Head in the Clouds

Mother is in the garden again. She is by the pond looking at the sky and clouds. From the way she is stretching out her neck and motioning her chin, I can tell she is catching the breeze on her face, sensing its direction and strength. She wants to know in which way the clouds are moving or how quickly they will be out of sight.

Like many people these days, Mother is fascinated by clouds. This sounds boastful, but I know more about them than her, despite being only nine years old. Twelve weeks ago, I received an illustrated book from Father before he left for good. The book, Fly Clouds Fly, opened my eyes. It showed me a sky so beautiful you can get lost in it.

That final afternoon with Father was spent studying each page at the garden table, matching the colorful pictures with the passing fluff overhead. We read of the white cumulus clouds that hover high up for hours like blobs of half-eaten jelly; we learned about the lower stratus clouds that weave and wrap together, covering the sky in white and grey; we marveled at pictures of smaller cirrocumulus and altocumulus clouds that bunch in balls like plates of peas and potatoes. My favorite though are the cirrus clouds that curl as if smoothly turning a corner.

“Have you noticed?” Father said. “Cirrus clouds form the letter C”.

C is for Caleb, which is my name. Father was smart like that, and he made me laugh. The next day he was gone.

The rear of our house backs onto a gloomy alley, so the garden occupies the area between our front door and a wooden gate that leads to the street. Those first few days, awaiting Father’s return, I kept busy by the pond with one eye on the gate and the other on the sky, identifying clouds, one by one. Mother wasn’t herself. As she came in and out of the house she stopped and turned, as if forgetting why she came outside at all. I told her of the shapes I saw; dark grey stratus boats, cumulus cars, and a forest of cotton wool-like trees masking the sun as it set. Mother claimed not to see any of them. I pointed to faces, smiling and sad, protruding from the thick evening cover, but I don’t even think she looked.

At the first opportunity, I took my book to school to show Jennifer, my friend in class. She nodded along as I described the different fluffy types and sizes but looked away often. I told her it’s better to read the book from a garden with real clouds in sight and that she should come over after school, but she said her father wouldn’t like that. I suggested another night, but she dismissed it again with a snap.

Thinking about Jennifer, I was a little sad walking home that evening. Upon arriving, I darted to the garden and opened my book. Dipping my hand into the pond, it was refreshing to feel the cool water splash my arm. I was startled as a lily drifted by, draping over and between my fingers. I rubbed at the leaf with my thumb and it broke apart.

Up above, a grey mass had gathered with a thin wisp extending from one end. I thought it resembled a mole or fat mouse. To the right, a group of altocumulus clouds had collected and, like a constellation or dot-to-dot puzzle, formed a face with eyes wide open and mouth agape. 

My days went on like this for a while. I slept, schooled, and cloud-gazed while Mother crashed from room to room, and house to garden to house, usually with a glass of wine in her hand. I learned that clouds can be as heavy as jumbo jets and that they can move as fast as 100 MPH. I began to appreciate the varying shades and how they can add detail to an image. More and more I saw faces emerging amongst the collections of shapes and in the patterns of overcast skies. The childlike expressions were happy, angry, excited, and sad. As much as I marveled and pointed, Mother wasn’t interested and, after two weeks, grew irritated.

“Caleb, no more, it’s not safe out here right now,” she snapped. 

I was distracted by the picture of a happy boy projecting from the center of a cumulus patch to the west. The face was so beautifully drawn out by the wisps and curves.

“Look up there, Mother. Look at the boy,” I said, pointing.

“No, Caleb, no more of this today.”

She pulled me away from the pond, hurting my arm with her grip. I told her to let go and continued pointing with my free arm, but she dragged me across the grass and into the house.

Mother can get angry. It is worse when she drinks. She shouts, slams doors, and pushes vases and framed photographs over around the house. Father got angry too. He would disappear for the night and shout at Mother and me when he came home the next morning. He would tell me to be quiet; they both would, but Father would always make it up to me. I think he left because of all that shouting.

Things became strict and it was difficult to get outside after that day in the garden. Through the kitchen window, I watched the garden gate and sky, hoping for Father’s return. Sometimes Mother fell asleep on the couch and I took the key from the kitchen drawer and went outside, but that was always later in the afternoon. One morning, I was leaning on the kitchen sink by the window while Mother was on the phone. In the overcast sky to my left was the head of a beagle and straight ahead was a scattering of cirrus clouds that looked like the fountains by the maritime museum in the town square. By the scattering was a bright cumulus patch forming the shape of a smiling boy. The proximity made it look as if the boy was smiling at the fountains. It was so lovely I didn’t notice the knuckles of my right hand grinding against the edge of the kitchen surface.

