Chloe (8 page)

Chloe is reminded of her unfortunate experience at Orion’s.
She wishes she had this good of a reception there.

Kathleen steps aside. Prophet Phil assumes the podium. He
smiles. The expression is serene and soothing. “Greetings brothers, sisters,
friends.” He nods to them.

“Greetings,” they reply chorally. Chloe shakes her head a little,
still disturbed by the scripted nature of it all.

“God gave me a Word for this church. Maybe not for everyone,
but particularly for one.” And to her horror, Phil’s eyes dart in the direction
of Chloe and James.

Chloe blanches and starts to sink lower in her seat. “This
is not good.”

James, suddenly worried, fixes her with a pleading look.
“Don’t leave,” he asks. Chloe cannot find the will power to move anyway, not
while Phil’s eyes are relentlessly pinning her in place.

“Then don’t make him pick on me,” she suggests in a harsher
whisper. Unbeknownst to Chloe, James has absolutely nothing to do with this.

As if matters were not mortifying enough, Phil raises his
hand and points at Chloe. “Come here, young lady,” he says with the same
patient smile.

Chloe’s eyes double in size, wishing desperately that she
only imagined it. Her stomach lurches and storms, tumbling and churning. Heat
floods her face in torrents as she lights up like a Christmas tree. She wants
nothing more than to disappear. “Can I say no?” she whispers hurriedly to
James. It’s America. It’s a free country, holy ground or not.

James cringes, his eyes jumping from face to face waiting
expectantly. He takes a breath. Lowly, “Some may be offended if you do.”

Chloe balks, regarding him with an expression that suggests
her reaction to that should be one he anticipated. This is her first time here.
Aside from James and his mother, she does not know a single soul. Bluntly, “I
don’t care.” Just a moment ago, some of these people were giving her dagger
eyes. Why should she care if they’re upset when she does not cooperate?

James offers an encouraging smile. There is hope in his
eyes. It gives her confidence. Ever the optimist, “Relax and go with the flow.
What’s the worst that could happen?”

Chloe does not even want to give that thought the courtesy
of an answer. Her mind is already running with it. A million “worsts” could
happen, one of them culminating with the horde that is this church burning her
at the stake, or stringing her up from the nearest tree, or pelting her with
rocks and rotten fruit!

With all the confidence of a lifelong wallflower, Chloe
reluctantly stands up. Her feet carry her towards the alter and Phil, compelled
by a force not totally in her control. It is surreal.

She stands before Phil who maintains a tranquil expression.
His eyes are closed, as though he is listening to a voice that transcends
physical presence—something that speaks within him directly to his mind and
heart. Its something, or someone, she cannot see. His countenance is misted
over, veiled by something divine. She is not entirely certain he is himself at
this moment, rather a vessel for another entity.

This is all quite the sham.

The unnerving idea makes her glance back at James. Chloe is
not sure how to react to this. He opens his eyes and levels her with a serene
smirk. Chloe stands, rooted in place by the welcoming warmth of his gaze.

“You have many questions,” he says cryptically, not unlike a
weatherman predicting snow from a cloudless sky.

His words ring true. Chloe does have many questions. But,
frankly, all of them can be boiled down into, “Just one.”

Phil’s capricious smile broadens. As though he can read her
mind, “There is no need to question His existence Chloe, you are way past
that.”

Chloe balks, assuming a defensive stance as one foot slides
back and she squares her shoulders. She wonders if this is all part of some
elaborate plan—some diabolical scheme to brainwash her. Thus far, not a single
piece of fruit has been thrown. Her confidence is slowly returning. “How’d you
know ma’ name?”

Phil has an explanation for that too, though she does not
necessarily subscribe to it. “Before you were conceived, God knew you.”

Chloe knows God to be an omnipotent, sentient being. If he
is indeed the creator of the universe and the weaver of past, present, and
future, Chloe rationalizes that it would make sense for him to know her
theoretically. Anyone with a farthing of biblical knowledge could say this to
her. But what he says next is an entirely different ballgame.

