by Lorena May
“Somebody died in there last night?” They nod, mouths hanging open.
“Who?”
Chapter 1
~ Chloe
Chloe Williams stands on the steps and inhales the sweet smell of new life, relishing the warmth of the sun on her face. It’s a beautiful spring day in Rockydale. Fluffy little clouds dot the pale blue sky. Fruit trees flaunt lacy, vibrant blossoms. Fresh, green grass, newly budded leaves and a crispness in the air bode well. Today will be the day.
A car pulls up, an old blue beater, and the back door opens. Out jumps a young woman, dressed in a black pencil-skirt and a tailored white blouse. Thick, black curls bounce around an oval face. A lovely face with large, brown eyes, dainty nose, olive-colored skin and plump lips that break into a smile when she sees Chloe.
“You must be our new waitress. Ana, is it?” Chloe steps down the walk to greet her.
“Yes! Mrs. Williams?” The girls voice has a kind of soft breathiness to it. Sexy.
Chloe rewards Ana with her warmest smile. “Call me Chloe.”
Ana takes a deep breath. She is clearly nervous. “Thank you, Chloe,” she mutters, looking down at her feet. Feet that have obviously been shod in brand new shoes. Black platform pumps that show off her long, shapely legs.
“Come in. We’re just getting ready for the brunch crowd. I’m sure Mona can use your help. Have you met Mona?”
The girl shakes her head. “No.”
“Speak of the devil . . .” Chloe laughs as a buxom blonde strides out of the restaurant, all tanned and glowing, wearing a tight-fitting black dress that shows off her ample cleavage and shapely, tanned legs.
“You must be Ana!” The blonde holds out her hand in greeting. “Just in time! Come on in!” and, with a flounce, she turns and struts inside, her back-side wiggling like an undulating cobra. Ana follows meekly. Chloe watches. Mona will eat that girl for breakfast!
The restaurant is a hive of activity. Chloe hears the familiar clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen, the smell of coffee and something else –waffles. Tom, her favorite waiter, is busy setting the elegant tables. He looks up as Chloe wanders through, his clear blue eyes smiling. Such a sweet boy! Chloe glances at the table and rewards him with a thumbs-up. He blushes, shrugs, assumes his typical ‘aw shucks’ look and continues work.
Chloe straightens a flower arrangement on one table, slightly adjusts the candle on another, and looks around. Soft sunlight pours in. She lowers the blinds and checks to make sure that no rays will shine in anyone’s eyes. A quick glance around the room assures her that all the waiters and waitresses are neat and professional looking.
“And how is everything this morning?” Steve sidles up behind her, planting a soft kiss on her cheek. She touches his jacket, smooth and crisp, and breathes in his familiar scent. A tweedy, woody smell.
Smiling up at him, she takes in his sparkling grey eyes, gentle smile and even features; a man exuding charm and self-confidence. Who wouldn’t love him? Who doesn’t?
“I’m doing a last-minute check before I meet with the gardener. We’ll open the patio next weekend,” she says, her eyes straying to the new waitress. “You hired quite a looker, Steve.”
He chuckles. “Beautiful, isn’t she?” and he follows Ana with his eyes a moment. “She’s got Tom practically tripping over his feet.”
Chloe turns her attention to Tom, who is constantly and covertly casting his eyes toward the new girl, causing him to bumble into a chair. Tittering, she pecks her husband on the lips. “Be a good boy in Vancouver. I’m heading to Edmonton tomorrow to check on things. We should be back around the same time.” She gives him a little wave and strides toward the exit, her heels tapping on the glossy wooden floor.
He watches as she walks away, his eyes filled with admiration. Tall, slim, graceful, she moves like a dancer. Everything about her is flawless from her thick, red hair to her fine-boned face, melodious voice, sweet smile . . . How did he get so lucky?
Chapter 2
~Grace
Slowly, Grace opens bleary eyes and stares up at the nicotine-stained ceiling, focusing on a water-mark shaped like a giant crab. Dark yellow. Reaching above her head, she grasps the metal spindles on the head-board of her flimsy double bed, then lets her arms fall beside her, limp. Her fuzzy brain struggles to remember.
