Chloe Sparrow

by Lesley Crewe

It’s the longest fifteen minutes of our lives. Finally I hear Austin’s voice. He runs into the yard with heavy-duty gloves on. The dog is startled, but Austin calmly takes him by the neck and gives him an injection before he can even react. Peacefully, he falls to the ground and starts to snore.

  The three of us are weak and trembling. Austin comes over and helps us out of the yard and closes the gate. “He’ll be out for about twenty minutes.”

  I grab Austin around the middle. “Thank you. Thank you for always rescuing me.”

  He pulls me away and holds my arms. “How the hell did this even happen? That dog was protecting his property. He didn’t do anything wrong, you did.”

  “You’re right. I know you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know the people who live here?”

  I avoid looking at him. “We were trying to take a picture of the backyard.”

  “We are on official Nosy Parker duty. Not that it’s any of your business,” Agatha huffs.

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. You’re trespassing? What is wrong with you? I left a waiting room full of patients to come over here, only to find out you’re breaking and entering. I should call the cops.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Agatha says.

  “Pipe down, Agatha! I’m sorry Austin. This will never happen again.”

  He points at us. “Stay off other people’s property. This could have been a disaster.”

  Our hero storms off to his car and drives away a tad too fast.

  “You heard him. Let’s go.”

  We shuffle our way back to the car and sit for a few minutes, hardly believing we don’t have a scratch on us.

  “I can’t remember if the snow blower and snowmobile were there. Can you?” Agatha says.

  That night I watch the man I love let Jocelyn go on The Single Guy. He looks miserable as he struggles to tell her.

  Amanda calls me. “Were you expecting that?”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I’m back in the office the next day, still smarting that Austin gave me hell, even though I deserved it. A woman comes in looking high.

  “I have an appointment.”

  “Dr. McDermott shouldn’t be too long. You can take a seat.”

  So she picks up a chair and heads for the door. I scramble from behind my desk and touch her arm.

  “Sorry, that’s my chair.”

  “Oh.” She puts it back down and sits on it. I give her the last cookie to take her mind off whatever it’s on.

  In the afternoon I’ve got a guy in the waiting room cracking his knuckles repeatedly and a lady sighing every time he does.

  “How long before I see the doctor?” he says.

  “You’ll see him when he’s finished with the appointment ahead of you.”

  “And how long will that be?”

  “It shouldn’t be long now.”

  “You said that ten minutes ago. Look, I’m only here for a doctor’s note. It’ll take thirty seconds and then I can get out of here.”

  I punch Dexter’s line and he picks up.

  “Not now.”

  Down goes the phone. “Sorry.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “You’re right. I’m not sorry. Pardon me if you have to sit on your ass for ten minutes. Waiting for a doctor is not a burden, you know. There are people out there who don’t have a doctor, homeless people who have no family or friends to love or care for them. Those are problems, not waiting in a comfortable room with magazines and coffee and warm chocolate chip cookies that I made myself. So grow up and stop being an ungrateful oaf.“

  When I come to my senses, Dexter has emerged from his office. He, the patient he was with, and the other two are staring at me.

  “Chloe, go into my office. Mrs. Fish, we’ll call you about your next appointment; Mr. Getz, I’ll sign that for you right now; and if you don’t mind, Mrs. Olson, I’m going to talk to my secretary for a moment.”

  “Someone should,” Mr. Getz sputters. “She has a nerve, insulting people.”

  Dexter comes into his office a few minutes later and shuts the door. He sits down and leans towards me, very calm and reassuring. “You’re having a hard day.”

  “Ya think?”

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “I’m sorry, that was rude.”

  “Maybe you should take some time off.”

  I cross my arms. “You’re firing me?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Perfect, why don’t I go home to an empty house? The place where my parents barely knew me before I killed them, and where my relatives live next door but they don’t need me anymore and the place where I rejected Austin before I knew what he meant to me, and now because of yesterday’s debacle, I’ve killed any hope I had of ever being with him.”

  “You didn’t kill your parents.”

  I stand up. “Yes, I did! I screamed at them that I wished they’d shut up and leave me alone. So they went outside, got electrocuted, shut up forever, and left me alone. All my wishes come true. Didn’t you know that? So don’t get too close to me or I might wish you away.”

  “Please sit.”

  “I don’t want to sit.”

  “Chloe…”

  I sit. “What?”

  “Your wishes don’t come true. Not unless you work hard and reach for them. You didn’t kill your parents. You told them to shut up, like teenagers sometimes do, and they were alive when you said it. We can’t worry about everything we say in case someone we love dies an hour later. You can’t live like that. At some point, if this terrible accident hadn’t happened, you’d have told them you were sorry, and your parents would have forgiven you, and the three of you would’ve had just an ordinary day. Your parents were killed by electricity, not your wish.”

