Chloe (20 page)

Meryl does not look amused. As though she is convinced Chloe
thinks them incompetent, “Pretty rare in this day and age to have a corpse we
cannot put a name and a face to. I’m sure at some point after that article was
written, the body was identified.”

Chloe cannot let the woman’s brash nature deter her. She
came here for a purpose. She is missing work for this, because she knows how
important it is. “How would I get that information?” is her last resort.

Meryl thinks, pursing her lips as she gives Chloe a
skeptical once-over look from across the desk. She must have seen something
endearing, because the next thing Chloe knows, Meryl sighs. She tears off a
page from her note pad and puts it in front of Chloe with a ballpoint pen.

“Leave your contact info. I will call if I find anything.”

This brings a smile to Chloe’s face. It is less than she
came for, but at least it is something. Someone is willing to go the extra mile
for her.
Finally.

Chloe is surprised by the sincerity in her own voice when
she says, “I really appreciate this.” She does.

“Sure,” Meryl mutters as Chloe quickly scribbles her name
and number.

Chloe leaves the police station, catching a taxi on the
curb. She must take buses and taxis when James does not drive her places. The
Taylors do not own a car. She does not know how she forgot that. When she found
the empty garage, she should have known. She should have remembered. James
bought her ice cream.

She took a taxi home after that. Right?

Chloe wonders if her mother has ever been in a taxi. They
should really find a way to purchase a car. Then again, with Chloe skipping
work like this, God knows where they will find the money. Come to think of it,
taxis are expensive. Her mother should find a job too. Chloe will help, but without
a college degree, her prospects of finding a real job are significantly
reduced.

The thoughts swirl around in Chloe’s head, but somehow she
knows nothing is ever going to change. How could it?

Her own mother doesn’t want her. What obligation does Chloe
have to a woman who would rather she have never been born? The same idea drove
her to suicide just yesterday, or at least dreams, nightmares, of such actions.

Chloe sits in the back seat, leaning her head against the
doorframe and watching the world pass through the rain spotted window. The cab
smells like body odor and cigarette smoke, underneath which is a faint,
lingering whiff old vomit. The Christmas tree shaped air freshener hanging from
the rearview mirror has clearly run its course. Dead. Everything is dead,
except Chloe.

Chloe’s phone begins to vibrate again. Chloe lets it ring
until the call goes to voicemail. Now, she has a grand total of 18 missed calls
from Sandra. Chloe closes her eyes. In her mind, there is only one place to go
now.

The taxi pulls to the side of the road, or the highway to be
exact. Chloe gets out, ignoring the quizzical look from the driver. She pays
the taxi. The cab drives off. She stands by the side of the road. Cars, trucks,
vans, and buses whiz past her, most above the speed limit of 75, enough for her
to feel their wake in the air, enough for it to blow her hair across her face.
Everything becomes clearer.

She knows she took the box cutter to her wrist last night.
She knows she felt the sting of metal and the cold hand of death upon her.
Chloe recalls her conversation with Patrick in the strange desert landscape as
well as the incident outside of the bookstore where the man waltzed out in
front of an oncoming bus. Not a week later, she saw him again, alive and well.
She thought the man was insane.

But had she not experienced the same miracle this morning?

My days pass in disjointed flashes. No matter what I do
today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine.

Just fine.

Chloe’s eyes are fixed on the other side of the highway,
eight lanes across: four coming and four going. Her heart is hammering in her
chest. She can hardly breathe. She closes her eyes, steels herself, and (to her
surprise), mutters a quick prayer. “Lord, please help me to understand.”

She begins walking across the highway. Vehicles are missing
her by a fraction of an inch, some swerving slightly to avoid hitting her. She
makes it midway and jumps the median. She begins walking across the other four
lanes without being hit.

She makes it across three lanes, suddenly realizing that she
is indeed going to make it all the way across, unharmed. Unheard of.
Impossible. Miraculous. So, naturally, because she has a point she needs to
prove, Chloe stops in the middle, dead center, of the forth lane. This is the
defining moment.

