Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  •

  Greg shrugs back into his shirt. “I’ll be in the bedroom,” he informs her, flavoring the statement with a clear indication that she is to join him immediately. Greg takes his belt and his shaggy self and heads up the stairs.

  Cleopatra pulls out a box of cigarettes from her back pocket and puts one in her mouth. Chloe promptly strides up and snatches it out. “You start smoking again?” she questions. They have talked about this ugly habit often, and the dangers associated with it. Cleopatra is all about danger though, as evidenced by the foul sorts of men she brings him.

  “It helps,” she defends, flitting her hands and fluttering her fingers. It is as if she cannot see why Chloe would be upset or hold her accountable. It is as if the woman thinks herself invincible and absolved of all and any responsibility. It is as if she never grew up. If Chloe thought she was bad, her mother’s moral compass is hopelessly off kilter. No job, no chores, no rules. She practically exists in a fantasy land.

  Chloe, instantly on the defensive and frustrated, continues to speak her mind. “Why are you with that loser?” she demands, gesturing in the direction the lumbering tyrant went. Her mother has dated a slew of men over the years—none of them good, but some of them more bearable than others. She knows better than this. “What happened to Paul?”

  “Paul was last year,” Cleopatra dismisses flippantly, turning her attention elsewhere.

  Chloe holds her ground, eyeing her expectantly. “And the one you were with last month?” she reminds.

  “Phillip,” she finishes. “Nice guy. He left me for his wife.” The statement rings with bitterness. Chloe virtually feels the biting jealousy rolling off of her mother.

  “And so you’re back with Greg,” Chloe concludes, as though this is the end of a very long and tragic tale in which the outcome is predestined.

  Cleopatra shrugs. She has her reasons for floating from man to man, stringing them along and letting them treat her as they please. She loves them all like the beach loves its ocean, condoning all manner of abuse. In fact. She has several reasons for her lifestyle.

  Chloe has heard it all before. She is no more receptive to them now than she was when her mother started spoon feeding them to her. Cleopatra takes the box of smokes from her pocket and nearly takes out a second before Chloe snatches the entire carton away.

  Cleopatra scoffs. “Somebody has to pay ma’ bills. Buy ma’ clothes. Support ma’ bad habits.”

  In other words, drinking and smoking—the two universal vices. If Cleopatra is also into drugs, it would not come as a surprise to Chloe.

  The solution seems obvious to Chloe who, unlike her mother, is gainfully employed. No matter how much Chloe despises her job and the despicable woman she works for, she is still a reliable employee. She values attendance. More importantly she values the paycheck that comes as a result. She does not understand why her mother wants no part of that, other than the fact that she is lazy. They have been on welfare for longer than Chloe can recall. But welfare alone is not enough to live with the sorts of luxuries that Cleopatra wants.

  Chloe spreads her arms and opens her hands. “You could get a job,” she suggests flatly. But Cleopatra will never do that. She would much rather wallow in the squalor that is her life at present.

  Cleopatra changes the subject. She has a habit of doing that whenever the topic tangents to her duties as a mother or a citizen. The work place, in any disguise, feels like a cage to her. Where is the freedom in a nine to five job? “Why aren’t you at the movies?”

  Chloe balks. “You knew about that?” She can hardly believe that James would take the time, let alone have the gumption, to plot with her mother. How they found the means to conjure such a scandal is completely beyond her. Did Cleopatra ask James to keep her out later, as to have more time with Greg? Or was it actually James’ idea and Cleopatra ran with it?

  While Chloe reels, Cleopatra scours the couch for another carton of cigarettes. Distantly, “You need a life outside of that laptop of yours.”

  Chloe goes slack-jawed, utterly appalled. A life outside? Wait. Who has the job again? By life, she must mean a boyfriend. She must mean a herd of girlfriends. She must mean nightlife and parties and hours wasted at a local hangout. Chloe wonders if her mother can even fathom the gravity of her time spent on her laptop. Every keystroke brings her closer to her ultimate dream—her lifelong vision. Every moment is valued, prized, and put to good use.

