Chloe (7 page)

She quickly removes her hand and rebukes the thought. It is
not only selfish, it is disturbing.

It is high time Chloe made some changes. If there is one
thing she knows, she does not want to end up like her mother. James always
takes Chloe to a better place. He sees her in a way no one else ever will. He
can look past the inky black makeup and the permanent frown to her soul. And he
sees goodness and light. Chloe takes her ear buds out.

The arguing has stopped.

She searches for her cell phone. Finding it, she thumbs
through her contacts, selects James, and raises the phone to her ears. She
flops back in bed.

After a few rings, “How was the movie?” She smiles a little.
“Sorry about that.” Hesitantly, “Thinking of coming with you to church.” She
holds the phone away from her ear as James responds with an ecstatic REALLY?!
She chuckles. “Probably regret it,” she tells him, “but we’ll see. Have a good
night.” Chloe hangs up.

She reluctantly shuts down her computer. Nothing will come
of writing tonight. Chloe changes into pajamas, turns out the lights, tucks
herself in, and goes to bed. Another dreamless night awaits her, in the arms of
which she can relax.

Chloe stands at the end of the conveyer belt, packing bags
for the customers checking out. The supermarket is bustling with activity at
this time of the day, which should keep her on her toes. However, her mind is
on other things, suspended just beyond the exit doors as though she refuses to
acknowledge her presence in this place. Plots for stories and prose for poems
unravel in her head like spools of thread. Her distracted demeanor does not go
unnoticed.

Sandra, a short stout brunette in her early thirties, is her
supervisor. At first, Chloe just assumed she had a bad attitude with everyone.
Now she knows better. The devil of a woman has it out for her. Sandra strolls
by, gesturing for Chloe to follow her into the break room. Chloe avoids the
eyes and vicious smirks of the other curious employees. They pass the deli and
the bakery, passing the wheeling racks used to stock new inventory.

Sandra pushes her way into the break room, spotted with
tables and a few chairs. There are two vending machines in the corner—one for
soda and another for snacks. Sandra thumbs Donny and Marina out. They groan,
annoyed that their break has been cut short, especially by Chloe, and hurry
past them.

Sandra wheels on Chloe and folds her arms across her chest.
The intimidating way she stands suggests she has military training. “You want
this job?” she asks her, her drawn-on eyebrows jumping halfway up her forehead.

Chloe blinks, wondering if the question is purely
rhetorical. “Yeah,” she replies hesitantly.

Sandra purses her heavily lined lips, eyeing Chloe from head
to toe with a haughty air of authority and general displeasure. “Don’t seem
like it. Keep getting complains that you are packing toiletries with food
stuff.” With a catty smile, “I’m sure we’ve had this conversation before.”
Chloe manages to keep from rolling her eyes. Sandra continues, “There are 15
people packing bags. Only one devil-looking girl.” This is ironic, being that
one of them is quite devil-like and it certainly is not Chloe. “That’s how
customers describe you.”

Chloe keeps reminding herself to be respectful. As much
resentment as she has for Sandra, the woman is still her supervisor. There are
probably plenty of other people lined up for this position. Chloe cannot afford
to lose it. If she says the wrong thing, and is reported for it, she is gone.
“Instead of constantly finding fault,” she tries, “show me how to please you.”

Sandra ventures a step forward, scowling up at Chloe with
all the tenderness of a bloodthirsty shark. “If it was up to me, the only thing
I would be showing you is the door.” With that, Sandra storms past her and back
out onto the floor.

Chloe sighs.

•

The next morning, Cleopatra is busying herself by fixing
breakfast. There is a carton of milk, a block of cheese, and a cheese grater on
the counter next to her, along with a half-empty egg container. She stands over
the stove scrambling an ample portion of eggs. Her face is swollen and bruised.
Greg is not home.

Chloe, fully dressed for work, walks into the kitchen. She
hovers in the entrance, blindsided by the spectacle of her mother cooking. They
have not spoken since their spat. As endearing as the act is, Chloe is not
partial to eggs. She hates the taste and hates the texture. Instead, she
crosses to the pantry. Chloe takes out a box of cereal and grabs the milk off
the counter.