  “So my wishes don’t come true. I’m not special or powerful. I’m just nothing. That’s what you’re saying?” I’m angry, and shaken. My wishes do come true. My airplane didn’t come down in the storm, the cream did appear in the fridge, I got the job as producer—and my parents shut up. Although I can’t help but think about the wish I made for the vicious dog to fall asleep. Which he didn’t, at least not until Austin drugged him. I wonder if that counts.

  “I’m saying that you are a wonderful person who’s been living under a weight of guilt about something that wasn’t your fault. I hate to tell you, Chloe, but the gods didn’t look down and say ‘Hey, we should give magical powers to one person—how about a teenager who lives in Cabbagetown, Ontario?’ I mean, come on. If you were a god, would you pick Ontario?”

  “…I suppose not.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with Ontario, but I figure the Fiji Islands would be better. Your homework for the next month is to tell yourself every day that you did not kill your parents. They are not dead because of you. Everything that happens is not because of you.”

  “So you said.”

  “Take a few days off to regroup, and if you need me, call me day or night. I hope you realize what a privilege that is.”

  “I’m honoured.”

  “You’re going to be fine, Chloe. You’ll get through this and you’ll be fine. I know what I’m talking about because I’m the psychiatrist and I have a big plaque that you framed on my wall that says I’m brilliant in every way.” He rips off the top page of his notebook and writes something down. “There’s a group I thought you should check out, people who have lost their parents. They might give you some support.”

  “I don’t need a bunch of whiners sucking the life out of me.”

  Dexter thrusts the paper at me. “Take it anyway, you stubborn mule.”

  As I’m on my way out the door, he says, “I think you should woo Austin.”

  “Woo?”

  “When you d
ecide to do something, Chloe, you do it to the best of your ability. Think of Austin as your next project.”

  Driving home, I think about what Dexter said. I don’t like that he thinks I’m completely ordinary. Intellectually I understand what he’s saying, but I know there have been countless wishes of mine that have come true. Maybe I’m not completely to blame for my parents’ deaths, but I’m not completely innocent, either. And what’s wrong with thinking all your wishes come true, anyway? People walk around all the time saying they can communicate with the dead or tell the future. Maybe they’re telling the truth—their truth. I’m not convinced yet that I’m part of the rabble. Something sets me apart. Even if it’s just screaming at people at work.

  On my time off I finish painting my bedroom. The walls are now a soft buttercream with cloud white on the window frames and moulding. The professional junk guys come and take away the hideous canopy bed and all the other furniture in the room. A few hours after they leave, the furniture store delivers my new bed set, called Country Cottage Shabby Chic. I’m in love with the bed, the dresser, the bureau, and side tables, but I’m especially enthralled with the linen, duvet cover, and pillows, all in shades of celery green, soft pinks, and ivory. It’s definitely girly, and I clap my hands in glee before I take a giant leap through the air and land on my new oasis. I’m out like a light in minutes.

  I’m on the same fantastic bed a week later when I watch Austin let Kate P. go. Naturally, Amanda calls me. “Now tell me you saw that coming.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “It’s between Sandy W. and Sarah C. It still boggles my mind.”

  This job is not my cup of tea.

  “How can you stand being a psychiatrist? All people do is bitch and moan. Don’t you feel like slapping them silly?”

  Dexter shakes his head. “Believe it or not, I actually help people, which makes them feel good, which makes me feel fulfilled.”

  The phone rings and he answers it. “I’ll be right there.” He grabs his coat. “I have to go to the hospital. Cancel my appointments.”

  This is a job every secretary hates—cancelling appointments that people made months ago. Most patients understand, but there’s always one who runs with it.

  “Mrs. Mitchell, it can’t be helped. He has an emergency and won’t be here this afternoon.”

  “That’s unacceptable. It takes forever to get another appointment.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re first on the list for cancellations.”

  “And what’s so important that he can’t see me?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I was hoping Dr. McDermott would talk me out of killing myself this afternoon, but now I think I’ll grab my husband’s razorblade and get it over with.”

  “Well if you’re planning to be dead, then I’ll take you off the cancellation list right now.”

  She laughs so long and hard that I start laughing, and the two of us bust a gut over something I should never have said.

  “Thank you. I needed that.”

  “Please don’t kill yourself. And please don’t tell my boss what I said. He’ll be furious.”

  “You tell him that I’ll live to see another day because I have to tell my bridge group about this. I can’t wait to meet you.”

  That night I bring home a bucket of chicken and take it next door. Aunt Ollie, Agatha, and Gramps are sitting around the table looking down in the dumps.

  “What’s wrong?” I put the chicken in the middle of the table. As I get the plates and cutlery they collectively sigh. “Someone better say something.”

  “I miss Nosy Parkers,” Agatha says.

  Aunt Ollie agrees. “I miss our picnics.”

  Gramps takes a drumstick. “I hate women.”

  “I thought you were enjoying their company.”

