Chloe (5 page)

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.

Cleopatra knows now, or at least her heart is convinced,
that Patrick was the father. She can see Patrick in her. In her blond hair and
her rosy cheeks. He was always the father. There was never any need to fret, never
any cause to worry. Chloe opens her eyes as much as she can in her fragile
first days, staring up into Cleopatra’s face with a puckered expression. Tears
stream down Cleo’s cheeks.

Utterly heartbroken, she adjusts her baby so she can see the
grave. “Chloe, meet your father.” She inhales. The air stings. “Patrick
Taylor,” she chokes. Cleopatra holds her baby close. She turns and walks away
from the grave.

Twenty three years later…

A single two door car sits in the supermarket parking lot. The
engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition. James Jones waits behind
the wheel, drumming his hands to the tune of the song on the radio. He is 26
with styled black hair and wintry blue eyes.

Bruce, the nightshift security guard, finally opens the
side-door. Chloe hurries out into the night, slinging her handbag over her
shoulder. Her long blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail at the base of her
neck. Her frame is slender, but well proportioned. She wears heavy black makeup
around her lurid green eyes and a spiked choker around her neck. She also wears
dark lipstick in a color she fondly refers to as Black Cherry.

Bruce watches vigilantly, not unlike some sort of guardian
angel, as she crosses the asphalt lot and gets into the car. Only then does he
retreat into the store, letting the door close behind him.

James looks across the consul at Chloe, wearing his winning
smile. The expression is not returned. Then again, Chloe is not the type to go
around grinning like a drunken idiot twenty four seven either. But he is.
“Really hate this job,” she mumbles, slouching back into the passenger seat,
picking at the black polish on her fingernails.

James’ dark eyebrows jump up. He is quite the animated
individual. She often wonders why he did not go into acting. “The job or the
people?” he presses.

Chloe’s eyebrows jump up too, but sarcastically. “Both.” She
fishes her phone from the pocket of her hoodie, the stretchy cuffs of the
sleeves cut with holes for her thumbs.

James shakes his finger, ever the optimistic. “I still think
I could teach you to draw plans.”

Chloe rolls her head towards him. She regards him
sarcastically, exuding more confidence than she usually feels. “So I can steal
all your clients.” With a playful smirk, “Not worth it.”

“We really don’t have enough architects in this world to
meet the growing demands,” he tempts.

“That’s
your
dream,” she reminds him. “I have ma’
own.” He gives her a certain look. She rolls her eyes, trying to suppress a
smile. “Can we go?” Having remembered their agenda, she checks the time and
adds, “Think we can make it?”

“We’ll make it,” he assures. She believes him… until he
turns the key in the ignition. The car doesn’t respond. They exchange furtive
glances. James, looking sheepish, tries again, several times. The engine makes
a slew of clicking and clunking noises, but refuses to turn over. James laughs
nervously. He continues trying.

•

Meanwhile, at home, Cleopatra’s glass is empty again. She
tilts the cup from side to side, balancing it precariously on its bottom rim.
Her vacant eyes stare through the transparent glass into the hopeless void
beyond.

It is moments like these, when Cleopatra is alone with her
thoughts, that she remembers all the things Patrick used to say to her. She
remembers the way he used to touch and dote on her. She never realized how much
his words of encouragement meant to her until they were gone. She wonders
halfheartedly if Patrick would be proud of her for surviving this long. If
nothing else, she is still alive.

She immediately dismisses the notion with one glance around
the room. Their home is in shambles. Her daughter is headed for disaster. And
Cleopatra is an old, wrinkled husk of her former self. She is glad Patrick
cannot see her now. He wouldn’t even recognize her. She is the reflection of
clouds on a seamless lake that, while looks authentic, is not the real thing.

Cleopatra settles back sinking into the thinly cushioned
couch that is so desperately in need of replacing. She lets her mind wander
into a fantasy land. She envisions what her life might be like if Patrick was
alive and they were married—just the two of them. She pictures how things might
be different if Patrick had lived and Chloe had died. It is a slippery slope
but she manages to maintain her footholds on the way up to her falsified
paradise.

She imagines a life of luxury with fancy cars, expensive
clothes, and fine dining. She imagines a world where she is the center of
someone’s universe and cherished and cared for and loved. Cleopatra suspects
that Greg loves her, but not in the same way Patrick did. Greg’s love its
tainted, at the risk of sounding cliché. Greg’s love could much more accurately
be summed up in one word: lust. Everyone needs physical pleasure. Cleopatra
needs the emotional component more.

In theory, Cleopatra could have been someone’s woman. She
could have pulled herself up by her boot straps and soldiered on through the
pain and purgatory. She could have said no to the alcohol and the drugs and all
manner of ways of making herself synthetically happy. But she didn’t. Instead
she chose to be someone’s one night stand. She chose to be someone’s back up
plan: a rebound girl.

Feeling sorry for herself is nothing new for Cleopatra.
However these days she has come to realize that she has someone she can place
the mantle of blame on instead of herself. All this is Chloe’s fault and it
will remain Chloe’s fault.

And Chloe should have to pay for it.

Not her.

•

Eventually, the car starts. They breathe a collective sigh
of relief.

James puts the car in gear. Wryly, “Don’t say it.”

But she does. “You can do better than this piece of junk.”
He starts muttering to himself. The car peels out of the parking lot.

James’ car pulls up to the curb of Firehouse Bar and Grill,
directly aligned with the front door. Chloe hurriedly takes her hair down. She
is about to get out, prepared to meet stage fright head on. Her hopes are
dashed as they watch the sign on the door window spin from open to closed. The
shutters are drawn. The inside does dark. Closing time. Chloe deflates, huffing
a loose strand of hair away from her lips.