“Before you were formed, he ordained you a scribe.” A scribe
is another word for writer. Chloe’s eyes widen. Her mind reels. She has never
met this man. She cannot fathom how he could know that unless… “Your writing
will change the world,” he concludes.

His words strike a chord in her. She recalls her ill
reception at Orion’s pub. She does not know whether to laugh or cry, pitched
headlong into a storming sea of emotions. It would be a dream come true for her
to affect even one heart, let alone the entire world.

This seems too good to be true. James must have sold her
out. He is the only one, aside from her mother, who knows the extent of her
passion.

Chloe chances another glance back at James, leveling him
with a fleeting glare. He knows the question she is asking and responds with a
shake of his head. Chloe’s stomach lurches. She blinks rapidly.

This cannot be happening. Chloe looks back up at Phil.

“No one here knows you better than God,” he declares,
gleaning her doubts from her glances at James. “God told me everything Chloe.”

Chloe fists her hands defiantly, setting her lips into a
grim line. This has gone far enough. “I don’t even believe in God.”

He fixes her in a perceptive leer, haloed in a glow she
feels rather than sees. It is slowly worming its way through her willpower,
like a whistle and call to a stray dog—a shepard’s open arms to a lost sheep.
“You want that to be true. But you know better. You have always known better.
He has only one question for you as well.” Phil steps off the platform to stand
directly in front of Chloe.

Here comes the kicker.

“Will you follow Him?”

Chloe tries to suppress the emotions swelling up inside her.
She almost chokes on her tears. To follow someone is to need them. Chloe has
lived her life without that luxury. She could not afford it. Memories of her
childhood flood her mind: growing up in the absence of the father she should
have known, now to be presented with the idea that she has an eternal father
and was never really alone.

If this father is anything like Trevor, she wants nothing to
do with him. But the feeling of peace threading through the air is coloring her
prejudice with fallacy. God is nothing like Trevor. She wants to believe it.

Phil strikes while the iron is hot. “He needs you to
accomplish a great task. He has a purpose for you and the gift he has given
you. You only need to lift those hands and surrender.” Surrender sounds an
awful lot like giving up. “Stop running,” he soothes. “Stop hiding. Stop
resisting. Begin to walk in your true purpose.”

Chloe sets her jaw, cursing the tears that spring to her
eyes. Giving up does not mean losing the battle. Giving up means gaining hope.
She stands upon the precipice of something she knows is a life altering
decision. The fight leaves her.

She’s tired.

Chloe answers him with a shallow nod. Phil takes her hands
and raises them up high. When he lets go, Chloe does not put them down. Back in
the pews, James is also in tears.

James sits with Chloe on the front bench. The service is
over. People are still filing out of the Church. Chloe stares ahead,
floundering in sensations she cannot describe because she has never felt them
before.

After a few long moments, “Not sure what just happened.”

James turns to gaze at her, adopting a proud and loving
smirk. “I think you just gave your heart to Jesus,” he guides.

Chloe blinks. “Whatever I did,” she fumbles for the right
word, “I’ve never been more at peace.” It is as though Chloe’s happiness is
buoyed by something unsinkable.

James nudges her arm affectionately. “Come over for dinner.
Mom insists.” Chloe flashes him a sidelong smile. James takes Chloe by the hand
as they stand up and come together for a hug.

As they embrace, Chloe looks over James’ shoulder to see a
man standing by the door, swaddled in soft white light. Time stands still. He
has very familiar face, a face she has seen staring back at her from her
computer screen many times before for many years. What could be Patrick’s
doppelganger, his identical twin mirror, smiles at her. Her heart soars into
her throat. This somehow feels like a defining moment—another life altering
epiphany, a new revelation, in a matter of an hour. Chloe suddenly realizes
that his smile comes too naturally and looks too akin to her precious pictures
to be a mere replica.

It’s him.

It has to be!

Patrick turns on his heel and leaves the church as quickly
as he came. Chloe reels. James, who has released her, notices her blindsided
expression. He follows her stare to the empty doorway.

His eyes volley back and forth between the doorway and
Chloe’s colorless face. “What is it?” he wants to know.

