“Sorry,” she says with a fleeting smile. Her explanation is brief and precisely what he expected. “Work. Extremely hungry.” He has already forgiven her. It is impossible to stay mad at Chloe.
They take up the menus and open them, scanning through the options. James has already done so upwards of five times since he sat down. He could probably recite most of the first page from memory, but he pretends to be interested and search for what he already knows he is ordering. A waiter comes over and pours some rich sparkling red wine in their glasses. He then pours some water from a silver pitcher in another glass. The waiter smiles and walks away, leaving the bottle of wine behind in an ice bucket to chill.
James can tell there is something on Chloe’s mind and it is bothering her deeply. They pass the first few moments with mindless chatter until they stumble unceremoniously onto the subject of Chloe dashing out of church on Sunday. James is not sure how to react when Chloe finally tells him the reason.
“I saw him James. Talked to him.” When James does not immediately respond, Chloe assumes, “You think I’m crazy too.”
James fumbles with what to tell her. Nothing Chloe could ever do could push him away or scare him off. She is stuck with him. “Can’t wrap my mind around it… but no. You’re perfectly sane,” he assures her, coupling his words with a confident smirk. At least, he hopes she is perfectly sane. Otherwise, he will be “Living the Vida Loca” for the rest of his life…
Come to think of it, that might not be so bad.
Chloe shakes her head. She replays the conversations with her mother and the phantom who claimed to be her father. He’s dead. You’ve been lied to. The truth will set you free. You want the truth? I don’t blame you Chloe. Your father died on the way to the hospital. “Don’t know about that.”
James takes a breath, but reconsiders his reply. He decides to change tactics. “If the man you saw wasn’t your father, then who was he?”
Chloe’s head throbs. “Ma’ father is either alive or I’m going nuts.” Chloe closes her hand around her glass, slick and cold with condensation, and drinks some water.
“Everything is going to be fine,” James tells her again, reaching across the table and taking Chloe by the hand. His thumb sweeps across her skin consolingly. It gives him a great excuse to touch her.
Chloe takes her hand back, combing her fingers through her hair. “Don’t know about that either. I see the darkness coming.” It is an ominous prediction and one James does not think is completely necessary.
James is stung by her standoffishness. He wrestles with the thick tangle of devotion inside his chest. He would never give up on his love for Chloe, but the thought does cross his mind at that moment. Wryly, “Life is just another poem to you, isn’t it?”
Chloe shakes her head. “Poems are just fragments of life,” she negates.
James is uncertain how to interpret that. “You haven’t written anything in a while,” he points out.
“I write every day,” Chloe counters. “That’s what writers do. Just nothing worth going public. Fragments—” Chloe looks at her glass of white wine. She blanches. She takes the bottle and looks at it, also white. Chloe’s memory reels.
“What is it?” James wonders aloud, disturbed by the lack of color in her face.
“This is white wine,” she whispers.
James blinks, his brows knitting together. He begins to slowly nod. “Ravenswood,” he adds. “Great brand.”
Chloe’s mouth opens, but she cannot immediately formulate words. She shakes her glass again, more adamantly this time. “The waiter poured red wine.”
James’ eyes narrow. “I was here when he poured the white wine. Complimentary wine is always white.”
Chloe sets the bottle aside and buries her face in her hand. “I must really be losing ma’ mind.”
James surveys her skeptically. “We should order,” he suggests, in a hurry to change the subject. To explain it away, “Hunger can make you see things.” James signals for a waiter to come over.
Chloe is still staring at the bottle of wine. “Need to find out what’s going on, James. I’m taking a day from work tomorrow.”
“Sure you want to do that?” James asks, surprised. She cannot blame him. Chloe has never taken a day off of work before.
“I don’t have a choice,” Chloe states gravely. Something is clearly amiss in her mind. A Waiter comes over and takes their order.
