Chloe (27 page)

•

James stares blankly at the photograph, trying to put reason
to the flashback he just experienced. The color is gradually draining out of
his face. Chloe, who remembers the incident the same way, closes her eyes to
block the sudden rush of emotions. She feels guilt that she did not feel
before, being that her father is the reason for Kathleen’s death. But…

But she remembers dinning with James’ mother. She remembers
her being the pastor at the church Chloe came to Christ in. This is wrong.
Something is wrong. Did she dream all that too? How can she explain that away,
especially when she experienced it with James? It is all happening again. They
should never have come back.

Meryl sits up and starts leafing through the papers again.
“Funny though. There is nothing in the report about her having a kid. Guess we
weren’t as thorough back then. Today, we make a point of noting who the victim
is survived by.”

James is shaking his head in disbelief. He abruptly gets up,
nearly upending his chair, and leaves. Chloe hurries to follow him out.

Meanwhile, Meryl watches them go. She shakes her head,
collecting the papers strewn over her desk into a neat stack, clearly expecting
more gratitude than she received. “You’re welcome,” she calls to the empty air.
She closes the file as the phone starts ringing. She picks up the phone. “Yes,
this is Meryl, how can I help you?”

James is practically racing down the steps. His feet carry
him farther and farther away from her. He will not slow down. Chloe struggles
to catch up to him.

“James!” she calls, her stomach rolling with worry. “Wait.
Please!”

James swiftly rounds on her, looking oddly livid. There is
thundering anger in his eyes as he fists his hands and squares his shoulders,
prepared to do battle with her as well as himself.

“This is crazy,” he starts loudly. “Your paranoia is
apparently catchy,” he spits out. “I thought we were over this. Was I just
being stupid to believe that? Was none of it enough? Me picking up and leaving
for you wasn’t enough? Now you still have to convince me you’re not a raving
lunatic by turning me into one?” He shakes his head. “You should stay away from
me. Or maybe I should just stay away from you. Maybe I should have always
stayed away from you…”

Chloe comes to a screeching halt as her brows knit together,
appearing as though she was struck. She has to pause because of the painful
writhing turmoil in her heart as a direct result of James’ words. “You think
I’m doing this?” she whispers hoarsely, her hand flying to her chest.

James spreads his arms. “Are you?”

Incensed, “No!”

James takes a step towards her and Chloe fights the urge to
recoil when he thrusts a finger at her. “You’re lying to me. This is your way
of getting me to believe your crazy stories. Is that why you insisted I come
with you?”

Chloe shakes her head, staring at him in disbelief and
horror. This is not the James she has come to know at all. “I had no idea what
I was going to hear. I wanted you with me. I needed you with me…”

James staggers backwards, trying to keep his tears at bay.
She can tell he wants to say more, but all that he can choke out is, “Do
everyone a favor Chloe and check yourself into a mental hospital,” he pivots on
his heel and storms into the parking lot. Chloe is paralyzed.

James gets into their car, slams the door, and peels out
through the entrance to the street. She can hear the roar of the engine as he
speeds off. Thunder rumbles overhead.

He leaves her standing there, deeply wounded and bleeding
all over again. She pulls the engagement ring off her finger and hurls it after
him, even though he is not there to see it. Beset by the urge to flee, she
yanks off her heels. Chloe veers around, and runs in the opposite direction,
leaving the expensive shoes on the side of the road.

Chloe walks along the roadway in the pouring rain, drenched
and clutching her arms across her chest as tightly as she can. She is crying so
hard that the cold is not too much of a bother. Tears and rain are streaming
down her face. She would not be surprised at all if they were one in the same.

Later, she comes to a park and finds herself on the main
path.

The rain has not let up when Chloe finds a bench and takes a
seat. She hunkers down against the downpour with her arms folded tightly. She
is just about to break into another chorus of sobs when an umbrella opens over
her head. Chloe, red eyed and blotchy cheeked, looks up. She sees Patrick, her
supposedly dead father, sit beside her, holding the umbrella. He is
simultaneously the only and the last person she wants to see right now.

She should have never come back. This place will not let her
leave again.

