Silence flanks his words. Cleopatra’s slender shoulders start to shake, her body wracked by the unbridled sobs that burst forth. Cleo has cried before now, but not like this. She shoved the raw pain down for weeks until her small body could not contain the hurt anymore. Tears pour down her cheeks. “I don’t want this!” she exclaims.
Patrick, undone with helplessness, quickly takes her hand. If she has the strength to pull away again, she chooses not to. Seeing her this way makes tears spring to his own eyes, He kisses her knuckles. He holds her hand against his chest, over his heart.
“I know you are confused, and hurt,” he tries, “but I want this child. I do.” And in his opinion, she should want it too, regardless of the circumstances surrounding its conception.
Cleopatra inclines her chin and rolls her red, watery eyes. “Confused and hurt don’t quite sum up how I feel, Patrick.”
Patrick wants to know how she feels. He knows words could never do justice to the injustice committed. He wants to comfort her in any way he can. He wants her to open up again—to let him in. He moves his chair closer, sitting on the edge. He refuses to relinquish her hand. “I know we can do this,” he whispers.
Cleopatra’s voice breaks. “I want to believe you. You have been there for me in more ways than I deserve.”
Patrick regards her lovingly. “That will never change, Cleo.”
She sniffs. She turns her head and meets his eyes, her face a picture of anguish. Forlornly, “No one else calls me that.”
•
Streets he once called home seem foreign and foreboding now. Patrick searches tirelessly for a clue, a sign—anything. Cleopatra should have been home hours ago, according to Janine. Cell phone in hand, he is only moments away from calling the police.
Patrick stops just short of the alleyway’s entrance, spotting several textbooks strewn over the sidewalk. He approaches warily; his throat tight with apprehension. He kneels and collects the books. Sure enough, they belong to her.
Patrick turns his attention towards the stark gloom of the alley. Patrick ventures inside. No sooner has he gone three steps when he hears faint, staggered breathing. Patrick drops the books and hurries forward. He finds Cleopatra curled into the fetal position and clutching her knees between two dumpsters, sobbing unreservedly. Thunder rumbles overhead.
Patrick falls to his knees, his hands hovering over her, horrified at the reality that becomes more apparent with every rip in her clothing and the red stains elsewhere. “Cleo?” he whispers hoarsely. Patrick reaches out and touches her. She immediately recoils, squirming away from him and blackening her side with asphalt dust. She wedges herself into the corner and continues to cry. She can’t see him through the tears and the foggy lens of shock.
After a bit of coaxing, Patrick manages to get her to recognize him. She does not fight him when he picks her up into his arms, holding her as close as he can against his chest, and carries her out onto the street.
It starts to rain.
•
Patrick holds tightly to Cleopatra’s hand, the shared memory a fading light in their gaze. There are moments when Patrick blames himself. He should have never let something so precious to him walk the night streets alone. He should have been there, escorting her. He should have been there to protect the one thing he loves most—the only part of a family he has left.
Patrick wanted to call the police to report the incident. Cleopatra would not hear of it. She shrieked and begged him not to call. Patrick should have just taken her regardless. The anger he harbors at her assailant is burning him from the inside out, not unlike perdition’s flames.
Cleopatra seems to read his mind. “You came looking for me,” she says, managing a shallow smile. “Knew you loved me then as I know you love me now.” Her eyes plead with him. “Need you to understand that I can’t live with a constant reminder of that night.”
Patrick shakes his head, sensing that he is fighting a losing battle. As the minutes pass, he feels more defeated. Her reasoning, while difficult to hear, is sound. This is a defining moment for him. He must change her mind. “It’s a life.”
“No,” she refutes, pulling her hand from his grasp. “It’s the product of a rape. It’s evil.”
Patrick moves even closer, as if it will undoubtedly help his cause. He cannot let her go through with this. “Every child that is conceived is conceived with a purpose. We kill that life, we also kill God’s purpose for that life.”
Cleopatra sniffs and wipes her cheeks. She flounders for a moment. Finally, “What of your reputation at church?”
