Chloe

by McLeish, Cleveland

  “I’m sorry, young lady,” Kathleen says. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  It feels as though Chloe has been smacked across the face by a two by four, or buried under a ton of bricks. She can’t breathe. What she is saying is impossible. It is just as impossible as what Meryl says. Chloe is talking to a dead woman right now if not. And even a dead woman would know her own son. Is she imagining this too? Why does it all look so real? Perhaps the woman has had too much wine. Granted, it’s not even 2:00PM… but still!

  “He’s your son,” Chloe prompts slowly, praying it will rouse her.

  “I don’t have a son. I don’t have any children.” Kathleen looks at Chloe as though she is a complete stranger. Chloe, who had been too intent on seeing James before to notice, finally recognizes her expression for what it really is. She stiffens.

  “You really don’t know who I am, do you?” she whispers.

  Kathleen rubs her chin, scrutinizing Chloe and her memory. “I’m usually pretty good with faces. Just not placing yours right now. What did you say your name was?” Chloe shakes her head, backing off the step. She quickly leaves. Kathleen shakes her head, lips forming a grim line as she posts one hand on her hip. “Young people!” She closes the door.

  Chloe hurries down the road, breathing erratically. Her feet do not hurt anymore. She glances down at her attire to see sneakers where bare feet were only moments ago. She did not bring sneakers. She left her heels back at the police station. She should be barefoot. She dressed nicely. She always dresses nicely.

  Where did the hoodie and jeans come from!?

  Cleopatra and Greg are caught up in a heated embrace, half embedded in the sofa. Chloe, out of breath and her chest heaving, walks in, throwing the door open. Cleopatra pushes Greg off and tries to compose herself. Naturally, she reaches for her glass of vodka tonic and takes a swig.

  “You’re not supposed to be here for another few hours,” she tells Chloe with an impish smirk, her finger absently drifting over the denim coating Greg’s thigh. Chloe did not know she was expected.

  “Why is he here?” Chloe stammers. “We threw him in the garbage!”

  Cleopatra goes slack-jawed, her hand flying to her chest as though she would never even think of such a thing let alone do it. “Chloe,” she chides. “Don’t go making up stories like that! What an awful thing to say.” Chloe’s mind reels. Heat and numbing cold simultaneously flood her body. It is as though time has restarted—reset. And this time, she is stuck in a vicious cycle without James!

  She’ll never survive!

  Greg glances between the two women, wearing an indolent smirk where a scowl should be. “You gonna tell her, or should I?” Greg puts on his shirt, pouring himself into it. Chloe fights the urge to gag.

  “Tell me what?” Chloe whispers hoarsely, half convinced this day could not possibly get any worse.

  Cleopatra reaches across her lap and seizes Greg’s hand. With bright eyes, “Honey, Greg and I are getting married.” She can hardly contain her smile.

  Chloe was wrong.

  Her knees weaken, ready to buckle at any second. She manages to catch herself on the banister. Chloe turns and dashes up the stairs. She slams the door as hard as she can.

  “That went well,” Greg supplies, turning to level Cleopatra with a more sinister smirk. Cleopatra knots her fingers up in his shirt and yanks him back in. They kiss.

  Upstairs, Chloe sits on the side of her bed. Her eyes red and empty. Her laptop is open with a blank document and a blinking cursor on the screen. Her screenplay is gone—erased, as though it was never written, as though it never existed. Suddenly, her cell phone beeps. It’s her old, cheap phone. Chloe had a Samsung smartphone this morning. She opens her phone. Her heart plunges into her stomach. It is a text from James.

  “Dinner. Same place. 7P.M.” Chloe, mortified, can’t breathe. He’s alive, but he won’t remember. He won’t remember any of it. He won’t remember proposing. He won’t remember their intimate moments. He won’t know her any better than he did before they got together. It’s just her, caught in this hell. Her cell phone rings, startling her. Chloe’s body goes completely numb when she reads the caller id.

  Sandra is calling.

  She’s back to being a grocery girl?! Chloe takes the phone and hurls it with all her might across the room. It smashes against the wall and shatters. It feels as though she has been awakened from the best kind of dream, a dream in which she conquered a great many obstacles and came so far, only to find herself in the same dark, empty place. She is stationary. Her work, all the strife, means nothing.