I heard a crash as Mother slammed the phone down. She pulled me from the sink by my collar.

“Come in the living room,” she said as she paced.

I followed her and she turned on the television.

“You see this, Caleb?” she said. “This is the second missing kid in a week”

 A boy named Dylan Parker from our town had been missing for two days. His father had been arrested, and many people were worried.

“You see why I keep you inside, Caleb?” Mother added.

“But who took him?” I asked.

“Probably that evil man who calls himself a father, but who knows?” she replied, shaking her head. “I don’t want you outside on your own, you hear?”

“Ok, Mother.”

She stood up and walked past me. I heard her pour a glass of wine in the kitchen.

After that, walks to school were supervised. Kids were never left on the street alone. I asked Jennifer if she had heard about the missing children. She said she had, but nothing more. She just scribbled in her notebook. Miss Langham told us to be careful at the beginning and the end of the day, and I noticed other teachers in the playground watching us during lunch. One day, when it was time to go home, most of us were waiting at the exit, but Jennifer hadn’t come outside. I found her sitting alone underneath the coat hooks. I asked her what was wrong but before she could answer, I heard a call from behind me.

“Jennifer, here.”

It was her father. I watched as she walked to him, slowly. He picked her up, but she turned away as he hugged her. 

Mother was drunk when she picked me up. I could smell the wine on her and she gripped my wrist more tightly than normal. She complained I was dawdling but I was dragging my turned-over ankle across the floor, feeling the rough concrete scraping through my sock and on my skin. A complex arrangement of cumulus clouds to the south spread wide across the sky and the face of a grinning boy had formed over the entire structure. I recognized the boy as Dylan Parker from the news. He looked happier than in the photo on TV and maybe more mischievous, but I was sure it was him.

When I got home, Mother disappeared upstairs, and I looked through a pile of old newspapers that had gathered on the floor. Spread across the third in the pile, I saw Dylan Parker’s face. I was certain it was the boy from the sky. The article said that his father was a suspect as he had often been heard by neighbors shouting aggressively at Dylan. Both parents claimed he had disappeared one morning after he left for school.

I turned the page and read more. Like Mother said, a second child had disappeared, this one a week earlier. I studied the girl’s face. It was the face I once saw, assembled from the altocumulus cluster. Her name was Alice Steele.

I knocked at Mother’s bedroom door, but she didn’t answer. I could hear her breathing from the landing. It was only 5 pm, but they were the rough breaths she took when she slept. I went down to the kitchen, made a bowl of cereal, and took my cloud book to bed.

The following morning, Mother was watching the television. People were discussing the faces in the sky, all describing things like what I saw the day before.

“People in this world are crazy, Caleb," Mother said, eyes half open. "Get your coat."

On the walk, Mother kept saying, “Don’t look at the sky, Caleb." My forearm ached from her grip and I was happy when we reached the school.

Jennifer was so troubled. I told her about Mother’s drinking and Father leaving, and I asked her if she had seen any strange behavior in the clouds, but she was silent. Ten minutes before lunch, she stood up and walked out of the classroom. Miss Langham asked her where she was going but she didn't reply. I followed her and nearly caught her up before she went into the girl’s bathroom. Miss Langham overtook me and followed Jennifer inside, but she wasn’t there. She had vanished.

The school went into a frenzy. Many teachers were crying. Our parents were called in immediately to pick us up, but some were quicker than others and I found myself waiting at the main entrance for over an hour with several classmates. The teachers were trying to comfort us, but it felt like they were equally upset. Mother arrived with her usual afternoon stagger but with a look of concern. Our eyes met, before mine were soon drawn away to the sky over her right shoulder. A scattering of dark grey stratus clouds had gathered forming the face of Jennifer. It was a blank look with a closed mouth. Hollowed regions in the cloud’s structure added her wide and detailed eyes. As I pointed, there was a collective gasp from those around me.

“Jennifer,” Miss Langham said.

“There she is,” said Philip Stone from class.

Everyone stared in silence as Mother pulled me away. Neither of us spoke as we made the short walk back, but over my shoulder, all the way home, Jennifer was watching.

