“Yes, she does,” she negates indignantly. “She said so herself.”
James’ expression melts into sympathy. What a horrible thing for any mother to say. “Oh Chloe, I am so sorry.” Hastily, he adds, “She was probably just drunk. People say stupid things when they’re drunk. You and I both know that is not true.”
“But it is true, James,” she says hollowly, hugging her knees tightly against her chest. “If I had never been born, Patrick would not have been rushing to the hospital—reckless and speeding. He would not have crashed his car and died. Ma’ mom said that she wishes I had never been born, so Patrick would still be alive and with her.” She sniffs. “Do you have any idea how it feels to have your own mother say that to you?”
James is at a loss. “I can imagine-“
“No,” she quickly corrects, shooting him a scathing scowl. “You can’t imagine. You have a great mother. You have no idea how hard it is for me to be in the same room with you two. She loves you so much.” She resumes her former slouching posture, placing her chin atop her knees. “I want what you have. I wanted to be loved like that…”
As though she knows she has revealed more than she can afford to and has plunged into a place of embarrassment and shame, Chloe jumps to her feet. She strides away quickly, tempted to break into a run.
“Chloe, wait!” James calls, surging up and jogging after her. When will she understand that she has a family in him? Kathleen is practically Chloe’s mom too, or she will be if everything goes according to plan… and Chloe accepts his proposal.
•
Chloe lays in bed that night, thinking about the article mentioning the two deaths resulting from Patrick’s accident that she found in her mother’s drawer. She wonders who the unidentified woman is. Chloe imagines that the police precinct might know. She has no intention of going back to the human resources department. That infernal woman was no help at all.
For all Chloe knows, security will prevent her from even entering the building. Admittedly she was a little overzealous and persistent during her last visit. Then again, it was a matter of life and death and something she needed to understand in order to maintain her sanity. Maybe she will have better luck at the station.
They have to have files on motor vehicle accidents involving vehicular homicide, right?
Chloe closes her eyes, drifting into darkness.
Chapter 13
Chloe sits with a clerk at the bustling Police Station, surrounded by constant activity otherwise oblivious to her. There is a commotion at the front door as a group of officers haul in three, what Chloe suspects are, prostitutes. Many other people sit in waiting areas and outside interrogation rooms.
Chloe feels like she has been here before. She wonders why no one is wearing orange.
The clerk assigned to her is a plump woman named Meryl who could stand to order a uniform in the next size up. She is probably in her mid-40’s with short curly black hair and big baleful brown eyes.
Chloe feels a vibration coming from her bag. She pulls out her cell phone.
Sandra is calling, probably to inquire on her whereabouts. Chloe was supposed to start her shift half an hour ago. But the mission at hand takes precedence. Chloe already decided they could do without her today.
Tuesdays are always slow. … What day is it again? It is Tuesday, right?
She rejects the call and puts the phone back in her bag. Chloe wants to tell Sandra exactly where she can put her shift.
Meanwhile, Meryl is tapping her fingers on the desk. When Chloe is certain that she has the impatient woman’s full attention, she shows her the article. She does not know why she did not think of this before. She holds written proof in her hand regarding her father’s accident, listing two casualties.
So, why is he still walking around?
Chloe swallows, calling seriousness to her face. “Is there anything you can tell me about this accident?”
The woman accepts the clipping and skims through the article. “Possibly. I handle a lot of car accidents. When did it happen?”
“November 10, 1990,” Chloe recites.
Meryl glances up over the edge of the article. “… 24 years ago?” the woman asks, seeming slightly insulted as though Chloe made a direct jab at her age.
Doubt fills Chloe’s stomach under the weight of Meryl’s stare. Quietly, “Yeah.”
“Lady,” Meryl starts, slapping the clipping down on the desktop and sliding it back towards Chloe. “This is a Police Station. Not an archive.”
Chloe tilts her head. “Could I get more information at an archive?”
The woman shrugs. “I don’t know. How should I know? What do I look like, a librarian?”
Meryl bears no resemblance to any librarian Chloe has ever encountered, or would want to encounter. She highly doubts anyone would spend a perfectly good day browsing under the weight of her scrutiny. “But you said—”
“I know what I said,” Meryl interjects. She sighs and rubs her temples, as though they throb and Chloe is only making it worse. “What do you want, girl?”
Chloe takes the opportunity prudently. She sits forward and pushes the clipping back towards the clerk. Her finger grazes over the place in the text that she is referring to. “It says two people died in this accident. The second victim is identified as a woman, but no name is given.”
Meryl does not look amused. As though she is convinced Chloe thinks them incompetent, “Pretty rare in this day and age to have a corpse we cannot put a name and a face to. I’m sure at some point after that article was written, the body was identified.”
Chloe cannot let the woman’s brash nature deter her. She came here for a purpose. She is missing work for this, because she knows how important it is. “How would I get that information?” is her last resort.
Meryl thinks, pursing her lips as she gives Chloe a skeptical once-over look from across the desk. She must have seen something endearing, because the next thing Chloe knows, Meryl sighs. She tears off a page from her note pad and puts it in front of Chloe with a ballpoint pen.
