Chloe (28 page)

Cleopatra puts her grogginess aside when she realizes what
Chloe is holding. “What’re you doing, Chloe?”

Chloe’s lip quivers. “I think I know why this world revolves
around you, Mom,” she says tearfully.

“Chloe, listen to me,” Greg starts, drawing her attention
away from her mother who is quaking. “Put the gun down before someone gets
hurt.”

Chloe would like nothing more than to put a bullet in this
man, but that is not what she came to do. Killing him will not change anything.
And though, like her and Patrick, he would probably be alive and well again the
next morning, it solves nothing.

“You’re free to go, Greg,” Chloe declares with some effort.

“What?” he asks, wide eyed.

Chloe is quickly losing her patience. “Do I have to spell it
for you!?” she exclaims. “Get out!”

Greg, throwing the sheets off, gets out of bed and quickly
pulls on his pants and shirt, laying in heaps beside the bed.

“You’re leaving?” Cleopatra balks, staring at the man and
pleading with him to do something with her eyes. “It’s
your
gun!” she
shrieks.

“This is obviously a family squabble,” he stammers, tugging
his shirt over his head and grabbing his keys off the nightstand. Chloe is
reminded of the deplorable moment when he called the lot of them family. She is
so glad he can separate himself when it comes to risking his life, the pathetic
fool. He raises his hands to Chloe, palms turned out in defeat. “I know better
than to get involved.” Greg leaves, practically hopping out of the room as he
pulls on his shoes.

Cleopatra sits up in the bed, ramrod straight. She pulls the
sheet off, untangling her legs. “I’m your mother, Chloe,” she starts as though
that notion is going to put the fire out.

“I know,” Chloe chokes tearfully. “I know you are. But…
There is no other way. I wish there was.” Because this choice, though wrong,
will set her free. Because mistakes can be rectified with murder. She has to do
this!

Chloe shuts her eyes tight and pulls the trigger. Cleopatra
is hit squarely in the chest. She falls back into the bed, her wide lifeless
eyes staring at the ceiling. Chloe breaks down, hardly able to support herself
under the weight of her grief. She climbs into the bed and sets the gun aside.
She picks up Cleopatra’s head, resting it in her lap. She combs her fingers
through her mother’s hair as she cries.

•

The following morning, Police cars are parked outside the
house. A unformed officer approaches Greg. He points at the house. Three
policemen draw their guns and cautiously approach, prepared for any kind of resistance.
But they do not get it.

Chloe and Cleopatra are still in the bedroom. Three
Policemen step inside, their guns pointed at Chloe. She is still weeping. They
bark orders at her, but she doesn’t move.

“Step away from the bed and the gun and get on the ground!”
she hears. Chloe looks at the gun on the bed, reminded once again of an escape
route that could actually work now.

“Get on the ground!” another repeats. Chloe swallows thickly
and wipes her tears. She looks at the police. There is only one way out. She
picks up the gun and points it at them. They fire. There is pressure and pain
in her chest. The room slowly fades to black.

•

Cleopatra, her skin sallow and pale, slowly opens her eyes,
emerging into a dull, grey and white world. It smells of silence and sterility.
All shades. No color. Her rich brown hair is a disheveled mess of matted
tangles. Too thin and fragile, she lays in a hospital bed. Straps are looped
across her body, pinning her arms to her sides and her body to the cot. Doctor
Kenneth sits close by with a note pad.

“I survived,” she whispers towards the ceiling.

He looks up with a start. “Survived what?”

Cleopatra turns her head towards him. “Ma’ daughter,” she
prompts. She wonders if the hospital staff know about the incident. They certainly
should. “Chloe shot me! I thought I was dead.” She exhales a sigh of relief and
shakes her head. “If she didn’t agree with me getting married she could have
just said so.”

Doctor Kenneth looks at the wide mirror in the room. He sees
only a reflection of the room, but someone is watching from the other side.

The doctor turns his attention back to Cleopatra. “Five
years ago, you said she stabbed you. Five years before that, you said she
pushed you off a building. Do you remember any of that?”

Cleopatra shrugs as much as her restraints will permit,
oblivious to them for the moment. “Chloe has issues. That’s why I sent her to
you. Fat lot of good it did.” She scoffs out a laugh. “Even paid for the
sessions. You’re not cheap.”

