Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

That is, if any of them still work at this precinct.

  •

  The calendar reads “Sunday”.

  Chloe looks at freshly printed manuscripts of her screenplay. She touches them gingerly, dusting her fingers over the warm pages, smelling the ink as though a piece of her heart is contained within that stack. She gets up and finds the Writers Market. She sits again and opens the manual, browsing through for Screenplay publishers.

  The same day, Kathleen is delivering the word. James sits alone in the front row. He looks longingly at the empty seat beside him.

  Later that day, Chloe packs up the manuscript, addressing it.

  On Monday morning, she treks to the post office.

  That same afternoon, Chloe also stops off on James’ street. Chloe rings the doorbell and waits. Kathleen opens the door.

  “Chloe,” the woman says, eyeing the girl on her doorstep.

  “That’s me,” Chloe says, sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” Kathleen continues skeptically.

  Chloe nods, shuffling her feet. “It’s been kinda weird, but I guess you already know that.”

  Kathleen fixes her in a very deliberate glance, raising her eyebrows. “Oh yes.” But she is referring to something different than Chloe is.

  “Is James here?” Chloe inquires, quickly altering the subject.

  Even if James was here, Kathleen has her doubts that she would tell Chloe that, however unchristian that may be. The girl has caused him enough grief. James has not said a word since she left him at their booth. Given time, he will heal. But the wound will be reopened every time he sees her face.

  If Kathleen has learned anything about Chloe, the girl makes appearances when it is convenient for her, not when it is convenient for others.

  “For the past few days, he’s mostly been out,” she tells her truthfully. “I have no idea where he is.”

  Chloe starts to nod. “Thanks.” Chloe walks away. Kathleen watches her for a moment, then closes the door.

  •

  James is sitting on the park bench, feeding birds. He takes handfuls of pale green pistachios from a bag in his lap—cracking them open one by one to sprinkle onto the path. Pigeons, or the infamous rats with wings, scuttle around, fighting others for a nibble.

  James does not look up when Chloe comes and sits beside him. James has to wonder why she is here, why she would come to him more than a week after their last encounter.

  What does she have to say? What does she want from him now?

  “How’d you find me?”

  Chloe hooks her hair behind her ears. She is wearing it down, which kills him. “Just had to look in all the places I thought you would be. This was ma’ last stop.”

  The words ring out through James’ mind, resonating with the same words he said to her on the beach. Curtly, “I’m not going to apologize for telling you the truth.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  He is surprised. “So why are you here?”

  Chloe takes some unopened envelopes from her hand bag. James recognizes their format. “Sent out some letters to producers and agents while we were apart. I used that book you gave me. Got some replies, but I’m afraid to open them alone.”

  “You want to do it here?” Yet again, more words that give credence to their past. She wants to do this here? Now?

  “Why not? It’s a nice view. There’s a garbage bin right there.” The painted, caged cylinder is hunkered down beside a tree across the pathway. “It’s the perfect place to get rejected.”

  Something about the way she says that sounds like an apology. Something about the way she says that makes him think she might be in pain too.

  James was rejected by Chloe more times than he can count. He scrounged up every cent to treat her whenever he could. He drove her around. He gave and gave. She thought she refused, but she really took and took. Used or not, James would pour his heart out to her, even now.

  Seeing Chloe cry like that at the diner, and doing nothing but watching, was immensely hard on him. He did not think he could feel such guilt. And as the nights passed, and he did not hear from her, it only compounded.

  As a friend, James should have gotten her help. But as a lover, he should have been there to help her, even if she would rather beat him off with a stick.

  It just hurt so much to be around her and not be with her.

  James smiles and sets his mostly empty bag of pistachio nuts aside on the bench. He takes the envelopes and begins opening them. The first is a rejection letter. He crushes it and throws it at the bin, missing it. The birds scatter, the beating of their wings startling Chloe slightly. She is nervous. Jumpy.