  Chloe’s eyes search through the room, doing a double-take when she discovers her cell phone sitting on her nightstand. She looks to where it had fallen to discover a bare floor. She shouldn’t be surprised. Everything is falling apart.

  There is no freedom here. She is trapped again. She cannot do this—not after getting a taste of what life could be like for her. Her choice has been taken away. Chloe looks towards the door.

  •

  That night, Greg and Cleopatra are asleep, Cleopatra tucked into Greg’s arms. Chloe sneaks in. She carefully steps to the closet where Greg’s uniform is hung from the bar. His belt with gun are hanging on a hook behind the door. Chloe extracts the gun carefully. The closet door creaks. Greg’s eyes snap open. He sits up with a start. Chloe points the gun at him, cocking the hammer back. Greg’s eyes are filled with fear. He shakes Cleopatra, who wakes up with a grunt.

  Cleopatra puts her grogginess aside when she realizes what Chloe is holding. “What’re you doing, Chloe?”

  Chloe’s lip quivers. “I think I know why this world revolves around you, Mom,” she says tearfully.

  “Chloe, listen to me,” Greg starts, drawing her attention away from her mother who is quaking. “Put the gun down before someone gets hurt.”

  Chloe would like nothing more than to put a bullet in this man, but that is not what she came to do. Killing him will not change anything. And though, like her and Patrick, he would probably be alive and well again the next morning, it solves nothing.

  “You’re free to go, Greg,” Chloe declares with some effort.

  “What?” he asks, wide eyed.

  Chloe is quickly losing her patience. “Do I have to spell it for you!?” she exclaims. “Get out!”

  Greg, throwing the sheets off, gets out of bed and quickly pulls on his pants and shirt, laying in heaps beside the bed.

  “You’re leaving?” Cleopatra balks, staring at the man and pleading with him to do something with her eyes. “It’s your gun!” she shrieks.

  “This is obviously a family squabble,” he stammers, tugging his shirt over his head and grabbing his keys off the nightstand. Chloe is reminded of the deplorable moment when he called the lot of them family. She is so glad he can separate himself when it comes to risking his life, the pathetic fool. He raises his hands to Chloe, palms turned out in defeat. “I know better than to get involved.” Greg leaves, practically hopping out of the room as he pulls on his shoes.

  Cleopatra sits up in the bed, ramrod straight. She pulls the sheet off, untangling her legs. “I’m your mother, Chloe,” she starts as though that notion is going to put the fire out.

  “I know,” Chloe chokes tearfully. “I know you are. But… There is no other way. I wish there was.” Because this choice, though wrong, will set her free. Because mistakes can be rectified with murder. She has to do this!

  Chloe shuts her eyes tight and pulls the trigger. Cleopatra is hit squarely in the chest. She falls back into the bed, her wide lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling. Chloe breaks down, hardly able to support herself under the weight of her grief. She climbs into the bed and sets the gun aside. She picks up Cleopatra’s head, resting it in her lap. She combs her fingers through her mother’s hair as she cries.

  •

  The following morning, Police cars are parked outside the house. A unformed officer approaches Greg. He points at the house. Three policemen draw
their guns and cautiously approach, prepared for any kind of resistance. But they do not get it.

  Chloe and Cleopatra are still in the bedroom. Three Policemen step inside, their guns pointed at Chloe. She is still weeping. They bark orders at her, but she doesn’t move.

  “Step away from the bed and the gun and get on the ground!” she hears. Chloe looks at the gun on the bed, reminded once again of an escape route that could actually work now.

  “Get on the ground!” another repeats. Chloe swallows thickly and wipes her tears. She looks at the police. There is only one way out. She picks up the gun and points it at them. They fire. There is pressure and pain in her chest. The room slowly fades to black.

  •

  Cleopatra, her skin sallow and pale, slowly opens her eyes, emerging into a dull, grey and white world. It smells of silence and sterility. All shades. No color. Her rich brown hair is a disheveled mess of matted tangles. Too thin and fragile, she lays in a hospital bed. Straps are looped across her body, pinning her arms to her sides and her body to the cot. Doctor Kenneth sits close by with a note pad.

