Chloe (4 page)

In her mind, it is a righteous killing. It is poetic
justice. It is just what she had to do.

There was no escape, not for her. There was no alternative,
save this. There was a time, long ago almost beyond recollection, before his
epic, awful transformation, that she
loved
Trevor and he
loved
her. Trevor was her dream… and her world. He was a wonderful man and she would
have trusted him with her life. But the drink and the long days at work and the
constant drudgery of their penniless life living paycheck to paycheck on
nothing but bread and tuna changed him.

Warped him.

She wanted to convince herself it was just a phase. She
wanted to convince herself she could bring him back through kindness and
patience. She could remind him of the man he once was with a little compassion
and encouragement. But he was so damaged and so tempered by the unforgiving
hell that had become their life that she had no hope of reaching him,
especially after being laid off.

And at the eighteen year mark, nearly two decades after
Cleopatra’s birth, Maud realized that there was no going back, or reliving the
past.

She had to kill her husband. She just
had
to. It was
freedom. It meant freedom. It was justice. And now, Cleopatra is free to grow
up with Patrick and experience the bliss that marriage should be. Cleopatra is
free too. She made it. She would make it! Maud, in her mind, has done them both
a world of good.

Sentenced for life, she will live out the rest of her days
and her season of peace here… in this small, cramped, quiet, cell. Perfect.

•

Cleopatra sits across from Maud, who is outfitted in orange,
at a cold grey table. They are not alone, of course. There is a prison guard at
the main door, keeping close watch on all inmates meeting with friends and
family in the visiting center. Their time together is limited. Cleopatra wishes
she had better prepared herself for what to say.

Cleopatra cannot quite wrap her mind around what occurred
that night, let alone come to terms with her own tragedies. She despised the
man, but he was still her father. Should she feel guilty for her relief?
Ashamed to see her mother, a murderer, so happy?

“So much happening all at once,” she whispers. “Feels like a
dream.”

“A good dream,” Maud elaborates with a serene smile. “Your
father is dead.” She shakes her head slowly, eyes alight with hope and victory.
“I feel nothing but peace.”

Cleopatra’s eyes assume a droopy look. “You should have just
left.”

Maud tilts her head. Remorselessly, “And go where? Because
of him, I had no family. No friends. Monsters like
that
don’t deserve to
live.”

Cleopatra does battle yet again with tears. “Was it worth
spending your life in prison, mom?” she chokes.

Maud regards her lovingly. “Freedom is worth any price.” The
harrowing words resonate deep inside Cleopatra’s head, manifesting in the very
roots of her soul. Their time together is at an end. The guard assigned to Maud
appears, waiting to escort her back to her iron paradise. Maud finds her feet.
“You just make sure you raise your child to make better choices. Our mistakes
aren’t worth repeating.”

Cleo manages to nod. She sniffs and wipes her cheeks
furiously. Confused and hollow, she collects her things and stands. She wills
her lips to stop quivering. She wants to run to Maud and embrace her for the
first time in many years. Brokenly, “Love you, mom.”

Maud smiles as the guard takes her gently by the upper arm
and steers her around. “See you around kiddo,” she says over her shoulder. She
walks with a spring in her step and her head held high. It is disturbing, but
even moreso is the fact that Cleopatra feels proud to be her daughter. Maud
spent years at the mercy of Trevor and his tantrums, her life hanging by a
thinner thread with every swig the man swallowed. And when the time came, when
the need was most dire, Maud stood up for herself. She reclaimed everything he
had stolen. Maud’s choice, though wrong, set her free.

Maud’s choice, though wrong… set her free.

•

The sun will be rising in a few minutes.

Patrick picks up the pace as he rounds the bend, dressed in
sweats and a loose white tank. The flimsy fabric is already clinging to his
back and chest due to the sweat misting his skin. His breaths come quickly. He
can feel his strong heart pumping, pulsing—alive and thriving as he flies over
the sidewalk, passing houses and parked cars and grassy lots and tall trees.

The twilight of morning is his favorite time to run. The
temperature is almost always agreeable, especially when one gets their heart
rate up as high as he does. Not too hot, not too cold. It feels as though the
world is moving slower, colored in suspended animation and solace. Maybe that
has everything to do with the fact that he is running while his surroundings
remain still. Stationary.