“What does that matter?” he persists. “I gave all that up when I started having sex. When we started having sex and basically living together.”
She combs her fingers through her hair, her well of tears having apparently run dry, or else she was able to put a cap on it again. She has wept often. He is surprised that she still has tears to cry today. She gives him a helpless shrug. “Don’t think I can do this. Wish you could understand.”
•
The hour is very late when Patrick finds himself alone with his agony in the bathroom. He turns the shower faucet on, disrobes, and steps into the cubicle. He closes the glass door. He stands under the warm stream of water, feeling lost and unsteady on his feet. Patrick lays his hand against the cold tile wall and inhales a shaky, staggered breath. His thoughts are jumbled. There is only one thing he can do.
“Lord,” he chokes out. “Help me. Father God, I do not know what to do. I do not know how to help her. I am lost.” He swallows thickly, unable to shake the gloom shrouding him. “Why did this have to happen? Why does she have to endure this?” A thought occurs to him. “Is this… penance for our sins? Is this our punishment for being together before marriage? For not waiting? Do we not have your blessing? Is this… my fault?”
Patrick shakes his head, willing away tears.
“I’m scared. I am so scared, but I can’t let her see it. She is slipping away from me, Lord God. Please, do not take her from me. I will offer up whatever you ask. I will do anything you wish of me. Take the darkness from around her. Please be with her through this suffering. Please take it away.” His voice cracks. He pauses to regain his composure. “Help me to know how to comfort her, and give me the strength to do so. Tell me the words to say and flood my heart with courage.” His fingertips dig and bite into the tile.
“I surrender to your wisdom. Keep me strong in this time of trial. Guide Cleopatra and give her the wisdom to do what is right.” He lowers his voice to a ragged, desperate whisper, “Do not let her kill my baby. Please do not let her hurt our baby.” Whether or not Patrick is the biological father, that is still his child, growing inside this woman. He refuses to see it any differently. “I know that in you, all things are possible. In you, all things work for the good of those who love the Lord.” He is about to break down. He can feel it.
“I can’t see the good in this…”
He pounds his fist against the tile. “Help me to see it. Open my eyes. I know all things happen for a reason. What is your purpose in doing this? Why now? Why ever? Lord, please, hear my prayer. I cannot do this alone. I can’t do it." With this, Patrick slides down the wall, coming to rest hard on his knees. He stoops over and cradles his head in his hands, allowing the rush of the shower to muffle the sound of his sobs.
Chapter 2
Trevor sits by the dining table, waiting for supper. He is 42 with a smoker’s cough, an ever-expanding beer gut, and a balding spot at the back of his head. His cheeks are rough and scratchy with stubble. He wears a sweat stained t-shirt and painter’s pants. He alternates puffing on a cigarette and swigging from a Jack Daniels bottle. These are two luxuries he cannot afford to do without.
Maud walks in with a plastic plate of sandwiches. Maud has her hair tied up in a disheveled bun. Her clothes hang loose on her frail figure. The telling lines of premature age spider their way around her eyes and the corners of her lips. Not quite how one would expect a 35 yea
r old to look. She puts the plate on the table for Trevor. Trevor looks at it, then at her.
“What is this?” he demands.
Maud gestures towards the meal, offering as much of a smile as she can manage. “Tuna sandwich, baby.”
Trevor skews his jaw and narrows his eyes. “For dinner?”
Maud can feel a storm coming. Dealing with Trevor is to constantly walk on eggshells. She changes tactics and softens her voice, speaking as kindly as she can. “It’s all we—”
Trevor thrusts his arm out and sends the plate sailing off the table and onto the floor. Trevor surges to his feet, knocking his chair over on the linoleum floor with a clatter. He seizes Maud by the wrist. He lodges the cigarette into the corner of his cracked lips and speaks in a deep, dark, dangerous voice.
“Is this your way of rubbing in the fact that I’m jobless?” he hisses, the odor of alcohol heavy on his breath.
Maud calls tension to her arms, but makes no move to pull away from him. That will only escalate an already precarious predicament. “No, baby.”