It was a long night. Grueling. Gradually, images form. She and her friend, Belinda, were dumped back onto their street from separate vehicles at the same time. Flying from a black station-wagon, Belinda landed in a tumbled heap on the sidewalk. “Bad date?” Grace asked, kneeling beside the broken woman crumpled on the cement, pulling her to her feet. Together, they staggered along the street to Grace’s apartment to fix. To chase all their troubles away.
Now Grace looks over at the imprint where Belinda’s head lay on the pillow next to her. A shot of adrenaline shoots through her chest, jerking her upwards. She leans over to reach under the bed, grappling with an assortment of odd socks, empty plates and a discarded high-heeled shoe. Then she feels it, carefully sliding it across the floor. A metal box, secured with a combination lock. She’s learned through the years. It holds all her most precious possessions. Her phone. Is it here? She shoves her hand under her thin feather pillow, and feels the hard, smoothness of it. A sigh of relief. Yes, she’s learned. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Belinda’s probably her closest friend, but she’s been ripped off by chums before.
This is her refuge. Home. A scungy little bachelor apartment with an old white fridge, stove, sink and chipped arborite counter. Marbled green linoleum, curling and yellowed, covers the floor. The walls are a clashing olive green, cracked and tinged with a kind of muck that she can’t scrub off. A small chrome table sits across from the bed with a sagging mattress. Discarded clothing lays slung over a rickety chair in front of the dusty window. Beside it stands a battered dresser and a lamp. She’s lucky to have her own adjoining bathroom; stained tub and a cupboard that holds a few worn towels, wash cloths and two extra rolls of toilet paper. Strewn across the counter are the necessary lipsticks, mascara, eye shadow and blush.
If only she could have slept a little longer. A twitchiness has overtaken her. She sits up, picks up the grey metal box, twirling the combination lock with expert fingers. One-nine–nine-six. The year of her birth. Leaning against the head-board, she flicks through the contents. A small stack of bills, a creased photograph, a scrap of flannel with faded green and gold triangles, tattered leather-bound notebook and three heroine caps. Setting the box beside her, she plucks a cap from it and shifts her weary body to sit on the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold linoleum floor. She scratches her torso. She’s itchy, heavy and dull. Same old routine. Rising slowly, she moves from the bed to yank upward the cracked and yellowed vinyl blind. It zips with a snap. Squeezing her eyes shut to adjust to the light, she looks out. The view? Asphalt and cracked concrete, littered with discarded bottles and trash.
Shuffling to the stove, Grace opens a drawer. From it she pulls a blackened spoon, lighter, syringe and the rubber tourniquet she needs. Carefully she deposits the precious powder onto the spoon, and squirts water from the syringe onto it. Grasping the spoon intently, she flicks the lighter and holds the flame beneath it. As the white powder bubbles and completely dissolves, she breathes in the ether-like smell. Aaaahhh. Reaching for the syringe, she taps it, then draws the watery substance from the spoon into it. She sets it on the counter. Tying off her arm, she finds a light blue vein and plunges the needle in, watching for blood. Slowly, she injects. Grace opens the cupboard beneath the sink and tosses the needle into the garbage. Sighing, she wanders back toward her bed, glancing in the mirror above the dresser.
Startled, she stares. Long, stringy red hair frames a haggard, white face. Eyes like piss-holes in the snow. Why am I still here? Gazing down at her body - skeletal - even when wrapped in a thick robe - she feels a revulsion that brings bile to her throat. Filthy. Debauched. One monotonous day smudges into the next. Standing on st
reet corners, an endless string of faceless men. No family, no trusted friend. Just eternal need.
Raising her arm, she wipes the hair from her eyes, staring at her wrist. An “L” tattooed in beautiful script. A reminder. One that has become fuzzy and dim with time.
Grace flops onto the bed and lies back, relieved. Warm, golden sunshine flows through her veins.