She turns to face the oncoming traffic. There is a truck
barreling towards her at top speed, horns blazing. Breaks shriek. The driver
looks mortified.

Chloe closes her eyes and spreads her arms, as though she is
prepared to embrace her own demise. In less than a second, she will be dead.
And she will know it was not a dream.

•

Chloe’s eyes snap open and stare vacantly up at the familiar
ceiling of her bedroom. Morning sunshine is peeking in through the blinds. She can
hear birds outside and the shuddering engines of the neighborhood garbage
truck. Was it… a dream? Her mind reels.

No. No, she swore to herself she would not fall for that
again. It was not a dream. Chloe took a taxi out to the highway, walked across
seven lanes of traffic, and stood like a statue in the eighth. That was
precisely what happened. She should be dead!

She jumps out of bed, realizing her body works just fine.
God Almighty, she is not even sore! She checks for any bruises on her body—some
physical indication that she did indeed suffer the ordeal. But, like yesterday
morning (it
was
yesterday… right?), she finds nothing.

Still perfect. Still…
just fine.

•

Later that day, Chloe sits with James on a wooden park
bench. Together, they stare out across the rolling green, patched with spots of
dirt from the rain and too much wear and tear. There is a playground in the
heart of the park, overrun with children. Their distant laughter mingles with
the sounds of traffic and chirping birds and a lawnmower they cannot see.

There is a couple walking their dog. A group of girls on
their way home from school.

Joggers in grey hooded sweatshirts…

“What’s happening to you?” James asks flatly.

Chloe called him here. He sounded surprised on the phone. As
rare as Chloe texts him first, a personal phone call happens even less. But she
needs him. She needs him more than ever. He is the only constant in her life.
And maybe she uses him like a crutch. Maybe she takes him for granted when
times are good and tosses him aside when his presence is inconvenient… but lord
help her, she needs him now.

She has… no one else. No one.

“I think I’m losing ma’ mind,” she confesses, as if he is
not already aware. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I am.”

James turns his head and regards her in silence for a long
moment. Chloe knows he is searching his brain, and most likely his mother’s
scriptures, for something to say. James could never agree with that statement.
Chloe never expected him to.

But when he uses the old argument, “You’re a writer. It’s
expected that the worlds you create will somehow creep into your reality,” she
wishes she did not ask.

Chloe shakes her head. She wishes she could make him
understand. She wanted to take his eyes and plug them into her brain so that he
could see all she has experienced. It would shatter James to know that Chloe
turned to suicide not once, but twice. Then again, maybe that shock would knock
some sense into him. Harrowing. Sobering.

“It’s more than that. Ma’ life is a collection of
fragments.”

James is trying to find the humor in this, trying to nudge
them back to where they once were and what they once had. She wishes he knew
they will never be the same. Chloe will never be the same. He is happy to be
with her again, she can sense that much, but there is a wariness about him too,
as though he does not entirely trust her anymore.

“You probably just take life a little too seriously,” he
states, settling back against the bench.

Chloe wishes that was all that was wrong. How does she make
him see what he and everyone else seems to be so blinded to? Chloe wishes
Patrick were here. If Patrick revealed himself to James, he would be more apt
to believe her.

She tries a different approach. She can only hope and pray
that James will be honest with his answer. “Do you ever see anything around
here that’s—odd?”

James turns from her to let his eyes pan over the park. He
gestures towards a jogger who has just rounded a cluster of ferns. “That
gentleman over there is pretty odd. He’s jogging in jeans.” Again, he is trying
to buffer the tension with humor. This will get them nowhere.

“You don’t take me seriously,” Chloe declares dourly.

She sees James shrug his shoulders in time with a shallow
jump of his eyebrows. “Should I?”

Chloe rounds on him, her brows knitting together in earnest.
“I expect you to.”

“How about if I just told you the truth?”

