They lay in silence for a few long moments, each considering life from the other’s perspective. They are synonymously a great match and the most unlikely couple. They are polar opposites with the same heart.
“Still not convinced we’re doing the right thing,” Cleopatra declares. “Worried about ma’ mom.”
Patrick rolls over on his side. He presses a tender kiss to her bare shoulder, slipping his hand over hers and lacing their fingers together. “Your mom can take care of herself.” And she believes him… until she receives a phone call later the next night.
•
Red and blue lights whirl in the darkness. People gasp and gawk under the roar and scream of the sirens. Police cars swarm the property. Cleopatra’s house has been cordoned off with yellow tape and security personnel. Their neighbors stand outside the perimeter, looking in like scavengers for a piece of juicy gossip.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Trevor lies dead as a door nail in a pool of blood, eyes open and bulbous against his chalky completion. There is a kitchen knife protruding from his chest. Police men and women comb the house, collecting evidence, though there is no need.
Cleopatra forces her way through the crowd. She breaks the perimeter in an effort to reach the house, but a police woman seizes her and reels her back.
“That’s ma’ house!” she screams, thrashing about. “Let me go! This is ma’ house!” The officer starts apologizing and quoting protocol, but Cleo is not listening. She stops struggling. Her eyes are fused with the image of her mother being escorted off the premises in handcuffs.
They meet eyes from across the yard.
My season of peace is coming.
It has arrived. And Maud is smiling, finally.
Chapter 3
The cell door slams shut; its damning sound reverberating throughout the concrete corridor.
Maud surveys her bleak surroundings, ignoring the chatter coming from the other cells. The room has one bed: a slab of concrete jutting out from the wall and supported by bolted chains. It is made up with linens that cushion the stone only slightly and a pillow. Then again, when one is in prison, comfort should be the last thing expected. There is a toilet and sink. Aside from these three things, the room is bare.
Utterly desolate.
And yet, it feels as though she possesses more in this tiny space than she has in 18 years.
She feels not only like she can claim ownership of these amenities, but over herself and her own body as well. Maud belongs to no one. She answers to no one anymore. She can express her thoughts freely and entertain an array of opinions that can float around inside her head with no fear of Trevor’s wrath. She can dream whenever she wants—laugh whenever she wants—cry whenever she wants. She does not have to walk on eggshells anymore.
Hell. She can stomp around, flail about, scream at the top of her lungs, and make a ruckus, for all she cares.
A smile blooms over her dreamy face, eyeing each inanimate object with the utmost sincerity and affection. Indeed, this must be her season of peace. No matter how small the space or how confining the chamber, how rigorous the regimen or dull the routine, she has more freedom now than ever.
Maud replays the scenario over in her head once again as she sits at the edge of what is now her bed. Trevor had raised his voice at her for the last time. He had lashed out and struck her for the last time. So, when he sat down to eat the dinner he had been berating for the past hour and she had a black eye and a potentially broken wrist, she seized a cleaver from the kitchen cabinet.
In her mind, it is a righteous killing. It is poetic justice. It is just what she had to do.
There was no escape, not for her. There was no alternative, save this. There was a time, long ago almost beyond recollection, before his epic, awful transformation, that she loved Trevor and he loved her. Trevor was her dream… and her world. He was a wonderful man and she would have trusted him with her life. But the drink and the long days at work and the constant drudgery of their penniless life living paycheck to paycheck on nothing but bread and tuna changed him.
Warped him.
She wanted to convince herself it was just a phase. She wanted to convince herself she could bring him back through kindness and patience. She could remind him of the man he once was with a little compassion and encouragement. But he was so damaged and so tempered by the unforgiving hell that had become their life that she had no hope of reaching him, especially after being laid off.
And at the eighteen year mark, nearly two decades after Cleopatra’s birth, Maud realized that there was no going back, or reliving the past.