He is not running from anything. That should be emphasized.
He is merely running for the sake of it.

Everything looks a little less ordinary and a little more
mysterious bathed in lavender, or whatever color might be used to describe the
sleepy, tranquil color. Shadows. Secrets. And though most of those things are
still slumbering, he cannot help but imagine them as more alive during the
daylight.

This is a time of peace—the merciful margin of reprieve
between brooding darkness and boisterous light. It is a rare fraction of the
day when his mind is not laden with worry and cluttered with chaos. All his
burdens seem so simple. He can feel God’s presence too.

He wishes Cleopatra would come with him. He suggested it
several times. Walk, jog, or run, even in her pregnant state… He wants to coax
her out of the house. Unfortunately, all she wants to do is sleep. Cleopatra…
His jewel… Patrick thinks of little else, even during his time alone. He is so
worried for her.

Dreams take Cleopatra to
her
twilight place.

Her freedom cannot be found in the anchored, fettered realm
of reality.

•

Several months later…

The gurney careens around the corner as Cleopatra is wheeled
into the emergency room, clutching her stomach. Chaos surrounds her. The smell
of antiseptic is stifling. There is white everywhere—the color of the eggshells
that Maud walked on around Trevor. White like Patrick’s smile. White like the
unpainted walls of their house. White like the wedding dress she will never
wear.

Where is Patrick?

The blood and pain put her situation beyond a matter of
intuition.

“What’s wrong?” she asks the staff tearfully as they talk
medical jargon from all sides. A nurse lays her back, explaining that she has
entered an advanced stage of pregnancy.

Cleopatra cannot believe it. The baby cannot be coming
already! It is much too soon. Looking back over the past few months, her life
with Patrick has been quiet and comfortable. Her priorities shifted, but she
still attended class. However, the beginning of their live-in relationship saw
a great deal of turmoil. The shock and stress induced on her mind and body with
Trevor’s death probably has a great deal to do with what is happening at
present. Of course, this is a rationale Cleopatra cannot entertain at the
moment.

The pain is too intense.

The hospital staff transports Cleopatra from the gurney to a
bed wrapped in white linens, throwing the red, red blood into sharp contrast.
The gurney is wheeled away, replaced by a horde of machines. Cleopatra lays
there, dizzy and nauseous, certain that she has never been in this much pain.

Nurses are inserting I.V.s into her arms. The sting of the
needles is a love-bite compared to the ache in her gut. More nurses start
adjusting the drips. Someone calls for a pulse rate, another for a lymphocyte
count, and another to elevate her legs. Something is beeping at an alarming
rate. Blue uniforms and white coats pass her in blurs. She is wearing a polka
dotted operating gown.

Doctor Beard, an experienced surgeon in his early 50’s,
scrubs in and rushes into the room. A nurse immediately helps him into his
sterilized gloves and a face mask. Cleopatra watches as he hastens to her side,
dazed. His face moves in and out of focus.

“Her blood pressure is too high,” another nurse informs him.
“She may go into shock.”

“Is this her first child?” he asks her.

“Yes, Doctor,” she says, handing him the paperwork. The
staff, while still busying themselves tending to Cleopatra, await the verdict.
Cleopatra’s mind is elsewhere.

•

Cleopatra draws her lips into a playful smirk as Patrick
skirts around her to pull her chair out from under the ivory table cloth.
“Thank you,” she acknowledges quietly, primly shrugging her purse down her
shoulder and sliding onto the cushion.

The waiter promptly approaches as she strings the bag over
the peg of her chair and leaves it to hang there. "Madame, monsieur, my
name is Pierre. I will be your waiter tonight,” he introduces politely. “What
can I get for you to drink on this romantic evening?”

“Two waters and two ice teas, if you would please. One
unsweetened,” Patrick says, flashing a knowing wink at Cleopatra.

“Oui.” The man leaves, bowing courteously beforehand.

“Wow,” Patrick says with a grin as he leans across the table
towards her, unfolding his napkin to drape it over his thighs. “Even the
service is authentic.”