He nods, jotting down something new on his notepad, trying
to mitigate the mixture of frustration and sorrow on his face. “Where is Chloe
now?”

Cleopatra adopts a bemused expression. “I don’t know,” she
says whimsically. To him, “Have you seen her?” She goes to sit up, but finds
herself unable to. She notices the straps for the first time. Sounding
offended, “Can you tell me why ma’ hands are tied?”

He closes his eyes and his notebook, letting a defeated sigh
slip through his nose. “That’s enough for today.” Kenneth leaves the room.

Outside, a much older Patrick stands on the other side of
the one-way mirror, gazing into the room. He looks weary and worn, his eyes
barely holding on to their twinkling vibrancy. He is a man on the edge, a man
about to give up, but at the same time a man who will never leave. He will
waste away here, with her. He promised. He is a hollow husk of a man, held
together by slim strands of shaken faith. He does not understand why God is
putting them through this, but he can only blame himself.

Kenneth joins him. He removes his glasses. “25 years and no
progress,” the doctor reminds him. “I’ve tried Electroconvulsive Therapy,
Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. Nothing works. Absolutely no change.”

Patrick stares expressionlessly through the glass. “We
haven’t tried the truth,” he suggests, which is something he has been
contemplating for several years.

Kenneth shakes his head, prepared to advise against it once
again. He proceeds to clean his spectacles with a cloth from his coat pocket.
“We’ve gone over this many times. Schizophrenics live in a constant state of
denial. They don’t usually respond very well to the truth.”

Patrick closes his eyes, saying a silent prayer to a God he
can only hope still hears him. “It’s all we have left, doctor.” He opens his
eyes, inhaling a breath into his chest and mustering his courage. He knows this
is probably going to be the most difficult thing he has ever done. “You take
care of the paperwork. I want to sign the release form today.”

Kenneth purses his lips, slipping his glasses back onto his
face and up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea Mr.
Taylor.”

Patrick turns to face him, managing what he can of a
grateful smile. “You tried, doctor. Now it’s my turn.” Kenneth relents, as
there is very little he can do when arguing with a man who has already made up
his mind. Patrick resumes his gaze into the window and stares at his Cleopatra
through the tinted glass.

•

Cleopatra’s eyes are closed. Patrick walks in. He starts to
pull on the straps holding her wrist to the bed, loosening and eventually
untying them. Cleopatra opens her eyes. Her brows furrow as she stares up at
Patrick, as if she is seeing a ghost.

“You look just like ma’ Patrick—only older,” she muses
dazedly.

Patrick wills himself to stay strong. “I
am
your
Patrick.”

“You couldn’t be,” she counters. “He’s dead. He died in a
motor vehicle accident. He was on the way to the hospital.”

Patrick’s insides ache, as though something sharp is
scrapping away at them. “No. I’m not dead. I’m alive. I’m here. That’s all in
your head, Cleo.”

Cleopatra sits up and stares at Patrick. “No one else calls
me that,” she whispers, eyeing him in a new light. “How?” What’s going on?”
Cleopatra rubs her wrists and arms. She glances around the room. “Where am I?”

Patrick swallows and licks his chapped lips. “Jubilee
Hospital. Psychiatric Ward.”

She draws her face into a frown. “Why was I strapped to a
bed in a psychiatric Ward?”

“You were a danger to yourself and everyone else,” Patrick
informs cautiously. “See those scratches on the walls?” Cleopatra looks at the
walls to see marks made forcibly with fingernails. She looks at her own
fingernails. They are broken, scabbed, and discolored. She blinks rapidly.
Patrick also turns his cheek to show some healed scratches on his own face, now
scarred.

“I did that?” she whispers.

“You’ve been suffering from deep psychological trauma,
clinical depression, short term amnesia and schizophrenia. You have some
neuropsychiatric illness.” Judging by the blindsided expression on her face,
Patrick can tell that his Cleopatra cannot understand a word he is saying. “You
imagine things,” he simplifies. “You think they are real.”

Something snaps inside of her. He can see it. Patrick
prepares for an assault. “Where’s Chloe?” she blurts. “Where’s ma’ daughter?
Where is she?” Her voice is growing frantic and ragged.

Patrick is not sure how he should respond.

