Chloe (19 page)

It’s Chloe’s fault. Everything, absolutely everything is
Chloe’s fault!

“You happy now?” she hisses. Cleopatra has a mind to get up,
but her body will not obey.

Chloe stops in her tracks, assuming a struck look. As if she
doesn’t know what she is talking about, Cleopatra seethes. As if she did not
spend last night reveling in the sweet victory. “What?” Chloe asks her, eyes
darting about confusedly.

“I’m all alone,” Cleopatra snaps, casting a shadow over
herself not unlike a venomous snake. “Greg is gone. I’m alone again. That’s what
you wanted right?”

Chloe regards her as though she is horrified. Her mouth
works as if to speak, blonde brows knitting together in hopes of connecting
some ridiculous explanation to this turn of events. “He was abusing you.”

Oh yes. That justifies it.

The man gave her company and kindness when it suited him…
which is more than she gets now. Now she lives in an empty house and sleeps in
an empty bed. Such is the reason she did not sleep last night.

Cleopatra cannot sleep alone anymore.

She needs the warmth of another body beside her. She needs
something to cling to, something that primes her imagination to recall those
blissful nights with Patrick, when they would lay next to each other in the
house his parents left him… and look for patterns in the textured ceiling.

When he would wake up with each of her nightmares, dotting
on her, cherishing her in a way no one ever will. When he would caress her arm
and gather her up against him and embrace her, unmoving, until the sun crested
the hill. Their silly dreams and conversations about parent approval and
favorite flavors of spaghetti sauce…

Alcohol has dulled the horrors of last night, blotted them
out of her memory like so many paper towels for a spill on the counter.
Cleopatra only remembers the good times and the long pleasure filled nights and
the way Greg’s arm fit around her waist. Chloe wouldn’t understand any of that.

Chloe has never been in love. Chloe will never find love.
The stupid girl is blind to James, a boy Cleopatra would have drooled over at
Chloe’s age. James doesn’t have a chance in the world with her, but that is no
fault of his own.

Chloe Cleopatra Taylor: Stuck-up, foolish, preoccupied,
ungrateful—always with her nose in her laptop, trying to make something of
herself by punching away at a keyboard. Doesn’t Chloe know she will never leave
this place? That dreams do not come true? That hard work and tedious study time
only get her a one way ticket into a dark alley?

Cleopatra lost her self-worth long ago. And nothing will
bring it back.

“But I wasn’t lonely,” Cleopatra protests. “Or broke. Who’s
gonna pay the bills around here?” She stares at her daughter expectantly. The
girl owes her that much.

Chloe shakes her head and attempts to go on her way. “You’re
drunk. You’re not thinking straight.”

“I never wanted you,” Cleopatra spits, which freezes Chloe
in her tracks. The truth is a balm to the burning hatred in her chest. She has
long desired to say those words. They sound even better aloud than in her head.
With a sick and satisfied smile, “Patrick insisted that we tried, but I knew
you would ruin ma’ life.”

“I ruined your life?” Chloe whispers, her voice sounding
more akin to a whisper of fabric than a direct question.

She will not face Cleopatra, however much Cleopatra wants to
see the sadness on her face. That sorrow is only a taste of what Cleopatra
feels on a daily basis. A taste! Let her flounder in the pain. Someday she will
realize the martyr, the saint, that her mother is for even bothering to raise her
at all!

Someday, she will admire her.

Cleopatra settles back into the couch cushions, all tension
bled dry from her body. “I would have been so much happier if you were never
born.” Silence flanks her words, ornamenting the air like tarnished balls on a
juniper tree.

“I’m late for work.” Chloe leaves quickly.

“Patrick would still be alive…” Cleopatra tilts the bottle
up and takes a few deep swallows. She fishes out a carton of smokes from
between the cushions and lights up a cigarette. If Chloe knows what is good for
her, that girl will not be telling her mother what she can and cannot do
anymore.

•

Work passes Chloe by in a fog of commands and beeping
scanners.

Her plastic smiles either fool Sandra, or the woman does not
care. But Chloe already knows the latter rings with truth. She takes several
breaks to avoid crying in front of the customers and coworkers. No one
inquires. She tries to numb herself to the emptiness inside, the very words she
dreaded her entire life leaving her mother’s lips over and over in her memory.

