The only thing he knows for certain is his name, Patrick Taylor.
There is no way to keep track of the time or count the days that pass in the endless cycle of sun and sand. One afternoon, a miracle happens. Big, billowing thunderheads roll in overhead. They crack and rumble, churning together in a darkening mass, bringing with them the scent of rain and the satisfaction of water. Patrick crests a hill, drenched.
As if by magic, he sees a town in the valley below, spanning a great many miles. He can see cars on the road and lighted windows. Civilization. He is saved, or so he believes. Was he ever even in danger of dying?
The instant he sets foot within the city limits, a deluge of memories flood back to the rain soaked blond. One name resonate with him: Chloe.
He has to find her! That is why he is here!
Everything he has endured and persevered through has led up to this point, this singular defining moment. It does not matter to him how enormous the town is, or how impossible it could be to find his quarry among the many citizens. He knows she is here. He knows within the very marrow of his bones that she dwells in this place.
This is his duty.
This is his purpose.
•
Chloe and James funnel into the building with other members and take their seats in the pews. She wishes James did not want to sit so close to the stage. The choir, outfitted in purple robes, assumes their places on the bleachers. They start singing with piano accompaniment. James stands and prompts Chloe to do the same. She is reluctant at first, but when she realizes that everyone else is standing, she joins him.
Some members listen attentively, swaying, while others are actively raising hands and singing along. Chloe is oddly fascinated.
She can hear all manner of voices blending together in the air around her. The one directly behind her is in desperate need of lessons. Chloe stands passively with her lips shut and her hands folded. The black polish does not go unnoticed by an elderly couple to their right. James is actively participating beside her. She rarely hears him sing. He has a pleasant voice. The choir finishes and James sits. Chloe sits down too. She sinks low in her seat.
Pastor Kathleen Jones ascends the stairs of the squat stage and walks to the podium. She faces the audience with a warm and welcoming smile on her face.
“Such a beautiful congregation. Greetings,” she begins.
“Greetings,” they respond collectively. The wave of voices startle Chloe. She frowns, slightly unnerved by the robotic nature of the reply, and resumes slouching against the back of the bench. Kathleen continues to address the congregation.
“You ok?” James whispers, leaning closer to Chloe. Chloe’s face is drawn into a dour mask, staring straight ahead. She brusquely points at a cluster of people staring at them off to the left. They promptly turn away when she points, a few flipping through their bibles.
“Reminders of why I don’t go to church,” she declares.
James is undaunted. He smiles at her affectionately and gently bumps up against her elbow. “It’s their problem if they can’t appreciate different,” he whispers.
With her eyes downcast, Chloe starts picking at the polish on her nails. “It’s ok if you don’t want to sit with me,” she whispers. “Can’t imagine what it’s like for the Pastor’s son to be seen sitting with a Goth.”
“I’m sitting exactly where I want to sit,” James replies confidently. A lady sitting behind them, probably the one who is tone deaf, leans forward and makes a shushing noise, prompting them to be quiet. Chloe folds her arms defiantly, adopting a pugnacious frown. James is trying to suppress a smile.
Kathleen’s hands are raised. “—today we have in our midst Prophet Phil, who will bring us the word. Make him welcome.”
Kathleen Jones gestures towards a willowy young man, probably in his mid-thirties, ascending the steps with an air of sophistication. He wears thick rimmed glasses and a freshly pressed suit. His hair is neatly gelled back. Everyone applauds and some of the people cheer as Phil crosses the stage to the podium, clutching his well-used bible. Kathleen greets him with an affectionate squeeze of his hand, which he returns with a warm smile.
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.
Chapter 6
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.
•
James’ house is a roomy one story closer to the suburban district. The smell of baked chicken is the first thing to greet him when he walks in the door. He wanders over the tile and into the kitchen where his mother, Kathleen, is busy cooking. She is boiling potatoes and sliding a cake into the oven when James walks in.
Kathleen looks up, setting the oven mitts aside on the granite countertop and wiping her hands on her apron.
Chloe Page 6