All at once, Cleopatra gets off the bed, stumbles to the
mirror, and shouts at the glass. “Where is ma’ daughter?” She pounds her fist
against the glass, nearly hard enough to shatter it. Patrick dashes forward and
holds her before it comes to that. She fights him off. He grabs her hands. She
continues struggling.

Doctor Kenneth comes in, looking mildly panicked. Patrick
gestures for him to leave. Reluctantly, he does. He shuts the door behind him.

“It’s time for you to face the truth!” Patrick shouts, just
trying to get through to her if nothing else. Cleopatra pushes him off and goes
to a corner in the room where she sinks to the floor and hugs her knees tight
against her chest. She reaches up after a moment of rocking back and forth and
covers her ears, her palms pressing hard against them to block out his voice
and his memory, if possible.

“No. No. You’re dead. I’ve had to relive that day, every
day, for years! You’re dead!” She shakes her head, unable to process this. It
is tearing him apart. He is angry and hurt and horrified and exhausted.

“Cleo,” Patrick says gently, approaching her with caution.
He is so tired. He kneels down before her. She regards him like a frightened
wild animal. “I’m not the one who died,” he relays.

Cleopatra lowers her hands and hugs her knees again,
pressing tightly into her corner, letting the pressure and certainty of stone
sooth her. “Chloe told me she saw you back at home. I never believed her.”

Patrick is mere breaths away from crumbling into sobs. He
has to tell her. It’s time. It’s time… “Chloe was never born, Cleo.”

All expression and color leaves Cleopatra’s face. Hoarsely,
“What?”

Tears brim in Patrick’s eyes. “Chloe was never born. You had
an abortion.” Cleopatra’s knees weaken. She collapses against him. Patrick
holds her as she shakes, coiling her hands into the fabric of his clothing with
the meager supply of strength left within her. He carries her to the side of
the bed. She sits with horror in her eyes that gradually evolves into
recognition.

Cleopatra holds her heart, unable to contain the emotions
welling up inside her. She begins to cry. Patrick holds on to her as she
remembers.

•

Cleopatra walks towards the entrance of the abortion clinic.
The world around her appears foggy at the edges, giving the impression of
tunnel vision. But that does not stop her from seeing the picketers or hearing
their riotous clamor. She passes the small group of protestors at the front
with anti-abortion placards. She tries not to read them, but all the words burn
their way into her memory.

Inside, Cleopatra speaks to the specialist doctor. He takes
her money, counts it, writes a prescription, and gives her some pills with
written and verbal instructions.

The following night, Cleopatra wakes up in a pool of warm,
gooey blood. It is unnaturally dark and already clotting. Horrified, she
screams. Patrick wakes up, also covered in blood that has seeped into his
clothing. It takes him all of a moment to realize what has happened and what
Cleopatra has done. He hugs her and takes her into the bathroom.

A week later, Cleopatra sits in silence, motionless and
catatonic in her and Patrick’s living room, staring at a blank television
screen. She is completely unresponsive, even to Patrick. She is loss in
thought, her eyes lifeless and cold. Maud and Trevor, who came at Patrick’s
request, watch her. They glance at one another unsure of what to do.

The next day, Cleopatra is wielded into the hospital by
Maud. Patrick is close behind, pleading with the woman not to go through with
this. Maud does not listen to him. She is given a stack of papers. She looks
them over and begins signing them.

In the lobby, a news report is on television. An anchor
recounts the story of how James Jones shot his father, who was abusing his
wife, a Pastor Kathleen Jones. James is in custody and awaiting trial.

All Patrick can do is watch as Cleopatra is admitted. She
shows no emotions as Maud kisses her and leaves, passing him without a word.
Before Patrick can bid her goodbye, a nurse rounds the corner and takes her
down the long hallway. By the time Patrick finds his voice, they are too far
away. He is escorted off the premises by a security guard.

What was Kathleen’s church sits in ruin, unattended at the
intersection. The doors, chained together by heavy metal links and a monstrous
padlock, are closed permanently. A sign is posted on the door reading “For
Sale!”

People pass, whether by car or on foot, milling about their
daily lives with no appreciation for the travesty. Some of them gaze at the
building and reminisce. Some of them don’t even notice. The lawn is ill tended
and the garden is overgrown.