  The second is also a rejection letter. He crumbles it and gives that one to Chloe. She throws it at the bin and misses, the wad bouncing off and landing with a soft thud in the grass.

  The third, fourth and fifth are also rejections. He and Chloe take turns to try and make a basket using the bin.

  Sixth, seven, and eight are also crushed and thrown at the bin. But in spite of the letdown, they are enjoying themselves. Chloe’s laughter is like a chorus of silver bells. Finally, there is only one envelope remaining.

  “You should open this one,” James say, pushes it into her hands gently.

  Chloe shakes her head, forcing a smile that is much less genuine than the few she displayed in the last few minutes. “I don’t think I can. No, you open it.”

  “But the score is tied,” he reminds her, knowing that both of them have made three baskets. “This is your chance to pull ahead.”

  Chloe, trying to keep her focus on the chance of winning their basket game rather than reading another rejection letter, takes it. She takes a deep breath and tears the envelope open, already preparing herself to crumble it up. She pulls out the letter, pauses, and opens it hurriedly. She skims the first two sentences. Then she begins to read, backtracking. The tension leaves her hands.

  Her expression remains neutral as she looks up at James from the letter.

  “Think I’ll keep this one,” she says. He can see something dazzling bubbling up just beneath her skin.

  James’ heart leaps. “You sure?”

  “Sorry James,” she says, calling sadness to her face.

  James’ heart drops. Did he read her wrong? “For what?” he says softly.

  A grin explodes over Chloe’s face. “You’re not the only one who loves ma’ writing anymore.” James is ecstatic. He immediately grabs her up, stands, and spins her around, embracing her. She holds him tightly, clutching the acceptance in one hand. Their excitement and laughter are contagious, feeding off one another as they celebrate in the middle of the park.

  James finally sets her down.

  No sooner have Chloe’s feet found the ground when she jumps up on James and plants one square on his kisser. James is so stunned that he does not respond immediately. One would think, with how many times he has fantasized about that exact scenario, that he would have been more prepared. Chloe quickly breaks from the kiss and drops back.

  Their joyous moment turns a bit awkward. They shuffle their feet, exchange sheepish glances, and chuckle some. They go back to sitting on the bench and resume their former conversation. James is trying to pretend that did not just happen because his brain might explode if he believes otherwise. And he thought Chloe was going mental…

  “May I?” James asks. Chloe hands him the paper. James reads the letter.

  He shakes his head, unwilling to hide the stupid, slaphappy grin on his face that he would rather blame on the acceptance than the fact that Chloe just kissed him. He can hardly wrap his brain around that. It must have been the spark of the moment, the happiness that couldn’t be contained. It was nothing more than that.

  Certainly, it did not mean she has any feelings for him. Right?

  “Producers want to meet,” he announces after reading the line where it mention that. “Guess you’re going to Los Angeles!”


  Chloe sits on her hands, kicking her feet up, beaming. He has never seen her so happy. So free. “Guess so.”

  Suddenly, James realizes what this means. Chloe is leaving. She is leaving town. She is leaving them all.

  Chloe will finally escape her mother, Sandra, and everyone else that serves as dead weight. She can shake off this ghost hunting business and move on with her life. The problems will get better. The delusions will go away. She will be free.

  But then again…

  Who knows when he will see her again? Some of the brightness dims in his heart, but he tries to keep all the excitement and enthusiasm and pride in his face. Chloe needs optimism, positivity. She needs the old James.

  “Negotiations could take weeks. Maybe even some rewrites.”

  “Yeah,” Chloe muses. Was it his imagination, or did he see a flash of sorrow pass over her eyes too?

  He swallows thickly. “I’m gonna miss you.” He reaches up and hooks her hair behind her ear, his fingertips dusting over the skin of her cheek.

  Chloe bites her lip. “Maybe you won’t have to.”

  Her words hang in the air. James does not dare to breathe. He waits for her to get up and leave, or flash him one of those impish smiles, indicating that she was joking, or even recoil and with a Not like that!

