Chloe (17 page)

“Why is it every time I think we’re ok, you start acting
like this? Why?” he demands. “I have feelings too, you know. I’m really sorry
if that’s an inconvenience. Or if
I’m
an inconvenience. Or if spending
time with me is an inconvenience.”

Chloe shakes her head, acting as though his passionate
outburst is merely an annoyance. “I have to go.” She tries to pass him. He will
have none of that. He has just about had enough of her walking all over him. He
loves her. She is taking it for granted.

James throws his arms out, gesturing to the wide open space
of the courtyard. “Where?! Where do you have to go?”

Chloe scrubs her face with her hands. She seems like she is
close to tears. Suddenly, James regrets yelling at her. His anger subsides,
replaced with the guilt that always comes with upsetting her. “The visions,”
she tries, floundering with her choice of words. “Whatever it is I’m seeing.
They are not going away.” She takes her hands down from her face, fixing him in
a weary, desperate gaze. For the first time, Chloe allows James to see her
uncertainty. It is raw and horrifying. Her guard is gone. Instead of some
invisible woman, he sees a vexed, anxious girl. “I need to know
why
.”

James does the only thing he can. Luckily, it is the only
thing he has ever wanted to do. “Let me help you,” he offers.

“How?” Chloe chokes.

He shrugs. “I don’t know the details yet. But we can figure
it out together. I hate to see you suffering this way. Please. Just this once,
let me help you,” James insists.

Chloe is flattered, but her guard is up again. James’ heart
sinks like a stone into his stomach. Chloe reaches up and touches the side of
his face. She smooths her thumb over his cheek. He leans gently against her
palm. And he doesn’t bother to hide the hurt in his eyes when she says, “One
day, you’re going to meet someone better than me. Someone who will love you as
much as you love me.” Chloe kisses him on his cheek. It feels like goodbye and
that is a dagger to his heart. She passes him by. He lets her go.

Wild horses could not stop her long enough to get her to
notice him. How can
he
hope to?

James turns around. “Where are you going?” he asks,
emotionally pulverized.

“Need to get some answers,” she replies, coupled with a
tight smile.

Chloe turns on her heel and leaves, her blouse fluttering in
the breeze. “When will you get it through your head?” he whispers into the
empty air. “I can’t have someone better than you.” James fishes out the
engagement ring from the pocket of his slacks. He stares at it. “Because there
is no one better than you.”

•

Dr. Ross’s office, done in dark wood, smells like cinnamon.
Chloe spots a bowl of potpourri on the table in the center of the waiting
chairs. The walls are decorated with serene landscape paintings and a few
framed ink blots.

A young receptionist, dressed in a navy blue shrug jacket
and ruffled blouse, is at the front desk. Being that she has nothing better to
do, she is sending a text on her blackberry and giggling about it like a high
school girl. The plaque on her desk reads
Lauren McPhee
.

Chloe walks in and passes her desk, making a beeline for Dr.
Ross’s office door. The receptionist jumps up from her seat.

“Miss,” she calls, but tries to keep her voice down at the
same time. Kenneth must be with a patient. Her pencil skirt prevents her from
matching Chloe’s pace. “You can’t go in there without an appointment.”

“Give me a break,” Chloe grumbles.

Kenneth is indeed with a patient when Chloe barges in.
Lauren is behind her, walking, more like teetering, on six inch heels.

“I tried to stop her sir,” she assures, on the verge of
apologizing profusely.

Chloe talks over her. “Need to talk to you.”

Kenneth blinks, but somehow maintains his calm and collected
appearance. “Our appointment is not for another two weeks,” he reminds her
gently, narrowing his eyes the way a dotting parent might when a child exhibits
peculiar behavior.

Chloe shrugs. Flatly, “I’m not here as a patient.” Kenneth
considers, eyeing her from over the rim of his glasses. Chloe stands with her
feet shoulder width apart, clearly indicating to him that she has no intention
of moving.

“Should I call security?” Lauren asks over Chloe’s shoulder.

