Authors: Cleveland McLeish
It all makes sense now. Chloe has made it. She is on her way
to greatness, on her way to touching thousands—to affecting lives and being
noticed and rising above this hellhole. Victory. Blessings. Escape. Freedom!
She wonders why she ever doubted Phil and his prophesy the
day she attended church with James. She wonders why she ever doubted God. Her
faith feels stronger now than ever before. Her prayers have been answers. He
heard her. Someone heard her and
listened!
This is her moment. She will forget the confusion and the
inconsistencies. It was just a trick of the mind. But her mind will heal now
with the success her hard work will bring and being perpetually busy. She no
longer wishes to see Patrick.
She no longer wants to entertain the constant questions that
plague her about this or that.
It is a typical day at the supermarket, or so it seems to
the staff. Sandra is at her desk, sorting paper work. Chloe comes in without
knocking, in spite of the fact that there is a rather large sign plastered over
the other side of the door telling visitors to do otherwise.
“You’re supposed to knock,” Sandra snaps, brusquely leveling
a stack of papers with sharp taps against the desktop. She gives her a quick,
unkind glance over. Chloe’s shift begins in half an hour. She does not have
time to go home and change. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”
Chloe gently lays her resignation letter on Sandra’s desk.
Sandra glances between Chloe and the letter several times
before she reaches out and snatches it up. “What is this?” she sneers, skimming
over the text. Her eyes widen.
“No need to show me the door,” Chloe says, calling a
triumphant, smug smile to her face. “I’ll let ma’self out.” Chloe leaves,
slamming the door hard. Sandra looks at the letter once more and frowns.
•
There is a different feeling in the Taylor household these
days. Cleopatra can sense that Chloe no longer calls it home. She is merely
passing through. Chloe is packing some bags. Her mother stands at the door with
her arms folded, shouldering the doorframe as she does not know how to help,
and is not certain Chloe would appreciate it if she tried.
Cleopatra is conflicted. She has mixed feelings about Chloe
leaving, namely leaving her here. What right does she have to up and leave?
Cleopatra was never allowed to do that.
“How long will you be gone?” she asks, breaking the silence.
Chloe shrugs, stuffing her swim suit into the bag as an
afterthought. “Couple weeks.”
Cleopatra moves in closer. “I always knew you would make it
big one day.”
Chloe laughs outright and Cleopatra wants to smack her
across the face. “No you didn’t, mom.”
It’s true though. Her daughter is a clever one. Still. Why
would Cleopatra believe in something so farfetched? Who would, really? It’s
just not logical. Only psychos believe in that sort of thing.
None of Cleopatra’s dreams come true. She dreamed of a
simple, happy life with the man she loved, who loved her. Patrick was such a
good man, a one of a kind man, a man who deserves to never be forgotten or
replaced by someone else.
No one could replace Patrick.
Cleopatra was never given the freedom good luck brings. God
clearly doesn’t want her. She has never experienced what it is like to have the
world suddenly open to her. And given the way Cleopatra has treated Chloe,
especially in the last few weeks, there is no way the girl has any plans to
share her fame and fortune with her.
Cleopatra will be in an even worse place than before—no
boyfriend, no job, and no daughter with a job. It all spells disaster in big,
bold, block letters. She should have tried to talk Chloe out of writing when
she had the chance.
“Would it help to say I’m sorry?” she offers.
Chloe scoffs, assuming a disbelieving, disinterested smile.
She tugs the zipper across the pocket of her suitcase. “Doubt it.”
Cleopatra assumes a pout that usually works wonders on her
gentlemen friends. She spreads her arms. “Why are you giving me such a hard
time?”
Chloe rounds on her and then passes her by to reach her
dresser. “I’m nothing more than a means to an end for you.” She fishes through
the drawers for pajamas.
Safely out of her line of vision, Cleopatra smirks. She has
finally thought of something that could be her ticket in. She adjusts her
stance, jutting her hip out like a ledge for her fist. “Ma’ actions were your
motivation.”