She had to kill her husband. She just had to. It was freedom. It meant freedom. It was justice. And now, Cleopatra is free to grow up with Patrick and experience the bliss that marriage should be. Cleopatra is free too. She made it. She would make it! Maud, in her mind, has done them both a world of good.
Sentenced for life, she will live out the rest of her days and her season of peace here… in this small, cramped, quiet, cell. Perfect.
•
Cleopatra sits across from Maud, who is outfitted in orange, at a cold grey table. They are not alone, of course. There is a prison guard at the main door, keeping close watch on all inmates meeting with friends and family in the visiting center. Their time together is limited. Cleopatra wishes she had better prepared herself for what to say.
Cleopatra cannot quite wrap her mind around what occurred that night, let alone come to terms with her own tragedies. She despised the man, but he was still her father. Should she feel guilty for her relief? Ashamed to see her mother, a murderer, so happy?
“So much happening all at once,” she whispers. “Feels like a dream.”
“A good dream,” Maud elaborates with a serene smile. “Your father is dead.” She shakes her head slowly, eyes alight with hope and victory. “I feel nothing but peace.”
Cleopatra’s eyes assume a droopy look. “You should have just left.”
Maud tilts her head. Remorselessly, “And go where? Because of him, I had no family. No friends. Monsters like that don’t deserve to live.”
Cleopatra does battle yet again with tears. “Was it worth spending your life in prison, mom?” she chokes.
Maud regards her lovingly. “Freedom is worth any price.” The harrowing words resonate deep inside Cleopatra’s head, manifesting in the very roots of her soul. Their time together is at an end. The guard assigned to Maud appears, waiting to escort her back to her iron paradise. Maud finds her feet. “You just make sure you raise your child to make better choices. Our mistakes aren’t worth repeating.”
Cleo manages to nod. She sniffs and wipes her cheeks furiously. Confused and hollow, she collects her things and stands. She wills her lips to stop quivering. She wants to run to Maud and embrace her for the first time in many years. Brokenly, “Love you, mom.”
Maud smiles as the guard takes her gently by the upper arm and steers her around. “See you around kiddo,” she says over her shoulder. She walks with a spring in her step and her head held high. It is disturbing, but even moreso is the fact that Cleopatra feels proud to be her daughter. Maud spent years at the mercy of Trevor and his tantrums, her life hanging by a thinner thread with every swig the man swallowed. And when the time came, when the need was most dire, Maud stood up for herself. She reclaimed everything he had stolen. Maud’s choice, though wrong, set her free.
Maud’s choice, though wrong… set her free.
•
The sun will be rising in a few minutes.
Patrick picks up the pace as he rounds the bend, dressed in sweats and a loose white tank. The flimsy fabric is already clinging to his back and chest due to the sweat misting his skin. His breaths come quickly. He can feel his strong heart pumping, pulsing—alive and thriving as he flies over the sidewalk, passing houses and parked cars and grassy lots and tall trees.
The twilight of morning is his favorite time to run. The temperature is almost always agreeable, especially when one
gets their heart rate up as high as he does. Not too hot, not too cold. It feels as though the world is moving slower, colored in suspended animation and solace. Maybe that has everything to do with the fact that he is running while his surroundings remain still. Stationary.
He is not running from anything. That should be emphasized. He is merely running for the sake of it.
Everything looks a little less ordinary and a little more mysterious bathed in lavender, or whatever color might be used to describe the sleepy, tranquil color. Shadows. Secrets. And though most of those things are still slumbering, he cannot help but imagine them as more alive during the daylight.
This is a time of peace—the merciful margin of reprieve between brooding darkness and boisterous light. It is a rare fraction of the day when his mind is not laden with worry and cluttered with chaos. All his burdens seem so simple. He can feel God’s presence too.
He wishes Cleopatra would come with him. He suggested it several times. Walk, jog, or run, even in her pregnant state… He wants to coax her out of the house. Unfortunately, all she wants to do is sleep. Cleopatra… His jewel… Patrick thinks of little else, even during his time alone. He is so worried for her.
