Chloe (16 page)

The livid man will not listen.

Kathleen is punched in the face. Meanwhile, little James
sits crouched in a corner, sobbing through wide, terrified eyes as he watches
his father rage. The fierce fluttering of his heart is in his throat instead of
his chest. The debilitating horror of witnessing a situation he is powerless to
change grips him, as does the sight of something so dear to him, his mother,
being abused by a man who is supposed to love them both. He is paralyzed.

And all he knows is that it is his fault.

•

Back on the beach, the sun has almost completely gone down.
James takes a deep breath of the ocean air. “Now she thinks it’s her job to
save the world. She just wanted to help.”

Chloe regards him differently, but he cannot find the right
words to describe it. He knows she can relate, especially with watching her
mother being beaten by strangers. While Chloe and Cleopatra are not as close as
James and Kathleen, the woman is still her mother. Mother is precious in the
eyes of a child.

“What happened to your dad?” she asks softly.

James rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. He looks at the
tideline for a moment, floundering with how to put this. “Apparently he has
been doing counseling and is professing to be a changed man.” James clearly
does not believe a word of it. “He wants us to come home. We would probably be
moving back to Jamaica now, if not for you.”

“For me?” Chloe asks, blindsided.

“Yeah. That day you gave your life to God in mom’s church,
it reminded her that there are still people she can help save in this town.
Plus, well,” he looks down, shuffling his feet. With a sheepish smile, “She
knows how I feel about you.” Chloe stares at James. Suddenly remembering the
bouquet in his hand, he gives her the bunch of roses, the colored wrapping
package crinkling under their fingers as he passes it to her. She takes them
and holds them close to her chest, just under her nose. “Nature is beautiful,”
he remarks. And Lord help him, so is she, especially in the light of the
sunset, haloed in gold like a living angel.

Chloe nods. Her lips hint at a smile. James can tell she has
forgiven him for breaking her trust and telling his mother about her troubles.
“If you take the time to notice,” she tacks on.

James’ jaw works for a moment, floundering with what to say
next in spite of how many times he practiced in front of the mirror. “I’ve been
lying to you about something,” he blurts. He licks his lips and takes a deep
breath. “I’m not just in love with your writing.” They meet eyes. James’ heart
is hammering. It flutters wildly, but not in the same terrified way it did as a
boy. “I’m also in love with the writer.” He has said it. It is done.

Chloe smells the roses, hiding a subtle smile on her face.
James waits for a response that never comes. He expected that to be the case.
Chloe gazes out at the sea, alight with the last remnants of sunlight, striped
and flickering like a land of jewels and crystals. James congratulates himself.
This was the right time to tell her.

•

Chloe’s bed is a mess. Huge manila envelopes, printed
documents, and regular size envelops are scattered out across her bed. Her laptop
and printer peek out from the clutter. Chloe sits in the midst of it all with
her legs pretzeled. The Writers Market manual is opened beside her, written on
and bookmarked and highlighted throughout the pages.

Chloe carefully creases her letters to publishers, placing
them in the envelopes. She is also sorting through printed manuscripts and
sliding them into the larger envelopes. James wants her to go for it. He thinks
it is time for her name to be known—for those in the big leagues to see her work.
She is more excited than nervous.

A few days later, Chloe is in her bathroom, cleaning off
some of her heavy eye makeup. She likes the smoky look, but it makes her look
so depressed sometimes. She reapplies mascara and a lighter shade of brown
eyeliner. Chloe is rather amazed with how bright eyed it makes her look. She
removes some of her excessive jewelry too. The weight was always a burden on
her anyway. Her eyes are drawn downward.

Next, she examines her clothes, scrutinizing her appearance
from a different angle and mental perspective. She always wears such dark
material. All of that was well and good in high school. She recalls her
conversation with James about how dark accentuates light. Chloe no longer wants
to be part of the dark. She wants to be in the light too, not just a tool for
offsetting it. More importantly, she is an adult now who could very well be a
published author soon. She wants to dress like one. She wants to look the part.

There is only one way to fix this.

•

Today, Chloe is thrift shopping for new clothes, going for
casual and semi-formal looks. She leafs through the racks, pulling out blouses
and shrug jackets. She tries on sweaters and rompers and dress skirts and even
a pink, plaid pair of overall shorts. Her legs don’t look half bad. She wonders
if James would approve. The peculiar thought startles her. Why would she care
at all what James had to say about it? She shakes her head to clear the
ridiculous thought away.

Chloe’s lips pucker uncertainly. James would hardly
recognize her now. Heck, she hardly recognizes herself. Any purchases made
today are made reluctantly. She wonders if she will ever have the confidence
and courage to wear the clothes.

What will her mother say? Will she even notice?

•

Meanwhile, James is in a fine jewelry store at the nearby
shopping mall, looking through a selection of diamond engagement rings within
his price range. The sharply dressed sales clerk is all smiles as she shows him
several different options. She has pretty hands, manicured in red. Chloe’s
hands are prettier though. Each ring has its own individual box lined in velvet
or satin.

Chloe has always been royalty to James—put up on a pedestal
of epic proportions. Thus, it is fitting that he chooses the princess cut. The
center diamond is small, the silver band dusted with diamond flakes around the
stone as though it is a blooming flower. His rose… thorny and stubborn, but
painfully beautiful.

•

Chloe walks into the post office with her arms laden with
paper. She has a cumbersome amount of envelopes to mail. She finds an available
counter, lugging her livelihood along with her, and sets the load down on the
stone surface with an unceremonious thump. Chloe greets the attendee with an
impish smile. He looks up at the clock. It is almost lunch time. He is not
amused. Not at all.