Her daughter freezes in mid-grab. And Chloe must know that
to be true. If Chloe had a happy life, she would never have been so driven to
pursue her passion and be discovered. Cleopatra’s tough love, if one could even
call it that, was surely an important goad.
Chloe should really cut her some slack. After all, what does
Cleopatra know about parenting? Her own mother was put in prison for killing
her father, which was precisely what she wanted. Cleopatra worried over her
mother.
Does Chloe ever worry over her? Does Chloe ever give her a
second thought?
This is all so unfair. Her mother got what she wanted. Chloe
is getting what she wanted. Why can’t Cleopatra have what she wants?
Where is her season of peace? Does that skip a generation?
Chloe wheels on her. “No. Ma’ actions were motivated by ma’
own heart and ma’ own mind. I had to find faith in ma’self and courage to
pursue something I believed in. You’ve never been there for me. You’ve never
believed in me. I needed you for so many years until I finally gave up. Your
support means nothing, even if you decide to give it to me now that I’ve
apparently done something right.”
Chloe moves past her mother to the bathroom where she
gathers her toiletries and cosmetics and unceremoniously dumps them into a
travel kit.
“I’m getting out of here and you’re jealous. You’re scared
because you know you cannot continue on your own. You’re scared to lose me
because like it or not I was the only person after Dad who ever truly loved
you!” Chloe shakes her head. “You disowned me. Hurt me. Tortured me. Why change
now? Why let you into ma’ heart now? So you can smash it again?”
“I’m trying to be happy for you,” Cleopatra insists,
undaunted.
“Well don’t hurt yourself. I’m fine,” the girl rebuts. Chloe
slams the lid of her suitcase. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.”
Chloe grabs a few of her bags and breezes past her mom.
Cleopatra takes two other bags and follows after her, as though lugging two
bags ten steps will absolve her of a lifetime of stumbling blocks. “We can work
this out baby,” she calls after her.
Cleopatra flanks her daughter out to the taxi parked in
their driveway. The driver, waiting by his door, quickly pops the trunk and
goes to help her load the bags. He does it without a word, which is good
because Cleopatra still has so much to say.
Before she gets the chance, “Mom,” Chloe cuts her off with a
curt slice of her hand through the air. “Don’t.” They stare at one another.
A question lingers in the air, as though they are wondering
whether they should hug, or say goodbye at all. They are part of each other.
Mother and daughter. Same tissue.
Cleopatra is stuck with the resemblance she can see of her
younger self in Chloe’s face. She is horrorstricken though when she can see
Patrick in her. And this time, she is not imagining it. He is there, with his
big bright eyes and blond hair, brimming with conviction.
Cleopatra’s jaw works. Chloe turns from her and climbs into
the open taxi. The driver shuts the door and tips his hat to Cleopatra.
Cleopatra touches her cheek as the cab drives down the road, taking the last of
Patrick with it, and is astonished to see the tear on her fingertips.
•
Chloe has never been on an airplane before, let alone flown
first class.
Sitting in the window seat, she watches the landscape pass
beneath the plane with her nose practically mashed up against the glass. Her
stomach is storming and queasy. That is probably a result of a mixture of
nerves about the flight and the pending meeting with her benefactors.
It feels so surreal. The idea that she created something
that could germinate into a product coveted by multiple people is something she
never would have thought herself capable of a year ago!
She would not be surprised if there are dents in the
armrests from how hard she squeezed the handles during takeoff. Plane are nerve
wrecking! She was astonished by how heavy she felt during the process of
ascending and then how her stomach practically floated up into her throat when
the plane leveled out. She marvels at the mere idea that something so gigantic,
and metal, can levitate in mid-air, suspended like a cloud as though it sails
on light itself.
Poetry aside, it is easily one of the most thrilling experiences
of her life.
“Alright folks,” the pilot says over the intercom above the
distant hum of the engines. He has a calm, lackadaisical, systematic manner of
speaking that lets her know this is perfectly routine for him. It helps ease
the hammering of her heart. “Welcome aboard. This is your captain speaking. We
just wanted to let you know that we have reached cruising altitude and the
weather up here is pretty much ideal today. Feel free to move about the cabin.