Cleopatra laughs, but it tapers off into a wistful pout.
“Patrick, you really didn’t have to do this. This place… It’s rated so highly,
but it’s really expensive.”

“
Have to?
” he repeats, looking abashed. “This has
nothing to do with
have to
. I want to. Something has to be done to celebrate
your scholarship! You’re in college, babe. You’re the first person in your
family to make it this far, right?”

Cleopatra lays her napkin across her lap, smoothing out the
creases with care. “Yeah. But Lord knows ma’ parent’s won’t do anything…”

“Hey.” He reaches across the table to lay his hand over her
hand. “We’re not here to talk about all that. It’s you and me tonight, babe.
And I’m so, so proud of you.” He smiles and she would rather look at him than
any celebrity in the world. She rotates her wrist to turn her hand over and
squeeze his palm. “But speaking of earlier,” he begins.

The romantic moment flat-lines. “I didn’t say anything about
earlier,” Cleopatra denounces with a cross expression.

“You mentioned
Lord
,” Patrick reminds her, which she did
in passing, not meaningfully. She regrets it now. He always does this.

Cleopatra takes her hand back. “Let’s not start this again.”
She starts to peruse over the menu, busying herself with French words she
cannot read.

“Just hear me out,” he proposes. He gestures towards
himself. “Come to service with me this weekend. I can save you a spot in the
front.” He grins.

“Yes, front and center,” she elaborates, “in a place I want
no one to see me, where I will ironically be noticed by everyone.”

Patrick smirks playfully, a picture of glee. “Oh,
definitely
.
I might even ask the pastor to make an honorary mention of your presence from
the podium.”

Cleopatra crosses her arms over her chest, inadvertently
accentuating her already ample bust. Patrick notices, but looks away before she
can catch him. “I knew there would be a catch to this,” Cleo chides.

“Honey, there is no catch. It would just mean a lot to me to
see you there. After that, we can come back and paint the house?” Cleopatra
fixes him in a dour frown. His glistening blues plead with her. She can hardly
say no to such an adorable, absolutely gorgeous face! This is so unfair. He
will not be mad at her if she refuses. Patrick is rarely, if ever, mad at her,
but he will be
disappointed
.

She cannot stand to see him disappointed, namely in her.

Cleopatra huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, alright,” she
agrees. Just one time. The waiter brings them their beverages. Patrick, eyes
alight with hope and romance, raises his glass in a toast to her. She gently taps
the rim of her glass against his.

They never make it to that Sunday service.

•

Doctor Beard skims over her charts and examines the x-ray
and ultra sound images. By the expression on his face, Cleopatra can tell
things do not look promising. Solemnly, “I’m sorry. I don’t think we can save
both mother and child.”

Cleopatra reaches out blindly and clasps the doctor’s hand,
nearly knocking the chart from out of his arms. “Save ma’ daughter,” she
pleads. “Save Chloe!”

Doctor Beard regards her reverently and nods. He gets to
work. Cleopatra slips into unconsciousness soon after.

And the world she wakes up to… isn’t the same.

•

Meanwhile, Patrick is speeding down the highway, throwing
caution to the wind as the speedometer creeps up past ninety miles per hour.
After receiving a startling voicemail from Cleopatra following the release of
his evening class, he knows that something is desperately, drastically wrong.
He has lost everything and everyone dear to him. He cannot lose her too. He
will not lose her too.

And they cannot lose their baby!

His cell phone beeps. Praying for good news, he scrambles to
pick it up and reads a text. It is from a classmate, asking if everything is
alright. He looks up from the phone just in time to see an oncoming semi-truck,
barreling towards him with horns blaring. He drops the phone, grabs the wheel
with both hands, and swerves. It’s too late.

•

The autumn air is crisp and cool against her skin. Clouds
gather overhead, casting a dreary shadow over a dreary scene. The breeze toys
with stray strands of her hair. Her eyes are red. Her cheeks are blotchy. Over
the past year, it seems she has cried enough to last a lifetime. All around her
are headstones and concrete angels—memorials to people she will never know. In
the middle of it all is a stone for Patrick beside the plot where his parents
lay.