“What do I do while I wait?” Chloe asks him.
“Write,” he tells her candidly. “Focus all your energy on that one thing you really enjoy doing.” Chloe finds herself partial to this suggestion. Maybe this guy isn’t a total sham. Doctor Kenneth checks through his notes. “Also, you went to church the other day and made a commitment to follow Jesus. You should follow through with that.”
Suddenly, everything feels wrong. Chloe’s stomach knots up. She recounts their conversation in detail and cannot recall a time they discussed this. “How do you know about that?”
Ross blinks and slides his glasses back up his nose. He flips through the pages on his notepad. “You told me.”
Chloe slowly shakes her head. “No,” Chloe states steadfastly. She would stake her own life on the fact that she said nothing of the sort. “I didn’t.”
Ross turns his notepad over and gestures towards a section circled in red. “It’s here in my notes, Cleopatra.”
Cleopatra…?
Chloe braces her hand on the recliner and sits up, facing him at eye level. She waits to see if his mistake will register. It does not. “Ma’ name is not Cleopatra,” she reminds him, waiting to see the embarrassment flash across his face… hoping that the embarrassment will flash across his face. It doesn’t.
Doctor Kenneth sighs. He looks at his watch and revisits his notes. “Our time is up. I want to recommend we have more than one session for the month.” Chloe blinks. Doctor Kenneth takes a small rectangular pad of paper from the organizer on his desk. He writes a prescription. He tears the page from the pad and gives it to Chloe. “The pharmacist will give you instructions.”
Chloe looks at the prescription. “It’s written for Cleopatra.” She tears her eyes from the prescription and locks them on Ross. “This is written in ma’ mother’s name.” She gives it back to him, expecting him to fix it. He just sighs and removes his glasses again, massaging the bridge of his nose between his two fingers.
•
Once at home from the human resources station and the psychiatrist, Chloe flops down in bed, huffing a weary gust of air from her lips. She shrugs her purse off her shoulder and removes the three page document, skims the directions, and scans the prompts and questions.
Name of inquirer. Reason for inquiry. Name of deceased. Social Security Number of deceased. Relationship to deceased. Date of birth. Date of death. Age at time of death. Cause of death. Description of death. Discrepancies in death. Other parties involved. Witnesses in death. Death, death, death.
Blah blah blah blah blah!
Chloe rolls her eyes, heaving a great sigh. Working the system is such a chore. To think, this is supposed to help anyone. The whole reason she visited the department was to find out this exact information. It is such an ironic slap in the face. She cannot complete half of these questions on her own. She knows so little about her own father’s passing. She is not even sure, garnering her help, that her own mother could answer all these questions.
Then again, the last thing Chloe wants to do is seek her assistance. This is Chloe’s project. She is determined to complete it on her own.
She recalls Kenneth’s mistake in silence, having played it on loop in her mind all afternoon. Chloe, a blonde, looks nothing like her mother, a brunette. Not to mention the gap between their ages should make deciphering between them easy as pie. It throws her back to the incident at the health department, when she extracted her mother’s driver’s license from her handbag.
What was Cleopatra’s license doing on her person anyway? Did her mother stash it in there on accident, or maybe on purpose? Maybe she thought Chloe would need it at the therapist’s office. Cleopatra is not known to think of anyone but herself, but it is possible. This world, and the events of its plot, just get more confusing.
Chloe does not have the energy, emotional or physical, to plow through the tedious questionnaire. Instead, she flops back in bed and closes her eyes, succumbing to total darkness that she has come to accept is what sleep feels like.
•
The following night after a long, berating day at work, is a full moon. The lawn and the rooftops outside of Chloe’s window are awash in ghostly silver light. Chloe sits before her laptop in the middle of her bed, deep in thought. She rubs her forehead.
She looks at the bible sitting on her nightstand. She reaches over, picks it up, and opens it to the book of Psalms. She reads several verses and closes it again. She abides in the comfortable silence, quietly wading through her mind.