Dreams take Cleopatra to her twilight place.
Her freedom cannot be found in the anchored, fettered realm of reality.
•
Several months later…
The gurney careens around the corner as Cleopatra is wheeled into the emergency room, clutching her stomach. Chaos surrounds her. The smell of antiseptic is stifling. There is white everywhere—the color of the eggshells that Maud walked on around Trevor. White like Patrick’s smile. White like the unpainted walls of their house. White like the wedding dress she will never wear.
Where is Patrick?
The blood and pain put her situation beyond a matter of intuition.
“What’s wrong?” she asks the staff tearfully as they talk medical jargon from all sides. A nurse lays her back, explaining that she has entered an advanced stage of pregnancy.
Cleopatra cannot believe it. The baby cannot be coming already! It is much too soon. Looking back over the past few months, her life with Patrick has been quiet and comfortable. Her priorities shifted, but she still attended class. However, the beginning of their live-in relationship saw a great deal of turmoil. The shock and stress induced on her mind and body with Trevor’s death probably has a great deal to do with what is happening at present. Of course, this is a rationale Cleopatra cannot entertain at the moment.
The pain is too intense.
The hospital staff transports Cleopatra from the gurney to a bed wrapped in white linens, throwing the red, red blood into sharp contrast. The gurney is wheeled away, replaced by a horde of machines. Cleopatra lays there, dizzy and nauseous, certain that she has never been in this much pain.
Nurses are inserting I.V.s into her arms. The sting of the needles is a love-bite compared to the ache in her gut. More nurses start adjusting the drips. Someone calls for a pulse rate, another for a lymphocyte count, and another to elevate her legs. Something is beeping at an alarming rate. Blue uniforms and white coats pass her in blurs. She is wearing a polka dotted operating gown.
Doctor Beard, an experienced surgeon in his early 50’s, scrubs in and rushes into the room. A nurse immediately helps him into his sterilized gloves and a face mask. Cleopatra watches as he hastens to her side, dazed. His face moves in and out of focus.
“Her blood pressure is too high,” another nurse informs him. “She may go into shock.”
“Is this her first child?” he asks her.
“Yes, Doctor,” she says, handing him the paperwork. The staff, while still busying themselves tending to Cleopatra, await the verdict. Cleopatra’s mind is elsewhere.
•
Cleopatra draws her lips into a playful smirk as Patrick skirts around her to pull her chair out from under the ivory table cloth. “Thank you,” she acknowledges quietly, primly shrugging her purse down her shoulder and sliding onto the cushion.
The waiter promptly approaches as she strings the bag over the peg of her chair and leaves it to hang there. "Madame, monsieur, my name is Pierre. I will be your waiter tonight,” he introduces politely. “What can I get for you to drink on this romantic evening?”
“Two waters and two ice teas, if you would please. One unsweetened,” Patrick says, flashing a knowing wink at Cleopatra.
“Oui.” The man leaves, bowing courteously beforehand.
“Wow,” Patrick says with a grin as he leans across the table towards her, unfolding his napkin to drape it over his thighs. “Even the service is authentic.”
Cleopatra laughs, but it tapers off into a wistful pout. “Patrick, you really didn’t have to do this. This place… It’s rated so highly, but it’s really expensive.”
“Have to?” he repeats, looking abashed. “This has nothing to do with have to. I want to. Something has to be done to celebrate your scholarship! You’re in college, babe. You’re the first person in your family to make it this far, right?”
Cleopatra lays her napkin across her lap, smoothing out the creases with care. “Yeah. But Lord knows ma’ parent’s won’t do anything…”
“Hey.” He reaches across the table to lay his hand over her hand. “We’re not here to talk about all that. It’s you and me tonight, babe. And I’m so, so proud of you.” He smiles and she would rather look at him than any celebrity in the world. She rotates her wrist to turn her hand over and squeeze his palm. “But speaking of earlier,” he begins.
