Chloe (12 page)

Dr. Ross’ suggestion swims up to greet her. He wants her to
focus on her writing—immerse herself in a hobby to take her mind off her
troubles. Even though the moron insisted on calling her by her mother’s name
and even went as far as to make the mistake on the prescription, there is merit
in his advice. Alright then.

She looks up at the blank document and the blinking cursor.
Something switches on inside of her, as though an entirely new world has been
illuminated. Chloe begins to nod. A shallow smile slides across her face. She
begins typing feverishly on the keyboard of her laptop.

•

The next afternoon, Chloe is working at the supermarket,
packing bags for customers. She tries to be courteous and smile at them. Some
return the smile. Others don’t. Several of the regulars who have seen her there
prior to now regard her as though she has sprouted a second head.

Meanwhile, Sandra watches her from a distance. She does not
know what to make of the spectacle and it is etched into her usually stark
face. She wonders what has gotten into Chloe. She wonders if there is something
wrong with her. As the hours pass, Chloe’s behavior and effort remains
constant.

By the end of Chloe’s shift, Sandra is smiling too… until
she catches herself doing it.

•

Several days later, Chloe sits on top of a small hill
overlooking the sea and watches as the sun set. The sea breeze snakes through
the scarce amount of vegetation dotting the hill. It toys with the loose
strands of her hair. She can hear the gulls crying and the waves breaking on
the shore.

Her laptop is on her lap. Her attention volleys back and
forth between the screen and the scenery. Her heart feels light and free. She
smiles at her own thoughts and the beauty painted before her eyes.

•

The next morning, Chloe sits in the coffee shop around the
corner, basking in the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and baked goods.
Chloe continues to type on her laptop as she drinks a latte. She observes her
surroundings, people-watching on the sly.

There is a man dressed in a business suit with a Bluetooth
in his ear, reading his newspaper. The barista behind the counter is arrayed in
piercings, her hair dyed in a bouquet of different colors.

Outside, a mother and daughter stop at the newsstand and buy
the morning’s paper. Cars of all sizes and colors pass by. She notices people
carrying brief cases and purses and portfolios on their way to work. She spots
a cluster of students walking to school, laughing and passing their phones back
and forth. Others wander idly over to the city bus bench.

Chloe continues to type, finding inspiration in just about
everything. Several hours pass. It’s time for work again.

As Chloe packs the grocery bags, putting her body on
autopilot, she starts to entertain more ideas for her book. Everything is
inspirational. She is constantly scavenger hunting for new material. And
sometimes, she uncovers ideas that do not correspond with her current project
at all, and serve as the germination of a new work.

At any given time, there are three to four stories whirling
around in her mind. But the story she wants to tell most of all might be the
oldest one known to man. She gleans the majority of her background knowledge
from internet searches and her context is harvested from the Bible. Chloe has
never read the Bible before now.

Better to read it as a form of research than never at all.

Sometimes, she doubts herself, wondering why she should
retell a tale that has been told so many times before. But that must underscore
its significance, right? The fact that it has survived this long, His existence
uncontested, is a testament to the importance of its continual revival. She
wants to make it fresh—easy to understand and relatable to people like her.

This is her duty. This is her purpose.

•

That evening, after the conclusion of her shift, Sandra corners
her in the break room. “Alright, missy,” the stout woman demands with her
shoulders squared and her eyes vicious. “What’s going on with you?” She gives
her a demanding once-over.

“What are you talking about?” Chloe asks, ignoring her first
instinct to fire back, eyeing her suspiciously and poised to spring away at the
first hint of an attack.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Sandra retorts,
inclining her chin as she draws her face into a scowl. Snidely, “All this
smiling and your change of clothes. Yes sir, yes ma’am. Thank you, Miss
Sandra,” she mimics unkindly. “You’re on time. You stay late. You’re friendly
and pleasant and downright cheerful and frankly, it is the most disturbing
thing I have ever had the misfortune of experiencing.” She narrows her eyes and
leans closer, her gaze fused with Chloe’s pupils. “What are you on, girl? X?
Shrooms? I have the authority to drug test you at any time. I could do it right
now! You know that, don’t you?”