Dr. Ross’ suggestion swims up to greet her. He wants her to focus on her writing—immerse herself in a hobby to take her mind off her troubles. Even though the moron insisted on calling her by her mother’s name and even went as far as to make the mistake on the prescription, there is merit in his advice. Alright then.
She looks up at the blank document and the blinking cursor. Something switches on inside of her, as though an entirely new world has been illuminated. Chloe begins to nod. A shallow smile slides across her face. She begins typing feverishly on the keyboard of her laptop.
•
The next afternoon, Chloe is working at the supermarket, packing bags for customers. She tries to be courteous and smile at them. Some return the smile. Others don’t. Several of the regulars who have seen her there prior to now regard her as though she has sprouted a second head.
Meanwhile, Sandra watches her from a distance. She does not know what to make of the spectacle and it is etched into her usually stark face. She wonders what has gotten into Chloe. She wonders if there is something wrong with her. As the hours pass, Chloe’s behavior and effort remains constant.
By the end of Chloe’s shift, Sandra is smiling too… until she catches herself doing it.
•
Several days later, Chloe sits on top of a small hill overlooking the sea and watches as the sun set. The sea breeze snakes through the scarce amount of vegetation dotting the hill. It toys with the loose strands of her hair. She can hear the gulls crying and the waves breaking on the shore.
Her laptop is on her lap. Her attention volleys back and forth between the screen and the scenery. Her heart feels light and free. She smiles at her own thoughts and the beauty painted before her eyes.
•
The next morning, Chloe sits in the coffee shop around the corner, basking in the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and baked goods. Chloe continues to type on her laptop as she drinks a latte. She observes her surroundings, people-watching on the sly.
There is a man dressed in a business suit with a Bluetooth in his ear, reading his newspaper. The barista behind the counter is arrayed in piercings, her hair dyed in a bouquet of different colors.
Outside, a mother and daughter stop at the newsstand and buy the morning’s paper. Cars of all sizes and colors pass by. She notices people carrying brief cases and purses and portfolios on their way to work. She spots a cluster of students walking to school, laughing and passing their phones back and forth. Others wander idly over to the city bus bench.
Chloe continues to type, finding inspiration in just about everything. Several hours pass. It’s time for work again.
As Chloe packs the grocery bags, putting her body on autopilot, she starts to entertain more ideas for her book. Everything is inspirational. She is constantly scavenger hunting for new material. And sometimes, she uncovers ideas that do not correspond with her current project at all, and serve as the germination of a new work.
At any given time, there are three to four stories whirling around in her mind. But the story she wants to tell most of all might be the oldest one known to man. She gleans the majority of her background knowledge from internet searches and her context is harvested from the Bible. Chloe has never read the Bible before now.
Better to read it as a form of research than never at all.
Sometimes, she doubts herself, wondering why she should retell a tale that has been told so many times before. But that must underscore its significance, ri
ght? The fact that it has survived this long, His existence uncontested, is a testament to the importance of its continual revival. She wants to make it fresh—easy to understand and relatable to people like her.
This is her duty. This is her purpose.
•
That evening, after the conclusion of her shift, Sandra corners her in the break room. “Alright, missy,” the stout woman demands with her shoulders squared and her eyes vicious. “What’s going on with you?” She gives her a demanding once-over.
“What are you talking about?” Chloe asks, ignoring her first instinct to fire back, eyeing her suspiciously and poised to spring away at the first hint of an attack.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Sandra retorts, inclining her chin as she draws her face into a scowl. Snidely, “All this smiling and your change of clothes. Yes sir, yes ma’am. Thank you, Miss Sandra,” she mimics unkindly. “You’re on time. You stay late. You’re friendly and pleasant and downright cheerful and frankly, it is the most disturbing thing I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing.” She narrows her eyes and leans closer, her gaze fused with Chloe’s pupils. “What are you on, girl? X? Shrooms? I have the authority to drug test you at any time. I could do it right now! You know that, don’t you?”
