Chloe (18 page)

“It’s just darkness,” Patrick says. “It is darkness as
though the main power grid of reality has been shut down entirely and we are
all suspended in a time where nothing exists. Nothing. My days pass in
disjointed flashes. More often than not, I cannot string them together
logically. It is as though each day is a separate event, the pawns and pieces
laid out across a stage that is already set, crafted by someone other than
myself. It’s like we’re in some game, a make believe world.”

After a great deal of crying, Chloe steps out of the shower,
wrapping the towel around her torso. She did not want her mother to hear her
sobbing. Her cheeks feel raw. Her eyes are puffy. The water still stings her
eyes. She comes up to the mirror, shrouded in steam and all fogged up. She uses
her hand to wipe the fog away, revealing a reflection of her mother’s face—her
eyes red and her skin blotchy from crying. Chloe shrieks in alarm. She steps
back, slips, and falls, hitting her head on the toilet. She lays there,
unconscious.

Chloe’s eyes flutter open, met by a view of her ceiling.
James is sitting by the side of her bed. He looks up when she rouses. Chloe
sits up and feels the back of her head, finding no bumps or bruises. She is
fully dressed. Her hair is dry.

“You ok?” James asks, tilting his head with concern in his
face.

Chloe blinks, drawing her face into a frown as she tries to
put reason to this. “What are you doing here?”

James hands her a manuscript. “Returning this.”

Chloe looks at the movie script in her hand. Blankly, “I
finished it?” She does not remember finishing it. Did she hit her head so hard
that she forgot? How much has she forgotten? Did she also solve world hunger in
that time? Did she even hit her head at all?

James continues, going about their conversation as though it
is merely business as usual. “Also picked up your mail at the post office.”
James hands her some envelopes. Chloe leafs through them.

“These are from publishers,” she whispers breathlessly, her
eyes widening and filling with wonder. Hope surges through her. This is it.
This is the moment everything will be put right again! Chloe begins opening
them, tearing through one rejection letter after another. Already frustrated,
Chloe breaks down, fresh tears flooding her eyes. She will never escape this
place. She is trapped here. She swipes the letters off her bed.

“Don’t do that,” James discourages, his voice saturated in
sorrow.

Chloe gathers her knees up against her chest and turns her
face away from him, taking an intense interest in the wall. “Need to be alone
for a while,” she chokes out.

“You’re a great writer Chloe,” he says, placing a hand on
her shoulder.

Chloe wishes there was room enough to recoil. Her body is
too rigid and James’ hand is too strong to shake it off in these cramped
quarters. “Nobody else agrees with you.”

“Stop it, Chloe. These are only a few people. You cannot say
nobody
,” he counters. “Listen to me. Not everyone has seen your work
yet. Lots of people are going to love it. You heard Phil that day in church.
You’re going to change the world through the written word. That screenplay of
yours is
awesome!
”

“Yeah. Well maybe Phil only said that to get me to give in.
Maybe it’s all one big brain washing trick.” Chloe has lost touch with James’
optimism. She cannot bring herself to give in to his words. “Besides, that’s
what you said about everything else.” Her heartache is a writhing tangle in her
chest.

“This is different,” he persists.

“How is it different, James?” she hisses lowly. Her voice
cracks. “Unless you
lied
.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” James defends, taking his hand
away. “The screenplay is a different kind of awesome. It might even be a step
above awesome. I just don’t know what else to call it…” He sighs. “I can never
say the right thing to you. I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to get you upset.
Why don’t you believe me? It’s… It’s really spectacular.”

Chloe hugs her knees tighter, fed up with the empty
flattery. “You think maybe you could leave me alone to grieve a little?”

She can feel James’ eyes burning into her. “You’re not a
quitter, Chloe.” She feels the bed give as he finds his feet and leaves.