School closed the following day. Much of my time was spent inside watching the television with Mother. Many stories like that of Jennifer, Dylan, and Alice were told all over the country and around the world. Reports of children vanishing into thin air and footage of crowds cloud-gazing in parks and city centers. Spectators, from London to Melbourne, frantically scanned the skies, while others stood paralyzed by curiosity and awe. Thousands gathered daily in Times Square to watch for clouds passing between skyscrapers, and many climbed the tallest mountains for a closer look. Faces would form over the Sahara, where clouds were seldom seen, and above oceans where few would see them with the naked eye.

Trips to the shops with Mother were the only time I ever saw anyone else for weeks, and the atmosphere was one of tension. Our route to the shops passed through Greenwood Park, which was more crowded than anywhere else. Many people were holding signs and even flying kites with messages on. A beautiful blue kite with red lettering read “I’m Sorry”, and a woman flew a pretty pink kite with white lettering saying, “Please Come Home.” People shouted of devils terraforming the skies and final judgments from the eyes of our offspring, but I understood little of this.

Planes were sent up to inspect. They flew close by with cameras, and newscasters were horrified as they described every fine detail on each face. Eyes were formed by delicate wisps, and grey patches shaped and shadowed each curve of the chin and cheeks. Videos condensed several hours into minutes, and in the footage, faces morphed in expression, sadness into surprise, happiness into fear, anger into sadness, before dissipating. I watched for hours, rubbing the soft side of my fist on the couch arm. I did this so much that the fabric began to fade but Mother never noticed.

Jennifer's face could be seen often from the kitchen window and on walks, but not every day. I was never able to watch for long enough to see the changes but her expressions were never the same. Once she was smiling from the center of a cumulus to the east, an expression she often used when trying not to laugh; another time she appeared stern and tight-lipped, a look I recognized from when she concentrated in class; and often I saw the sad look I had seen that day under the coat hooks.

Being around the house so much, Mother started to drink more and more. We walked the rooms in dim light distorted by the color of the closed curtains, and we barely talked. The walks to the shops were chaotic but I enjoyed them because they gave me opportunities to see the sky. While there was fear in the streets, it offered more life and energy than what I felt at home. Then one day, a week ago, Mother collected more than usual on our visit to the shops and, arriving home, she pushed me down onto the couch and said “No more, Caleb. No more walks, no more TV.”

The following week was the hardest. Mother was unwilling to speak, and I barely saw her without a drink. She slept anywhere in the house; on the couch, slouched over the kitchen table, the bathroom floor. I found myself mostly eating cereal without milk and crisps from the cupboard by the door to the garage. I looked at the pages of my cloud book, but now each picture was tinged with a little sadness, so I preferred to read the columns of facts. Every time I read those parts I found something new.

“You love your book, don’t you?” Mother said as she walked into the kitchen. She sat down opposite me with a glass and bottle in her hands and she placed them on the table. The afternoon sun seeped through the curtains and brightened her reddened face.

“Yes,” I replied.

 “I don’t know how anyone can like clouds anymore. The clouds are making people paranoid. Do you know what paranoia is, Caleb?” She poured more wine into her glass.

“I think so, Mother. Like fear.”

“Yeah, that’s right, fear. Daddy was paranoid; now I am. Daddy was paranoid that our little nest here isn’t the life he wanted. Now I’m paranoid that I can’t provide that life. Now do you understand what paranoia is?”

She swigged from her glass. “You know, they say these kids up there were unhappy. You believe that?” I looked down at my book and didn’t answer.

“What’s so fascinating about Daddy’s gift?” she snapped, grabbing the book.

I reached to take it back but knocked over her glass. She stood up with my book in her hand and as she swayed back and forth, she opened it and turned the pages. “This book, these clouds, this world; it’s making everybody crazy.”

I watched as she roughly turned each page.

“Mother, can I please have the book back?”

As I said this, she began tearing the pages from the book one by one. I tried to stop her but she held the book out of my reach and carried on tearing. I ran to the kitchen drawer, took the front door key, and exited the house into the garden.

The sky was awash with cumulus, stratus, cirrus, altocumulus, and cirrocumulus, scattered and layered in grey and white. Amidst the great spectacle was an army of faces, happy, sad, and indifferent. I fell to my knees as they watched over me, but I wasn’t afraid. The door opened behind me and a shrill cry bellowed from Mother. I turned back, got to my feet, and ran past her into the house. I went up to my room and rolled under the bed without turning on the light. In the darkness I crouched on my knees, forehead touching the carpet. I listened to my breath and felt it bounce back up from the floor, warming my face. I imagined a safe place that wasn’t dark and cramped. My breathing started to slow, and I was gone.

Mother is in the garden by the pond. I can see her looking up at me, catching the breeze on her face. It is calm up here. I am happier. We all are.