Having the girl removed will only anger her. Kenneth removes
his glasses, assuming a patient, slim smile. “No need. She is not a threat.
Give us a minute.” Lauren slips past Chloe and helps the other client, an older
gentlemen in golfing attire who looks quite perturbed, off the recliner and
they both leave. Chloe imagines this will be a complementary visit for him. He
can feel free to thank her later.

“Who am I?” she demands of Kenneth when they are finally
alone.

His eyebrows jump up. As though he is amused, “You don’t
know who you are?”

Chloe’s expression darkens. She fists her hands. “Talk to me
without the psychological slant.”

“Very well,” he indulges. “You are Cleopatra.”

Is this idiot blind? Chloe looks nothing like her mother!
Her mother is withering away—a picture of premature aging. How could he confuse
the two of them to this degree? How should she proceed? “Is there a file here
on me?”

He nods. “There is a file for all my patients.”

“Can I see it?” Chloe asks, though it is more of a
requirement than a request.

“It’s not our policy to show clients their file. We are
not
required to divulge that confidential information to anyone unless there are
legal ramifications.”

Chloe’s nostrils flare. She sets her lips. Finally,
“Please.”

Kenneth considers again. He puts his glasses back on and
pushes them up the bridge of his nose. He stands and crosses the room to his
beige file cabinet next to his mahogany desk. He removes a golden key from the
pocket of his suit jacket and opens the bottom drawer. His fingers crawl over
the file tabs. He finds hers and pulls it out. The doctor offers it to her.
Chloe accepts and opens it hurriedly. Inside, there is a picture of her mother.
The name on the application is also her mother’s.

Chloe’s brows knit together. Vexed, “Does she have
children?”

Kenneth eyes her. “It’s a bit disturbing, hearing you refer
to yourself in the third person like that.”

Chloe decides to humor him. If it will expedite the
situation, so be it. “Do
I
have children?”

Kenneth crosses his arms and takes a seat in the well
cushioned chair in back of his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. “What is
this about, Ms. Taylor?”

Chloe slams her hand on his desk. He eases back in his
chair—the only sign that her outburst makes him somewhat uncomfortable. Chloe
imagines he is glad for the desk that separates them. “Do I have children?!”

Kenneth grits his teeth together with a look of doom in his
eyes. “Have you been taking your medication?” he leads.

Chloe all but chucks the folder at him. “I don’t take
medications!”

Kenneth’s eyes widen. He places his hands on his desk. “What
in the world have you been doing with the prescriptions?”

Chloe opens her hands in an abrupt, annoyed manner. She then
holds up one finger to punctuate, “You only gave me one prescription.”

He scrutinizes her. Gently, “I give you a prescription every
month.”

Chloe balks.
Every month?
Is this the reason Chloe is
seeing her father? The cause of the bizarre hallucinations? Is this the root of
all the delusions? But if so, why does the doctor think she is her mother, and
not herself? The confusion is maddening. Her mind is nothing but scrambled eggs
at this point. She and her mother hate eggs. “Why the heck do I need
medication? What’s wrong with me?”

Kenneth gestures solicitously to the folder in Chloe’s
hands. “You have the file,” he reminds her.

Chloe opens the file. She skims through the pages, reading
the words that pop out at her. She shakes her head in disbelief. Her heart rate
is increasing, sweat breaks out on her forehead, quickly chilling as she
panics. She closes the file and hands it back to him, shaking. She leaves in a
hurry. Kenneth, looking worried, opens the file and makes a notation.

•

Chloe rummages through her mother’s drawers, creating a mess
she will have to fret over later. Her vexation drives her, taking her
determination to solve this mystery to new heights. She finds a bedside drawer
that is locked. She searches for a key. She finds scissors instead. She begins
to dig off the lock with the scissors. The scissors break at the joint. She
storms out of the room.

Chloe emerges into the garage. There is a tool box in a
corner. The garage is otherwise empty, as if it’s not in use. Her mother has
not driven since the accident. Her license is expired. They do not have a car.
They do not need a car. Wait… how does Chloe get to places? How does she get to
work again? She takes the bus. She takes the bus… right?

Chloe goes to the tool box. It is also locked. No matter how
many times she yanks at the mechanism, it will not budge. There is a red brick
on one of the shelves, probably from the gardening project her mother never
finished. She takes it and breaks the lock. She opens the tool box, blessed
with a stroke of good luck.

