Chloe
Cleveland O. McLeish
Copyright © 2013 by Cleveland O. McLeish
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning or other—except for a brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher or author.
Other books by this author can be purchased at Amazon.com or through his website at www.christianplaywright.org. For further information, please e-mail [email protected].
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental or maybe prophetic.
McLeish, Cleveland O.
Hard Cover ISBN-13: 978-1484170489
ISBN-10: 1484170482
To Nordia, my true love, and my very best friend through it all.
Acknowledgments
It’s never easy finding people who are willing to dedicate their resources and time in helping to get a project of this magnitude completed. I am eternally grateful to everyone who contributed directly or indirectly to the success of this project.
My wife, Nordia McLeish, who believes and knows that this story is really close to my heart. She continually demonstrates her love through well needed prayer, smiles and support.
My newly found friend, Heather Lynne Merten, who is a very skilled novelist who took time out (several months) to help me convert my Screenplay into its proper novel format. Her valuable contribution will never be forgotten and I speak favor on her own projects and believe God will increase her borders.
My family, who supports everything I do. Namely my mother, Pearline, and little sister, Stacy, brother in law, Marky, just to name a few.
My Father, God, who inspires me to write through the Holy Spirit. He never left me for a second on this journey and I must say, I have never spent so much time on one project before.
My Brother, Jesus Christ, who sits with me for hours; Walks with me; talks with me and talks through me. This is as much His story as it is mine.
Thanks to all of you.
Cleveland O. McLeish
April 2013
Chapter 1
It is half past eight when Cleopatra finally leaves Janine’s house. She strolls down the sidewalk with half a mind to throw her books into the nearest dumpster. Midterms are fast approaching and college is not easy. Everything rides on tests and attendance. In high school, homework could keep anyone afloat, even after bombing an exam. Here, that is not the case. They studied all afternoon. If she ever sees another Calc problem, it will be too soon.
She is so preoccupied with stress and mental fatigue that she does not notice a man emerge from his car, parked on the wrong side of the road.
Cleopatra is eighteen at this time. She stands at average height with dazzling blue eyes and rich chocolate brown hair, easily tousled and parted to the side. Several freckles dot the bridge of her nose and the crown of her shoulders. While she is fit, she is no force to be reckoned with.
Her feet move about as sluggishly as her mind does. She puffs a loose strand of hair from her eyes. She hardly reacts when her cell phone slips out of her pocket. Luckily, it lands in a rectangular patch of bark framing someone’s yard. Wishing she had more free hands, Cleopatra adjusts her books to her hip and stoops down to pick it up. Seeing movement from the corner of her eyes, she turns her head. The figure of a man looms on the sidewalk in front of the house she just passed. He is wearing a sweatshirt, the hood of which is drawn up over his head. He lingers there, his feet rooted to the cement.
Cleopatra’s heart rate kicks up. Trying to tell herself he is only out for a late night jog, she stands and continues on her way. Joggers wear sweatshirts, she knows, even on warm nights like this. Sweating helps them lose water weight. Patrick used to run track. He did it all the time.
You’re just imagining things, she tells herself.
She becomes keenly aware of the heavy thuds of his stride behind her, just underlying her lighter footsteps.
Don’t look back. Don’t look back. You’re imagining it.
Her pace becomes more brisk. She can feel the tension of rising panic creep up her spine when she can hear him do the same. She chances a glance over her shoulder. The man slows down, but only just. And to her horror, he is gaining ground. Cleo’s heart starts hammering. Cleopatra turns down Seam Street. The next time she glances back, he has turned too… and he is even closer, but making no effort to adjust his course as to skirt around her. She is not imagining things anymore.
She immediately breaks into a run.
Cleo and Patrick are young. Patrick lives in a house given to him after the passing of his parents. It is hunkered down next to an apartment building in a blended pocket where the residential district ends and commercial franchises begin. And this late in the night, all she can see are “Closed” signs.
Cleo, gripped by terror and choking on denial, cannot find her voice. But there is a glimmer of hope in a high, lighted window ahead. It’s open. They will hear her. If only she can reach the steps…
The man is upon her in seconds. His hands, like steel pincers, seize her arms. He wheels her around and shoves her against the wall under the awning of a local diner. And even as her books tumble out of her arms, she wonders why she did not listen to her intuition. She shrieks. Above, the window is shut and the light goes out. There’s a thick finger against her lips. She reflexively goes mum.
She can only see faint features of the assailant in the darkness: a strong jaw, stubbled chin, broad nose, and the telling lines of middle-age etched into his cheeks. The odor of alcohol is strong on his breath. Cleo makes to scream again, but the swift knife blade against her throat changes her mind. His lead weight holds her fast. She doesn’t need to wonder what he wants.
She struggles in vain as the man drags her into the nearest alley and between the dumpsters she swore to throw her textbooks in only moments ago.
•
Cleo wakes in a cold sweat, the sheets tangled and clinging to her nude body. Her breaths come in short, shallow gasps. This is nothing new. She has not slept well, if at all, since the incident. Something else is eluding her too, for several weeks too long.