  “If I’m gonna be a published writer, I need to write,” Chloe retorts.

  But Cleopatra, ever the spirit-dampening realist, only has a mind to reiterate the enormous odds stacked against her. “Only 5% of writers get published.”

  “I have every intention of being in that 5%.” Chloe would like to think that her mother would encourage her determination and foster further persistence. She does desire her approval, no matter how her callous attitude suggests otherwise. Cleopatra is her mother.

  Her mother shrugs, like she always does when matters become too serious for her to entertain and she loses all interest. “I just think you can do better for yourself.”

  Chloe feels as though she has been slapped. If doing better means taking up a vocation or participating in activities that she has no passion for, then she is content exactly where she is. “And I think you can do better than Greg,” Chloe combats.

  This seems to take her mother by surprise because the woman stands upright and stares at her like a deer in the headlights. The last thing Chloe wants to do is bring this up, but shock-value seems to be the only way to bring her mother around; to convince her to see life under the lens of truth and not wishful thinking. “How many times has he tried to kill you?” Chloe spits.

  Cleopatra touches a scar on her face. Her hand hovers there, in an attempt to hide her shame. Greg did not mean to, or so he claims. It happened in a spate of rage—a crime of passion. The bottle was just within reach. He acted without thinking. He will never let it happen again. He swore, never again. And the incident with the iron was completely her fault. She deserved the burn. Cleopatra hooks her hair behind her ear, trying to hide the fact that Chloe’s comment struck a chord in her.

  Once again, she changes the subject. “How was work?”

  Chloe shakes her head, plainly disappointed, her nerves frayed to the point where she wants to yank her hair out. She has never seen eye to eye with her mother, and probably never will. Chloe cannot understand how one person could make so many bad choices. She drops the carton of cigarettes onto the coffee table with a dull thump. “I have stuff to do.” Chloe turns on her heel and heads to her room.

  Cleopatra rummages through the kitchen cabinets. She finds her bottle of Vodka and pours herself a glass. There is no ice in the refrigerator because she forgot to fill the freeze trays. Moreover, there is nothing to mix it with, as they cannot afford soda. She drinks it straight. She figures, all things considered, that it is a more effective method anyhow. There is nothing to lessen the blissful sensation, the happiness, the freedom, that comes from her truest friend.

  •

  That night, Chloe sits on her bed in front of her laptop, staring at a blank screen with a blinking cursor. She wills her fingers to begin typing, but they rest unmoving on the keyboard. Her stare is blank, reflecting her mind. For the life of her, she cannot think of a thing worth writing about. Fighting with her mother drains her.

  She hears Cleopatra and Greg arguing in an adjoining room. The voices are escalating. She covers her ears to block out the sounds. Chloe glances around the room. She snatches her headphones from her bedside table and quickly plugs up her ears with the ear buds. She plugs them into the headphone jack and starts blasting heavy metal.

  She minimizes the empty document and opens her picture folder. She begins clicking through pictures of Patrick, her real dad, and her mom in happier days. 25 years ago feels like an eternity. Cleopatra never smiles like that anymore, nor nurtures the same fire in her eyes. She looks like a different person. The woman in the n
ext room is but a shadow of her former self—a living shell.

  Chloe turns her attention to Patrick, grinning next to Cleopatra. She touches the face of the father she never knew, longingly staring at him. She knows if he were here, life would look completely different. They would be a family, not a train wreck. She adjusts her hand and covers Cleopatra standing next to him. If their places had been exchanged—if Cleopatra had died in the accident and Patrick had lived—would life be better too?

  She quickly removes her hand and rebukes the thought. It is not only selfish, it is disturbing.

  It is high time Chloe made some changes. If there is one thing she knows, she does not want to end up like her mother. James always takes Chloe to a better place. He sees her in a way no one else ever will. He can look past the inky black makeup and the permanent frown to her soul. And he sees goodness and light. Chloe takes her ear buds out.

  The arguing has stopped.

  She searches for her cell phone. Finding it, she thumbs through her contacts, selects James, and raises the phone to her ears. She flops back in bed.

