The Album: Book One (27 page)

Chloe

A Navy Christmas

December 2003

L
IFE IS UNCERTAIN
– and it’s this uncertainty that consumes me. On the outside, I’m robustly engaging and completely free, but inside, I’m a prisoner of failure.

People like me need stability. And people like me often keep secrets . . .

“Chloe, I can’t thank you enough for helping me out this week. The past month has been devastating, to say the least.” Molly squeezes my hand and smiles politely. She has done so much for Natalie that I felt it necessary to repay our gratitude in some form. Granted, I still haven’t mastered the phones, and I don’t even attempt to actually talk to the hoity-toity clients.

I smile genuinely and say, “It’s my pleasure, Molly . . . I just hope I’m not making a mess of things.”

Molly returns to her desk to retrieve her white leather chair. She rolls it over to my little station and sits down next to me with a box of tissues in her lap. Crap, here we go again.

Molly leans forward and props her chin on her knuckles. “How is she?”

She
. Natalie has become this fragile pronoun of existence.
She’s fine
.
She’s strong
.
She just needs time
. These are all true statements about the girl named
She
, but
Natalie
is a fucking wreck.

I tap my thumbs against the desk and smile, and then I lie. “She’s getting better each day.” But in fact, it was just this morning when Natalie told me she hated me and I should move out. I realize it was her anger talking, and I know all about the stages of grief . . . but it still stings. “Christmas will be tough. I’ve begged her a million times to go to Toronto with me. She needs to get out of Manhattan, but she can’t go to Greenwich.” I shift in my chair, worried that Molly can sense my insecurities.

“You’re absolutely right. When are you going?” Molly asks.

“Next week. Aunt Judy bought us both plane tickets – but I don’t think I can convince her.”

Molly’s eyes water and her lips quiver, overwhelmed by sadness. My emotions are so out of whack that Sadness is my only friend – and I’m tired. I spend every waking moment convincing Nat that things will get better . . . but who will convince me?

“Chloe, it was my promise to Zach.” Molly sobs hysterically as she stumbles through her words. “I promised I wa-would look after Natalie.”

Without warning from my friend, Sadness, my face erupts into ugly tears. The ones I’ve held back for so long. Zach tears, Nat tears and selfishly, a few Adam tears thrown into my manic blubbering.

“Oh sweetie.” Molly hugs me, comforting
me
. “I will help you. You can’t do this all on your own.”

“That’s the point, I can’t do any of this,” I confess.

Molly grabs my hand and closes her eyes tightly. “Chloe, help me send out an email to all my clients.” She stands abruptly and holds a tissue to her eyes. “I’m closing until the new year. We’ll need to contact Mack Abrams at La Soirée . . . I know he will takeover the existing events for December.”

Molly scrambles to her desk while I look through drawers for the client email list. I’m sure Natalie has it saved on her computer, but I can’t bring myself to type in her password:
Zach*Attack
.

“Are you sure, Molly? I can take off from work, whatever you need.” I already put in vacation time at Bleecker, and Dennis has scaled back my hours at the bar to almost nothing.

Molly spins her rolodex and dials the phone. “The decision’s made. Chloe, bring me the client list and then please go – Oh, Mack, darling! Listen, I have a huge favor to ask . . .”

I make copies of the most current list and place them in two folders. I highlight all the active clients and categorize the upcoming events for January and February in another folder. Molly probably has a better system, but at least my efforts won’t screw her business.

“Good news, Mack is thrilled to help out as long as we need him,” Molly says. “Oh wait, before you go, I have something for Nat.” Molly places her oversized purse on the desk and pulls out a letter and a ring box. “Actually, what do you think? Should we read it, I mean, I know what’s in it . . . Jack had to tell me.”

“Is that a letter from Zach? And is that a – a ring?” My heart shatters into shards of debilitating anguish. I just can’t do it anymore. Taking on my cousin’s pain has been horrific. I do it because I love her so much, I absorb her sorrow – but this? I can’t do it and I don’t want to know what’s inside.

Molly brings the letter to her chest and sighs. “The letter is from December of last year. Zach wrote to Claire professing his love for Natalie, all in French. It’s beautiful – he asked for Claire’s approval in marrying his girl. It’s heart-wrenching Chloe, the purest kind of love. Zach must’ve known that Claire was in no shape to read, but just the idea of including her . . .”

“Molly,” I whisper. “I can’t.”

Molly sniffles and shakes her head. “I know, me either . . . I’ve had it since Zach’s funeral. Jack said Natalie refused to meet with him and he didn’t have any other option. Maybe we should wait?” Poor Molly is as torn as I am.

“Yes, let’s wait,” I say like a zombie. “I’ll call you in a few weeks.”