The house is small and sparsely furnished, but comfortable. Paint cans sit unopened and collecting dust on the top shelf of their closet. Their home improvement projects have been put on hold.
“Tell me,” Patrick encourages gently, laying naked beside her. Patrick, a handsome blonde made of lean muscle and blind faith, is easily five inches taller than Cleopatra. They have been together for some time. She stays over often. By now, he is highly attuned to her habits and wakes with each of her nightmares. He watches her vigilantly. The tear that rolls down her face does not go unnoticed. Patrick sits up and props his arm on his knee.
“Baby, what is it?”
Cleopatra’s eyes search the ceiling. The words come out numbly, confessing to the ceiling what she still refuses to acknowledge herself.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
The words hang in the air like the blade of a guillotine. She says it as if she cannot stomach it. She says it as if it’s a death sentence. She says it as if she already knows… that it is not his. By the sick mask that is her expression, Patrick can see that congratulations and optimism are the last things she wants to hear, no matter how natural it is for him to emulate both. He is devastated, but he cannot let her see it. He has to be strong for her in this time when she is so fragile.
Afraid to say the wrong thing and shatter her completely, Patrick gets out of be
d. He clutches the cross around his neck. How can he carry her through this… when she could be carrying something that will never let her forget?
•
The following evening, Patrick and Cleopatra are having a spaghetti dinner at their foldout table. Patrick even took the time to fashion a table cloth in hopes it would give the wobbly old thing a more romantic feel. Patrick has always been a fine cook, but under the constraints of their budget they cannot afford many ingredients. Even when Cleopatra comes over, their meals are simple, but they still eat well. Or at least, they did until Cleopatra, for the majority of the day, stopped eating entirely.
Cleopatra picks at her food, mindlessly twirling the noodles around her fork. Patrick watches her, wishing he knew what to say. This is not the sort of nervous that comes on a first date from lack of conversation. This is something new, and something he struggles with on a deeply personal level.
Cleopatra has barricaded herself behind a thick rampart of pain and self-loathing. He cannot recall the last time she looked him in the eyes. Though Patrick sees Cleopatra no differently, even loves her more after the scare of losing her forever, she hardly recognizes herself when she looks in the mirror. The real travesty, the real culprit, is invisible. And it is nothing his words will ever heal.
What does one say to a lover who has lost all love for herself? Patrick elects not to say anything. Instead, he twists some noodles around his own fork and assumes an impish smirk, playfully trying to feed it to her, the way they used to do. She swiftly blocks his attempt with her hand.
“I can’t carry this child, even if it is yours,” she declares.
The statement comes avalanching down on him. Even if it is yours. Patrick takes a breath. He needs to be blunt to hide how much that stings.
“A little too late for that.”
“Maybe fifty years ago,” she says curtly. “Not now.”
Patrick considers her words. He knows what she is alluding to. Having been raised in the church and a devoted Christian himself, Patrick is firmly opposed to the idea.
“You’re not having an abortion,” he negates, resolutely setting his fork down on his plate. The very idea makes him nauseous.
Cleopatra however has no such moral dilemma.
“Ma’ mother doesn’t know I was raped. Ma’ father can’t know either. I have to get rid of it.”
Patrick’s throat goes dry. He shakes his head. “That ‘it’ could be my child.”
Numbly, “Could be his. Just need you to give me the money for an abortion.”
The idea assaults him—that his money would be the clincher—his money would be all she required—his money could purchase murder. Patrick assumes a lot of responsibility when it comes to Cleopatra. This would be no exception. He would blame himself for the rest of his days. “And I won’t be giving it to you. You’re not aborting this child.”
Cleopatra stares vacantly at her plate. “We don’t have a choice.”
He scoffs out a laugh. “Yeah, we do.”
Patrick, who wants to end the discussion with that, picks up his fork again and resumes eating. Meanwhile, Cleopatra is busy remembering.
•
That dreaded night Cleopatra, dressed casually, takes a seat on Janine’s bed. She seizes her shoulder bag, drags it towards her, and unclips the flap, extracting her calculus textbook and thinner paperback work booklet. Janine strolls in with a bag of Doritos and two bottles of soda clutched against her chest just as Cleopatra is tying her hair back into a ponytail.
They have a huge exam the day after tomorrow. Midterms are always killer.
“So,” Janine begins, getting situated. “How are things with Patrick?” she wants to know. She pops a chip into her mouth and chews blithely.
“What do you mean?” Cleopatra asks with a secretive smile at the corner of her lip, trying her best to avoid eye contact.
“You know exactly what I mean,” Janine responds, reaching over to poke her arm teasingly. She offers her the open bag of chips.
Cleopatra sighs. “It’s not like that,” she says with a grin. “It’s good with him, but it took us forever to get to that point. He’s a strong Christian and his reputation is pretty important to him at the church and everything. Technically we don’t live together. Most of ma’ stuff is still at home. He believes in waiting until marriage, which is a nice sentiment… but it’s just not ma’ thing, you know? So we compromised and everything has worked out pretty well since then.”