Chloe sinks back in the bed and allow the tears to flow
freely. She grabs the letters and throws them away from her. She grabs the
printed movie script and begins tearing it up, throwing away the pieces. Soon,
the floor around her bed is littered with scraps of paper and broken dreams.
She cries some more. She cries a lot these days.

•

James ignores his mother’s questions and worried countenance
when he walks in the door and makes a beeline for his room, turned office. He
knows he looks angry he knows he looks distressed. He knows he does not look
okay
because he is not okay. James tramps into his room and slams the heavily
stickered door hard enough to rattle this scarce few paintings and pictures on
the wall.

He wheels on his empty bedroom with his fists clenched at
his sides. He grits his teeth together. He looks for something to destroy.
Instead, he combs his hands back through his stark, sable hair and begins to
pace the length of the room. One end to the other, sometimes stopping in the
middle to redirect his energy and keep from putting his fist through a wall.

Finally, he throws his hands up in the air and sinks into
the edge of his bed. He scrubs his face with his hands.

“God,” he begins. “I don’t know what to do. Chloe seems so discouraged
and distraught. I want to blame myself. I was the one who encouraged her to
take the risk. I didn’t know she would fail. I honestly thought… I want her to
succeed! That is all I have ever wanted for her. That, and I love her. And I
don’t know how to tell her that I love her. This is making no sense,” he
grumbles under his breath. James hangs his head and folds his hands together.

And to some, it may seem that he is talking to the empty
air. But James has an unshakable, deep seeded faith and he knows that God hears
him and loves him and Chloe. He knows there is a plan and a purpose for this.
The only issue is that he cannot see it.

“I am afraid that if I tell her, she will just push me away,
like she always has. I want to show her your love through me. I want to be
there to protect her and care for her and provide for her and show her what a
real family looks like… and how she can trust people and depend on me. I don’t
want to let her down or lead her astray.”

“Phil said that Chloe’s work was supposed to touch the
world,” he recounts. “Was that true? Is that your word, or his? Her screenplay
is amazing and I think… I think it will touch millions of people. I know we
needs your help and blessing in order to make that happen. If it be your will, please
let Chloe’s projects get picked up by a publisher. Let her taste victory in a
world where she constantly loses. And please don’t let me lose her in the
process. Give me strength. Give her comfort.

Help us, Lord.”

•

Violent actions beget violent consequences. That is the way
of the world. Strange though that these consequences always seem to befall the
wrong party. If the universe, suspended in this moratorium, is so desperate for
balance, one would think it would deal them good hands, or at least opposing
repercussions… which in this case have no choice but to be good.

That is not always true though. Such a paradox is certainly
the way of things with Chloe’s writing. The more action and assertiveness she
undertakes, the more stagnation meets her. Her persistence yields nothing.

Could all those hours be for naught? Is she destined to be
just another of the unfortunate 90-plus %? Can she make the cut? Are the
naysayers and piteous bystanders right? Is her mother right, that she is
wasting her life away in front of her laptop?

Life, which seemed to be moving (perhaps not in the best
direction, but moving none the less), has hit another wall. Chloe now spends
her life waiting for people. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Waiting to understand why strange things keep happening.
Waiting for someone to delight in her work—to respond. Waiting for Sandra to
take a liking to her. Waiting for her mother to realize her mistakes and find
better men. Waiting for Greg to show his true colors. Waiting for James to
commit to memory that they can never be together the way he wants them to.
Waiting for Patrick to show up and ruin another outing.

Waiting for God to show her his mercy.

What does faith get her if not more strife and self-doubt?
It gets her frustrated, hurt, and mistaken for her mother, that’s what it gets
her! Chloe is nothing like her mother. They share the same tissue, that is all.

She has done all she can in each situation, right?

She has given advice and taken initiative and provided
avenues for the desired outcomes she has so deliberately deemed best. Written
and rewritten material, changed her demeanor for the workplace, bought new
clothes, confronted her mother, warned Cleopatra about Greg, told her mother to
find work and independence, explained to James he deserves better, and
declaring Patrick to be an allusion.