Faintly, she replies, “Yes, call me. And Merry Christmas.”

I place the folders on her desk and nearly throw up when I see Zach’s handwriting on the letter. For so long, he was like this inanimate being, spiritual almost – and I only knew him by his penmanship.

With as much joy as I can find, I smile. “Merry Christmas.” I put on my coat and scarf and then write a note for Nat to find when she returns to work. I give Molly another hug, closing my eyes in order to avoid the ring box sitting on her desk.

It’s crazy dark outside for five-thirty, ominous and foreboding – but my life is pretty shitty, so I’m not threatened by any sort of impending doom. I stop by Upmarket Delicatessen for a bag of Ketchup chips and a bottle of wine. Sorrow is a permanent visitor in our apartment, but at least Nat and I can get drunk and fat and no one will care.

The cashier stares at me, evaluating me – I lower my head in shame. “Sixteen fifty-nine,” he quips. He’s laughing at me. Fabian doesn’t even know me and he’s judging me.

I place a twenty on the small counter and grab my bag. I take three giant steps in the direction of the exit, but he calls out to me. “
Hey failure
, you forgot your change.”

I run out of the deli and onto the street. Horns beep and brakes squeal, warning me to stop, but I make it to the other side. Running into the building, I avoid all eye contact with Wayne, the doorman. But I can hear him – I can hear the whispers and I can feel the judgmental stares. He’s telling Mr. Phillips from 5H all the horrible things about me. All the embarrassing secrets I hide . . .

Shit.

The elevator is not an option; I can’t risk being judged by Angie or Ms. Pratt – wondering what kind of friend I am . . . analyzing my every move and forming an opinion of me based on my actions.

So I take the stairs, as quickly as I can – all five flights in less than three minutes. I make it to our door, out of breath and frantic as it swings open to reveal a half-dressed man flailing his arms. My mouth drops as he shoves into me, causing me to drop the bag. I’m frozen, no defense mechanism whatsoever. Frozen, in fear.

He bends over to grab the bag and I try to scream, but the noise only exists in my head.

“Your sister is one crazy bitch,” he growls.
And you failed her
.

My sister? What the hell is going on . . .

I squeeze past him with my head down and shut him out of the apartment. I run to our bedroom, imagining the worst. The door is shut, but the cursing and glass shattering ring through the apartment like alarm bells. I cautiously open the door to find Natalie, jumping naked on the bed, bright red, fuming mad, and launching a snow globe across the room. The floor is covered in red liquid and tiny shards of glass. Natalie’s leg is bleeding, not a huge gash, but there’s blood dripping onto the floor.

I feel it coming, that familiar lurch into the unwanted outcome.

She picks up the last of the snow globes, the little plastic one that started the collection, and pulls it close to her chest. “You son of bitch! You fucking cock sucker!” Natalie has lost it. She’s lost.

Scared, I whisper, “Nat.” She doesn’t respond. Instead, Natalie collapses on the bed, breathing erratically and mumbling something unrecognizable.

I back out of the room slowly, keeping my eye on her while feeling for the hall table. The small table’s corner pokes my leg as I reach behind me for the phone, bringing me back to the painful reality. I hit the speed dial for #2 and try to control—

“Hello?” he chirps.

“Daddy, you have to come get us. It’s bad.” I slide to the floor, letting the phone drop between my legs.

Nat’s body spasms as she lets out a blood-curdling scream. “ZACH!”

I’ve failed. And now everyone around me will know it.

I wake up in a cold sweat. Wait, no, it’s actual sweat. The weight of the two quilts and electric blanket is suffocating me, like being buried alive in my former bedroom. I push them back with just enough energy to roll onto the floor. Oh shit! My Chili Peppers CD is under the bed – Mom didn’t take it after all . . .

Okay, focus. I’m in my bedroom. The last thing I remember is stopping for coffee in Niagara with Dad, Uncle Dave and Nat . . . Natalie’s here.

I quickly stand and then quickly sit down. Shit, it’s hot – removing one of my sweatshirts should help. Why am I wearing so many clothes?

“Mom,” I rasp. My voice is entirely gone. “Mom.” I try again.

I remove my sweatshirts and then crawl to the bathroom. This feeling, at this very moment, makes hangovers feel like a fieldtrip to the planetarium. My mouth is dry, my stomach in knots and my head pounding to the beat of crappy techno music.
Thump, thump, thump, thump . . .

I stick my head under the faucet and pour the cool water all over my face and into my mouth. It’s the best water I’ve ever had – fulfilling.

There’s a knock at my door. “Chloe?” Mom asks quietly.

My voice is gone, but I manage to mumble, “Mom.”

She opens the door and sets a Snapple and some oatmeal on my desk. “How did you sleep?”