Cleopatra blinks, noticing her presence for the first time.
She watches as Chloe fills a cereal bowl. “I was making breakfast.”

Chloe nods, following it up with a shrug as she puts the box
back into the pantry. She wishes she sounded more apologetic when she says, “I
don’t eat eggs.”

Cleopatra looks down at the simmering pan of yellow mush.
She frowns to herself and blinks several more times. “I forgot.”

Chloe’s brows knit together, regarding her strangely. As
addlebrained as her mother normally acts, this is taking it to a new level.
“Neither do you,” she reminds her. Cleopatra gives her no response, nor any
indication that she heard her as she takes the pan off the burner and starts
fishing through cabinets for Tupperware. It will probably take at least two
bins to fit that many eggs in.

For the first time, Chloe is able to get a good look at her
face and the green-purplish knots bubbling up on the skin. Her eyes grow. Her
stomach lurches. “What happen to your face?” she gasps.

“Walked into a door,” Cleopatra responds, sounding
shamelessly rehearsed.

Chloe’s shock turns into a deep frown. She has a newfound
loathing for Greg and a newfound reason to view her mother as a coward.
“Right,” she says tersely. Chloe yanks open the silverware drawer and finds a
spoon.

She knows if she says more, or asks her mother why she puts
herself through this torture, that she will start crying. The emotional storm
is constantly brewing. Once the waterworks start, they will probably never
stop. Neither of them need that. Chloe will be late for work, which will be the
final straw where Sandra is concerned.

Chloe slings her bag over her shoulder and takes her cereal
to the kitchen table. She lets her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the
floor. A thought occurs to her. She swings around towards Cleopatra once more.
“Gonna go church with James Sunday.” After garnering her courage, “Wanna come?”

It takes Cleopatra all of a second to drone, “Not ma’
thing.”

It is not Chloe’s thing either, but she wants to try
something new. And the way James talks about it makes it seem like a good place
with good people—two things Chloe is fairly unfamiliar with. It can’t be all
bad, right? Before she can stop herself, “What is your thing mom? Walking into
doors?”

Cleopatra shuts the last cabinet, her search for Tupperware
coming up empty. She changes her mind and ladles the eggs onto a plate. She
moves to the toaster and inserts four slices of bread. While they cook, she
pours herself a cup of tea from the kettle on the other burner. Once the toast
jumps up from the machine, she quickly drops them onto the same plate as the
eggs, letting them fall where they may. She takes the plate and her cup and
walks out of the kitchen.

Chloe has lost her appetite. She considers pouring the
cereal down the drain, but thinks better of it. Instead, she puts the bowl and
the milk back in the fridge, just in case her mother is still hungry. She grabs
her bag and leaves.

•

The much anticipated Sunday arrives. Church with James…
Chloe is still uncertain if said anticipation is good or bad. Chloe wakes up,
showers off, and dresses like she does every other Sunday: in black. James says
absolutely nothing about it when he picks her up that morning.

•

Elsewhere, a man finds himself beside the roadway with the
sun beating down from overhead. Bone dry desert surrounds him on all sides and
apart from the freeway, almost everything is the same pale brown. A tumbleweed
rolls across the road. Waves of dirt and heat ripple over the asphalt. No
matter how long he walks, he never seems to get anywhere.

He has been wondering for some time now. Every day, it is
the same. He wakes up walking. He doesn’t remember going to sleep. He doesn’t
remember lying down or stopping to rest. He cannot recall where he is going, or
why. By the same token, he does have some foggy memories of passing out and
landing face first in the brittle dust. He knows he cannot be stopped. He knows
his journey is important.

He feels much like a robot—an automated shell of a man with
a single mission.

If only he could remember what the mission was…

He is alone, albeit the few scampering animals he meets
along the way, mostly scavenging for some sort of food. Two or three eye him
like a meal. Luckily, he remains conscious long enough to put safe distance
between them.

Once or twice, he passes an old, supposedly abandoned motel
on the side of the road. He has half a mind to stop. Perhaps there is water
inside. He does not thirst or hunger, not exactly, but he wants those two
luxuries none the less. Yet, a strange, persistent driving force compels him
ever onward.

His journey is not done. He
must
complete his journey!