“He’s dreamy,” Janine swoons. “You’re really lucky.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “He is pretty handsome, isn’t he?”
Pretty handsome might be an understatement for Patrick Taylor.
Janine shifts to fold her legs beneath her, turning her body towards Cleopatra.
“So do you think he’s going to pop the question anytime soon? I mean you guys have been dating for almost three years now.”
Cleopatra tries to ignore the flush of heat in her cheeks.
“Can we get back to studying please?” She continues trying to hide the blush in her cheeks as she leafs through the pages to the unit they are studying.
“Come on, you can tell me!” Janine encourages. “Do I hear wedding bells?” She lifts her hand, delicately clasping an imaginary bell handle and bringing it to her ear as she shakes it.
Cleopatra chuckles at her antics. Sheepishly, "There may be plans for it in the future. He brings it up a lot actually. He’s making all these wonderful plans for us and what our life will look like together.”
Janine observes. “It sounds perfect.”
Cleopatra shrugs, suddenly seeming uncomfortable. “I really don’t know what I’ll say if he does propose.”
Janine’s eyes spring open wide, dropping the starry-eyed guise instantly. “What are you talking about? You’ll say yes of course!”
Cleopatra picks at a loose thread in the comforter. “I grew up watching ma’ mom trudge through a marriage with a man who treated her like garbage. Marriage… It doesn’t seem so sacred to me. I don’t know if marriage is ma’ thing.”
Janine’s brows knit together. She pretzels her legs. “Are you saying Patrick is like that?”
Cleopatra pauses to consider her question. Is Patrick like that? The answer is obvious. No. He is nothing like Trevor. The only thing hindering the response of her heart is her own fear and self-doubt, headquartered tenaciously in her mind.
“No,” Cleopatra assures her friend and reminds herself. “Ma’ Patrick is wonderful. He would make a fantastic husband.”
Janine resumes smiling. “That probably has a lot to do with his faith,” she chimes in. “I hear great things about Christian guys.” Janine never surfaced from her boy-crazy phase.
Cleopatra nods. “Yeah. I just don’t know if I will make a good wife,” she mumbles.
Janine will hear none of it. “Of course you will!” Cleopatra shrugs, assuming an indolent smirk. Janine reaches out and pats her thigh gently. “You two are and will continue to be the happiest couple I know. It will come naturally to you because you love him so much. Plus, just think! You won’t have a mother-in-law around nagging you all the time.” She beams.
Cleopatra adopts a wry frown. “That’s cruel. I would much rather Patrick still have his parents alive. He still aches about it inside.”
Janine lowers her voice. Softly, “You know what I mean. I was only trying to lift your spirits. Just joking, honey.” She leans over to take her textbook from on top of the cedar chest at the foot of her bed. “Alright. Let’s get to studying. We’re going to ace this exam together!”
The hours pass slowly. The girls occasionally take a break to chat and snack on another bag of munchies, but they are both very diligent and dedicated in their studies. Cleopatra knows it is a privilege to attend college. She worked hard for her scholarship.
When their brains can withstand no more, they cease the rigorous drills and pack up.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to give you a ride to Pat
rick’s?” Janine offers, suppressing a yawn. “It’s just up the road.”
Cleopatra is collecting her things, fighting grogginess herself. “I know,” she mumbles with a weary smile. “But all that snacking is making me feel like a total fatty. I should really walk it off.”
Janine shakes her head and gestures to Cleopatra’s trim hourglass figure. “Girl, as if you need to lose weight!” Cleopatra rolls her eyes companionably. Janine walks her to the door. They embrace. “Text me when you get in so I know you’re safe,” Janine requests from the lighted doorway.
Halfway down the drive, Cleopatra smiles over her shoulder. She waves fondly. Janine, who waves in kind, sees her off.
•
Cleopatra abruptly shoves her plate away. Her quaking hands find purchase in the table cloth, their tight grip quickly turning her knuckles white. She shuts her eyes. Her voice cracks. “It is ma’ body that will change, ma’ life that will be ruined. So it’s ma’ choice!”
Patrick realizes he has said all the wrong things, as usual. When it comes to matters he is passionate about, he can be impossible to compromise with. Unfortunately, the same is true with Cleopatra. He reaches out and lays his hand on her wrist, coupled with a reassuring squeeze. Sincerely, “We will make it work.”
Cleopatra pulls away as though his touch burns her. Her hair hangs in her face, making her expression hard to read. “You say that now,” she hisses.
Patrick knows where she is coming from. Cleopatra has spent her entire life as a bystander, watching her mother make all the wrong choices. Trevor, her father, is the worst kind of man. And though he stuck around when Cleopatra was conceived, he was never happy about it. In hindsight, it may have been better if the man had left. But Patrick is nothing like him, if only he could help her to remember that.
He calls optimism to his voice and tells her an embellished truth. “I always wanted a child.” He has, preferably at an older, more established age. But conditions have changed and that dream has been expedited. “Even have a name. If it’s a boy: Patrick Taylor Junior. A girl: Chloe Cleopatra Taylor.”
Chloe Page 1