So it is her fault. All the strife and struggle has nothing
to do with the universe, or with God. It is her fault.

Unfortunately, Chloe did not leave fast enough not to
overhear,
Patrick would still be alive.
Is that the reason only Chloe
can see him? Because she caused his death? Her mother is right about one thing.
If she had never been born, Patrick would not have been rushing to get to the
hospital…

It’s true. He would not have crashed the car.

•

Later that night, Chloe crosses her room. Her own bathroom
feels strange and unfamiliar. The walls are cold and unfeeling. They seem to
stretch away from her, resolute in their decision to have nothing to do with
what she is contemplating, like some repulsive thing.

No one will stop her. No one will care.

Chloe walks in and removes her work clothes, exchanging them
for a pair of old athletic shorts and a tank top. No matter how much she tries
to avoid it, she finally looks at herself in the mirror. Her eyes are red and
swollen from crying. Failure and ugliness leer back at her in the rectangle of
ruin. Convinced she does nothing but bring misfortune to those in her life,
Chloe turns her face away.

It’s time. It’s time to end this.

She paces back and forth, trying to get up the nerve to do
what needs to be done. She sits on the toilet lid, leaning back to bang her
head on the wall, numb to the dull ache it brings. She stands up, crosses to
the wall, and bangs her fists against it. She gets up and resumes pacing. She
sits again on the floor.

Her teary eyes land on her bag. She seizes it and drags it
to her side. She shoves her hand into the side pocket and pulls out a
razorblade box-cutter that she stole from the back. Tears flood her eyes and
flow down her cheeks, face painted with running makeup. She pushes the blade
out of the safety position and holds the razor to her wrist.

Chloe knows how to do this. She knows it’s “down the road”,
not “across the street”. She spent most of her youth in the gothic scene. She
knows.

She also knows that she has never been more serious, more
desperate than she is now. The world has no need for a psycho… an unwanted
child… a murderer, like her.

It’s time.

She cries, bites her lip and digs the blade down her
forearm. Her face twists in pain. She slides to the floor, sprawled out. Blood
leaks from the gouge in torrents and combs across the floor, filling the spaces
between the tiles. The bathroom begins to grow dark and red. Her eyes slowly
close.

•

The next morning, Chloe jumps out of her sleep.

The terrible memories of the night before surge back to her.
She brings her hands up, inspecting her arm. There is no mark. Chloe tears out
of bed and hurries to her bathroom. Aside from the wet towel on the floor,
nothing is amiss. There is no blood and no razorblade either, even though she
knows she took one from the stock room yesterday.

She checks her arm again, marveling as the unblemished skin
that stares back at her.

Was it really a dream?

It seemed so real, so vivid. She can recall the intense, awful
pain. She shivers. Her brows furrow. She leaves the bathroom and crosses to her
nightstand, snatching up her bag. She searches for the box cutter. Instead, she
pulls out the article about Patrick’s accident.

•

That afternoon, Chloe and James sit side by side on the
Jones’ front porch. She is unnaturally quiet today. James knows something is
amiss even before she says, “I blame ma’self for ma’ dad’s death.”

The boy balks. “Why?” James asks. Chloe has never mentioned
this before and it catches him completely off guard. She itches her nose.

“Ma’ mom blames me to,” Chloe mumbles, running her fist
across her cheek. Is she crying? James can count on the fingers of one hand the
number of times he has seen Chloe cry. That always bodes ill.

“No she doesn’t,” he reassures, reaching out and laying his
hand on her shoulder. She shrugs it off.

“Yes, she does,” she negates indignantly. “She said so
herself.”

James’ expression melts into sympathy. What a horrible thing
for any mother to say. “Oh Chloe, I am so sorry.” Hastily, he adds, “She was
probably just drunk. People say stupid things when they’re drunk. You and I
both know that is not true.”

“But it is true, James,” she says hollowly, hugging her
knees tightly against her chest. “If I had never been born, Patrick would not
have been rushing to the hospital—reckless and speeding. He would not have
crashed his car and died. Ma’ mom said that she wishes I had never been born,
so Patrick would still be alive and with her.” She sniffs. “Do you have any
idea how it feels to have your own mother say that to you?”