Chloe stares back into her face until she can no longer keep her composure. She starts laughing. Sandra, red climbing up her face, looks like she might boil over. Quickly, “I’m sorry,” Chloe says. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just funny. I didn’t really realize how much I had changed until you pointed it out.”
“I knew it!” the woman shrieks triumphantly. “Drugs! I’ll have you fired for-”
“No,” Chloe says gently. “Not drugs. I just found Christ.” With that, Chloe assumes a smart smile. She closes her locker, seizes her bag, and strides out the door, leaving Sandra to puzzle over her words.
•
The late night theater is largely empty. The air is fragrant with the smell of popcorn and merriment. Chloe sits alone in the seventh row, the seats to her left and right empty. The screen in front of her is alight with bright color and sound. She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth and smiles at the scene. Several other viewers chuckle aloud.
Chloe is reminded of the time James asked her to see a movie with him. Guilt bites into her. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer next time. This isn’t so bad after all. It would be even better if he was here, sitting beside her. Several scenes inspire her. So does the music.
She listens for new ways to word sentences and for new sensational images that will further enrich her creative mind. It is like a treasure hunt.
Chloe fantasizes, briefly, about the slim chances of her work being adapted into a movie.
•
Cleopatra and Greg stand at the kitchen counter, spreading cream cheese on their bagels and sipping on hot coffee. Today is Sunday, Greg’s day off. They are both dressed in pajamas. Chloe comes in and goes to the fridge.
“Good morning,” she says, plucking the orange juice from the shelf and pouring herself a glass. Cleopatra and Greg stare at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, unable to respond to such a strange, uncharacteristic greeting. Not to mention that Chloe has hardly spoken to either of them for the past week or so.
Chloe makes a point of avoiding eye contact with Greg, but she does flash a shallow smile at her mother.
Cleopatra practically falls all over herself when she goes to speak. “I know you must be wondering why it looks like Greg spent the night,” she stammers.
Chloe rolls her eyes, trying to be playful. “I know he was here mom,” she says, replacing the carton of orange juice in the fridge. She exchanges it for the milk. “Unfortunately, the walls are not sound proof.”
Cleopatra flushes and busies herself by sipping on her coffee. Carefully, “We haven’t talked much these past few weeks. I noticed how focused you have been with your writing and didn’t want to interfere.”
“What is it?” Chloe asks, fishing for a cereal bowl in the cabinet.
Cleopatra meets Greg’s eyes for a fleeting second. Greg raises his mug to his lips and takes a drink of coffee. “Greg will be sleeping here tonight,” Cleopatra informs her daughter. “Maybe every night after that.” Cleopatra braces for impact.
As Chloe dumps some cereal into the bowl and douses it in milk, “Whatever makes you happy mom.” Chloe puts the milk away and leaves drinking from her glass and carrying her cereal.
Greg and Cleopatra stand in her wake, stupefied.
“Who was that?” Greg asks.
Cleopatra shrugs, just as baffled as her boyfriend is. “Think it has something to do with church?” she offers.
“Ice queen is divorcing the devil,” Greg supplies with a smirk. Cleopatra lightly punches him on the shoulder. They seem happy.
Chapter 8
Chloe treks through the halls of the Jones’ house on the way to James’ room. She passes familiar family pictures—most of them of just James and his mother. Kathleen is at the church tonight, preparing a sermon for this weekend’s service. They have the house to themselves.
She comes to the door of James’ room, covered with caution signs and comical bumper stickers and biohazard symbols. “Guess who,” she says, tapping the door with her toe. The door opens and Chloe is let in by James. Chloe’s arms are laden with a huge stack of printed papers, teetering precariously and prone to propelling over. The documents are grouped together and separated by paper clips and alligator clips and staples.
James leaves the door open and steps aside. His room has three computers linked to each other by a tangled series of cables and wires. He is working on some building blueprints. There are rolls of butcher paper all over the room. Some sheets are tacked to the walls. Other drafts and floor plans are strewn across his desk, floor, and his bed. The trash bin is overflowing with wads of paper, crumpled up and discarded. The room is so cluttered that there is hardly anywhere to walk, sit or sleep.
