Chloe lifts her eyes, fastening them to her reflection in the mirror. If the sand is not real… Is any of it real?
•
James is sitting alone on the front bench, tapping his foot on the carpeted floor. His jaw works behind the grim line of his lips. His patience is wearing away, as though it is being ground down. His nerves are frayed. He is angry and hurt and confused. The building is otherwise empty. Even his mother has gone home. James declined her offer to join her for brunch.
Chloe comes out of the bathroom, heading for the door urgently with purpose in her stride. James goes after her and catches up. He stands in her way.
“Why is it every time I think we’re ok, you start acting like this? Why?” he demands. “I have feelings too, you know. I’m really sorry if that’s an inconvenience. Or if I’m an inconvenience. Or if spending time with me is an inconvenience.”
Chloe shakes her head, acting as though his passionate outburst is merely an annoyance. “I have to go.” She tries to pass him. He will have none of that. He has just about had enough of her walking all over him. He loves her. She is taking it for granted.
James throws his arms out, gesturing to the wide open space of the courtyard. “Where?! Where do you have to go?”
Chloe scrubs her face with her hands. She seems like she is close to tears. Suddenly, James regrets yelling at her. His anger subsides, replaced with the guilt that always comes with upsetting her. “The visions,” she tries, floundering with her choice of words. “Whatever it is I’m seeing. They are not going away.” She takes her hands down from her face, fixing him in a weary, desperate gaze. For the first time, Chloe allows James to see her uncertainty. It is raw and horrifying. Her guard is gone. Instead of some invisible woman, he sees a vexed, anxious girl. “I need to know why.”
James does the only thing he can. Luckily, it is the only thing he has ever wanted to do. “Let me help you,” he offers.
“How?” Chloe chokes.
He shrugs. “I don’t know the details yet. But we can figure it out together. I hate to see you suffering this way. Please. Just this once, let me help you,” James insists.
Chloe is flattered, but her guard is up again. James’ heart sinks like a stone into his stomach. Chloe reaches up and touches the side of his face. She smooths her thumb over his cheek. He leans gently against her palm. And he doesn’t bother to hide the hurt in his eyes when she says, “One day, you’re going to meet someone better than me. Someone who will love you as much as you love me.” Chloe kisses him on his cheek. It feels like goodbye and that is a dagger to his heart. She passes him by. He lets her go.
Wild horses could not stop her long enough to get her to notice him. How can he hope to?
James turns around. “Where are you going?” he asks, emotionally pulverized.
“Need to get some answers,” she replies, coupled with a tight smile.
Chloe turns on her heel and leaves, her blouse fluttering in the breeze. “When will you get it through your head?” he whispers into the empty air. “I can’t have someone better than you.” James fishes out the engagement ring from the pocket of his slacks. He stares at it. “Because there is no one better than you.”
•
Dr. Ross’s office, done in dark wood, smells like cinnamon. Chloe spots a bowl of potpourri on the table in the center of the waiting chairs. The walls are decorated with serene landscape paintings and a few framed ink blots.
A young receptionist, dressed in a navy blue shrug jacket and ruffled blouse, is at the front desk. Being that she has nothing better to do, she is sending a text on her blackberry and giggling about it like a high school girl. The plaque on her desk reads Lauren McPhee.
Chloe walks in and passes her desk, making a beeline for Dr. Ross’s office door. The receptionist jumps up from her seat.
“Miss,” she calls, but tries to keep her voice down at the same time. Kenneth must be with a patient. Her pencil skirt prevents her from matching Chloe’s pace. “You can’t go in there without an appointment.”
“Give me a break,” Chloe grumbles.
Kenneth is indeed with a patient when Chloe barges in. Lauren is behind her, walking, more like teetering, on six inch heels.
“I tried to stop her sir,” she assures, on the verge of apologizing profusely.
Chloe talks over her. “Need to talk to you.”
Kenneth blinks, but somehow maintains his calm and collected appearance. “Our appointment is not for another two weeks,” he reminds her gently, narrowing his eyes the way a dotting parent might when a child exhibits peculiar behavior.
Chloe shrugs. Flatly, “I’m not here as a patient.” Kenneth considers, eyeing her from over the rim of his glasses. Chloe stands with her feet shoulder width apart, clearly indicating to him that she has no intention of moving.
“Should I call security?” Lauren asks over Chloe’s shoulder.
Having the girl removed will only anger her. Kenneth removes his glasses, assuming a patient, slim smile. “No need. She is not a threat. Give us a minute.” Lauren slips past Chloe and helps the other client, an older gentlemen in golfing attire who looks quite perturbed, off the recliner and they both leave. Chloe imagines this will be a complementary visit for him. He can feel free to thank her later.
“Who am I?” she demands of Kenneth when they are finally alone.
His eyebrows jump up. As though he is amused, “You don’t know who you are?”
Chloe’s expression darkens. She fists her hands. “Talk to me without the psychological slant.”
“Very well,” he indulges. “You are Cleopatra.”
Is this idiot blind? Chloe looks nothing like her mother! Her mother is withering away—a picture of premature aging. How could he confuse the two of them to this degree? How should she proceed? “Is there a file here on me?”