The romantic moment flat-lines. “I didn’t say anything about earlier,” Cleopatra denounces with a cross expression.
“You mentioned Lord,” Patrick reminds her, which she did in passing, not meaningfully. She regrets it now. He always does this.
Cleopatra takes her hand back. “Let’s not start this again.” She starts to peruse over the menu, busying herself with French words she cannot read.
“Just hear me out,” he proposes. He gestures towards himself. “Come to service with me this weekend. I can save you a spot in the front.” He grins.
“Yes, front and center,” she elaborates, “in a place I want no one to see me, where I will ironically be noticed by everyone.”
Patrick smirks playfully, a picture of glee. “Oh, definitely. I might even ask the pastor to make an honorary mention of your presence from the podium.”
Cleopatra crosses her arms over her chest, inadvertently accentuating her already ample bust. Patrick notices, but looks away before she can catch him. “I knew there would be a catch to this,” Cleo chides.
“Honey, there is no catch. It would just mean a lot to me to see you there. After that, we can come back and paint the house?” Cleopatra fixes him in a dour frown. His glistening blues plead with her. She can hardly say no to such an adorable, absolutely gorgeous face! This is so unfair. He will not be mad at her if she refuses. Patrick is rarely, if ever, mad at her, but he will be disappointed.
She cannot stand to see him disappointed, namely in her.
Cleopatra huffs out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, alright,” she agrees. Just one time. The waiter brings them their beverages. Patrick, eyes alight with hope and romance, raises his glass in a toast to her. She gently taps the rim of her glass against his.
They never make it to that Sunday service.
•
Doctor Beard skims over her charts and examines the x-ray and ultra sound images. By the expression on his face, Cleopatra can tell things do not look promising. Solemnly, “I’m sorry. I don’t think we can save both mother and child.”
Cleopatra reaches out blindly and clasps the doctor’s hand, nearly knocking the chart from out of his arms. “Save ma’ daughter,” she pleads. “Save Chloe!”
Doctor Beard regards her reverently and nods. He gets to work. Cleopatra slips into unconsciousness soon after.
And the world she wakes up to… isn’t the same.
•
Meanwhile, Patric
k is speeding down the highway, throwing caution to the wind as the speedometer creeps up past ninety miles per hour. After receiving a startling voicemail from Cleopatra following the release of his evening class, he knows that something is desperately, drastically wrong. He has lost everything and everyone dear to him. He cannot lose her too. He will not lose her too.
And they cannot lose their baby!
His cell phone beeps. Praying for good news, he scrambles to pick it up and reads a text. It is from a classmate, asking if everything is alright. He looks up from the phone just in time to see an oncoming semi-truck, barreling towards him with horns blaring. He drops the phone, grabs the wheel with both hands, and swerves. It’s too late.
•
The autumn air is crisp and cool against her skin. Clouds gather overhead, casting a dreary shadow over a dreary scene. The breeze toys with stray strands of her hair. Her eyes are red. Her cheeks are blotchy. Over the past year, it seems she has cried enough to last a lifetime. All around her are headstones and concrete angels—memorials to people she will never know. In the middle of it all is a stone for Patrick beside the plot where his parents lay.
It was not supposed to be this way. Their story was never supposed to end like this! She cannot imagine life without Patrick, even now when she is faced with the reality that she will have to find a way to soldier on. She never in her darkest nightmares thought she would have to do this alone. There will be no time for school now. She will have to disenroll.
Her mind strays to their many conversations at their rickety old dining table.
“You promised to be here with me. You said we could do this together,” she whispers tearfully. “You promised.”
Cleopatra stands before the grave with a bundle in her arms. Her newborn sleeps soundly, swaddled in a fluffy pink blanket. But there is no color in Cleopatra’s world any more, robbed of her saving grace and driving force. The light is gone from her as surely as it is gone from the future: extinguished, snuffed out. She glances down into baby Chloe’s face.
Chloe Page 3