Will no one listen to her?

Success. Victory. Blessings. Oh, she knows what they mean,
but not from experience. True, Greg is gone. But will he stay that way?

Is it really a victory if her mother still has the passion
for dangerous men? Still enjoys being smacked around and tolerates all manner
of abuse? Will Cleopatra even remember the slap across her daughter’s face by
Greg’s calloused, meaty hand? Will she try to justify it all?

That would be the worst wound. That would destroy Chloe
completely. It is one thing if her mother allows herself to be abused, but it
is another entirely to let Chloe be abused!

The instant when Greg called them all family still leaves a
bad taste in her mouth. Greg will never be her father. Any scum her mother
scrapes off the street and brings home will never be her father.

She has not seen her real father, who everyone else thinks
is dead, in what feels like a life time. Patrick used to appear so often to
her. Where is he now? Even though his sporadic appearances fray her nerves,
Chloe resonates with his presence. She… loves him. She is not the only person
who feels something amiss. He trusts her. She almost trusts him, which is more
than more people can say.

“It’s just darkness. It is darkness as though the main
power grid of reality has been shut down entirely and we are all suspended in a
time where nothing exists.

Nothing.

My days pass in disjointed flashes. More often than not,
I cannot string them together logically. It is as though each day is a separate
event, the pawns and pieces laid out across a stage that is already set,
crafted by someone other than myself. It’s like we’re in some game, a make
believe world.”

Every expanse of nothingness between waking hours seems like
an eternity. Are Chloe and her cohorts predestined to wallow in bad luck?
Pieces in a game? Life is a series of choices and opportunities. She knows that
much.

But is she the one deciding and directing, or are there
other puppeteering forces at work?

•

For Cleopatra, morning will never be considered a fresh
start. It is only the beginning of another ugly day, already soiled and dirtied
with memories and regrets.

She finds herself in the living room, rooted in the same spot
she has been all night long, draped over the couch with a half empty fifth of
cheap gin in her hand. Cleopatra is drinking hard, straight from the bottle,
and has been since the bleakest watches of the night. Her stomach growls, but
there is nothing appetizing in the pantry and she has no desire to cook.

Her hair is a mess. Her makeup is smudged. Her eyes are
heavy with drink and lack of sleep. She looks older now than ever.

Chloe is passing through the den towards the kitchen,
probably about to leave for work judging from her attire and the way her hair
is pulled back, so prim and pretty. Cleopatra sees her and scoffs.

Chloe. Chloe Cleopatra Taylor. So beautiful. So perfect. So
apt to judge everyone around her and ruin her world. Steal her youth. Take her
freedom. It’s disgusting.

Her life used to be wonderful, used to have promise. She was
in college with an aptitude that could take her anywhere. She had a hard work
ethic. She was a good girl and a great girlfriend. She never signed up to be a
single mother. That was never part of the plan!

And what does she have now?

A repugnant daughter and a dead lover. That’s what she has
now!

Thinking back on that day in the graveyard, when Cleopatra
made herself see Patrick in Chloe out of grief, she rebukes herself. Chloe
couldn’t possibly be Patrick’s daughter. Patrick would never do anything like
this to her. Patrick would never leave her alone, or force her to quit habits
that kept her going.

It’s not his fault he’s dead. Because he
is
dead.

If Cleopatra would have only listened to her intuition and
snuffed out the problem before it had a chance to proliferate, he would still
be with her. He would still be the best thing in her life: Alive, lovely, and
grinning in that stupid way he used to, grinning at her, adoring her, unlike
any other man will. She was blameless and perfect to him.

No one will ever see her like that. Not at this age, not
with her choices.

She would wait on him hand and foot, blissfully ignorant to
the problems of other couples. Their problems would be walks in the park. They
would never worry about money or loneliness. They would always have each other.
And they would have their happy ending too.

He promised her that. No, Patrick would never do this to
her.