Chloe does not answer him, because she does not know
herself. Instead, she dashes headlong towards the doors, bursting forth into
the light of the outside. James stands in her wake, rooted in place by his own
confusion.

Patrick runs up the street, away from the chapel. Chloe
races after him. He rounds a corner, passing a bookstore and bakery. The scent
of fresh pastries wafts through the air just outside of the entrance. She
follows at his heels. Patrick crosses the street and careens into an
alleyway—something that draws strange feelings of apprehension from Chloe.

Why does it feel as though she has been here before? Done
this before?

Chloe darts up to the entrance where she hesitates. She
stops and looks around. Patrick is nowhere in sight. Her anxiety heightens. She
rubs her head in frustration. Patrick suddenly grabs her and yanks her into the
darkness.

Patrick releases a breathless Chloe. She stares at him,
unsure how to respond to this. She feels as though her knees could buckle at
any second. Her body is suddenly unreliable—a fragile shell that cannot
possibly contain her anymore. She inhales greedily, gulping air into her
burning lungs.

Chloe regards him skeptically, her body tense as if to ward
away the illusion. She guards her heart and steels herself. Today is bursting
with bizarre happenings. “You’re dead,” she whispers hoarsely.

Patrick manages to smile sympathetically. “If that were
true, then you would be dead too.” His eyebrows jump up dubiously.

“You
can’t
be him,” she refutes, knee deep in denial.
No matter how desperately she wants this man to be her long-lost father, the
implications of that will raze her entire world and obliterate her definition
of reality.

Patrick ventures a step closer so that she cannot ignore his
resemblance. “Your name is Chloe Cleopatra Taylor,” he announces. “You were
born in New Orleans hospital on November 10, 1976. You have a birth mark on the
side of your stomach. A mole—“ She cannot hear anymore.

Chloe shakes her head vigorously, staggering backwards.
While her clothing is not preppy, it is not scant either. There is no way this
man could know those intimate, personal things unless he is indeed her father…
or he is a stalker. And neither one is totally comforting at the moment. Were
she forced to choose between the two, Chloe would be dangerously tempted to
select the later. Her father is dead.

Her own
mother
told her so!

“Stop,” she commands.

Patrick adopts a frown. Sincerely, “Somebody lied to you
Chloe. You need to know the truth.”

“Why now?” she chokes out. Chloe finds herself on the brink
of screaming at him. Should this ludicrous fantasy be real, it also means that
the man purposely kept himself out of Chloe’s life, which is an entirely
different ball of wax than being removed by forces outside of his control.
“After all these years…” Her voice trails off.

Patrick’s face grows sad, his eyes pregnant with conviction.
“I’m sorry. I had to make sure you were ready.” He reaches out as if he means
to hold her hand.

Ready?
she wonders.
Ready for what?
Ready to
face the fact that her own father wanted nothing to do with her? Or that her
mother lied to her? The gesture startles her. Chloe jerks away. “No! This is
nuts. You’re dead.” Chloe tries to leave. Patrick seizes her by the arm and
holds her fast.

“I don’t blame you Chloe,” he assures her, a picture of
genuine understanding. “But you need to know the truth. The truth will set you
free.” Free.
Freedom.
The word echoes through her like an old familiar
song, coaxing strange feelings to the surface, like something from a dream.
Patrick lets her go. At present, she is not sure she wanted him to do that.

“Chloe?!” she hears someone shout from a distance. James is
looking for her.

Chloe probably scared him half to death back in the chapel.
Chloe glances towards the entrance of the alleyway, then turns to face Patrick.
He is no longer there. Chloe assumes a perplexed pout. There are no doors, no other
entrances or exits leading out of the deadended alley, but he is gone.
Gone.
James appears at the entrance to the alleyway and breathes a sigh of relief at
the sight of her.

James goes to Chloe.

“What’s going on?” he wants to know as he catches his breath.

“I have to take a rain check on dinner,” she states. Chloe
once again leaves James in the dust, standing alone in the alleyway to juggle
his own vexation.

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