Chloe suppresses a shudder at the weight and implication of
those words. Has he lied to her before? When he said she was such a great
writer, was that the truth? When he said he would help her find a solution to
this mess, and they would do it together? was that the truth?

What is the truth? Chloe has been seeking that allusive idea
for months.

She inclines her chin, setting her lips into a grim line. “I
expect nothing less from you.”

James’ eyes find the ground, speckled with pistachio shells
from those who were here before them. Chloe remembers the night James took her
for ice cream that he ordered pistachio. Strange coincidence. Choices and
opportunities.

“You’re acting a little crazy,” James announces. Chloe
balks. He said it. He actually said it. He used the words Chloe was counting on
him not to say, just like her mother.

“I would have been happier if you were never born.
Patrick would still be alive.” “Crazy.”

And apparently James isn’t done. “Life will feel incomplete
if you keep leaving things unfinished.”

“We are all trapped in an endless, meaningless cycle.
None of us are free. Nothing is as it seems.”

“What have I left unfinished?” Chloe asks hollowly.

“Your writing. Me,” he lists off. He probably rambles for
another minute or so, while Chloe’s senses shut down. Chloe wonders how long he
has been thinking about all this—how long he has tried to hide his true
sentiments. “Maybe it’s time you saw something through to fruition,” he
suggests. The words sting.

Chloe rolls her eyes with a hopeless shake of her head. She
looks up at the sky, willing her tears to dry up and the annoying kink in her
lip to go away. “You don’t believe
anything
I’ve told you?”

“I think it’s all in your mind.”

Chloe wants to be sick, as evidenced by the bile that rises
in the back of her throat. All in her mind? The dreamless sleep. The bizarre
visits to Dr. Ross. Her mother’s license inside her own wallet. Her mother’s
face staring back at her in the mirror. The deaths that never happened. The
events that are remembered differently. The stagnation of the world. And
Patrick…

“Guess I’ll just have to show you.”

That’s it! Patrick!

Chloe will have to show him. She will give him concrete evidence
that he cannot explain away or blame on her unraveling sense of reality,
because he will experience it too. Chloe considers for a moment, her mind
racing for the perfect spot to use.

“Maybe I can show you.” Chloe takes his hand and they leave
the park.

•

Chloe and James stand in front of a twenty story office
building in the downtown district. And though James’ car is parked in the lot
behind them, Chloe has no memory of the trip here. Does James? Obviously, he
drove them… or that is what the car is supposed to imply. These
inconsistencies, these skips on the slate, seem to go unnoticed by everyone but
her.

Why is that?

Chloe looks up to the top floor. She grabs James’ arm and
closes her eyes, half convinced she can teleport the two of them to the top.
Nothing happens.

“Guess we’re doing this the traditional way,” she mutters.
James blinks at her incredulously.

Chloe relinquishes her hold on James and goes towards the
entrance of the building. James follows. A few of the clerks give them queer
looks as they pass through the lobby, but they must expect them to have an
appointment with someone on an upper floor because no one moves to stop them.

Chloe steps into the elevator. James assumes his place
beside her. Chloe punches the button to the twentieth floor. They ride up in
silence. Chloe wishes the cheerful elevator music sounded more ominous. It all
feels like one big joke now. James probably thinks so too. But she will show
him.

The elevator door opens. Chloe and James step out. Chloe
looks left and right to find the stairwell that leads to the rooftop. She
crosses the hall to another door, labeled Stairs with a green picture of stairs
and a stick-person walking up them beneath it. Chloe throws open the door and
quickly ascends. James follows her up.

Surrounded by concrete and ventilation shafts, Chloe walks
towards the ledge of the building. James flanks her reluctantly.

“What are we doing up here?” he calls to her in the
stillness.

Chloe marches towards the edge. “Showing you that I’m not
crazy.”

James looks uncertain. He glances around, his heart
fluttering in his throat, hardly keen on the situation. “Or confirming it,” he
says, noting the direction she is headed. Chloe wonders if James thinks she is
going to push him off or something silly like that.