Chloe (2 page)

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
Patrick’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.”

Silence flanks his words. Cleopatra’s slender shoulders
start to shake, her body wracked by the unbridled sobs that burst forth. Cleo
has cried before now, but not like this. She shoved the raw pain down for weeks
until her small body could not contain the hurt anymore. Tears pour down her
cheeks. “I don’t want this!” she exclaims.

Patrick, undone with helplessness, quickly takes her hand.
If she has the strength to pull away again, she chooses not to. Seeing her this
way makes tears spring to his own eyes, He kisses her knuckles. He holds her
hand against his chest, over his heart.

“I know you are confused, and hurt,” he tries, “but I want
this child. I do.” And in his opinion, she should want it too, regardless of
the circumstances surrounding its conception.

Cleopatra inclines her chin and rolls her red, watery eyes.
“Confused and hurt don’t quite sum up how I feel, Patrick.”

Patrick wants to know how she feels. He knows words could
never do justice to the injustice committed. He wants to comfort her in any way
he can. He wants her to open up again—to let him in. He moves his chair closer,
sitting on the edge. He refuses to relinquish her hand. “I
know
we can
do this,” he whispers.

Cleopatra’s voice breaks. “I want to believe you. You have
been there for me in more ways than I deserve.”

Patrick regards her lovingly. “That will
never
change, Cleo.”

She sniffs. She turns her head and meets his eyes, her face
a picture of anguish. Forlornly, “No one else calls me that.”

•

Streets he once called home seem foreign and foreboding now.
Patrick searches tirelessly for a clue, a sign—
anything
. Cleopatra
should have been home hours ago, according to Janine. Cell phone in hand, he is
only moments away from calling the police.

Patrick stops just short of the alleyway’s entrance,
spotting several textbooks strewn over the sidewalk. He approaches warily; his
throat tight with apprehension. He kneels and collects the books. Sure enough,
they belong to her.

Patrick turns his attention towards the stark gloom of the
alley. Patrick ventures inside. No sooner has he gone three steps when he hears
faint, staggered breathing. Patrick drops the books and hurries forward. He
finds Cleopatra curled into the fetal position and clutching her knees between
two dumpsters, sobbing unreservedly. Thunder rumbles overhead.

Patrick falls to his knees, his hands hovering over her,
horrified at the reality that becomes more apparent with every rip in her
clothing and the red stains elsewhere. “Cleo?” he whispers hoarsely. Patrick
reaches out and touches her. She immediately recoils, squirming away from him
and blackening her side with asphalt dust. She wedges herself into the corner
and continues to cry. She can’t see him through the tears and the foggy lens of
shock.

After a bit of coaxing, Patrick manages to get her to
recognize him. She does not fight him when he picks her up into his arms,
holding her as close as he can against his chest, and carries her out onto the
street.

It starts to rain.

•

Patrick holds tightly to Cleopatra’s hand, the shared memory
a fading light in their gaze. There are moments when Patrick blames himself. He
should have never let something so precious to him walk the night streets
alone. He should have been there, escorting her. He should have been there to
protect the one thing he loves most—the only part of a family he has left.

Patrick wanted to call the police to report the incident.
Cleopatra would not hear of it. She shrieked and begged him not to call.
Patrick should have just taken her regardless. The anger he harbors at her
assailant is burning him from the inside out, not unlike perdition’s flames.

Cleopatra seems to read his mind. “You came looking for me,”
she says, managing a shallow smile. “Knew you loved me then as I know you love
me now.” Her eyes plead with him. “Need you to understand that I can’t live
with a constant reminder of that night.”

Patrick shakes his head, sensing that he is fighting a
losing battle. As the minutes pass, he feels more defeated. Her reasoning,
while difficult to hear, is sound. This is a defining moment for him. He must
change her mind. “It’s a life.”

“No,” she refutes, pulling her hand from his grasp. “It’s
the product of a rape. It’s evil.”

Patrick moves even closer, as if it will undoubtedly help
his cause. He cannot let her go through with this. “Every child that is
conceived is conceived with a purpose. We kill that life, we also kill God’s
purpose for that life.”

Cleopatra sniffs and wipes her cheeks. She flounders for a
moment. Finally, “What of your reputation at church?”

“What does that matter?” he persists. “I gave all that up
when I started having sex. When
we
started having sex and basically
living together.”

She combs her fingers through her hair, her well of tears
having apparently run dry, or else she was able to put a cap on it again. She
has wept often. He is surprised that she still has tears to cry today. She
gives him a helpless shrug. “Don’t think I can do this. Wish you could understand.”

•

The hour is very late when Patrick finds himself alone with
his agony in the bathroom. He turns the shower faucet on, disrobes, and steps
into the cubicle. He closes the glass door. He stands under the warm stream of
water, feeling lost and unsteady on his feet. Patrick lays his hand against the
cold tile wall and inhales a shaky, staggered breath. His thoughts are jumbled.
There is only one thing he can do.

“Lord,” he chokes out. “Help me. Father God, I do not know
what to do. I do not know how to help her. I am lost.” He swallows thickly,
unable to shake the gloom shrouding him. “Why did this have to happen? Why does
she have to endure this?” A thought occurs to him. “Is this… penance for our
sins? Is this our punishment for being together before marriage? For not
waiting? Do we not have your blessing? Is this… my fault?”

Patrick shakes his head, willing away tears.

“I’m scared. I am so scared, but I can’t let her see it. She
is slipping away from me, Lord God. Please, do not take her from me. I will
offer up whatever you ask. I will do anything you wish of me. Take the darkness
from around her. Please be with her through this suffering. Please take it
away.” His voice cracks. He pauses to regain his composure. “Help me to know
how to comfort her, and give me the strength to do so. Tell me the words to say
and flood my heart with courage.” His fingertips dig and bite into the tile.

“I surrender to your wisdom. Keep me strong in this time of
trial. Guide Cleopatra and give her the wisdom to do what is right.” He lowers
his voice to a ragged, desperate whisper, “Do not let her kill my baby. Please
do not let her hurt
our
baby.” Whether or not Patrick is the biological
father, that is still his child, growing inside this woman. He refuses to see
it any differently. “I know that in you, all things are possible. In you, all
things work for the good of those who love the Lord.” He is about to break
down. He can feel it.

“I can’t see the good in this…”

He pounds his fist against the tile. “Help me to see it.
Open my eyes. I know all things happen for a reason. What is your purpose in
doing this? Why now? Why
ever?
Lord, please, hear my prayer. I cannot do
this alone. I can’t do it." With this, Patrick slides down the wall,
coming to rest hard on his knees. He stoops over and cradles his head in his
hands, allowing the rush of the shower to muffle the sound of his sobs.

Trevor sits by the dining table, waiting for supper. He is
42 with a smoker’s cough, an ever-expanding beer gut, and a balding spot at the
back of his head. His cheeks are rough and scratchy with stubble. He wears a
sweat stained t-shirt and painter’s pants. He alternates puffing on a cigarette
and swigging from a Jack Daniels bottle. These are two luxuries he cannot
afford to do without.

Maud walks in with a plastic plate of sandwiches. Maud has
her hair tied up in a disheveled bun. Her clothes hang loose on her frail
figure. The telling lines of premature age spider their way around her eyes and
the corners of her lips. Not quite how one would expect a 35 year old to look.
She puts the plate on the table for Trevor. Trevor looks at it, then at her.