•
The following morning, Chloe pays a visit to the Department of Health. She emerges into a large grey room with small cubicles dividing up the staff. It smells of hand sanitizer and printer ink. Chloe waits impatiently at the reception counter. A few people wait behind her.
Chloe rings the bell a second time. A short, stocky woman in her 50’s walks out of her cubicle. She is preoccupied with a stack of papers attached to a clipboard. She has a lap that looks like it could accommodate several little children and a strong, round, plump face. Chloe looks at the name on her name tag.
Her name is Pearl.
“What can I do for you ma’am?” the woman asks with a lackluster tone of voice, sifting through papers pinned to her clipboard.
“I need to get a death certificate,” Chloe states resolutely. She hopes this will not take long. She is brimming with confusion that will never be allayed unless she can find answers here. How hard can it be?
Pearl sighs. “Name?” the woman recites mechanically as she turns the computer chair on the opposite side of the counter and lowers herself into the leather cushion. She swivels towards the keyboard. “Relation to the deceased?”
Chloe clutches the ledge of the reception counter, coming up on her toes and straining to see the computer screen. “Patrick Taylor,” she says quickly. “I’m his daughter.”
“And your name?” Pearl wants to know, keying the letters in all caps into their search system.
“Chloe Taylor.” Chloe raps her fingers against the counter.
Pearl goes on the computer and types, her fingers fluttering effortlessly over the keys. She enters the data. She waits.
Chloe starts to bounce up on the balls of her feet. She purses her lips, biting on the insides of her cheeks. “How long is this going to take?”
“Good question,” Pearl mutters with her eyes glued to the screen, jaded by how accustomed she is to the sluggish system response. They wait some more. The computer finally beeps. Chloe’s heart climbs into her throat. Pearl sighs. “Not seeing that name ma’am.”
Chloe’s eyes widen, her blood chilling at the foreboding words. She wonders if she heard her correctly. That is not possible. “Are you sure?”
Pearl turns the computer screen as much as she can, gesturing towards the “no results” error message plastered across the screen. “I don’t argue with technology.”
Chloe’s mind reels for a logical explanation. Hastily, “Everybody who has died in the past 25 years is on your system, right?”
Pearl blinks unenthusiastically, as if she can tell precisely where this is going. She shakes her head. “No ma’am. We got computers only last year. They are not fully updated yet.”
Chloe finally lets herself exhale. Of course. That must be the reason. “Ma’ father died 24 years ago,” she supplies, secretly searching for a book of records on the ledge below, which she assumes Pearl will go for next. But Pearl falls far short of her expectations.
“In that case…” Pearl swivels her chair towards a file cabinet which she yanks open. The hinges produce a metallic shriek. She fishes through tabbed folders for a moment. As though she remembers that her quarry is not there, “Oh.” Pearl shuts the files cabinet and starts fishing around under her desk. She finds a document box, lugs it up onto her lap, and opens the lid. She removes a three page application form from a folder in the box and hands it to Chloe with a dull smack on the countertop.
“You need to fill out this form and submit it with a valid form of identification and proof of address. Expect a waiting period of 10 business d
ays for the results,” she explains lackadaisically.
Ten business days? That is practically two weeks!
Chloe’s elation shatters. Ten days seems like a lifetime from today. She needs answers now. It is a matter of her own sanity. It is literally a matter of life and death! She fights to keep her voice even. “I can’t wait 10 days,” she insists.
Pearl shrugs, as though there is absolutely nothing she can do. “Do you have any idea how many death certificates are accumulated over 24 years?” Her eyebrows rise, hanging from the strings of her own limitations.
Chloe, unsatisfied with that answer, retorts with, “You should have a proper filing system.” There is no reason to blame Pearl, but Chloe’s frustration is flavoring her judgment. Death certificates are important. The department should take better care to keep its records and their filing systems up to date. In any other big city, Chloe is certain the same information could be gleaned in one keystroke.
But of course, the facility in her town would be the one to be behind with the times. Just her luck.
