Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  Chloe hugs her knees tighter, fed up with the empty flattery. “You think maybe you could leave me alone to grieve a little?”

  She can feel James’ eyes burning into her. “You’re not a quitter, Chloe.” She feels the bed give as he finds his feet and leaves.

  Chloe sinks back in the bed and allow the tears to flow freely. She grabs the letters and throws them away from her. She grabs the printed movie script and begins tearing it up, throwing away the pieces. Soon, the floor around her bed is littered with scraps of paper and broken dreams. She cries some more. She cries a lot these days.

  •

  James ignores his mother’s questions and worried countenance when he walks in the door and makes a beeline for his room, turned office. He knows he looks angry he knows he looks distressed. He knows he does not look okay because he is not okay. James tramps into his room and slams the heavily stickered door hard enough to rattle this scarce few paintings and pictures on the wall.

  He wheels on his empty bedroom with his fists clenched at his sides. He grits his teeth together. He looks for something to destroy. Instead, he combs his hands back through his stark, sable hair and begins to pace the length of the room. One end to the other, sometimes stopping in the middle to redirect his energy and keep from putting his fist through a wall.

  Finally, he throws his hands up in the air and sinks into the edge of his bed. He scrubs his face with his hands.

  “God,” he begins. “I don’t know what to do. Chloe seems so discouraged and distraught. I want to blame myself. I was the one who encouraged her to take the risk. I didn’t know she would fail. I honestly thought… I want her to succeed! That is all I have ever wanted for her. That, and I love her. And I don’t know how to tell her that I love her. This is making no sense,” he grumbles under his breath. James hangs his head and folds his hands together.

  And to some, it may seem that he is talking to the empty air. But James has an unshakable, deep seeded faith and he knows that God hears him and loves him and Chloe. He knows there is a plan and a purpose for this. The only issue is that he cannot see it.

  “I am afraid that if I tell her, she will just push me away, like she always has. I want to show her your love through me. I want to be there to protect her and care for her and provide for her and show her what a real family looks like… and how she can trust people and depend on me. I don’t want to let her down or lead her astray.”

  “Phil said that Chloe’s work was supposed to touch the world,” he recounts. “Was that true? Is that your word, or his? Her screenplay is amazing and I think… I think it will touch millions of people. I know we needs your help and blessing in order to make that happen. If it be your will, please let Chloe’s projects get picked up by a publisher. Let her taste victory in a world where she constantly loses. And please don’t let me lose her in the process. Give me strength. Give her comfort.

  Help us, Lord.”

  •

  Violent actions beget violent consequences. That is the way of the world. Strange though that these consequences always seem to befall the wrong party. If the universe, suspended in this moratorium, is so desperate for balance, one would think it would deal them good hands, or at least opposing repercussions… which in this case have no choice but to be good.

  That is not always true though. Such a paradox is certainly the way of things with Chloe’s writing. The more action and assertiveness she undertakes, the more stagnation meets her. Her persistence yields nothing.

  Could all those hours be for naught? Is she destined to be just another of the unfortunate 90-plus %? Can she make the cut? Are the naysayers and piteous bystanders right? Is her mother right, that she is wasting her life away in front of her laptop?

  Life, which seemed to be moving (perhaps not in the best direction, but moving none the less), has hit another wall. Chloe now spends her life waiting for people. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

  Waiting to understand why strange things keep happening. Waiting for someone to delight in her work—to respond. Waiting for Sandra to take a liking to her. Waiting for her mother to realize her mistakes and find better men. Waiting for Greg to show his true colors. Waiting for James to commit to memory that they can never be together the way he wants them to. Waiting for Patrick to show up and ruin another outing.

  Waiting for God to show her his mercy.

  What does faith get her if not more strife and self-doubt? It gets her frustrated, hurt, and mistaken for her mother, that’s what it gets her! Chloe is nothing like her mother. They share the same tissue, that is all.