He laughs mirthlessly. “You love pointing out my weakness, don’t you? Showing up all my faults! Useless witch.” He raises his hand, as though he plans to backhand her. “I might as well—”
Just then, Cleopatra walks into the kitchen. Trevor sees her and releases Maud. Father and daughter share uncomfortable and intimidating glances, balanced on the precipice of molten hatred. Cleopatra fists her hands defiantly. By the same token, Trevor fists his bottle of Jack by the neck and leaves with a primal grunt.
Cleopatra stares him down until he turns the corner and hears the door slam in his wake. “You ok mom?” she wants to know.
“How was school?” Maud asks, stooping down to pick up the sandwich bits.
Cleopatra takes a deep breath. There is no hope of reaching her mother when she blatantly refuses to discuss her troubles. Cleo might as well move right along to troubles of her own. “I need to tell you something.”
“Oh?” Maud says, distracted by the mess. Cleopatra goes to her, takes her hands, and leads her to the couch, spotted with stains and cigarette burns. They used to have a dog until he chewed through the back of it. Cleo sits her mother down. Maud stares at her, her forehead creased with curiosity. Cleopatra is rarely so stark and serious.
Cleopatra starts to speak several times, but fails to. She knots her hands into the fabric of her skirt. She clenches and unclenches her jaw. Quickly, “Please don’t freak out or overreact.” She waits for some sort of acknowledgement or silent promise from her mother that never comes. I—I’m pregnant.” Maud’s expression melts away into a vacant, blindsided stare. An uncomfortable moment of silence follows. It drags on, like deadweight.
“Well, say something!” Cleopatra prompts out of desperation.
Maud purses her lips and averts her eyes. She starts to wring her worn hands. It is a habit of hers, namely when the air is thick with tension… or she is plotting something. “I told you to stop seeing that boy.” This is not exactly the something Cleopatra wants to hear, but at least is it something. Maud doesn’t know about the incident. She’s doesn’t know that the baby…
“But I love him,” Cleo insists.
Maud is hardly satisfied with that. She stands and begins to pace across the den. As if Cleopatra has not already run the scenario through in her head a hundred times, “You just started college. This will ruin everything.”
“You’re overreacting,” Cleopatra reminds her, watching.
Maud wheels on her, spreading her hands. “Which is a perfectly normal response to something like this!” Maud resumes pacing the room. She posts one hand on her boney hip and the other on her aching forehead. She curses under her breath. Her nostrils flare. “Never wanted this for you Cleopatra.” She stops and folds her bruising arms, her mind reeling. “Your father can’t know.”
Cleopatra expected as much. She glances down at her stomach. She slouches over, bracing her elbows on her knees. Dryly, “Eventually it’s gonna be hard to hide, mom.”
Maud taps her fingers against her lips thoughtfully. Trevor’s reaction to this would probably cripple them both. They can hardly support themselves, let alone a baby. Moreover, being pregnant means that, eventually, Cleopatra will be unable to pull her own weight around the house, whether that means chores, work, or school. Trevor, while quite the deadbeat himself, cannot stand idleness from other people.
Maud faces her daughter. “Is there a friend you can stay with?”
“Just Patrick,” she states, as if the answer should be obvious.
Maud frets about this for a moment more. Cleopatra has mentioned this Patrick several times. Never in detail, but several times. The boy cannot be much older than Cleopatra and likely still lives at home. “Would his parents approve?”
“… They’re dead.”
This takes Maud by surprise. Cleopatra has never mentioned that before. She blinks herself out of the stupor and forces herself to see their absence as a blessing. One less thing to worry about. In that event, the boy probably collects money from their life insurance. He should be able to take good care of Cleopatra.
Maud nods, convincing herself that this is what is best for everyone, especially with future events in mind. “Pack your things and leave tonight. For good.”
Cleopatra finds her feet. Her eyes dart to the ruined sandwiches and then back to her mother. She struggles to find the right way to voice her concern. It finally emerges as, “And leave you here alone… with him?”