He nods. “There is a file for all my patients.”
“Can I see it?” Chloe asks, though it is more of a requirement than a request.
“It’s not our policy to show clients their file. We are not required to divulge that confidential information to anyone unless there are legal ramifications.”
Chloe’s nostrils flare. She sets her lips. Finally, “Please.”
Kenneth considers again. He puts his glasses back on and pushes them up the bridge of his nose. He stands and crosses the room to his beige file cabinet next to his mahogany desk. He removes a golden key from the pocket of his suit jacket and opens the bottom drawer. His fingers crawl over the file tabs. He finds hers and pulls it out. The doctor offers it to her. Chloe accepts and opens it hurriedly. Inside, there is a picture of her mother. The name on the application is also her mother’s.
Chloe’s brows knit together. Vexed, “Does she have children?”
Kenneth eyes her. “It’s a bit disturbing, hearing you refer to yourself in the third person like that.”
Chloe decides to humor him. If it will expedite the situation, so be it. “Do I have children?”
Kenneth crosses his arms and takes a seat in the well cushioned chair in back of his desk, crossing his legs at the ankle. “What is this about, Ms. Taylor?”
Chloe slams her hand on his desk. He eases back in his chair—the only sign that her outburst makes him somewhat uncomfortable. Chloe imagines he is glad for the desk that separates them. “Do I have children?!”
Kenneth grits his teeth together with a look of doom in his eyes. “Have you been taking your medication?” he leads.
Chloe all but chucks the folder at him. “I don’t take medications!”
Kenneth’s eyes widen. He places his hands on his desk. “What in the world have you been doing with the prescriptions?”
Chloe opens her hands in an abrupt, annoyed manner. She then holds up one finger to punctuate, “You only gave me one prescription.”
He scrutinizes her. Gently, “I give you a prescription every month.”
Chloe balks. Every month? Is this the reason Chloe is seeing her father?
The cause of the bizarre hallucinations? Is this the root of all the delusions? But if so, why does the doctor think she is her mother, and not herself? The confusion is maddening. Her mind is nothing but scrambled eggs at this point. She and her mother hate eggs. “Why the heck do I need medication? What’s wrong with me?”
Kenneth gestures solicitously to the folder in Chloe’s hands. “You have the file,” he reminds her.
Chloe opens the file. She skims through the pages, reading the words that pop out at her. She shakes her head in disbelief. Her heart rate is increasing, sweat breaks out on her forehead, quickly chilling as she panics. She closes the file and hands it back to him, shaking. She leaves in a hurry. Kenneth, looking worried, opens the file and makes a notation.
•
Chloe rummages through her mother’s drawers, creating a mess she will have to fret over later. Her vexation drives her, taking her determination to solve this mystery to new heights. She finds a bedside drawer that is locked. She searches for a key. She finds scissors instead. She begins to dig off the lock with the scissors. The scissors break at the joint. She storms out of the room.
Chloe emerges into the garage. There is a tool box in a corner. The garage is otherwise empty, as if it’s not in use. Her mother has not driven since the accident. Her license is expired. They do not have a car. They do not need a car. Wait… how does Chloe get to places? How does she get to work again? She takes the bus. She takes the bus… right?
Chloe goes to the tool box. It is also locked. No matter how many times she yanks at the mechanism, it will not budge. There is a red brick on one of the shelves, probably from the gardening project her mother never finished. She takes it and breaks the lock. She opens the tool box, blessed with a stroke of good luck.
“Perfect,” she says as she pulls out a crowbar.
Chloe digs open the drawer. Inside is a mess of documents. Chloe skims through them, one after the next. Some of them are newspaper articles and clippings, one particular with the face of Patrick in the picture. The headline reads “2 Fatalities in a Motor Vehicle Accident.” The other is an unidentified woman.
No matter what I do today, death included, I’m going to wake up tomorrow, just fine.
Chloe pockets that clipping.
She searches again, frenzied, discovering stacks of unfilled prescriptions for one psychotropic drug called Perphenazine. She sees a gun underneath some more documents. That is a very harrowing image. Chloe has never held a gun. She pulls out the gun and examines it. She puts it back, restocks the drawer and pushes it back in. She breezes out of her mother’s room and makes for her own.
Chloe is on her laptop in the middle of her bed. She does a Google search for Perphenazine. She clicks on the first link and scans the article for what the drug is used for. “Perphenazine is used to treat psychosis (e.g. in schizophrenics) and the manic phases of bipolar disorder.”
“If I don’t know when I’m dreaming, how will I know when I’m awake?”
“What?” Chloe whispers to herself, irritated. She hates medical jargon. Normal people can never understand it.
Are you dreaming now? she hears Patrick ask again.
Chloe does a Google search for “bipolar disorder.” “Bipolar Disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness, is a serious medical illness that causes shifts in a person’s mood, energy, and ability to function.”
“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 immediately Googles schizophrenics. “Schizophrenia most commonly manifests itself as auditory hallucinations, paranoid or bizarre delusions, or disorganized speech and thinking, and it is accompanied by significant social or occupational dysfunction.” Chloe slams the laptop lid shut.
