Chloe by McLeish Cleveland

Author:McLeish, Cleveland [McLeish, Cleveland]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Heart of a Christian Playwright
Published: 2013-04-18T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Another Sunday arrives, one which Chloe will not be spending the entire day writing. Chloe and James sit together in church. Their chosen pew is closer to the front this time. Kathleen is preaching. