Then again, when it comes to Chloe, little does.
Chloe strides out of the front door as James rounds the corner of the garage, still clutching the kitchen knife. “Think the coast is clear—” James begins, clearly under the assumption that Chloe came out to check on things. But Chloe breezes past him and heads up the road. James blinks. His shoulder slump.
“Mooom!” he calls in exasperation, inclined to believe she is the culprit. He runs into the house.
•
James lies awake in his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling and trying to find patterns in the textured paint. A few minutes ago, he managed to clear off a sliver of his bed and create a new pile of clutter on the floor, enough to lay down if he does not stray from this plank-like position. He needs and wants to be alone. The living room, where his famous couch is, is public space. He desires privacy.
The feel of the mattress is a balm to the tension in his back. He was extremely nervous when Chloe actually showed up. For a few moments, he actually started wondering if he would be able to eat at all, which is very uncharacteristic of him. James eats a lot and he is not ashamed to admit it.
James recounts the dinner with Chloe and his mother, favoring the time before everything turned disastrous and Chloe stormed out of the house, breezing past him without a word. Without a single word! He should never have left her and his mother alone.
Chloe left the Writer’s Market book he got for her on the dining room table, making James question whether or not she really appreciates him for the gift. Chloe has never been one to say thank you, let alone mean it. But still.
Perhaps he should trek over to her place and drop it off. It would give him an excuse to see her again. Maybe she would even let him apologize, especially after coming all that way just to return it to her. No… No, not tonight.
James purses his lips, wiggling his toes under his socks. He wonders how he was supposed to keep something like Chloe’s freaky secret to himself. Seeing things, namely experiencing delusions vivid enough to be presumed real and conversing with one’s dead father, is a pretty big deal. People see therapists and doctors for serious things like that!
It frightens him. Chloe Taylor frightens him in a lot of ways, to be honest. As much as it might turn other guys on, he is hardly inclined to be head over heels for a psychopath…
He needed to tell someone and as a pastor his mother seemed like the ideal candidate. It was cathartic at the time and eased his worries tremendously when his mother suggested and reinforce his theory that it could stem from Chloe being a writer.
He still kicks himself though. He should have known his mother would find a way to bring it up and blab. Life with Chloe is unpredictable. He can never tell when something is about to go wrong.
Strangely enough, in hindsight, it is usually when things are going remarkably well.
•
The beach is quiet today, albeit the cries of the gulls and the break of the waves on the shore. The air is thick with the salty spray of the sea. She can see fishing boats and sail barges in the distance. A bell rings faraway, whether from the lighthouse or a lighted buoy. Chloe sits alone in the sand, watching the sun go down. James comes up behind her, carrying the Writers Market that she left at his house and a bundle of roses. He sits beside her. She is not quite happy to see him.
“How’d you find me?” she asks him after a moment, glowering into the distance as she hugs her knees. He can hear the disapproval in her voice.
James swallows dryly and shrugs. He does not want to scare her off. “Just had to look in all the places I thought you would be. This was my last stop.” He is pretty proud of himself for finding her. When Chloe does not want to be found, she is great at hiding.
“I wanted to be alone,” she mutters in a dangerously low tone.
“Just wanted to talk to you a sec…”
“Sure.” She waits for a count of one. “Time’s up. Please go.”
James levels her with a determined frown. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chloe shrugs stubbornly and shifts to stand up. “Fine. Then I’ll go.”
Chloe tries to rise, but James scrambles to his feet and holds her back by the arm. Chloe glares at him. “Please,” he insists. “I’m trying to apologize.” Chloe relaxes, but her face is frozen in a scornful frown. She tugs her arm out of his grasp. “Mom is from a broken home,” he supplies. “Her own marriage ended badly. Only good thing that came from it… according to her… was me.” Chloe blinks. James swallows thickly. He hates talking about this. “I understand your life better than you know. Dad was very abusive.” James has vivid, disturbing memories of it.
•
It is late afternoon. Theirs is a small house with cramped rooms, which does not provide very many places to hide. The three of them are in the living room. James’ dad, who has just arrived home from the job he cannot stand, is raving about James leaving his toys all over the place and how upset he is for tripping over one of them. Kathleen stands in the way of the man reaching their son, assuring him that she will make sure the toys are put away—that he is too small to always remember to do it himself.
The livid man will not listen.
Kathleen is punched in the face. Meanwhile, little James sits crouched in a corner, sobbing through wide, terrified eyes as he watches his father rage. The fierce fluttering of his heart is in his throat instead of his chest. The debilitating horror of witnessing a situation he is powerless to change grips him, as does the sight of something so dear to him, his mother, being abused by a man who is supposed to love them both. He is paralyzed.
And all he knows is that it is his fault.
•
Back on the beach, the sun has almost completely gone down. James takes a deep breath of the ocean air. “Now she thinks it’s her job to save the world. She just wanted to help.”
Chloe regards him differently, but he cannot find the right words to describe it. He knows she can relate, especially with watching her mother being beaten by strangers. While Chloe and Cleopatra are not as close as James and Kathleen, the woman is still her mother. Mother is precious in the eyes of a child.
“What happened to your dad?” she asks softly.
James rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders. He looks at the tideline for a moment, floundering with how to put this. “Apparently he has been doing counseling and is professing to be a changed man.” James clearly does not believe a word of it. “He wants us to come home. We would probably be moving back to Jamaica now, if not for you.”
“For me?” Chloe asks, blindsided.
“Yeah. That day you gave your life to God in mom’s church, it reminded her that there are still people she can help save in this town. Plus, well,” he looks down, shuffling his feet. With a sheepish smile, “She knows how I feel about you.” Chloe stares at James. Suddenly remembering the bouquet in his hand, he gives her the bunch of roses, the colored wrapping package crinkling under their fingers as he passes it to her. She takes them and holds them close to her chest, just under her nose. “Nature is beautiful,” he remarks. And Lord help him, so is she, especially in the light of the sunset, haloed in gold like a living angel.
Chloe nods. Her lips hint at a smile. James can tell she has forgiven him for breaking her trust and telling his mother about her troubles. “If you take the time to notice,” she tacks on.
James’ jaw works for a moment, floundering with what to say next in spite of how many times he practiced in front of the mirror. “I’ve been lying to you about something,” he blurts. He licks his lips and takes a deep breath. “I’m not just in love with your writing.” They meet eyes. James’ heart is hammering. It flutters wildly, but not in the same terrified way it did as a boy. “I’m also in love with the writer.” He has said it. It is done.
Chloe smells the roses, hiding a subtle smile on her face. James waits for a response that never comes. He expected that to be the case. Chloe gazes out at the sea, alight with the last remnants of sunlight, str
iped and flickering like a land of jewels and crystals. James congratulates himself. This was the right time to tell her.
•
Chloe’s bed is a mess. Huge manila envelopes, printed documents, and regular size envelops are scattered out across her bed. Her laptop and printer peek out from the clutter. Chloe sits in the midst of it all with her legs pretzeled. The Writers Market manual is opened beside her, written on and bookmarked and highlighted throughout the pages.
Chloe carefully creases her letters to publishers, placing them in the envelopes. She is also sorting through printed manuscripts and sliding them into the larger envelopes. James wants her to go for it. He thinks it is time for her name to be known—for those in the big leagues to see her work. She is more excited than nervous.
A few days later, Chloe is in her bathroom, cleaning off some of her heavy eye makeup. She likes the smoky look, but it makes her look so depressed sometimes. She reapplies mascara and a lighter shade of brown eyeliner. Chloe is rather amazed with how bright eyed it makes her look. She removes some of her excessive jewelry too. The weight was always a burden on her anyway. Her eyes are drawn downward.
Next, she examines her clothes, scrutinizing her appearance from a different angle and mental perspective. She always wears such dark material. All of that was well and good in high school. She recalls her conversation with James about how dark accentuates light. Chloe no longer wants to be part of the dark. She wants to be in the light too, not just a tool for offsetting it. More importantly, she is an adult now who could very well be a published author soon. She wants to dress like one. She wants to look the part.
There is only one way to fix this.
•
Today, Chloe is thrift shopping for new clothes, going for casual and semi-formal looks. She leafs through the racks, pulling out blouses and shrug jackets. She tries on sweaters and rompers and dress skirts and even a pink, plaid pair of overall shorts. Her legs don’t look half bad. She wonders if James would approve. The peculiar thought startles her. Why would she care at all what James had to say about it? She shakes her head to clear the ridiculous thought away.
Chloe’s lips pucker uncertainly. James would hardly recognize her now. Heck, she hardly recognizes herself. Any purchases made today are made reluctantly. She wonders if she will ever have the confidence and courage to wear the clothes.
What will her mother say? Will she even notice?
•
Meanwhile, James is in a fine jewelry store at the nearby shopping mall, looking through a selection of diamond engagement rings within his price range. The sharply dressed sales clerk is all smiles as she shows him several different options. She has pretty hands, manicured in red. Chloe’s hands are prettier though. Each ring has its own individual box lined in velvet or satin.
Chloe has always been royalty to James—put up on a pedestal of epic proportions. Thus, it is fitting that he chooses the princess cut. The center diamond is small, the silver band dusted with diamond flakes around the stone as though it is a blooming flower. His rose… thorny and stubborn, but painfully beautiful.
•
Chloe walks into the post office with her arms laden with paper. She has a cumbersome amount of envelopes to mail. She finds an available counter, lugging her livelihood along with her, and sets the load down on the stone surface with an unceremonious thump. Chloe greets the attendee with an impish smile. He looks up at the clock. It is almost lunch time. He is not amused. Not at all.
Later that afternoon, Chloe finds herself sitting in the coffee shop around the corner. Chloe sips on a latte with her laptop on the table. She stares at the blank screen and drums her fingers on the tabletop. She sets her coffee aside and begins to type: “‘The Cross’—An Original Screenplay by Chloe Cleopatra Taylor”. Chloe smiles at the prospects. It comes to her in torrents. She can hardly keep up with all the ideas. Her fingers start typing furiously.
The following morning at work, Chloe is busy packing bags… and enjoying it. She displays excessively upbeat mannerisms to the customers: smiling, shaking their hands, even taking out some bags for an elderly woman.
And Sandra doesn’t know what to do with herself.
Chapter 11
Another Sunday arrives, one which Chloe will not be spending the entire day writing. Chloe and James sit together in church. Their chosen pew is closer to the front this time. Kathleen is preaching. Some of the congregation is sleeping. Chloe is dressed in one of her new outfits: a chic blouse and a tweed skirt.
Chloe looks at James. He returns her gaze and lays his hand on top of hers, dropping an encouraging smile. She is slightly uncomfortable, but accepts the gesture. Chloe looks back at the podium. Patrick is sitting in the choir. She blinks. Patrick is gone. An old man sits in his place.
James notices her furrowed brows and the lack of color in her face. Chloe excuses herself as the service is drawing to a close and the congregation is bowed in prayer. Kathleen notices, but continues, undaunted. She can only hope James is not embarrassed.
•
Chloe, bent over the bathroom sink, splashes some cool water on her face. She feels sick. She reaches for a towel and dries off, pressing the fabric against her eyes, willing the visions to fade and never return. She can still see the bus slamming into her father. She can still see him waltz out into traffic. Perhaps she has been avoiding church not solely because Sundays are good for writing. Perhaps she has been avoiding this place because it is where she first saw her father. In the doorway. Haloed in morning sunlight.