He finds himself talking to no one, or more accurately to
himself, more often than he cares to admit. The heat and the isolation are
maddening. His throat is parched and his muscles ache. His feet throb with the
ceaseless stepping over the unforgiving terrain. Rolling hills and vast barren
lands are in front and behind him now.

Where is this place?

He longs to meet another living soul—somebody he could talk
to perhaps, someone to accompany him on his quest. Divulge his location. He
wonders how he got here.

The only thing he knows for certain is his name,
Patrick
Taylor
.

There is no way to keep track of the time or count the days
that pass in the endless cycle of sun and sand. One afternoon, a miracle
happens. Big, billowing thunderheads roll in overhead. They crack and rumble,
churning together in a darkening mass, bringing with them the scent of rain and
the satisfaction of water. Patrick crests a hill, drenched.

As if by magic, he sees a town in the valley below, spanning
a great many miles. He can see cars on the road and lighted windows.
Civilization. He is saved, or so he believes. Was he ever even in danger of
dying?

The instant he sets foot within the city limits, a deluge of
memories flood back to the rain soaked blond. One name resonate with him:
Chloe.

He has to find her! That is why he is here!

Everything he has endured and persevered through has led up
to this point, this singular defining moment. It does not matter to him how
enormous the town is, or how impossible it could be to find his quarry among
the many citizens. He knows she is here. He knows within the very marrow of his
bones that she dwells in this place.

This is his duty.

This is his purpose.

•

Chloe and James funnel into the building with other members
and take their seats in the pews. She wishes James did not want to sit so close
to the stage. The choir, outfitted in purple robes, assumes their places on the
bleachers. They start singing with piano accompaniment. James stands and
prompts Chloe to do the same. She is reluctant at first, but when she realizes
that everyone else is standing, she joins him.

Some members listen attentively, swaying, while others are
actively raising hands and singing along. Chloe is oddly fascinated.

She can hear all manner of voices blending together in the
air around her. The one directly behind her is in desperate need of lessons.
Chloe stands passively with her lips shut and her hands folded. The black
polish does not go unnoticed by an elderly couple to their right. James is
actively participating beside her. She rarely hears him sing. He has a pleasant
voice. The choir finishes and James sits. Chloe sits down too. She sinks low in
her seat.

Pastor Kathleen Jones ascends the stairs of the squat stage
and walks to the podium. She faces the audience with a warm and welcoming smile
on her face.

“Such a beautiful congregation. Greetings,” she begins.

“Greetings,” they respond collectively. The wave of voices
startle Chloe. She frowns, slightly unnerved by the robotic nature of the
reply, and resumes slouching against the back of the bench. Kathleen continues
to address the congregation.

“You ok?” James whispers, leaning closer to Chloe. Chloe’s
face is drawn into a dour mask, staring straight ahead. She brusquely points at
a cluster of people staring at them off to the left. They promptly turn away
when she points, a few flipping through their bibles.

“Reminders of why I don’t go to church,” she declares.

James is undaunted. He smiles at her affectionately and
gently bumps up against her elbow. “It’s their problem if they can’t appreciate
different,” he whispers.

With her eyes downcast, Chloe starts picking at the polish
on her nails. “It’s ok if you don’t want to sit with me,” she whispers. “Can’t
imagine what it’s like for the Pastor’s son to be seen sitting with a Goth.”

“I’m sitting exactly where I want to sit,” James replies
confidently. A lady sitting behind them, probably the one who is tone deaf,
leans forward and makes a shushing noise, prompting them to be quiet. Chloe
folds her arms defiantly, adopting a pugnacious frown. James is trying to
suppress a smile.

Kathleen’s hands are raised. “—today we have in our midst
Prophet Phil, who will bring us the word. Make him welcome.”

Kathleen Jones gestures towards a willowy young man, probably
in his mid-thirties, ascending the steps with an air of sophistication. He
wears thick rimmed glasses and a freshly pressed suit. His hair is neatly
gelled back. Everyone applauds and some of the people cheer as Phil crosses the
stage to the podium, clutching his well-used bible. Kathleen greets him with an
affectionate squeeze of his hand, which he returns with a warm smile.