Chloe stares back into her face until she can no longer keep
her composure. She starts laughing. Sandra, red climbing up her face, looks
like she might boil over. Quickly, “I’m sorry,” Chloe says. “I’m not laughing
at you. It’s just funny. I didn’t really realize how much I had changed until
you pointed it out.”

“I knew it!” the woman shrieks triumphantly. “Drugs! I’ll
have you fired for-”

“No,” Chloe says gently. “Not drugs. I just found Christ.”
With that, Chloe assumes a smart smile. She closes her locker, seizes her bag,
and strides out the door, leaving Sandra to puzzle over her words.

•

The late night theater is largely empty. The air is fragrant
with the smell of popcorn and merriment. Chloe sits alone in the seventh row,
the seats to her left and right empty. The screen in front of her is alight
with bright color and sound. She pops a piece of popcorn into her mouth and
smiles at the scene. Several other viewers chuckle aloud.

Chloe is reminded of the time James asked her to see a movie
with him. Guilt bites into her. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer
next time. This isn’t so bad after all. It would be even better if he was here,
sitting beside her. Several scenes inspire her. So does the music.

She listens for new ways to word sentences and for new
sensational images that will further enrich her creative mind. It is like a
treasure hunt.

Chloe fantasizes, briefly, about the slim chances of her
work being adapted into a movie.

•

Cleopatra and Greg stand at the kitchen counter, spreading
cream cheese on their bagels and sipping on hot coffee. Today is Sunday, Greg’s
day off. They are both dressed in pajamas. Chloe comes in and goes to the
fridge.

“Good morning,” she says, plucking the orange juice from the
shelf and pouring herself a glass. Cleopatra and Greg stare at her with wide, disbelieving
eyes, unable to respond to such a strange, uncharacteristic greeting. Not to
mention that Chloe has hardly spoken to either of them for the past week or so.

Chloe makes a point of avoiding eye contact with Greg, but
she does flash a shallow smile at her mother.

Cleopatra practically falls all over herself when she goes
to speak. “I know you must be wondering why it looks like Greg spent the
night,” she stammers.

Chloe rolls her eyes, trying to be playful. “I know he was
here mom,” she says, replacing the carton of orange juice in the fridge. She
exchanges it for the milk. “Unfortunately, the walls are not sound proof.”

Cleopatra flushes and busies herself by sipping on her
coffee. Carefully, “We haven’t talked much these past few weeks. I noticed how
focused you have been with your writing and didn’t want to interfere.”

“What is it?” Chloe asks, fishing for a cereal bowl in the
cabinet.

Cleopatra meets Greg’s eyes for a fleeting second. Greg
raises his mug to his lips and takes a drink of coffee. “Greg will be sleeping
here tonight,” Cleopatra informs her daughter. “Maybe every night after that.”
Cleopatra braces for impact.

As Chloe dumps some cereal into the bowl and douses it in
milk, “Whatever makes you happy mom.” Chloe puts the milk away and leaves
drinking from her glass and carrying her cereal.

Greg and Cleopatra stand in her wake, stupefied.

“Who was that?” Greg asks.

Cleopatra shrugs, just as baffled as her boyfriend is.
“Think it has something to do with church?” she offers.

“Ice queen is divorcing the devil,” Greg supplies with a
smirk. Cleopatra lightly punches him on the shoulder. They seem happy.

Chloe treks through the halls of the Jones’ house on the way
to James’ room. She passes familiar family pictures—most of them of just James
and his mother. Kathleen is at the church tonight, preparing a sermon for this
weekend’s service. They have the house to themselves.

She comes to the door of James’ room, covered with caution
signs and comical bumper stickers and biohazard symbols. “Guess who,” she says,
tapping the door with her toe. The door opens and Chloe is let in by James.
Chloe’s arms are laden with a huge stack of printed papers, teetering
precariously and prone to propelling over. The documents are grouped together
and separated by paper clips and alligator clips and staples.

James leaves the door open and steps aside. His room has
three computers linked to each other by a tangled series of cables and wires.
He is working on some building blueprints. There are rolls of butcher paper all
over the room. Some sheets are tacked to the walls. Other drafts and floor
plans are strewn across his desk, floor, and his bed. The trash bin is
overflowing with wads of paper, crumpled up and discarded. The room is so
cluttered that there is hardly anywhere to walk, sit or sleep.

“Awesome room,” Chloe commends as she picks her way over the
floor, careful not to wrinkle or tear anything.

James shrugs, eyeing the chaos through a new lens. He is
usually too preoccupied with his ‘architecting’ to pay the state of his
environment much mind. “Needs a little work.”

Chloe wobbles uncertainly as she jumps over a technical
textbook on framework formulas. “You need an office.”

James blinks and spreads his arms, as though his reply
should be obvious to her. “This
is
my office.”

Chloe cannot help but smile impishly. She glances at the
bed, buried in materials, and then back to her friend. Chloe is not an
especially tidy person, but her room is generally more organized. “Where do you
sleep?”

James scratches at the back of his neck. Sheepishly, “Mostly
in the couch. Living room. As it is now, this room is pretty neat. Did some
tidying up this morning,” he tries. Chloe shivers to imagine what it looked
like beforehand.

“What’s the condition of this room on a normal day?” she
inquires.

James shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.” He gestures
about freely, as if they are scavenger hunting for a place to sit. “Make
yourself at home.”

Speaking of making oneself at home… Chloe notices that he
does not shut the door, which strikes her as peculiar because she hates having
her bedroom door open. She loves her privacy. “You always leave your bedroom
door open?” she wonders aloud.

Playfully, “Only when the hot girls come over.” Chloe rolls
her eyes and laughs. She knows his mother, or the idea of her, well enough to
suspect that having the door closed would be considered inappropriate. Chloe
finds somewhere to sit on the bed. She rests the printed papers beside her with
a muffled plop.

James finds somewhere to sit beside her, scooting aside a
few papers to do so.

James eyes the intimidating stack of papers beside Chloe’s
thigh. He had no idea she had been writing so much, or working so hard. “When
you said you wanted me to read some of your more recent work, I had a smaller
portion in mind,” he admits.

Chloe blinks and glances at the stack, as if it has not
occurred to her that it is probably more than the average person reads in a
year. “If you can’t get through it all—“

“I’ll try,” he hastens to assure her. James assumes a smile.
Sincerely, “Love reading your work.”

Chloe shifts with a crooked pout. She starts fidgeting with
the ends of her hair. “You only say that to encourage me.”

“Something wrong with me being your number one fan?” James
asks, taking mock offense as he reaches out and gently pokes her arms.

Chloe brushes her hair behind her shoulders. Not even her
mother asks to read her work like James does. Her mother does not ask at all.
Cleopatra has neither the time, nor the patience to take an interest in Chloe’s
passion. She is far too preoccupied with herself. Chloe wonders if Cleopatra
would be happier if she was not around at all.

Lowly, “You mean ma’ only fan.”

A sad veneer replaces James’ smile. In an attempt to cheer
Chloe up, “Number can only go higher from one!” But it does nothing to raise
her spirits. Chloe seems down, especially given how chipper she has been
lately. “Problems?” James wants to know.

Chloe starts to kick her feet back and forth as they dangle
over the bed. She feels so comfortable and safe and cared for here with him.
“You think I could move in with you?”

James’ heart leaps into his throat. She cannot possibly mean
that like he wants her to mean it. She just has a bad home life. Right? He
laughs nervously. “My mother would never approve.” He is sure Chloe already
knows that, being that she has James conditioned to leave his door open when he
is sharing a room with a member of the opposite sex.

“Mom moved in with her boyfriend when she was pregnant,”
Chloe defends. It makes for a poor argument through.

James’ eyes slide to her. He gives her a once-over and holds
his breath. Asking the inevitable, “Are you pregnant?”

Chloe shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Not yet?
he echoes in the confines of his mind. Chloe
and James are not sexually active. If Chloe is pregnant, the baby cannot be
his. Moreover, if Chloe is sexually active, it is with someone else. James is
suddenly bombarded with jealousy. He follows up with, “Are you trying to get
pregnant?”