Always her luck.
Dryly, “This is a government office, sweetheart.” Pearl finds her feet and resumes leafing through her clipboard of miscellaneous documents. “They don’t pay us enough to do a proper filing system. Please step aside.”
Chloe looks behind at the waiting customers. She obediently steps aside. Another customer quickly takes her place.
Chloe takes a pen from the canister on the counter and begins filling out the form. It asks for an ID number. She pulls out her driver’s license and is about to write off the number, but notices her mother’s face and number on it. Her eyes narrow. She turns the ID over in her fingers, watching the light reflect across the glossy surface and her mother’s face. Why does this feel wrong? Is she hallucinating again?
Chloe cuts in front of the other customer to reacquire Pearl’s attention.
“Ma’am—” Pearl tries, raising her hands with her palms turned out. She does not want a scene.
“I’m sorry,” Chloe says backhandedly to the man she shuffled out of the way. He folds his arms, incensed. Chloe returns her attention to Pearl. “Please look at this and tell me what you see.”
Pearl stares at her in amusement. She reluctantly accepts the license with a smart snatch of the hand and brings the picture to her face. “Driver’s license for Cleopatra Jones. Good picture. Expires on November 10, 2017. Friend of yours?” She gives the license back to Chloe, sliding it across the reception counter.
“Ma’ mother,” Chloe clarifies. “She hasn’t driven in 24 years.” It makes sense, due to the fact that her father died in a car accident. “Her license was never renewed.”
Pearl blinks. Deadpan, “Lady, you got issues. But you need to move on so I can deal with these other customers.” She gestures towards the line, met with murmurs of agreement.
Chloe excuses herself. She abruptly turns back towards the desk. Above the chatter, “Can I take the form home?”
“Sure,” Pearl replies, watching Chloe curiously, her hand moving to hover over the button for security. Chloe takes the hint, folds and creased the document so it will fit in her purse, and leaves the office.
Chloe stands alone on the side of the road outside of the Department of Health, framed by a congested parking lot that was not build to accommodate enough cars. She looks in all directions, not sure which way to go.
She does not want to go home.
All that awaits her at home are more confusion and self-doubt. Instead, she goes in her bag. Tucked under her wallet, Chloe finds the card her mother gave her and exchanges the three page document for it. Chloe stares at the card incredulously. She reaches around to her back pocket and pulls out her cell phone. She dials the number for Kenneth Ross’s office.
Chapter 7
The receptionist checks her in and escorts her to a room down the hall. Chloe finds herself in a serene and relaxing office with an aquarium in the center. The sound of the bubbling, buzzing filter is enough to lull her to sleep. Chloe lies in a reclining chair, staring at the ceiling. This office feels oddly familiar. Meanwhile, Doctor Kenneth Ross sits in an upright chair with notebook and pen.
Ross is an older, willowy gentlemen with the slim remains of an accent. He has a pleasant voice, not unlike waves breaking on the shore. He has a face that suggests he was very handsome in his youth, having succumbed to time’s unforgiving price but aged well regardless. He exudes tranquility the way a rose exudes perfume.
“How are you these days?” he asks her, penning in today’s date into the upper left hand corner of his notes.
Chloe drums her fingers on her stomach. She shrugs, feeling strange, as though she has been here before. This is the way all psychiatrist offices look in movies. This feels scripted. “Not sure,” she confesses honestly, fighting the urge to conform like a fatal disease.
Ross observes her. “You look good,” he supplies with an agreeable smile, crossing his legs at the knee. He pens something into his notes.
Chloe makes a face. She squirms and averts her eyes from his affable face, now imprinted on the ceiling. “If you say so.”
“You don’t agree,” he infers, glancing up from his notes over the rim of his delicate glasses.
Chloe spreads her hands helplessly, finding all this business just another way to beat around the bush—to ignore the elephant in the room—to conveniently forget that she is laying in a psychologist’s office, in a shrink’s lair, to candidly discuss the fact that she sees dead people. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Indeed,” the Dr. concurs. “Small talk is good though,” he explains, as though it rectifies everything. “Helps you to relax.”