“Awesome room,” Chloe commends as she picks her way over the floor, careful not to wrinkle or tear anything.
James shrugs, eyeing the chaos through a new lens. He is usually too preoccupied with his ‘architecting’ to pay the state of his environment much mind. “Needs a little work.”
Chloe wobbles uncertainly as she jumps over a technical textbook on framework formulas. “You need an office.”
James blinks and spreads his arms, as though his reply should be obvious to her. “This is my office.”
Chloe cannot help but smile impishly. She glances at the bed, buried in materials, and then back to her friend. Chloe is not an especially tidy person, but her room is generally more organized. “Where do you sleep?”
James scratches at the back of his neck. Sheepishly, “Mostly in the couch. Living room. As it is now, this room is pretty neat. Did some tidying up this morning,” he tries. Chloe shivers to imagine what it looked like beforehand.
“What’s the condition of this room on a normal day?” she inquires.
James shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.” He gestures about freely, as if they are scavenger hunting for a place to sit. “Make yourself at home.”
Speaking of making oneself at home… Chloe notices that he does not shut the door, which strikes her as peculiar because she hates having her bedroom door open. She loves her privacy. “You always leave your bedroom door open?” she wonders aloud.
Playfully, “Only when the hot girls come over.” Chloe rolls her eyes and laughs. She knows his mother, or the idea of her, well enough to suspect that having the door closed would be considered inappropriate. Chloe finds somewhere to sit on the bed. She rests the printed papers beside her with a muffled plop.
James finds somewhere to sit beside her, scooting aside a few papers to do so.
James eyes the intimidating stack of papers beside Chloe’s thigh. He had no idea she had been writing so much, or working so hard. “When you said you wanted me to read some of your more recent
work, I had a smaller portion in mind,” he admits.
Chloe blinks and glances at the stack, as if it has not occurred to her that it is probably more than the average person reads in a year. “If you can’t get through it all—“
“I’ll try,” he hastens to assure her. James assumes a smile. Sincerely, “Love reading your work.”
Chloe shifts with a crooked pout. She starts fidgeting with the ends of her hair. “You only say that to encourage me.”
“Something wrong with me being your number one fan?” James asks, taking mock offense as he reaches out and gently pokes her arms.
Chloe brushes her hair behind her shoulders. Not even her mother asks to read her work like James does. Her mother does not ask at all. Cleopatra has neither the time, nor the patience to take an interest in Chloe’s passion. She is far too preoccupied with herself. Chloe wonders if Cleopatra would be happier if she was not around at all.
Lowly, “You mean ma’ only fan.”
A sad veneer replaces James’ smile. In an attempt to cheer Chloe up, “Number can only go higher from one!” But it does nothing to raise her spirits. Chloe seems down, especially given how chipper she has been lately. “Problems?” James wants to know.
Chloe starts to kick her feet back and forth as they dangle over the bed. She feels so comfortable and safe and cared for here with him. “You think I could move in with you?”
James’ heart leaps into his throat. She cannot possibly mean that like he wants her to mean it. She just has a bad home life. Right? He laughs nervously. “My mother would never approve.” He is sure Chloe already knows that, being that she has James conditioned to leave his door open when he is sharing a room with a member of the opposite sex.
“Mom moved in with her boyfriend when she was pregnant,” Chloe defends. It makes for a poor argument through.
James’ eyes slide to her. He gives her a once-over and holds his breath. Asking the inevitable, “Are you pregnant?”
Chloe shakes her head. “Not yet.”
Not yet? he echoes in the confines of his mind. Chloe and James are not sexually active. If Chloe is pregnant, the baby cannot be his. Moreover, if Chloe is sexually active, it is with someone else. James is suddenly bombarded with jealousy. He follows up with, “Are you trying to get pregnant?”
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