Maud flits her hands through the air, dismissing her daughter’s concern with fluttering fingers. “Don’t worry about me. My season of peace is coming.” They leave it at that.
Maud hurries her daughter along to her room. Maud leaves momentarily, having remembered something helpful, and returns a moment later with two old duffle bags she stored under her bed. Originally, she planned to save them until the day she left with Cleopatra. But the possibility of that day is long gone. There is no such escape now, not for Maud.
•
Cleopatra climbs the stout steps to Patrick’s front door, lugging along two large bags that, combined, feel as though they weigh more than she does. But all things considered, it is a small sum. It is times like these she is grateful for her scarce amount of possessions. There are few girls that she knows who could fit their entire wardrobe, toiletries, and shoes into just two duffel bags.
She gathers her courage, knocks, and waits. There is a shard of Cleopatra’s heart, a piece chipped off the night of the incident, that wonders if he will turn her away. She swallows hard.
Patrick opens the door dressed in pajamas. He normally wears boxers and a t-shirt, but tonight he is in athletic pants. He glances behind him at the mounted clock on the far wall reading 3:05 AM in big red block letters. He looks groggy.
“Sorry to wake you,” she apologizes meekly. “Had to leave when he was asleep.” By he, Patrick surely knows, she means her father. Cleopatra stopped calling him dad a long time ago. Now, he is him or Trevor. As a matter of fact, she does not mind using course language when referring to him either.
Patrick shoulders the doorjamb, smiling understandingly. He is devastatingly handsome, even at three in the morning. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
He is lying for her sake, she can tell, but it makes her love him all the more. Cleopatra nods. Her eyes keep darting away from his face. Maintaining eye contact is still difficult. They gaze at one another tentatively. The entire situation crashes into her as she realizes that she is leaving her home and her family, namely her mother. More than likely, she will not see her again for some time. Trevor rarely lets Maud out of the house.
Willing herself not to start crying again, “I have nowhere else to go,” she admits.
Patrick steps forward, places his warm hand on her cheek, and kisses her forehead. “I know, baby. Come on.” Patrick takes her bags into the same warm hands and they head inside.
Patrick rearranges a few of his drawers to make space for h
er things. Cleopatra decides to unpack tomorrow. After the journey here, she does not have the energy. She changes into a spaghetti strap and a pair of flannels.
They lie down together in Patrick’s bed, a place they have been many times before, and with considerably less clothing on. Cleopatra does not understand why this time feels so different to her. No matter how late it is, or early, at this point, neither one of them can sleep. Instead, they both stare at the ceiling as though it is a map that will guide them through the trials ahead.
Something Maud said earlier resurfaces in Cleopatra’s mind. “Think your parents would approve of me?” Cleopatra asks, mindlessly drumming her fingers on her stomach.
Patrick turns his head enough to look at her. He smiles, admiring the beauty of her profile. “Yeah,” he answers. Patrick’s eyes return to the ceiling. “Think yours would approve of me?”
Cleopatra struggles with how to answer. Her parents are still alive, therefore she is expected to be honest. Patrick totally cheated. “Mom, eventually. Trevor, never.” But then again, Trevor would never approve of anyone she brought home. She does not know if his anger comes from feeling possessive over her, or intimidated by other men… namely the successful ones. Trevor has been out of a job since he was laid off at the cereal plant. Times are tough. They are always tough for her family.
Patrick breaks her concentration with, “You are lucky to have both parents alive.”
Cleopatra all but laughs. Patrick knows her circumstances, but they are difficult to fully grasp unless one actually lives her life and sees what she sees. To Patrick, who has lost his parents, having an abusive father and a fickle mother is better than none at all. Cleopatra has a thing or two to say about that.
“You’re the lucky one,” she reminds him. “Wish I had what you have. At least your parents died leaving you this house… and enough money to get you through college.”
Patrick knows what she means. There is no way he would be able to afford college without the financial cushion his parents left him. He has had to sell a lot of the furniture though, as it reduces the insurance payments. It has been a long time since their death. Although that wound is not recent, it still bleeds. Quietly, “I’d rather have them.”
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