passed and the doctor arrived. His dad led him up the stairs to his mom’s room.
         While the boys waited in the living room, he glanced up at the pictures on the wall, one being of him and Lucas sometime before their seventh birthday. They held each other in a hug and smiled for the camera. The scar was not present on Lucas’s face as the accident was still to happen. Along the mantle were his brother’s high school pictures. There was one his father must have taken of his mother who seemed to be laughing and happy. He often looked at this picture and wondered where that woman had gone. His mother was never happy anymore, especially since their accident and he wondered if it was because of Lucas’s scar or if she somehow felt responsible for the close call that day.
His mother’s coughing was the only sound keeping the boys from pure silence and once or twice Lucas stood up and walked to the front window and looked out among the trees. The morning sun was becoming blocked by the tall evergreens and the lasting light came in dusty lines through the window.
He had mostly fallen asleep on the faded couch, waking with the silence. He listened for the coughing but nothing came. Lucas still stood at the window and even he noticed the strangeness in the moaning of the windblown trees, but no coughing. Lucas took three large steps towards the bottom of the stairs before he stopped when the doctor stepped from the room on the second floor and quietly closed the door. He paused there for a second before walking down the steps, Lucas looking at him for answers; a tear welled up in his eye.
“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor said. “I’m sorry.” He hurried away from Lucas and out the front door. Lucas took a heavy seat on the second stair, then put his face in his hands and cried. His father walked down the steps and sat next to Lucas. He watched from the couch as he body was unwilling to move, and for once he felt sorrow and sadness; he felt human. He struggled to stand from the couch and walked to where his father and twin brother were holding each other on the steps in a heap of tears and pain. He stepped past them and up the steps in a fluid, floating motion.
Upon reaching his parents’ door, went through. The smell was one he recognized but was unable to grasp. It reminded him of something, something… what? He stood for a moment trying to recollect what the smell meant. It smelled familiar. He walked slowly to her and took up her hand, but it was cold and he let it go quickly. Her eyes were closed, the sheets pulled up to her chest with one hand. Though she had looked old the night before, she looked older now.
The smell was becoming too strong for him, and his mind was too busy trying to find where it came from, so he stepped outside the room. He could hear his brother crying in their room as he passed but his father wasn’t on the stairs any longer. He took a seat on the couch and watched the hours pass by on the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.
When he woke, the morning sun was pushing past the trees and into the living room. He sat up from the couch. He must have fallen asleep there. He could hear someone in the kitchen, so he stood and stretched. There would have to be some adjustments since the loss of his mother. He rubbed his eyes and entered the kitchen but it took him a moment to take in what he saw. His mother, beautiful and vibrant, the morning sun herself, was at the sink, letting the dirty water rush down the drain. The steam rose to her face and gathered a drop of perspiration on her forehead. He was confused and had never felt as close to his mother as he did then.
“It’s a beautiful day,” his mother said. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk.”
“Mother?” he asked, stepping closer. The wrinkles between his eyes pressed together as he walked. “But yesterday, you were sick Mother.”
“Yes I know, but today I feel much better.” She looked at him. “Would you like to go on walk with me today? I’d sure like it if you’d join me. There’s something I want to show you.”
He had never been asked if he would like to go, and even if he had, he would have said no. But today, something felt strange. He dug in his mind for some excuse to get out of going, but couldn’t find anything. So he nodded.
His mother set down the towel she had been drying her hands with and pushed open the front door and held it long enough for him to go through. They walked down the path through the field he had seen his mother take every day. He followed her cautiously, not knowing what she was up to. Ahead of him, she skipped and picked flowers along the way. They entered a wooded area still in view of the house and he kept looking back. The path led to a clearing and his mother stopped there. He had been shielding his eyes from the sun and put down his hand as he stepped into the forest. He walked to his mother who stood looking at a tall slab of concrete.
“This is what I wanted to show you,” his mother said as he grew near. He didn’t look at the gravestone but just at his mother.
“You’re dead, Mother. I saw you yester--“
“Yes,” she said slyly. She looked up at him.
“This is yours, then. Father must have put it here this morning.” He looked now at the dirt around the stone. Leaves had gathered behind it and grass was growing all around. He tried to convince himself, but he couldn’t believe it. His mother smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder before she walked back to the house on the path.
He stepped from the side of the gravestone and looked at the writing. He knew what he would find there. His stomach twisted with the thought and it took all he had not to run from this place. His name stared at him from the block writing deep in the concrete. The time span of his life lasted just eight years. He had died there on the river that day in the canoe.
He looked up through the tops of the trees and squinted his eyes against the morning sun. There was a fluffy cloud up in the sky, and he watched it until he couldn’t see it anymore and it finally drifted out of sight.