“Leave your contact info. I will call if I find anything.”
This brings a smile to Chloe’s face. It is less than she came for, but at least it is something. Someone is willing to go the extra mile for her. Finally.
Chloe is surprised by the sincerity in her own voice when she says, “I really appreciate this.” She does.
“Sure,” Meryl mutters as Chloe quickly scribbles her name and number.
Chloe leaves the police station, catching a taxi on the curb. She must take buses and taxis when James does not drive her places. The Taylors do not own a car. She does not know how she forgot that. When she found the empty garage, she should have known. She should have remembered. James bought her ice cream.
She took a taxi home after that. Right?
Chloe wonders if her mother has ever been in a taxi. They should really find a way to purchase a car. Then again, with Chloe skipping work like this, God knows where they will find the money. Come to think of it, taxis are expensive. Her mother should find a job too. Chloe will help, but without a college degree, her prospects of finding a real job are significantly reduced.
The thoughts swirl around in Chloe’s head, but somehow she knows nothing is ever going to change. How could it?
Her own mother doesn’t want her. What obligation does Chloe have to a woman who would rather she have never been born? The same idea drove her to suicide just yesterday, or at least dreams, nightmares, of such actions.
Chloe sits in the back seat, leaning her head against the doorframe and watching the world pass through the rain spotted window. The cab smells like body odor and cigarette smoke, underneath which is a faint, lingering whiff old vomit. The Christmas tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror has clearly run its course. Dead. Everything is dead, except Chloe.
Chloe’s phone begins to vibrate again. Chloe lets it ring until the call goes to voicemail. Now, she has a grand total of 18 m
issed calls from Sandra. Chloe closes her eyes. In her mind, there is only one place to go now.
The taxi pulls to the side of the road, or the highway to be exact. Chloe gets out, ignoring the quizzical look from the driver. She pays the taxi. The cab drives off. She stands by the side of the road. Cars, trucks, vans, and buses whiz past her, most above the speed limit of 75, enough for her to feel their wake in the air, enough for it to blow her hair across her face. Everything becomes clearer.
She knows she took the box cutter to her wrist last night. She knows she felt the sting of metal and the cold hand of death upon her. Chloe recalls her conversation with Patrick in the strange desert landscape as well as the incident outside of the bookstore where the man waltzed out in front of an oncoming bus. Not a week later, she saw him again, alive and well. She thought the man was insane.
But had she not experienced the same miracle this morning?
My days pass in disjointed flashes. No matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine.
Just fine.
Chloe’s eyes are fixed on the other side of the highway, eight lanes across: four coming and four going. Her heart is hammering in her chest. She can hardly breathe. She closes her eyes, steels herself, and (to her surprise), mutters a quick prayer. “Lord, please help me to understand.”
She begins walking across the highway. Vehicles are missing her by a fraction of an inch, some swerving slightly to avoid hitting her. She makes it midway and jumps the median. She begins walking across the other four lanes without being hit.
She makes it across three lanes, suddenly realizing that she is indeed going to make it all the way across, unharmed. Unheard of. Impossible. Miraculous. So, naturally, because she has a point she needs to prove, Chloe stops in the middle, dead center, of the forth lane. This is the defining moment.
She turns to face the oncoming traffic. There is a truck barreling towards her at top speed, horns blazing. Breaks shriek. The driver looks mortified.
Chloe closes her eyes and spreads her arms, as though she is prepared to embrace her own demise. In less than a second, she will be dead. And she will know it was not a dream.
•
Chloe’s eyes snap open and stare vacantly up at the familiar ceiling of her bedroom. Morning sunshine is peeking in through the blinds. She can hear birds outside and the shuddering engines of the neighborhood garbage truck. Was it… a dream? Her mind reels.
No. No, she swore to herself she would not fall for that again. It was not a dream. Chloe took a taxi out to the highway, walked across seven lanes of traffic, and stood like a statue in the eighth. That was precisely what happened. She should be dead!
She jumps out of bed, realizing her body works just fine. God Almighty, she is not even sore! She checks for any bruises on her body—some physical indication that she did indeed suffer the ordeal. But, like yesterday morning (it was yesterday… right?), she finds nothing.
Still perfect. Still… just fine.
•
Later that day, Chloe sits with James on a wooden park bench. Together, they stare out across the rolling green, patched with spots of dirt from the rain and too much wear and tear. There is a playground in the heart of the park, overrun with children. Their distant laughter mingles with the sounds of traffic and chirping birds and a lawnmower they cannot see.
There is a couple walking their dog. A group of girls on their way home from school.
Joggers in grey hooded sweatshirts…
“What’s happening to you?” James asks flatly.
Chloe called him here. He sounded surprised on the phone. As rare as Chloe texts him first, a personal phone call happens even less. But she needs him. She needs him more than ever. He is the only constant in her life. And maybe she uses him like a crutch. Maybe she takes him for granted when times are good and tosses him aside when his presence is inconvenient… but lord help her, she needs him now.
She has… no one else. No one.