Hallucinations. Delusions. Dysfunction. Her mother has… Schizophrenia?
As if on cue, Cleopatra walks in with her fists clued to her hips. “Have you been in ma’ room?”
Chloe fumbles with what to say. She shakes her head with tears brimming in her eyes. “All this time… All the smoking and the alcohol and the shady guys… I thought you were just trying to cope with your bad choices.”
“What?” Cleopatra asks, puzzled.
Chloe levels her with a grave frown. “Why does your psychiatrist think I’m you?”
Her mother’s eyes widen and then fill with a sort of wonderment that Chloe has not seen the likes of before. She takes her hands down from her hips. “You went to see Dr. Ross?” Cleopatra asks softly.
“Yes!” Chloe exclaims. “But that’s not ma’ point! He thinks I’m you. Why does he think that?”
“What is this about?” Cleopatra asks.
Chloe clamps her hands over her ears, fighting tears and sobs and screams. What is this about? Why does everyone keep asking her that?! It is about her! It is about understanding what on earth is wrong and why the world seems so off kilter! Chloe digs in her pocket and shows her mother the prescriptions, practically shoving the many slips against her chest. Some of them flutter down to the floor.
Cleopatra looks at them. She frowns. Her face lights up in anger. “I’m not a psycho,” she spits.
“Well, Doctor Ross thinks you are!” Chloe bursts.
Cleopatra thrusts the slips of paper back at Chloe. They rain down around her. “I’m not the one seeing dead people,” she hisses. Cleopatra leaves without another word.
Chloe sweeps the papers aside and drops into bed. She balls her fists up in the fabric and shrieks into her pillow. It does well to muffle the sound, but not the subsequent sting in her throat. She mentally traces her steps, speeding through the conversation with the doctor and her fight with James, back to the bathroom.
“Please,” Patrick starts. “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?” she asks her father.
“I don’t have dreams,” she tells Dr. Ross again. “I close ma’ eyes and I see darkness,” she describes flatly. “That’s all there is when I sleep. I wake up from darkness, not dreams. I wake up from nothing.”
“It’s just darkness,” Patrick says. “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.”
After a great deal of crying, Chloe steps out of the shower, wrapping the towel around her torso. She did not want her mother to hear her sobbing. Her cheeks feel raw. Her eyes are puffy. The water still stings her eyes. She comes up to the mirror, shrouded in steam and all fogged up. She uses her hand to wipe the fog away, revealing a reflection of her mother’s face—her eyes red and her skin blotchy from crying. Chloe shrieks in alarm. She steps back, slips, and falls, hitting her head on the toilet. She lays there, unconscious.
Chapter 12
Chloe’s eyes flutter open, met by a view of her ceiling. James is sitting by the side of her bed. He looks up when she rouses. Chloe sits up and feels the back of her head, finding no bumps or bruises. She is fully dressed. Her hair is dry.
“You ok?” James asks, tilting his head with concern in his face.
Chloe blinks, drawing her face into a frown as she tries to put reason to this. “What are you doing here?”
James hands her a manuscript. “Returning this.”
Chloe looks at the movie script in her hand. Blankly, “I finished it?” She does not remember finishing it. Did she hit her head so hard that she forgot? How much has she forgotten? Did she al
so solve world hunger in that time? Did she even hit her head at all?
James continues, going about their conversation as though it is merely business as usual. “Also picked up your mail at the post office.” James hands her some envelopes. Chloe leafs through them.
“These are from publishers,” she whispers breathlessly, her eyes widening and filling with wonder. Hope surges through her. This is it. This is the moment everything will be put right again! Chloe begins opening them, tearing through one rejection letter after another. Already frustrated, Chloe breaks down, fresh tears flooding her eyes. She will never escape this place. She is trapped here. She swipes the letters off her bed.
“Don’t do that,” James discourages, his voice saturated in sorrow.
Chloe gathers her knees up against her chest and turns her face away from him, taking an intense interest in the wall. “Need to be alone for a while,” she chokes out.
“You’re a great writer Chloe,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.
Chloe wishes there was room enough to recoil. Her body is too rigid and James’ hand is too strong to shake it off in these cramped quarters. “Nobody else agrees with you.”
“Stop it, Chloe. These are only a few people. You cannot say nobody,” he counters. “Listen to me. Not everyone has seen your work yet. Lots of people are going to love it. You heard Phil that day in church. You’re going to change the world through the written word. That screenplay of yours is awesome!”
“Yeah. Well maybe Phil only said that to get me to give in. Maybe it’s all one big brain washing trick.” Chloe has lost touch with James’ optimism. She cannot bring herself to give in to his words. “Besides, that’s what you said about everything else.” Her heartache is a writhing tangle in her chest.
“This is different,” he persists.
“How is it different, James?” she hisses lowly. Her voice cracks. “Unless you lied.”
“I don’t mean it like that,” James defends, taking his hand away. “The screenplay is a different kind of awesome. It might even be a step above awesome. I just don’t know what else to call it…” He sighs. “I can never say the right thing to you. I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to get you upset. Why don’t you believe me? It’s… It’s really spectacular.”
Chloe Page 13