  But she does none of those things.

  Instead, Chloe gazes into his eyes with the upmost sincerity and James finds himself floundering in their vibrant hues. She seems affectionate in this moment, receptive to the adoration he so freely exudes. A lifetime of feelings and desire and passion race back to him.

  He loves her. He has always loved her. He has forgotten why he was angry with her. He even doubts he has the capacity to be angry with her anymore.

  She is excellence. She is his dream girl. All of a sudden, they are walking down the street once more with ice cream in their hands, the picture-perfect couple. She sways, dances, over the stones.

  She has never regarded him like this in all the time he has known her. She is looking at him like… like… James gradually smiles. Chloe hugs him. They meet in a second kiss. This time, James dips her back, pressing against her lips for all he is worth.

  Chapter 15

  It all makes sense now. Chloe has made it. She is on her way to greatness, on her way to touching thousands—to affecting lives and being noticed and rising above this hellhole. Victory. Blessings. Escape. Freedom!

  She wonders why she ever doubted Phil and his prophesy the day she attended church with James. She wonders why she ever doubted God. Her faith feels stronger now than ever before. Her prayers have been answers. He heard her. Someone heard her and listened!

  This is her moment. She will forget the confusion and the inconsistencies. It was just a trick of the mind. But her mind will heal now with the success her hard work will bring and being perpetually busy. She no longer wishes to see Patrick.

  She no longer wants to entertain the constant questions that plague her about this or that.

  It is a typical day at the supermarket, or so it seems to the staff. Sandra is at her desk, sorting paper work. Chloe comes in without knocking, in spite of the fact that there is a rather large sign plastered over the other side of the door telling visitors to do otherwise.

  “You’re supposed to knock,” Sandra snaps, brusquely leveling a stack of papers with sharp taps against the desktop. She gives her a quick, unkind glance over. Chloe’s shift begins in half an hour. She does not have time to go home and change. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  Chloe gently lays her resignation letter on Sandra’s desk.

  Sandra glances between Chloe and the letter several times before she reaches out and snatches it up. “What is this?” she sneers, skimming over the text. Her eyes widen.

  “No need to show me the door,” Chloe says, calling a triumphant, smug smile to her face. “I’ll let ma’self out.” Chloe leaves, slamming the door hard. Sandra looks at the letter once more and frowns.

  •

  There is a different feeling in the Taylor household these days. Cleopatra can sense that Chloe no longer calls it home. She is merely passing through. Chloe is packing some bags. Her mother stands at the door with her arms folded, shouldering the doorframe as she does not know how to help, and is not certain Chloe would appreciate it if she tried.

  Cleopatra is conflicted. She has mixed feelings about Chloe leaving, namely leaving her here. What right does she have to up and leave? Cleopatra was never allowed to do that.

  “How long will you be gone?” she asks, breaking the silence.

  Chloe shrugs, stuffing her swim suit into the bag as an afterthought. “Couple weeks.”

  Cleopatra moves in closer. “I always knew you would make it big one day.”

  Chloe laughs outright and Cleopatra wants to smack her across the face. “No you didn’t, mom.”

  It’s true though. Her daughter is a clever one. Still. Why would Cleopatra believe in something so farfetched? Who would, really? It’s just not logical. Only psychos believe in that sort of thing.

  None of Cleopatra’s dreams come true. She dreamed of a simple, happy life with the man she loved, who loved her. Patrick was such a good man, a one of a kind man, a man who deserves to never be forgotten or replaced by someone else.

  No one could replace Patrick.

  Cleopatra was never given the freedom good luck brings. God clearly doesn’t want her. She has never experienced what it is like to have the world suddenly open to her. And given the way Cleopatra has treated Chloe, especially in the last few weeks, there is no way the girl has any plans to share her fame and fortune with her.

  Cleopatra will be in an even worse place than before—no boyfriend, no job, and no daughter with a job. It all spells disaster in big, bold, block letters. She should have tried to talk Chloe out of writing when she had the chance.