James is at a loss. “I can imagine-“

“No,” she quickly corrects, shooting him a scathing scowl.
“You can’t imagine. You have a great mother. You have no idea how hard it is
for me to be in the same room with you two. She loves you so much.” She resumes
her former slouching posture, placing her chin atop her knees. “I want what you
have. I wanted to be loved like that…”

As though she knows she has revealed more than she can
afford to and has plunged into a place of embarrassment and shame, Chloe jumps
to her feet. She strides away quickly, tempted to break into a run.

“Chloe, wait!” James calls, surging up and jogging after
her. When will she understand that she has a family in him? Kathleen is
practically Chloe’s mom too, or she will be if everything goes according to
plan… and Chloe accepts his proposal.

•

Chloe lays in bed that night, thinking about the article
mentioning the two deaths resulting from Patrick’s accident that she found in
her mother’s drawer. She wonders who the unidentified woman is. Chloe imagines
that the police precinct might know. She has no intention of going back to the
human resources department. That infernal woman was no help at all.

For all Chloe knows, security will prevent her from even
entering the building. Admittedly she was a little overzealous and persistent
during her last visit. Then again, it was a matter of life and death and
something she needed to understand in order to maintain her sanity. Maybe she
will have better luck at the station.

They have to have files on motor vehicle accidents involving
vehicular homicide, right?

Chloe closes her eyes, drifting into darkness.

Chloe sits with a clerk at the bustling Police Station,
surrounded by constant activity otherwise oblivious to her. There is a
commotion at the front door as a group of officers haul in three, what Chloe
suspects are, prostitutes. Many other people sit in waiting areas and outside
interrogation rooms.

Chloe feels like she has been here before. She wonders why
no one is wearing orange.

The clerk assigned to her is a plump woman named Meryl who
could stand to order a uniform in the next size up. She is probably in her
mid-40’s with short curly black hair and big baleful brown eyes.

Chloe feels a vibration coming from her bag. She pulls out
her cell phone.

Sandra is calling, probably to inquire on her whereabouts.
Chloe was supposed to start her shift half an hour ago. But the mission at hand
takes precedence. Chloe already decided they could do without her today.

Tuesdays are always slow. … What day is it again? It is
Tuesday, right?

She rejects the call and puts the phone back in her bag.
Chloe wants to tell Sandra exactly where she can put her shift.

Meanwhile, Meryl is tapping her fingers on the desk. When
Chloe is certain that she has the impatient woman’s full attention, she shows
her the article. She does not know why she did not think of this before. She
holds written proof in her hand regarding her father’s accident, listing two
casualties.

So, why is he still walking around?

Chloe swallows, calling seriousness to her face. “Is there
anything you can tell me about this accident?”

The woman accepts the clipping and skims through the article.
“Possibly. I handle a lot of car accidents. When did it happen?”

“November 10, 1990,” Chloe recites.

Meryl glances up over the edge of the article. “… 24 years
ago?” the woman asks, seeming slightly insulted as though Chloe made a direct
jab at her age.

Doubt fills Chloe’s stomach under the weight of Meryl’s
stare. Quietly, “Yeah.”

“Lady,” Meryl starts, slapping the clipping down on the
desktop and sliding it back towards Chloe. “This is a Police Station. Not an
archive.”

Chloe tilts her head. “Could I get more information at an
archive?”

The woman shrugs. “I don’t know. How should I know? What do
I look like, a librarian?”

Meryl bears no resemblance to any librarian Chloe has ever
encountered, or would want to encounter. She highly doubts anyone would spend a
perfectly good day browsing under the weight of her scrutiny. “But you said—”

“I know what I said,” Meryl interjects. She sighs and rubs
her temples, as though they throb and Chloe is only making it worse. “What do
you want, girl?”

Chloe takes the opportunity prudently. She sits forward and
pushes the clipping back towards the clerk. Her finger grazes over the place in
the text that she is referring to. “It says two people died in this accident.
The second victim is identified as a woman, but no name is given.”