  After a few rings, “How was the movie?” She smiles a little. “Sorry about that.” Hesitantly, “Thinking of coming with you to church.” She holds the phone away from her ear as James responds with an ecstatic REALLY?! She chuckles. “Probably regret it,” she tells him, “but we’ll see. Have a good night.” Chloe hangs up.

  She reluctantly shuts down her computer. Nothing will come of writing tonight. Chloe changes into pajamas, turns out the lights, tucks herself in, and goes to bed. Another dreamless night awaits her, in the arms of which she can relax.

  Chapter 5

  Chloe stands at the end of the conveyer belt, packing bags for the customers checking out. The supermarket is bustling with activity at this time of the day, which should keep her on her toes. However, her mind is on other things, suspended just beyond the exit doors as though she refuses to acknowledge her presence in this place. Plots for stories and prose for poems unravel in her head like spools of thread. Her distracted demeanor does not go unnoticed.

  Sandra, a short stout brunette in her early thirties, is her supervisor. At first, Chloe just assumed she had a bad attitude with everyone. Now she knows better. The devil of a woman has it out for her. Sandra strolls by, gesturing for Chloe to follow her into the break room. Chloe avoids the eyes and vicious smirks of the other curious employees. They pass the deli and the bakery, passing the wheeling racks used to stock new inventory.

  Sandra pushes her way into the break room, spotted with tables and a few chairs. There are two vending machines in the corner—one for soda and another for snacks. Sandra thumbs Donny and Marina out. They groan, annoyed that their break has been cut short, especially by Chloe, and hurry past them.

  Sandra wheels on Chloe and folds her arms across her chest. The intimidating way she stands suggests she has military training. “You want this job?” she asks her, her drawn-on eyebrows jumping halfway up her forehead.

  Chloe blinks, wondering if the question is purely rhetorical. “Yeah,” she replies hesitantly.

  Sandra purses her heavily lined lips, eyeing Chloe from head to toe with a haughty air of authority and general displeasure. “Don’t seem like it. Keep getting complains that you are packing toiletries with food stuff.” With a catty smile, “I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before.” Chloe manages to keep from rolling her eyes. Sandra continues, “There are 15 people packing bags. Only one devil-looking girl.” This is ironic, being that one of them is quite devil-like and it certainly is not Chloe. “That’s how customers describe you.”

  Chloe keeps reminding herself to be respectful. As much resentment as she has for Sandra, the woman is still her supervisor. There are probably plenty of other people lined up for this position. Chloe cannot afford to lose it. If she says the wrong thing, and is reported for it, she is gone. “Instead of constantly finding fault,” she tries, “show me how to please you.”

  Sandra ventures a step forward, scowling up at Chloe with all the tenderness of a bloodthirsty shark. “If it was up to me, the only thing I would be showing you is the door.” With that, Sandra storms past her and back out onto the floor.

  Chloe sighs.

  •

  The next morning, Cleopatra is busying herself by fixing breakfast. There is a carton of milk, a block of cheese, and a cheese grater on the counter next to her, along with a half-empty egg container. She stands over the stove scrambling an ample portion of eggs. Her face is swollen and bruised. Greg is not home.

  Chloe, fully dressed for work, walks into the kitchen. She hovers in the entrance, blindsided by the spectacle of her mother cooking. They have not spoken since their spat. As endearing as the act is, Chloe is not partial to eggs. She hates the taste and hates the texture. Instead, she crosses to the pantry. Chloe takes out a box of cereal and grabs the milk off the counter.

  Cleopatra blinks, noticing her presence for the first time. She watches as Chloe fills a cereal bowl. “I was making breakfast.”

  Chloe nods, following it up with a shrug as she puts the box back into the pantry. She wishes she sounded more apologetic when she says, “I don’t eat eggs.”

  Cleopatra looks down at the simmering pan of yellow mush. She frowns to herself and blinks several more times. “I forgot.”