We should be landing in Atlanta in just under two hours. Have a good one and
thank you for choosing us.”
“Would you like anything to drink, miss? Or perhaps wine
with dinner?” asks the flight attendant, wearing an attractive pencil skirt
with a dainty pen and paper in her hands. Chloe is dumbfounded by the mere idea
that they serve drinks, let alone food. The stewardess notices, adopting an
understanding air. “There should be a menu in the seatback pocket,” the
attendant says with a radiant smile.
Chloe, whose stomach is in knots, declines the food, but
does order a glass of champagne. It is fitting that she celebrates, in light of
the fact she is on her way to meet with movie producers.
The only thing that could make this trip any better is if
James had been able to accompany her. But Chloe is a big girl and she does need
to learn to do things on her own. She has failed to realize up until now how
much his support and encouragement means to her.
Being apart from him is akin to being bereft of a safety
blanket.
She is excited to be flying away from the grueling monotony
that was her life before today and towards the independence of her passion. Her
spirit soars as she mulls it all over. She will never have to work in Sandra’s
super market again. She will never have to live under the same roof as her
mother’s despicable boyfriends. She will not have to watch the world
surrounding her roll around in the muck of the mundane.
She is going places: big places!
Throughout all this, she reminds herself to keep Christ at
the forefront of her mind and thank him for his blessings in this endeavor. She
has come so far. She can hardly recall the girl she used to be: clad in dark
clothing and a permascowl. Her state of mind, that of a member of the gothic
scene, seems so far away, so hard to recall. It feels like a dream: her life
before serious writing. She has blossomed into adulthood.
She has finally achieved freedom!
Chloe has her second experience with luxury when she is
shown to her hotel suite, complements of the film company. At first, she stands
at the door: dumbfounded with a keycard in her hand. The immaculate room has a
plush bed, big enough for two with large sumptuous pillows. There is a small
den and kitchenette, furnished in creamy leather and speckled granite. The
bathtub alone could probably accommodate three people.
There is a wide window overlooking the city. She has never
seen so many lights, twinkling together in a dazzling display, like stars.
Chloe drops her bags on the bed, wandering around the suite
and marveling at the amenities. She ghosts her fingers over the fluffy towels
and the complimentary coffee filters. Even the toilet paper is folded with a
triangular tab. It is all so posh and wonderful! Chloe comes full circle, back
to the bed. She flops back with a thousand watt smile. She sighs contentedly.
This is the beginning of The Life. She can feel it.
•
Meanwhile, back in town, James sits in the living room,
trying to busy his mind with mindless television. He keeps checking his phone,
waiting for a text from Chloe. Or a phone call. Something. Anything.
In the other armchair, “I’m sure she’s fine, sweetheart,”
Kathleen says after a sip of her evening coffee.
“Yeah… I know,” he mutters with a sigh, settling back into
the well cushioned ottoman. Unbeknownst to his mother, that is precisely what
ails him. The idea that she could be so far away and still be
fine
without him is maddening.
•
The next morning, Chloe is to attend the big meeting. She
dresses in a blouse and black slacks, wanting to appear professional with the
upmost respect for these people, just like the day she went shopping for new
clothing. She has a reputation to uphold now. She is a
someone!
She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and twists it into a
bun. After pinning the flyaways and applying a spritz of hairspray to the
up-do, Chloe inspects her reflection. She really does look different.
Chloe catches a taxi to the office building where the
meeting is scheduled to take place. She is greeted by a secretary and escorted
down the hallway. After the elevator ride to the twentieth floor, Chloe sits
down at a large table with a group of movie Producers, Directors and a few
specially selected staff. Each of them have a copy of her screenplay. Chloe’s
chest swells with pride.
After introductions are made, they start to discuss Passion
of the Cross with Chloe, who underneath her calm facade could not be more
ecstatic.
•