  “I survived,” she whispers towards the ceiling.

  He looks up with a start. “Survived what?”

  Cleopatra turns her head towards him. “Ma’ daughter,” she prompts. She wonders if the hospital staff know about the incident. They certainly should. “Chloe shot me! I thought I was dead.” She exhales a sigh of relief and shakes her head. “If she didn’t agree with me getting married she could have just said so.”

  Doctor Kenneth looks at the wide mirror in the room. He sees only a reflection of the room, but someone is watching from the other side.

  The doctor turns his attention back to Cleopatra. “Five years ago, you said she stabbed you. Five years before that, you said she pushed you off a building. Do you remember any of that?”

  Cleopatra shrugs as much as her restraints will permit, oblivious to them for the moment. “Chloe has issues. That’s why I sent her to you. Fat lot of good it did.” She scoffs out a laugh. “Even paid for the sessions. You’re not cheap.”

  He nods, jotting down something new on his notepad, trying to mitigate the mixture of frustration and sorrow on his face. “Where is Chloe now?”

  Cleopatra adopts a bemused expression. “I don’t know,” she says whimsically. To him, “Have you seen her?” She goes to sit up, but finds herself unable to. She notices the straps for the first time. Sounding offended, “Can you tell me why ma’ hands are tied?”

  He closes his eyes and his notebook, letting a defeated sigh slip through his nose. “That’s enough for today.” Kenneth leaves the room.

  Outside, a much older Patrick stands on the other side of the one-way mirror, gazing into the room. He looks weary and worn, his eyes barely holding on to their twinkling vibrancy. He is a man on the edge, a man about to give up, but at the same time a man who will never leave. He will waste away here, with her. He promised. He is a hollow husk of a man, held together by slim strands of shaken faith. He does not understand why God is putting them through this, but he can only blame himself.

  Kenneth joins him. He removes his glasses. “25 years and no progress,” the doctor reminds him. “I’ve tried Electroconvulsive Therapy, Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation. Nothing works. Absolutely no change.”

  Patrick stares expressionlessly through the glass. “We haven’t tried the truth,” he suggests, which is something he has been contemplating for several years.

  Kenneth shakes his head, prepared to advise against it once again. He proceeds to clean his spectacles with a cloth from his coat pocket. “We’ve gone over this many times. Schizophrenics live in a constant state of denial. They don’t usually respond very well to the truth.”

  Patrick closes his eyes, saying a silent prayer to a God he can only hope still hears him. “It’s all we have left, doctor.” He opens his eyes, inhaling a breath into his chest and mustering his courage. He knows this is probably going to be the most difficult thing he has ever done. “You take care of the paperwork. I want to sign the release form today.”

  Kenneth purses his lips, slipping his glasses back onto his face and up the bridge of his nose. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea Mr. Taylor.”

  Patrick turns to face him, managing what he can of a grateful smile. “You tried, doctor. Now it’s my turn.” Kenneth relents, as there is very little he can do when arguing with a man who has already made up his mind. Patrick resumes his gaze into the window and stares at his Cleopatra through the tinted glass.

  •

  Cleopatra’s eyes are closed. Patrick walks in. He starts to pull on the straps holding her wrist to the bed, loosening and eventually untying them. Cleopatra opens her eyes. Her brows furrow as she stares up at Patrick, as if she is seeing a ghost.

  “You look just like ma’ Patrick—only older,” she muses dazedly.

  Patrick wills himself to stay strong. “I am your Patrick.”

  “You couldn’t be,” she counters. “He’s dead. He died in a motor vehicle accident. He was on the way to the hospital.”

  Patrick’s insides ache, as though something sharp is scrapping away at them. “No. I’m not dead. I’m alive. I’m here. That’s all in your head, Cleo.”

  Cleopatra sits up and stares at Patrick. “No one else calls me that,” she whispers, eyeing him in a new light. “How?” What’s going on?” Cleopatra rubs her wrists and arms. She glances around the room. “Where am I?”