  She has done all she can in each situation, right?

  She has given advice and taken initiative and provided avenues for the desired outcomes she has so deliberately deemed best. Written and rewritten material, changed her demeanor for the workplace, bought new clothes, confronted her mother, warned Cleopatra about Greg, told her mother to find work and independence, explained to James he deserves better, and declaring Patrick to be an allusion.

  Will no one listen to her?

  Success. Victory. Blessings. Oh, she knows what they mean, but not from experience. True, Greg is gone. But will he stay that way?

  Is it really a victory if her mother still has the passion for dangerous men? Still enjoys being smacked around and tolerates all manner of abuse? Will Cleopatra even remember the slap across her daughter’s face by Greg’s calloused, meaty hand? Will she try to justify it all?

  That would be the worst wound. That would destroy Chloe completely. It is one thing if her mother allows herself to be abused, but it is another entirely to let Chloe be abused!

  The instant when Greg called them all family still leaves a bad taste in her mouth. Greg will never be her father. Any scum her mother scrapes off the street and brings home will never be her father.

  She has not seen her real father, who everyone else thinks is dead, in what feels like a life time. Patrick used to appear so often to her. Where is he now? Even though his sporadic appearances fray her nerves, Chloe resonates with his presence. She… loves him. She is not the only person who feels something amiss. He trusts her. She almost trusts him, which is more than more people can say.

  “It’s just darkness. It is darkness as though the main power grid of reality has been shut down entirely and we are all suspended in a time where nothing exists.

  Nothing.

  My days pass in disjointed flashes. More often than not, I cannot string them together logically. It is as though each day is a separate event, the pawns and pieces laid out across a stage that is already set, crafted by someone other than myself. It’s like we’re in some game, a make believe world.”

  Every expanse of nothingness between waking hours seems like an eternity. Are Chloe and her cohorts predestined to wallow in bad luck? Pieces in a game? Life is a series of choices and opportunities. She knows that much.

  But is she the one deciding and directing, or are there other puppeteering forces at work?

  •

  For Cleopatra, morning will never be considered a fresh start. It is only the beginning of another ugly day, already soiled and dirtied with memories and regrets.

  She finds herself in the living room, rooted in the same spot she has been all night long, draped over the couch with a half empty fifth of cheap gin in her hand. Cleopatra is drinking hard, straight from the bottle, and has been since the bleakest watches of the night. Her stomach growls, but there is nothing appetizing in the pantry and she has no desire to cook.

  Her hair is a mess. Her makeup is smudged. Her eyes are heavy with drink and lack of sleep. She looks older now than ever.

  Chloe is passing through the den towards the kitchen, probably about to leave for work judging from her attire and the way her hair is pulled back, so prim and pretty. Cleopatra sees her and scoffs.

  Chloe. Chloe Cleopatra Taylor. So beautiful. So perfect. So apt to judge everyone around her and ruin her world. Steal her youth. Take her freedom. It’s disgusting.

&n
bsp; Her life used to be wonderful, used to have promise. She was in college with an aptitude that could take her anywhere. She had a hard work ethic. She was a good girl and a great girlfriend. She never signed up to be a single mother. That was never part of the plan!

  And what does she have now?

  A repugnant daughter and a dead lover. That’s what she has now!

  Thinking back on that day in the graveyard, when Cleopatra made herself see Patrick in Chloe out of grief, she rebukes herself. Chloe couldn’t possibly be Patrick’s daughter. Patrick would never do anything like this to her. Patrick would never leave her alone, or force her to quit habits that kept her going.

  It’s not his fault he’s dead. Because he is dead.

  If Cleopatra would have only listened to her intuition and snuffed out the problem before it had a chance to proliferate, he would still be with her. He would still be the best thing in her life: Alive, lovely, and grinning in that stupid way he used to, grinning at her, adoring her, unlike any other man will. She was blameless and perfect to him.