“I think I’m losing ma’ mind,” she confesses, as if he is not already aware. “Actually, I’m pretty sure I am.”
James turns his head and regards her in silence for a long moment. Chloe knows he is searching his brain, and most likely his mother’s scriptures, for something to say. James could never agree with that statement. Chloe never expected him to.
But when he uses the old argument, “You’re a writer. It’s expected that the worlds you create will somehow creep into your reality,” she wishes she did not ask.
Chloe shakes her head. She wishes she could make him understand. She wanted to take his eyes and plug them into her brain so that he could see all she has experienced. It would shatter James to know that Chloe turned to suicide not once, but twice. Then again, maybe that shock would knock some sense into him. Harrowing. Sobering.
“It’s more than that. Ma’ life is a collection of fragments.”
James is trying to find the humor in this, trying to nudge them back to where they once were and what they once had. She wishes he knew they will never be the same. Chloe will never be the same. He is happy to be with her again, she can sense that much, but there is a wariness about him too, as though he does not entirely trust her anymore.
“You probably just take life a little too seriously,” he states, settling back against the bench.
Chloe wishes that was all that was wrong. How does she make him see what he and everyone else seems to be so blinded to? Chloe wishes Patrick were here. If Patrick revealed himself to James, he would be more apt to believe her.
She tries a different approach. She can only hope and pray that James will be honest with his answer. “Do you ever see anything around here that’s—odd?”
James turns from her to let his eyes pan over the park. He gestures towards a jogger who has just rounded a cluster of ferns. “That gentleman over there is pretty odd. He’s jogging in jeans.” Again, he is trying to buffer the tension with humor. This will get them nowhere.
“You don’t take me seriously,” Chloe declares dourly.
She sees James shrug his shoulders in time with a shallow jump of his eyebrows. “Should I?”
Chloe rounds on him, her brows knitting together in earnest. “I expect you to.”
“How about if I just told you the truth?”
Chloe suppresses a shudder at the weight and implication of those words. Has he lied to her before? When he said she was such a great writer, was that the truth? When he said he would help her find a solution to this mess, and they would do it together? was that the truth?
What is the truth? Chloe has been seeking that allusive idea for months.
She inclines her chin, setting her lips into a grim line. “I expect nothing less from you.”
James’ eyes find the ground, speckled with pistachio shells from those who were here before them. Chloe remembers the night James took her for ice cream that he ordered pistachio. Strange coincidence. Choices and opportunities.
“You’re acting a little crazy,” James announces. Chloe balks. He said it. He actually said it. He used the words Chloe was counting on him not to say, just like her mother.
“I would have been happier if you were never born. Patrick would still be alive.” “Crazy.”
And apparently James isn’t done. “Life will feel incomplete if you keep leaving things unfinished.”
“We are all trapped in an endless, meaningless cycle. None of us are free. Nothing is as it seems.”
“What have I left unfinished?” Chloe asks hollowly.
“Your writing. Me,” he lists off. He probably rambles for another minute or so, while Chloe’s senses shut down. Chloe wonders how long he has been thinking about all this—how long he has tried to hide his true sentiments. “Maybe it’s time you saw something through to fruition,” he suggests. The words sting.
Chloe rolls her eyes with a hopeless shake of her head. She looks up at the sky, willing her tears to dry up and the annoying kink in her lip to go away. “Yo
u don’t believe anything I’ve told you?”
“I think it’s all in your mind.”
Chloe wants to be sick, as evidenced by the bile that rises in the back of her throat. All in her mind? The dreamless sleep. The bizarre visits to Dr. Ross. Her mother’s license inside her own wallet. Her mother’s face staring back at her in the mirror. The deaths that never happened. The events that are remembered differently. The stagnation of the world. And Patrick…
“Guess I’ll just have to show you.”
That’s it! Patrick!
Chloe will have to show him. She will give him concrete evidence that he cannot explain away or blame on her unraveling sense of reality, because he will experience it too. Chloe considers for a moment, her mind racing for the perfect spot to use.
“Maybe I can show you.” Chloe takes his hand and they leave the park.
•
Chloe and James stand in front of a twenty story office building in the downtown district. And though James’ car is parked in the lot behind them, Chloe has no memory of the trip here. Does James? Obviously, he drove them… or that is what the car is supposed to imply. These inconsistencies, these skips on the slate, seem to go unnoticed by everyone but her.
Why is that?
Chloe looks up to the top floor. She grabs James’ arm and closes her eyes, half convinced she can teleport the two of them to the top. Nothing happens.
“Guess we’re doing this the traditional way,” she mutters. James blinks at her incredulously.
Chloe relinquishes her hold on James and goes towards the entrance of the building. James follows. A few of the clerks give them queer looks as they pass through the lobby, but they must expect them to have an appointment with someone on an upper floor because no one moves to stop them.
Chloe steps into the elevator. James assumes his place beside her. Chloe punches the button to the twentieth floor. They ride up in silence. Chloe wishes the cheerful elevator music sounded more ominous. It all feels like one big joke now. James probably thinks so too. But she will show him.
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