Chloe assumes a surly frown. Her eyes track to Ross and she levels him with an expression that conveys she will not be bought. “Not a problem if this session was free.”
Ross smiles patiently, sits back, and resumes penning things into his notes. “Why are you here?” he asks.
Finally, they are getting down to business. Chloe resumes staring up at the ceiling, scouring for patterns in the textured paint. “I’ve been seeing things,” she confides in him. “I’ve seen things like wine changing color, ma’ mother’s name and face on ma’ license. Ma’ dead father. I’m wide awake when it happens. It just happens. No one seems to notice but me.”
Ross makes a sound that originates in his throat, conveying that he acknowledges and hears her. “Do you have any hobbies?” Ross asks.
Chloe’s brows knit together, struck by the sudden, seamless transition to a new subject. He had no reaction to her confession—adverse or otherwise. Chloe flounders with more confusion. She does not know what she expected to happen, but she does know what she did not expect: that. “I write.”
“Do you enjoy writing?” Ross asks her amiably.
Chloe nods her head. She finds herself surprised that she enjoys discussing this with him, much more so than her worrisome visions. “Yes. Want to write full time. Just not financial rewarding at the moment.” Chloe looks forward to the time, whenever that might be, when she can live off the income earned from her writing.
“It’s not strange for a writer to have illusions,” he informs her, as though that is supposed to be a comfort. Chloe is almost impressed at how well he was able to tie the two seemingly different subjects together. “New writers often tend to confuse dreams with reality.”
The idea that Chloe’s driving passion is also the reason she cannot choose between what is real and what is contrived is absolutely outrageous. She does not want to believe that. Chloe shakes her head. Bluntly, “I don’t dream.”
“Everybody has dreams,” Ross reminds her, as though his word is law and cannot be argued with. Chloe supposes it might be true. But there is an exception to every rule. In this case, that is her. “It is detox for the subconscious.”
“I don’t have dreams,” Chloe repeats. She will not be swayed on this matter. The fact that she does not dream has been a constant in her life mu
ch longer than the hallucinations.
Ross glances at her over the rim of his glass again. “The fact that you think so indicates you may have dreams you think are real.”
Chloe sighs, frustrated. “I close ma’ eyes and I see darkness,” she describes flatly. “That’s all there is when I sleep. I wake up from darkness, not dreams. I wake up from nothing.”
Ross leaves the matter alone, which is probably for the best. “How would you explain the things you have seen?” he leads.
Chloe scrubs her face with her hands. This is going nowhere fast. “Well, gee, I wouldn’t be here if I could do that.” She does not apologize for her attitude, even though she knows it is inappropriate for a professional situation like this.
Ross lays his notepad down on his thigh and removes his glasses. “If in reality you see someone who is dead, either you both are alive… or you both are dead.” Chloe tries to follow this. “One of those conclusions must be true and sound even if one of the premises is false. If you are dead, then I am dead. We could go on and on.”
“English,” Chloe prompts.
“You either have an extra-ordinary gift of communicating with the dead or you really did see your father,” Ross clarifies. It still makes no sense to her. This is the worst gift she has ever received. It is exhausting and weighs on her mind and heart—a burden she cannot bear for much longer.
This is not a gift.
It is a curse.
“Not sure this is helping,” Chloe mumbles.
“Give it time,” he encourages. “The mind is a powerful thing. Eventually the line between imagination and reality will automatically be established.”
The problem with this being that a brain which cannot tell the difference might draw said line in the wrong place…
Chloe fumbles where to archive that useless piece of information. She could have told herself that. In fact, she probably has told herself that and it has done nothing to help, which was why she came here in the first place. But this doctor can do nothing but reiterate her own thoughts. Maybe she should become a doctor.
Chloe Page 8