  Chloe’s brows knit together, regarding her strangely. As addlebrained as her mother normally acts, this is taking it to a new level. “Neither do you,” she reminds her. Cleopatra gives her no response, nor any indication that she heard her as she takes the pan off the burner and starts fishing through cabinets for Tupperware. It will probably take at least two bins to fit that many eggs in.

  For the first time, Chloe is able to get a good look at her face and the green-purplish knots bubbling up on the skin. Her eyes grow. Her stomach lurches. “What happen to your face?” she gasps.

  “Walked into a door,” Cleopatra responds, sounding shamelessly rehearsed.

  Chloe’s shock turns into a deep frown. She has a newfound loathing for Greg and a newfound reason to view her mother as a coward. “Right,” she says tersely. Chloe yanks open the silverware drawer and finds a spoon.

  She knows if she says more, or asks her mother why she puts herself through this torture, that she will start crying. The emotional storm is constantly brewing. Once the waterworks start, they will probably never stop. Neither of them need that. Chloe will be late for work, which will be the final straw where Sandra is concerned.

  Chloe slings her bag over her shoulder and takes her cereal to the kitchen table. She lets her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. A thought occurs to her. She swings around towards Cleopatra once more. “Gonna go church with James Sunday.” After garnering her courage, “Wanna come?”

  It takes Cleopatra all of a second to drone, “Not ma’ thing.”

  It is not Chloe’s thing either, but she wants to try something new. And the way James talks about it makes it seem like a good place with good people—two things Chloe is fairly unfamiliar with. It can’t be all bad, right? Before she can stop herself, “What is your thing mom? Walking into doors?”

  Cleopatra shuts the last cabinet, her search for Tupperware coming up empty. She changes her mind and ladles the eggs onto a plate. She moves to the toaster and inserts four slices of bread. While they cook, she pours herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the other burner. Once the toast jumps up from the machine, she quickly drops them onto the same plate as the eggs, letting them fall where they may. She takes the plate and her cup and walks out of the kitchen.

  Chloe has lost her appetite. She considers pouring the cereal down the drain, but thinks better of it. Instead, she puts the bowl and the milk back in the fridge, just in case her mother is still hungry. She grabs her bag and leaves.

  •

  The much anticipated Sunday arrives. Church with James… Chloe is still uncertain if said anticipation is good or bad. Chloe wakes up, showers off, and dresses like she does e
very other Sunday: in black. James says absolutely nothing about it when he picks her up that morning.

  •

  Elsewhere, a man finds himself beside the roadway with the sun beating down from overhead. Bone dry desert surrounds him on all sides and apart from the freeway, almost everything is the same pale brown. A tumbleweed rolls across the road. Waves of dirt and heat ripple over the asphalt. No matter how long he walks, he never seems to get anywhere.

  He has been wondering for some time now. Every day, it is the same. He wakes up walking. He doesn’t remember going to sleep. He doesn’t remember lying down or stopping to rest. He cannot recall where he is going, or why. By the same token, he does have some foggy memories of passing out and landing face first in the brittle dust. He knows he cannot be stopped. He knows his journey is important.

  He feels much like a robot—an automated shell of a man with a single mission.

  If only he could remember what the mission was…

  He is alone, albeit the few scampering animals he meets along the way, mostly scavenging for some sort of food. Two or three eye him like a meal. Luckily, he remains conscious long enough to put safe distance between them.

  Once or twice, he passes an old, supposedly abandoned motel on the side of the road. He has half a mind to stop. Perhaps there is water inside. He does not thirst or hunger, not exactly, but he wants those two luxuries none the less. Yet, a strange, persistent driving force compels him ever onward.

  His journey is not done. He must complete his journey!

  He finds himself talking to no one, or more accurately to himself, more often than he cares to admit. The heat and the isolation are maddening. His throat is parched and his muscles ache. His feet throb with the ceaseless stepping over the unforgiving terrain. Rolling hills and vast barren lands are in front and behind him now.

  Where is this place?

  He longs to meet another living soul—somebody he could talk to perhaps, someone to accompany him on his quest. Divulge his location. He wonders how he got here.