Chapter 3
~ Grace
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Grace traces the ‘L’ inside her wrist. Over and over. ‘L” for Lyn. A feeling of love and warmth envelopes her. Those times with Lyn were the happiest of her life. Closing her eyes, leaning her head against the bed-frame, she sees Lyn in the kitchen, her face creased with smile-lines, wearing sloppy slacks and an over-sized t-shirt, pouring milk, scraping freshly-baked peanut butter cookies onto a plate. Grace can smell them. She smiles, watching, in her mind’s-eye, Lyn plop her large body onto a kitchen chair and place her elbows on the table, looking into Grace’s eyes, and Chloe’s.
“So what was the best thing at school today?”
While she and Chloe chirruped eagerly, Lyn laughed and cried with them. It was a time of hugs and pats and, “You are brilliant!” Lyn taking them to the park, attending school concerts and parent-teacher conferences. Gently scolding them when they misbehaved; always little things like forgetting to let her know when they went to a friend’s house, sneaking candy before dinner, feeding their lunch to the dog. Thank God Lyn can’t see me now.
Her earliest memories –before Lyn - are fuzzy. Are they recollections or figments of her imagination? Bits mixed with what she’s been told. Images, emotions, smells, sensory flashes. She doesn’t remember her earliest years, but some deep recollection of being held and loved sits within her. What she knows is that she and her twin sister, Chloe, were taken from their grand-mother, a drug addict who took them on after the death of their mother. Apparently no father was around. They were barely two years old.
Half-remembered images: a black and white parquet floor as she stood, head down, frozen. A searing voice, a stinging slap across her face. “You little thief!” A cookie dropping from her hands, breaking into pieces beside her foot. Her sister, white-faced, crying. “Oh, Gracie. Why did you do that?” A feeling of bewilderment.
Another memory: She and Chloe cowering in a big, burgundy, overstuffed chair that felt like velvet, but pricklier. A sharp-nosed worker standing over them, glaring. “Who took the fish out of the bowl and let it die? You MURDERED a poor, innocent animal.”
She can still feel, when she recalls it, her head stinging as she’s pulled from under her bed by her hair. “Did you write this on my walls?”
Her sister, Chloe, was more appealing than she. Chirpy and charming. That’s how their foster parents, the other kids and their teachers told them apart.
“Look at the way Chloe smiles. She’s so bright! So friendly.”
“Why can’t you be more like Chloe?”
Grace loved Chloe. Mostly any happiness she felt was with Chloe. Huddled whispering, giggling, crying together. Only with Chloe. Until they went to live with Lyn.
Lyn was a different kind of foster mom; relaxed and caring. “You’re special,” she’d tell Grace. “Those smart thoughts show up in your eyes. Just because you don’t speak them doesn’t mean you don’t have them. Am I right?” Her round face was filled with love. It was Lyn that gave Grace the red leather-bound journal and encouraged her to write her thoughts down.
All thumbs now, Grace opens the journal, her only confidante these many years. Through fuzzy eyes she reads. Her first entry is written in a rounded child’s print.
July 13, 2005
Chloe is gone. She went to live with a man and lady who are very rich. Lyn said they go a lot of places and can only take one kid. I’m glad I get to stay with Lyn but I want Chloe to stay too. She says she can’t. I miss her so much and she just left yesterday. Lyn hugged me and said I’m her own special child. I can stay with her forever. I love Lyn and Chloe.
Sincerely, Grace
She remembers it like it was yesterday. Feeling sick; stomach rumbling as she stood glumly beside her sister, staring at a man and a woman all gussied up in fancy clothes, smelling like flowers, jewels glittering on their hands. The woman had a little-girl voice and a warm smile.
“Oh, I do wish we could take them both,” she said, looking imploringly at her husband who sat stiff and straight, his thin lips compressed.
“Two is more than twice the trouble. You know that,” he said firmly. “I’ve agreed to one child.” He patted his wife’s hand. “You may choose.”
Grace looked at her sister who was smiling sweetly, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m pleased to meet you,” Chloe said, curtsying slightly. Grace felt her own tears streaming down her cheeks as her face contorted into ugliness. Stomach churning, she ran to the bathroom, slamming the door. Later, Lyn sat on her bed, wrapping big arms around the distraught child, rocking her back and forth, back and forth.