  No one will ever see her like that. Not at this age, not with her choices.

  She would wait on him hand and foot, blissfully ignorant to the problems of other couples. Their problems would be walks in the park. They would never worry about money or loneliness. They would always have each other. And they would have their happy ending too.

  He promised her that. No, Patrick would never do this to her.

  It’s Chloe’s fault. Everything, absolutely everything is Chloe’s fault!

  “You happy now?” she hisses. Cleopatra has a mind to get up, but her body will not obey.

  Chloe stops in her tracks, assuming a struck look. As if she doesn’t know what she is talking about, Cleopatra seethes. As if she did not spend last night reveling in the sweet victory. “What?” Chloe asks her, eyes darting about confusedly.

  “I’m all alone,” Cleopatra snaps, casting a shadow over herself not unlike a venomous snake. “Greg is gone. I’m alone again. That’s what you wanted right?”

  Chloe regards her as though she is horrified. Her mouth works as if to speak, blonde brows knitting together in hopes of connecting some ridiculous explanation to this turn of events. “He was abusing you.”

  Oh yes. That justifies it.

  The man gave her company and kindness when it suited him… which is more than she gets now. Now she lives in an empty house and sleeps in an empty bed. Such is the reason she did not sleep last night.

  Cleopatra cannot sleep alone anymore.

  She needs the warmth of another body beside her. She needs something to cling to, something that primes her imagination to recall those blissful nights with Patrick, when they would lay next to each other in the house his parents left him… and look for patterns in the textured ceiling.

  When he would wake up with each of her nightmares, dotting on her, cherishing her in a way no one ever will. When he would caress her arm and gather her up against him and embrace her, unmoving, until the sun crested the hill. Their silly dreams and conversations about parent approval and favorite flavors of spaghetti sauce…

  Alcohol has dulled the horrors of last night, blotted them out of her memory like so many paper towels for a spill on the counter. Cleopatra only remembers the good times and the long pleasure filled nights and the way Greg’s arm fit around her waist. Chloe wouldn’t understand any of that.

  Chloe has never been in love. Chloe will never find love. The stupid girl is blind to James, a boy Cleopatra would have drooled over at Chloe’s age. James doesn’t have a chance in the world with her, but that is no fault of his own.

  Chloe Cleopatra Taylor: Stuck-up, foolish, preoccupied, ungrateful—always with her nose in her laptop, trying to make something of herself by punching away at a keyboard. Doesn’t Chloe know she will never leave this place? That dreams do not come true? That hard work and tedious study time only get her a one way ticket into a dark alley?

  Cleopatra lost her self-worth long ago. And nothing will bring it back.

  “But I wasn’t lonely,” Cleopatra protests. “Or broke. Who’s gonna pay the bills around here?” She stares at her daughter expectantly. The girl owes her that much.

  Chloe shakes her head and attempts to go on her way. “You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

  “I never wanted you,” Cleopatra spits, which freezes Chloe in her tracks. The truth is a balm to the burning hatred in her chest. She has long desired to say those words. They sound even better aloud than in her head. With a sick and satisfied smile, “Patrick insisted that we tried, but I knew you would ruin ma’ life.”

  “I ruined your life?” Chloe whispers, her voice sounding more akin to a whisper of fabric than a direct question.

  She will not face Cleopatra, however much Cleopatra wants to see the sadness on her face. That sorrow is only a taste of what Cleopatra feels on a daily basis. A taste! Let her flounder in the pain. Someday she will realize the martyr, the saint, that her mother is for even bothering to raise her at all!

  Someday, she will admire her.

  Cleopatra settles back into the couch cushions, all tension bled dry from her body. “I would have been so much happier if you were never born.” Silence flanks her words, ornamenting the air like tarnished balls on a juniper tree.

  “I’m late for work.” Chloe leaves quickly.