“Really could have used the extra money,” she mourns.

James should not blame himself, but he does. In fact, James
assumes a great deal of responsibility on himself when it comes to Chloe. The
setback with the car took them at least five minutes. Had that not happened,
they would have been here before it closed, only to be kicked out again. One
disappointment for another. He wants to make it up to her. His mind races. “I
know another place,” he suggests. “Orion’s Club. It’s across town. They’re open
late.”

Chloe narrows her eyes incredulously. “I sense a
but
.”

James cringes, lifting his meaty shoulders in earnest. He
can find no better way to say, “They don’t pay.” Chloe sighs, discouraged. She
starts pouting. “I could just take you home,” James offers, feeling slightly
defeated on top of guilty.

Chloe shakes her head, setting her lips into a determined
line. “Orion’s Club. Could use the extra exposure.” James smiles and pulls away
from the curb.

Orion’s is a shabby little western style dive. The air is
fragrant with cologne, dirt, and beer. There are two old televisions above the
liquor shelves and a dusty jukebox in the far corner, no longer in working
order. The bar is dotted with several high round tables ringed by mismatched
chairs. It is not a full house, but a modest audience is better than none at
all.

Chloe stands at a microphone on a small lit stage,
performing an original poem.

Patrons dressed for an evening of fun sit in a semi lit area
around the tables. Some stand against the walls. Mixed drinks and pints of
frothing beer are being served by waitresses in short skirts, tied blouses, and
cowgirl hats. They call everyone “sugar” in harsh, phony southern accents. The
customers are either distracted, or just not interested in the night’s
entertainment.

Chloe takes a deep breath and makes to speak above the buzz
of their chatter. Some of them glance up. One of them whistles. She begins with
the title.

“The Agony of Being Me.

I fear I might not make it to eternity.

Everything I touch spoils,

Can’t seem to say it right,

can’t stop ma’self from annoying friends,

who say they care.

Can’t accept ma’self,

but expect others to

and to ma’ best friends

I say,

If I don’t make it,

it’s not because you never tried, but help—

—didn’t come.”

The bar has gone silent—quiet enough for her to hear the
crickets outside, as cliché as it sounds. Chloe waits for applause, but only
gets one. James shows his appreciation, but does so alone. The others stare,
blank faced and unmoved. Chloe steps down from the stage, disappointed and
flushed with embarrassment.

After the double whammy of let-downs, James treats Chloe to
ice cream from a street side vender a few blocks from Orion’s. He orders pistachio.
She orders mint chocolate chip. The traffic is largely absent at this time of
night, namely in this part of town so near to the outskirts of the city.

As they stroll side by side down the sidewalk, Chloe tries
to rationalize the reaction at Orion’s, or rather lack thereof. She purses her
lips thoughtfully. “Maybe I need to work on ma’ delivery. Probably not enough
emotions. Facial expression. Physical gestures.” This could be a problem.
Unlike James, Chloe is not an animated or eccentric individual. She is mellow
and a little morbid with raw talent and wry wit.

“I liked it,” James chimes in, as if his approvable should
be enough for her.

Chloe purses her lips tighter, scolding him with her eyes.
As if saying that he does not count, precisely the opposite of how James wishes
their relations went, “You like everything I do.”

James pretends to be insulted and adopts a pout. “I thought
it was good,” he justifies. His smile leaps back into place. “Really solid.”

Chloe smirks and gently bumps up against his arm. Playfully,
“Your mother know you tell lies?”

James sighs. He could not be more sincere, or more pathetic,
when he confides, “Wish you could accept that I’m not just telling you what you
want to hear.”

“How is Church?” Chloe deviates, effectively nullifying his
noble sentiment. She is also not an emotional person. While James wears his
heart on his sleeve, Chloe is very grounded and does not subscribe to the
ideals of romance. She was never boycrazy as a child. Then again, boys were
never really a problem or much of a mystery either. The majority of her friends
were boys from the time she was three.

Normally James would be irritated with Chloe for changing
the subject. However, this is a subject he has been trying to get her to open
up about for some time. Carefully, “You ask as if you’re interested?”

She nods. After another bite of ice cream, “Friends do
that,” she dodges.

James tries a different approach. “Mom keeps asking me about
you.”

His tactic backfires when Chloe stops in her tracks and
makes a face that smacks of disbelief. She eyes James from head to toe, but not
in the way he would like her to. Chloe continues to strut down the sidewalk,
stuffing one hand into the pocket of her hoodie. “Your mom don’t even like me,”
she practically sings.

James blinks. He catches up with her with a few short
strides. “Just not the dark side of you,” he hurries to correct. His eyes dart
to her choker. “And that spike you wear around your neck.”

Chloe sucks a drop of ice cream from her finger. “Dark helps
us better appreciate light.”

There is no arguing with her when she is in a mood like
this. In fact, normally, there is no arguing with her at all. It will only
result in disaster. James double checks his watch. “Night is young. Maybe we
could go see a late movie.”

She shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. “It’s late. Need ma
bed.”

James takes out two tickets and brandishes them before her
with a taunting wave. As if it seals the deal, “Already bought the tickets.”

Chloe regards him sympathetically. “Sorry. Gotta sleep for
work tomorrow. I’m sure you can find someone else to go with you.”

James assumes a disgruntled pout as he pushes the tickets
back into the pocket of his denims. “Not quite the answer I was looking for.”
He swings around and meanders back down the sidewalk towards the shabby lot
where his car is parked.

Chloe hurries to catch up. “I’ll make it up to you,” she
promises. “Anything you want.”