“I don’t understand,” she weeps. “I was happy. I was so
happy. Everything was perfect. I mean, it wasn’t perfect but is was what I
wanted. I worked so hard. James worked so hard. Why did this have to happen
now? We were so happy.”

Patrick swallows thickly, his face a picture of fatherly
sorrow as he regards her. “How long did you think that was gonna last,
sweetheart?” he says gently “A day. Two days?” He pauses long enough for Chloe
to remember their talks about the inconsistencies in this world. “We are caught
in a vicious cycle Chloe. Remember?” But there is an anvil in the air, some
sort of elephant in the room that he is more reluctant to bring to light.
Slowly, “For it to end, the writer must die.”

A laughing sob bursts from Chloe’s throat, automatically
assuming he is referring to her. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, all
but throwing her hands up in despair. “I already killed ma’self. I stepped off
a building. I jumped in front of a truck. I just keep waking up. It’s just like
you said: No matter what I do today, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine.”

Patrick looks confused. Chloe notices his expression. “It’s
not you,” he whispers, as though the realization has just dawned on him.

Chloe shrugs. Tersely, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Patrick frowns, mulling it over. It is as though he is
sorting through more potential suspects behind his eyes. He nods to himself,
determined not to deviate from his theory. “Our life is being written. I know
it is. For the story to end, the writer must die.” He meets her eyes. “I
thought you were the writer.”

It would make sense, because by all other accounts Chloe is
a writer. But she is not the author he is looking for. The idea is amusing, in
a morbid sort of way. Chloe would not know how to come to terms with the fact
that someone else is writing her life, while she writes as her livelihood.

“If I am not creating this, then who is?” she demands with
as much gumption as she can conjure.

Patrick considers until the tension leaves his face. The
same revelation lays in wait in the darkest part of Chloe’s suspicions. She
does not want to believe, or even acknowledge it. But… “I think we both know
the answer to that,” he states.

This cannot be happening. Her father cannot possibly be
suggesting… “You want me to kill ma’ own mother?”

The sorrow floods back into Patrick’s face. With a heavy
sigh, “You’ve got to make a choice, Chloe. No matter how hard you try, nothing
will ever change. All your work will mean nothing until this ends. Something
must be done and you have to be the one to do it.”

Chloe regards him in silence, horrified. “Maybe you’re the
crazy one.” Chloe stands from the bench and quickly strides off into the
pouring rain once more.

He can’t be serious. Cleopatra is her mother. A child could
never kill her own mother. That is an unforgivable crime, by any means and to
everyone. She can get her life back together. She can make it through this so
long as she has James. They will do it together. He made that promise when he
proposed.

He promised.

It feels like forever since Chloe has even seen James’ house.
Naturally, she assumed that would be the first place he would go at a time like
this. Chloe ascends the steps and knocks briskly, her knuckles rapping on the
whitewashed wood. To Chloe’s relief and astonishment, Kathleen opens it. They
stare at one another for a long moment. Meryl must have been mistaken. Chloe
cannot recall the flashback.

She must have imagined it.

Chloe shakes herself out of the stupor. “Is James here?”
Chloe asks, trying to peek past the woman and into the house beyond, picturing
him sulking in one of the chairs. If he has seen his mother, clearly he knows
Meryl was mistaken. He knows this is all one big-

“I’m sorry, young lady,” Kathleen says. “I don’t know anyone
by that name.”

It feels as though Chloe has been smacked across the face by
a two by four, or buried under a ton of bricks. She can’t breathe. What she is
saying is impossible. It is just as impossible as what Meryl says. Chloe is
talking to a dead woman right now if not. And even a dead woman would know her
own son. Is she imagining this too? Why does it all look so real? Perhaps the
woman has had too much wine. Granted, it’s not even 2:00PM… but still!

“He’s your son,” Chloe prompts slowly, praying it will rouse
her.

“I don’t have a son. I don’t have any children.” Kathleen
looks at Chloe as though she is a complete stranger. Chloe, who had been too
intent on seeing James before to notice, finally recognizes her expression for
what it really is. She stiffens.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” she whispers.

Kathleen rubs her chin, scrutinizing Chloe and her memory.
“I’m usually pretty good with faces. Just not placing yours right now. What did
you say your name was?” Chloe shakes her head, backing off the step. She
quickly leaves. Kathleen shakes her head, lips forming a grim line as she posts
one hand on her hip. “Young people!” She closes the door.