Idly, now, Grace leafs through thin, crinkly pages.
Chloe phoned me today. She is taking dance and swimming lessons. Lyn is putting me in swimming too!
I made a new friend today. Chelsea. It’s not the same, but it’s sorta like having Chloe back. She never calls me. I guess she’s busy.
I got my report card today. All A’s. Lyn says Chloe and I are smart and gifted. I love school. And Lyn and Chelsea and Chloe. And swimming! I passed into level 3. On Saturday Lyn says we can go to the pool.
Grace takes a deep breath, consumed with grief. A biliousness rises in her throat. She knows what is coming next.
Lyn sat me down to talk today.
Her throat constricts, and tears fall, unbidden, down her cheeks.
Cancer, she said.
She cries uncontrollably.
The doctor says she will die in six months.
Chapter 4
~ Chloe (the past)
Her new bedroom was pink and white; white furniture, pink walls and frilly curtains. Pink and white stuffies - elephants, puppies, giraffes - dotted the dresser, lay on pillows, and filled the top of a white, French provincial bureau. Do they think I’m five? Chloe rolled her eyes as she stood looking around.
She turned to bestow a beaming smile on her new parents. “It’s beautiful!” Truly, it was a far cry from the tiny room that she’d shared with her sister at Lyn’s. She’d landed on her feet, for sure.
Nine years old and suddenly she was a princess. George, her adoptive father, was seldom home. He was out earning the money that her sweet, old-fashioned mother lavished on her. Hip-hop, jazz, piano and swimming lessons, a closet stuffed with cool, brand-name clothes and shoes, trips to Mexico, Costa Rica and the Dominican during Spring Break. Europe in the summer . . . Her adoptive parents doted on her.
She excelled in school without even trying. Dance came naturally to her. She was a girl with intelligence, grace and charisma, living a charmed life. Chloe remembered her sister with fondness, but this was her new reality. She’d never look back.
Gymboree fashions and stuffed animals gave way to Lululemon and Justin Bieber posters. Bike-riding and Barbie dolls evolved into a snazzy, red corvette and dates with real boys. Her marks remained high, she excelled in music and dance, played on the High School basketball and soccer teams, and became Prom Queen at graduation.
But Chloe was bored. Her mother lavished her with everything her heart desired. Nevertheless, an old lady’s attentions could be suffocating. Chloe’s adoring friends wearied her. Their worries over boyfriends, clothes, imagined slights and silly dramas were trivial. She wanted to be out in the ‘real world’. School became hum-drum, and by the time she finished grade twelve, she knew she had to escape.
Along came Steve, a friend and business-associate of her father’s, handsome, sophisticated and rich. She’d noticed his eyes scanning her face with an appreciative glint. He laughed a little over-hard at her jokes, and was that a blush on his cheek when she accidentally brushed agains
t him?
She took it nice and slow. Steve was recently divorced, after all, and was expressing guilt and remorse over the loss of time with his children. He had three. Two girls, ten and twelve years old, and a boy of eight. By all accounts they were taking the break-up hard, and thus so was Steve.
Chloe would be his solace. When he spoke her eyes glowed with admiration. She asked his counsel. What would be his number one piece of business advice? Which Universities or colleges should she apply to? He answered her earnestly, visibly flustered when she threw her arms around him placing a candid kiss on his cheek. Everything about him showed her he was ripe for the picking.
It was a sultry summer day, and Chloe was home alone. She called Steve. “My car is making this clunking sound. Do you know what might be wrong with it?” He wasted no time getting there. When he drove up in his old silver Lexus she was ready. Tiny faded jean-shorts and an old crop-top said, “Let’s get down and dirty.” He checked the oil as she leaned in, eyeing the dip-stick with studied intent.
“I never even think about checking the oil!” she cooed, smiling up at him.
They spent a delightful day together, shopping for what they needed, and changing the oil in her car. Chloe insisted on helping and proved to be an adept apprentice.
What a man! she thought. All that money, yet he can fix a car. As he poured the new oil into the motor and twisted the cap she watched the muscles in his arm twitch, the movement of his hands, large, muscular and well-manicured.