“Perfect,” she says as she pulls out a crowbar.

Chloe digs open the drawer. Inside is a mess of documents.
Chloe skims through them, one after the next. Some of them are newspaper
articles and clippings, one particular with the face of Patrick in the picture.
The headline reads “2 Fatalities in a Motor Vehicle Accident.” The other is an
unidentified woman.

No matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to
wake up tomorrow, just fine.

Chloe pockets that clipping.

She searches again, frenzied, discovering stacks of unfilled
prescriptions for one psychotropic drug called
Perphenazine
. She sees a
gun underneath some more documents. That is a very harrowing image. Chloe has
never held a gun. She pulls out the gun and examines it. She puts it back,
restocks the drawer and pushes it back in. She breezes out of her mother’s room
and makes for her own.

Chloe is on her laptop in the middle of her bed. She does a
Google search for Perphenazine. She clicks on the first link and scans the
article for what the drug is used for. “Perphenazine is used to treat psychosis
(e.g. in schizophrenics) and the manic phases of bipolar disorder.”

“If I don’t know when I’m dreaming, how will I know when
I’m awake?”

“What?” Chloe whispers to herself, irritated. She hates
medical jargon. Normal people can never understand it.

Are you dreaming now?
she hears Patrick ask again.

Chloe does a Google search for “bipolar disorder.” “Bipolar
Disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a serious medical illness
that causes shifts in a person’s mood, energy, and ability to function.”

“That’s pain. You feel the agony surging through your
body? Undeniable in your waking hours. Yet, in dreams you feel no pain. Because
dreams are not real—merely projections of your subconscious. Echoes.
Fragments.”

Chloe immediately Googles schizophrenics. “Schizophrenia
most commonly manifests itself as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre
delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking, and it is accompanied by
significant social or occupational dysfunction.” Chloe slams the laptop lid
shut.

Hallucinations. Delusions. Dysfunction. Her mother has…
Schizophrenia?

As if on cue, Cleopatra walks in with her fists clued to her
hips. “Have you been in ma’ room?”

Chloe fumbles with what to say. She shakes her head with
tears brimming in her eyes. “All this time… All the smoking and the alcohol and
the shady guys… I thought you were just trying to cope with your bad choices.”

“What?” Cleopatra asks, puzzled.

Chloe levels her with a grave frown. “Why does your
psychiatrist think I’m you?”

Her mother’s eyes widen and then fill with a sort of
wonderment that Chloe has not seen the likes of before. She takes her hands
down from her hips. “You went to see Dr. Ross?” Cleopatra asks softly.

“Yes!” Chloe exclaims. “But that’s not ma’ point! He thinks
I’m you. Why does he think that?”

“What is this about?” Cleopatra asks.

Chloe clamps her hands over her ears, fighting tears and
sobs and screams.
What is this about?
Why does everyone keep asking her
that?! It is about
her!
It is about understanding what on earth is wrong
and why the world seems so off kilter! Chloe digs in her pocket and shows her
mother the prescriptions, practically shoving the many slips against her chest.
Some of them flutter down to the floor.

Cleopatra looks at them. She frowns. Her face lights up in
anger. “I’m not a psycho,” she spits.

“Well, Doctor Ross thinks you are!” Chloe bursts.

Cleopatra thrusts the slips of paper back at Chloe. They
rain down around her. “I’m not the one seeing dead people,” she hisses.
Cleopatra leaves without another word.

Chloe sweeps the papers aside and drops into bed. She balls
her fists up in the fabric and shrieks into her pillow. It does well to muffle
the sound, but not the subsequent sting in her throat. She mentally traces her
steps, speeding through the conversation with the doctor and her fight with
James, back to the bathroom.

“Please,” Patrick starts. “You have to listen to me. No
matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just
fine. Only I don’t ever remember going to sleep. I know this. I know this
beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

“Do you ever dream? When you sleep?” she asks her father.

“I don’t have dreams,” she tells Dr. Ross again. “I close
ma’ eyes and I see darkness,” she describes flatly. “That’s all there is when I
sleep. I wake up from darkness, not dreams. I wake up from nothing.”