  “Patrick would still be alive…” Cleopatra tilts the bottle up and takes a few deep swallows. She fishes out a carton of smokes from between the cushions and lights up a cigarette. If Chloe knows what is good for her, that girl will not be telling her mother what she can and cannot do anymore.

  •

  Work passes Chloe by in a fog of commands and beeping scanners.

  Her plastic smiles either fool Sandra, or the woman does not care. But Chloe already knows the latter rings with truth. She takes several breaks to avoid crying in front of the customers and coworkers. No one inquires. She tries to numb herself to the emptiness inside, the very words she dreaded her entire life leaving her mother’s lips over and over in her memory.

  So it is her fault. All the strife and struggle has nothing to do with the universe, or with God. It is her fault.

  Unfortunately, Chloe did not leave fast enough not to overhear, Patrick would still be alive. Is that the reason only Chloe can see him? Because she caused his death? Her mother is right about one thing. If she had never been born, Patrick would not have been rushing to get to the hospital…

  It’s true. He would not have crashed the car.

  •

  Later that night, Chloe crosses her room. Her own bathroom feels strange and unfamiliar. The walls are cold and unfeeling. They seem to stretch away from her, resolute in their decision to have nothing to do with what she is contemplating, like some repulsive thing.

  No one will stop her. No one will care.

  Chloe walks in and removes her work clothes, exchanging them for a pair of old athletic shorts and a tank top. No matter how much she tries to avoid it, she finally looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying. Failure and ugliness leer back at her in the rectangle of ruin. Convinced she does nothing but bring misfortune to those in her life, Chloe turns her face away.

  It’s time. It’s time to end this.

  She paces back and forth, trying to get up the nerve to do what needs to be done. She sits on the toilet lid, leaning back to bang her head on the wall, numb to the dull ache it brings. She stands up, crosses to the wall, and bangs her fists against it. She gets up and resumes pacing. She sits again on the floor.

  Her teary eyes land on her bag. She seizes it and drags it to her side. She shoves her hand into the side pocket and pulls out a razorblade box-cutter that she stole from the back. Tears flood her eyes and flow down her cheeks, face painted with running makeup. She pushes the blade out of the safety position and holds the razor to her wrist.

  Chloe knows how to do this. She knows it’s “down the road”, not “acro
ss the street”. She spent most of her youth in the gothic scene. She knows.

  She also knows that she has never been more serious, more desperate than she is now. The world has no need for a psycho… an unwanted child… a murderer, like her.

  It’s time.

  She cries, bites her lip and digs the blade down her forearm. Her face twists in pain. She slides to the floor, sprawled out. Blood leaks from the gouge in torrents and combs across the floor, filling the spaces between the tiles. The bathroom begins to grow dark and red. Her eyes slowly close.

  •

  The next morning, Chloe jumps out of her sleep.

  The terrible memories of the night before surge back to her. She brings her hands up, inspecting her arm. There is no mark. Chloe tears out of bed and hurries to her bathroom. Aside from the wet towel on the floor, nothing is amiss. There is no blood and no razorblade either, even though she knows she took one from the stock room yesterday.

  She checks her arm again, marveling as the unblemished skin that stares back at her.

  Was it really a dream?

  It seemed so real, so vivid. She can recall the intense, awful pain. She shivers. Her brows furrow. She leaves the bathroom and crosses to her nightstand, snatching up her bag. She searches for the box cutter. Instead, she pulls out the article about Patrick’s accident.

  •

  That afternoon, Chloe and James sit side by side on the Jones’ front porch. She is unnaturally quiet today. James knows something is amiss even before she says, “I blame ma’self for ma’ dad’s death.”

  The boy balks. “Why?” James asks. Chloe has never mentioned this before and it catches him completely off guard. She itches her nose.

  “Ma’ mom blames me to,” Chloe mumbles, running her fist across her cheek. Is she crying? James can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he has seen Chloe cry. That always bodes ill.

  “No she doesn’t,” he reassures, reaching out and laying his hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off.