Chloe opens her eyes, low and behold, to see Patrick standing behind her. Chloe gasps, nearly stumbles aside, and chucks the towel at him. He catches it.
“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” she demands.
He shrugs his shoulders. Simply, “Because I can’t.”
Chloe laughs wryly and resumes dabbing the droplets off her chin. “It’s easy,” she quips. “Just do the same thing you did for 24 years…”
Patrick’s expression saddens. Chloe suddenly regrets her words. “You think I enjoy this? Tormenting you the way I do? I don’t. I need an explanation as much as you do. We deserve to know the truth.”
Chloe rounds on him, tired of communicating through the mirror. “What is there to explain? Last time I saw you a bus hit you.”
“Correct.” He faces her. “And I woke up the next morning and I was fine.”
Chloe’s stomach churns. “It was a dream,” she tries.
His eyebrows jump up, unconvinced of the rouse. “A dream we both shared?”
“No,” she corrects. “It was ma’ dream.”
He tilts his head. “Are you dreaming now?”
Chloe shakes her head. “This isn’t happening. It’s not real. You’re dead. You’re dead.” She turns to leave. Patrick seizes Chloe’s left hand and spins her around to face him again. He takes one of her fingers. He pulls it back until it hurts. “Cut it out!” she commands. “You’re hurting me.”
Patrick nods. “That’s pain. You feel the agony surging through your body? Undeniable in your waking hours. Yet, in dreams you feel no pain. Because dreams are not real—merely projections of your subconscious. Echoes. Fragments.” Chloe looks concerned, watching him warily. He continues. “The question is, if this is not a dream. How are we able to do this?” Patrick grabs Chloe’s arm.
•
A lonely cry of a hawk pierces the air. The sand is hard packed under their feet, scoured with dry cracks and brittle to the touch. Cacti dot the horizon. She can see mesas in the distance: lone sleeping giants against a pale blue sky. A breeze stirs the dust, whipping it about in fleeting whirling cyclones. Its fingers toy with strands of Chloe’s hair.
Chloe realizes that she and Patrick are standing in the middle of a desert, but she has no memory whatsoever of how she got there. It is as though they just appeared. Chloe looks around, confused and deeply disturbed.
She wheels on her father. “How’d you do that?”
Patrick looks a
s clueless as she does. He raises his shoulders, his eyes heavy burdened with his own questions left unanswered. “I’m looking for answers too, Chloe. Strange things happen every day—things that I can’t explain. Most people either ignore it… or they just don’t care. I don’t get it.” He stares into her eyes, his own pleading with her to make the connection he desperately needs to see. “But you care. You can’t be contented living like this.”
Chloe shakes her head softly. Her voice is a hoarse whisper, as bone dry as the dirt below. “I don’t understand.”
Patrick dares a step nearer, as though he thinks it will help his cause. The distance between them shrinks. “Please. You have to listen to me. No matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine. Only I don’t ever remember going to sleep. I know this. I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“Do you ever dream? When you sleep?” Chloe asks, dreading the answer.
Patrick shakes his head. “It’s just darkness. It is darkness as though the main power grid of reality has been shut down entirely and we are all suspended in a time where nothing exists. Nothing. My days pass in disjointed flashes. More often than not, I cannot string them together logically. It is as though each day is a separate event, the pawns and pieces laid out across a stage that is already set, crafted by someone other than myself. It’s like we’re in some game, a make believe world.”
Chloe stoops down and takes a handful of sand. She rubs it between her fingers, feeling the gritty texture. “This is… not real?” Patrick touches her shoulder.
•
Chloe is alone again, staring at her own reflection in the bathroom of the church. She looks around for her father, but there is no one else there with her. Chloe blinks. Her brows knit together. She looks down, opens her hand, and stares at the dirt in her palm. Dirt. Dessert. A chill creeps up her spine. There is a tingling sensation at the back of her head.
My days pass in disjointed flashes. No matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine.
Chloe Page 12