Later that afternoon, Chloe finds herself sitting in the
coffee shop around the corner. Chloe sips on a latte with her laptop on the
table. She stares at the blank screen and drums her fingers on the tabletop.
She sets her coffee aside and begins to type: “‘The Cross’—An Original
Screenplay by Chloe Cleopatra Taylor”. Chloe smiles at the prospects. It comes
to her in torrents. She can hardly keep up with all the ideas. Her fingers
start typing furiously.

The following morning at work, Chloe is busy packing bags…
and enjoying it. She displays excessively upbeat mannerisms to the customers:
smiling, shaking their hands, even taking out some bags for an elderly woman.

And Sandra doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Another Sunday arrives, one which Chloe will not be spending
the entire day writing. Chloe and James sit together in church. Their chosen
pew is closer to the front this time. Kathleen is preaching. Some of the
congregation is sleeping. Chloe is dressed in one of her new outfits: a chic
blouse and a tweed skirt.

Chloe looks at James. He returns her gaze and lays his hand
on top of hers, dropping an encouraging smile. She is slightly uncomfortable,
but accepts the gesture. Chloe looks back at the podium. Patrick is sitting in
the choir. She blinks. Patrick is gone. An old man sits in his place.

James notices her furrowed brows and the lack of color in
her face. Chloe excuses herself as the service is drawing to a close and the
congregation is bowed in prayer. Kathleen notices, but continues, undaunted.
She can only hope James is not embarrassed.

•

Chloe, bent over the bathroom sink, splashes some cool water
on her face. She feels sick. She reaches for a towel and dries off, pressing
the fabric against her eyes, willing the visions to fade and never return. She
can still see the bus slamming into her father. She can still see him waltz out
into traffic. Perhaps she has been avoiding church not solely because Sundays
are good for writing. Perhaps she has been avoiding this place because it is
where she first saw her father. In the doorway. Haloed in morning sunlight.

Chloe opens her eyes, low and behold, to see Patrick
standing behind her. Chloe gasps, nearly stumbles aside, and chucks the towel
at him. He catches it.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” she demands.

He shrugs his shoulders. Simply, “Because I can’t.”

Chloe laughs wryly and resumes dabbing the droplets off her
chin. “It’s easy,” she quips. “Just do the same thing you did for 24 years…”

Patrick’s expression saddens. Chloe suddenly regrets her
words. “You think I enjoy this? Tormenting you the way I do? I don’t. I need an
explanation as much as you do. We deserve to know the truth.”

Chloe rounds on him, tired of communicating through the
mirror. “What is there to explain? Last time I saw you a bus hit you.”

“Correct.” He faces her. “And I woke up the next morning and
I was fine.”

Chloe’s stomach churns. “It was a dream,” she tries.

His eyebrows jump up, unconvinced of the rouse. “A dream we
both shared?”

“No,” she corrects. “It was ma’ dream.”

He tilts his head. “Are you dreaming now?”

Chloe shakes her head. “This isn’t happening. It’s not real.
You’re dead. You’re dead.” She turns to leave. Patrick seizes Chloe’s left hand
and spins her around to face him again. He takes one of her fingers. He pulls
it back until it hurts. “Cut it out!” she commands. “You’re hurting me.”

Patrick nods. “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 looks concerned, watching him warily. He
continues. “The question is, if this is not a dream. How are we able to do
this?” Patrick grabs Chloe’s arm.

•

A lonely cry of a hawk pierces the air. The sand is hard
packed under their feet, scoured with dry cracks and brittle to the touch.
Cacti dot the horizon. She can see mesas in the distance: lone sleeping giants
against a pale blue sky. A breeze stirs the dust, whipping it about in fleeting
whirling cyclones. Its fingers toy with strands of Chloe’s hair.

Chloe realizes that she and Patrick are standing in the
middle of a desert, but she has no memory whatsoever of how she got there. It
is as though they just appeared. Chloe looks around, confused and deeply
disturbed.

She wheels on her father. “How’d you do that?”

Patrick looks as clueless as she does. He raises his
shoulders, his eyes heavy burdened with his own questions left unanswered. “I’m
looking for answers too, Chloe. Strange things happen every day—things that I
can’t explain. Most people either ignore it… or they just don’t care. I don’t
get it.” He stares into her eyes, his own pleading with her to make the
connection he desperately needs to see. “But
you
care. You can’t be
contented living like this.”

Chloe shakes her head softly. Her voice is a hoarse whisper,
as bone dry as the dirt below. “I don’t understand.”

Patrick dares a step nearer, as though he thinks it will
help his cause. The distance between them shrinks. “Please. 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?” Chloe asks, dreading
the answer.

Patrick shakes his head. “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.”

Chloe stoops down and takes a handful of sand. She rubs it
between her fingers, feeling the gritty texture. “This is… not real?” Patrick
touches her shoulder.

•

Chloe is alone again, staring at her own reflection in the
bathroom of the church. She looks around for her father, but there is no one
else there with her. Chloe blinks. Her brows knit together. She looks down, opens
her hand, and stares at the dirt in her palm. Dirt. Dessert. A chill creeps up
her spine. There is a tingling sensation at the back of her head.

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

Chloe lifts her eyes, fastening them to her reflection in
the mirror. If the sand is not real… Is any of it real?

•

James is sitting alone on the front bench, tapping his foot
on the carpeted floor. His jaw works behind the grim line of his lips. His
patience is wearing away, as though it is being ground down. His nerves are
frayed. He is angry and hurt and confused. The building is otherwise empty.
Even his mother has gone home. James declined her offer to join her for brunch.

Chloe comes out of the bathroom, heading for the door
urgently with purpose in her stride. James goes after her and catches up. He
stands in her way.