  “Would it help to say I’m sorry?” she offers.

  Chloe scoffs, assuming a disbelieving, disinterested smile. She tugs the zipper across the pocket of her suitcase. “Doubt it.”

  Cleopatra assumes a pout that usually works wonders on her gentlemen friends. She spreads her arms. “Why are you giving me such a hard time?”

  Chloe rounds on her and then passes her by to reach her dresser. “I’m nothing more than a means to an end for you.” She fishes through the drawers for pajamas.

  Safely out of her line of vision, Cleopatra smirks. She has finally thought of something that could be her ticket in. She adjusts her stance, jutting her hip out like a ledge for her fist. “Ma’ actions were your motivation.”

  Her daughter freezes in mid-grab. And Chloe must know that to be true. If Chloe had a happy life, she would never have been so driven to pursue her passion and be discovered. Cleopatra’s tough love, if one could even call it that, was surely an important goad.

  Chloe should really cut her some slack. After all, what does Cleopatra know about parenting? Her own mother was put in prison for killing her father, which was precisely what she wanted. Cleopatra worried over her mother.

  Does Chloe ever worry over her? Does Chloe ever give her a second thought?

  This is all so unfair. Her mother got what she wanted. Chloe is getting what she wanted. Why can’t Cleopatra have what she wants?

  Where is her season of peace? Does that skip a generation?

  Chloe wheels on her. “No. Ma’ actions were motivated by ma’ own heart and ma’ own mind. I had to find faith in ma’self and courage to pursue something I believed in. You’ve never been there for me. You’ve never believed in me. I needed you for so many years until I finally gave up. Your support means nothing, even if you decide to give it to me now that I’ve apparently done something right.”

  Chloe moves past her mother to the bathroom where she gathers her toiletries and cosmetics and unceremoniously dumps them into a travel kit.

  “I’m getting out of here and you’re jealous. You’re scared because you know you cannot continue on your own. You’re sca
red to lose me because like it or not I was the only person after Dad who ever truly loved you!” Chloe shakes her head. “You disowned me. Hurt me. Tortured me. Why change now? Why let you into ma’ heart now? So you can smash it again?”

  “I’m trying to be happy for you,” Cleopatra insists, undaunted.

  “Well don’t hurt yourself. I’m fine,” the girl rebuts. Chloe slams the lid of her suitcase. “You’ve never cared about anyone but yourself.”

  Chloe grabs a few of her bags and breezes past her mom. Cleopatra takes two other bags and follows after her, as though lugging two bags ten steps will absolve her of a lifetime of stumbling blocks. “We can work this out baby,” she calls after her.

  Cleopatra flanks her daughter out to the taxi parked in their driveway. The driver, waiting by his door, quickly pops the trunk and goes to help her load the bags. He does it without a word, which is good because Cleopatra still has so much to say.

  Before she gets the chance, “Mom,” Chloe cuts her off with a curt slice of her hand through the air. “Don’t.” They stare at one another.

  A question lingers in the air, as though they are wondering whether they should hug, or say goodbye at all. They are part of each other. Mother and daughter. Same tissue.

  Cleopatra is stuck with the resemblance she can see of her younger self in Chloe’s face. She is horrorstricken though when she can see Patrick in her. And this time, she is not imagining it. He is there, with his big bright eyes and blond hair, brimming with conviction.

  Cleopatra’s jaw works. Chloe turns from her and climbs into the open taxi. The driver shuts the door and tips his hat to Cleopatra. Cleopatra touches her cheek as the cab drives down the road, taking the last of Patrick with it, and is astonished to see the tear on her fingertips.

  •

  Chloe has never been on an airplane before, let alone flown first class.

  Sitting in the window seat, she watches the landscape pass beneath the plane with her nose practically mashed up against the glass. Her stomach is storming and queasy. That is probably a result of a mixture of nerves about the flight and the pending meeting with her benefactors.