  “What company? After a while they only wanted me to drive them places so they could get their groceries done or go shopping. Effie even wanted me to help her son move! I said I don’t even know him and she said I was selfish because she has arthritic ankles and what was he going to do? He can call the movers like everybody else, I said. She said he was too poor and I said I’m poor too, what with the gas I’ve spent these past months. She said she never wanted to see me again and I said good riddance. So now all the old hens in that building are mad at me. I’m never going near that place again.”

  “You had a good run while it lasted.”

  Agatha puts a wing on her plate. “They all had a lucky escape, if you ask me.”

  “Pipe down, you old bird.”

  “Dad! Stop talking to my best friend like that.”

  “I might be a bird, but you’re a birdbrain.”

  That gives me an idea. “Why don’t you and Aunt Ollie go birdwatching? You have to drive around, use binoculars, write down your observations. You’d meet lots of new people.”

  “But I wouldn’t make any money,” Agatha says.

  “I’ll pay you just to get out of my house!” Gramps yells.

  They start brawling. I grab two pieces of chicken and go home, where I debone the chicken for the cats and make myself some rice and beans. After that’s all done I take a bag of chocolate chip cookie dough and make a huge batch for Austin.

  My day is interminable. I’m just waiting for it to end so I can take my yummy cookies over to the clinic. My thought is to leave them at the front desk, but the minute I put the basket down the office staff circle like sharks. Austin won’t get any this way, so I grab it back.

  “May I speak to Dr. Hawke, please?”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. I won’t take up much of his time. I want to give him these.”

  “Sorry, he’s operating at the moment. You can leave them here and we’ll make sure he gets them

  “That’s okay, I’ll wait.”

  “It might be more than an hour.”

  They’re annoyed with me. They can smell the cookies but can’t have the cookies.

  “That’s fine.”

  I wait an hour and a half. I’m starving and there are three fewer cookies for Austin. He finally emerges, taking his operating-room cap off his head. He looks like a real surgeon. He is a real surgeon. It’s very impressive.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  I hold out the basket. “I wanted to give you these cookies to thank you for saving my miserable life.”

  He doesn’t take it. “That’s very nice, but I’d rather not.”

  “They’re just cookies. You can hate me and still eat them. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

  “If I take them, will you go?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay.”

  He takes the basket. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We stand there and look at each other. I forget I’m supposed to go and only remember when he says, “Scram.”

  “See ya.”

  He’s scowling as I leave. This wooing thing doesn’t seem to be working. The next morning I mention it to Dexter.

  “Wooing someone can take months, even years. He’s not going to fall at your feet over one basket of cookies.”

  “This is hard.”

  “Anything in life worth having is hard.”

  The next thing I do is send him a Candygram. Obviously I don’t know how it goes over. He never calls to tell me.

  For my next trick I write a poem.

  Roses are red

  Violets are blue

  I’m a stupid idiot

  And you’re not.

  I send flowers, I send a gift certificate for the liquor store, I send tickets to a Toronto Maple Leafs hockey game. I’m at my desk at work when Austin texts me. Please stop sending me gifts. I appreciate it but it’s not goin
g to change my mind. I have no intention of being hurt again.

  I text back. I have no intention of hurting you. I’ve completed a rehab stint for spoiled brats and passed with flying colours.

  The night of The Single Guy finale, Amanda wants me to go over to her place to watch it, but I decline. I can’t be with anyone when this happens, so I sit here alone on my wonderful bed.

  It’s horrifyingly stressful. Trey opens up the limousine to Sandy W. and walks her to the edge of the garden path, where I used to drink my coffee in the early days of the show. Austin looks sick. When he tells her that he thinks a lot of her but has to listen to his heart, she tries not to weep. She spends a lot of time wiping her eyes. He hugs her goodbye and sends her on her way. She’s sad in the car and wonders what she’ll do now.

  So he’s picking Sarah C. I know he likes her, she’s a sweet girl and very funny. They always got along. She looks beautiful in her grey flowing dress. My eyes fill with tears as he holds her hands and tells her he’s not in love with her.

  OMG.

  Amanda’s on the phone. “Can you believe it? It killed me not to tell you.”

  “Everyone will hate him now.”

  “Wait until the wrap-up show! Fireworks! We’ll be number one in our time slot for sure.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, Amanda.”

  I cover my face with my hands. He could have proposed to Sarah for the cameras and then quietly broken up with her a few months later like the rest of them, but he didn’t. And he’s going to pay for that now.

  Trey and Jerry ask me to meet them for lunch at a local café. They want to know what I think of the outcome.

  “Every media outfit is lambasting him for his decision. I don’t think it’s fair for people to judge someone they don’t even know.”

  Trey makes a face. “That’s what television is. They’ll say mean things and tear him down and then the tide will turn and they’ll say he’s a man with principles who didn’t take the easy way out, blah blah blah. Just you watch.”

  “Are you glad he didn’t pick anyone?” Jerry smirks.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “For God’s sake, Chloe,” Trey sighs. “Remember in Quebec City when I told you to keep your eyes open? I knew then that he was in love with you, but I didn’t dare say anything because you were already at the end of your rope.”