  Patrick swallows and licks his chapped lips. “Jubilee Hospital. Psychiatric Ward.”

  She draws her face into a frown. “Why was I strapped to a bed in a psychiatric Ward?”

  “You were a danger to yourself and everyone else,” Patrick informs cautiously. “See those scratches on the walls?” Cleopatra looks at the walls to see marks made forcibly with fingernails. She looks at her own fingernails. They are broken, scabbed, and discolored. She blinks rapidly. Patrick also turns his cheek to show some healed scratches on his own face, now scarred.

  “I did that?” she whispers.

  “You’ve been suffering from deep psychological trauma, clinical depression, short term amnesia and schizophrenia. You have some neuropsychiatric illness.” Judging by the blindsided expression on her face, Patrick can tell that his Cleopatra cannot understand a word he is saying. “You imagine things,” he simplifies. “You think they are real.”

  Something snaps inside of her. He can see it. Patrick prepares for an assault. “Where’s Chloe?” she blurts. “Where’s ma’ daughter? Where is she?” Her voice is growing frantic and ragged.

  Patrick is not sure how he should respond.

  All at once, Cleopatra gets off the bed, stumbles to the mirror, and shouts at the glass. “Where is ma’ daughter?” She pounds her fist against the glass, nearly hard enough to shatter it. Patrick dashes forward and holds her before it comes to that. She fights him off. He grabs her hands. She continues struggling.

  Doctor Kenneth comes in, looking mildly panicked. Patrick gestures for him to leave. Reluctantly, he does. He shuts the door behind him.

  “It’s time for you to face the truth!” Patrick shouts, just trying to get through to her if nothing else. Cleopatra pushes him off and goes to a corner in the room where she sinks to the floor and hugs her knees tight against her chest. She reaches up after a moment of rocking back and forth and covers her ears, her palms pressing hard against them to block out his voice and his memory, if possible.

  “No. No. You’re dead. I’ve had to relive that day, every day, for years! You’re dead!” She shakes her head, unable to process this. It is tearing him apart. He is angry and hurt and horrified and exhausted.

  “Cleo,” Patrick says gently, approaching her with caution. He is so tired. He kneels down before her. She regards him like a frightened wild animal. “I’m not the one who died,” he relays.

  Cleopatra lowers her hands and hugs her knees again, pressing tightly into her corner, letting the pressure and certainty of stone soot
h her. “Chloe told me she saw you back at home. I never believed her.”

  Patrick is mere breaths away from crumbling into sobs. He has to tell her. It’s time. It’s time… “Chloe was never born, Cleo.”

  All expression and color leaves Cleopatra’s face. Hoarsely, “What?”

  Tears brim in Patrick’s eyes. “Chloe was never born. You had an abortion.” Cleopatra’s knees weaken. She collapses against him. Patrick holds her as she shakes, coiling her hands into the fabric of his clothing with the meager supply of strength left within her. He carries her to the side of the bed. She sits with horror in her eyes that gradually evolves into recognition.

  Cleopatra holds her heart, unable to contain the emotions welling up inside her. She begins to cry. Patrick holds on to her as she remembers.

  •

  Cleopatra walks towards the entrance of the abortion clinic. The world around her appears foggy at the edges, giving the impression of tunnel vision. But that does not stop her from seeing the picketers or hearing their riotous clamor. She passes the small group of protestors at the front with anti-abortion placards. She tries not to read them, but all the words burn their way into her memory.

  Inside, Cleopatra speaks to the specialist doctor. He takes her money, counts it, writes a prescription, and gives her some pills with written and verbal instructions.

  The following night, Cleopatra wakes up in a pool of warm, gooey blood. It is unnaturally dark and already clotting. Horrified, she screams. Patrick wakes up, also covered in blood that has seeped into his clothing. It takes him all of a moment to realize what has happened and what Cleopatra has done. He hugs her and takes her into the bathroom.

  A week later, Cleopatra sits in silence, motionless and catatonic in her and Patrick’s living room, staring at a blank television screen. She is completely unresponsive, even to Patrick. She is loss in thought, her eyes lifeless and cold. Maud and Trevor, who came at Patrick’s request, watch her. They glance at one another unsure of what to do.