Chloe hurries down the road, breathing erratically. Her feet
do not hurt anymore. She glances down at her attire to see sneakers where bare
feet were only moments ago. She did not bring sneakers. She left her heels back
at the police station. She should be barefoot. She dressed nicely. She always
dresses nicely.

Where did the hoodie and jeans come from!?

Cleopatra and Greg are caught up in a heated embrace, half embedded
in the sofa. Chloe, out of breath and her chest heaving, walks in, throwing the
door open. Cleopatra pushes Greg off and tries to compose herself. Naturally,
she reaches for her glass of vodka tonic and takes a swig.

“You’re not supposed to be here for another few hours,” she
tells Chloe with an impish smirk, her finger absently drifting over the denim
coating Greg’s thigh. Chloe did not know she was expected.

“Why is he here?” Chloe stammers. “We threw him in the
garbage!”

Cleopatra goes slack-jawed, her hand flying to her chest as
though she would never even think of such a thing let alone do it. “Chloe,” she
chides. “Don’t go making up stories like that! What an awful thing to say.”
Chloe’s mind reels. Heat and numbing cold simultaneously flood her body. It is
as though time has restarted—reset. And this time, she is stuck in a vicious
cycle without James!

She’ll never survive!

Greg glances between the two women, wearing an indolent
smirk where a scowl should be. “You gonna tell her, or should I?” Greg puts on
his shirt, pouring himself into it. Chloe fights the urge to gag.

“Tell me what?” Chloe whispers hoarsely, half convinced this
day could not possibly get any worse.

Cleopatra reaches across her lap and seizes Greg’s hand.
With bright eyes, “Honey, Greg and I are getting married.” She can hardly
contain her smile.

Chloe was wrong.

Her knees weaken, ready to buckle at any second. She manages
to catch herself on the banister. Chloe turns and dashes up the stairs. She
slams the door as hard as she can.

“That went well,” Greg supplies, turning to level Cleopatra
with a more sinister smirk. Cleopatra knots her fingers up in his shirt and
yanks him back in. They kiss.

Upstairs, Chloe sits on the side of her bed. Her eyes red
and empty. Her laptop is open with a blank document and a blinking cursor on
the screen. Her screenplay is gone—erased, as though it was never written, as
though it never existed. Suddenly, her cell phone beeps. It’s her old, cheap
phone. Chloe had a Samsung smartphone this morning. She opens her phone. Her
heart plunges into her stomach. It is a text from James.

“Dinner. Same place. 7P.M.” Chloe, mortified, can’t breathe.
He’s alive, but he won’t remember. He won’t remember any of it. He won’t
remember proposing. He won’t remember their intimate moments. He won’t know her
any better than he did before they got together. It’s just her, caught in this
hell. Her cell phone rings, startling her. Chloe’s body goes completely numb
when she reads the caller id.

Sandra is calling.

She’s back to being a grocery girl?! Chloe takes the phone
and hurls it with all her might across the room. It smashes against the wall
and shatters. It feels as though she has been awakened from the best kind of
dream, a dream in which she conquered a great many obstacles and came so far,
only to find herself in the same dark, empty place. She is stationary. Her
work, all the strife, means nothing.

Chloe’s eyes search through the room, doing a double-take
when she discovers her cell phone sitting on her nightstand. She looks to where
it had fallen to discover a bare floor. She shouldn’t be surprised. Everything
is falling apart.

There is no freedom here. She is trapped again. She cannot
do this—not after getting a taste of what life could be like for her. Her choice
has been taken away. Chloe looks towards the door.

•

That night, Greg and Cleopatra are asleep, Cleopatra tucked
into Greg’s arms. Chloe sneaks in. She carefully steps to the closet where
Greg’s uniform is hung from the bar. His belt with gun are hanging on a hook
behind the door. Chloe extracts the gun carefully. The closet door creaks.
Greg’s eyes snap open. He sits up with a start. Chloe points the gun at him,
cocking the hammer back. Greg’s eyes are filled with fear. He shakes Cleopatra,
who wakes up with a grunt.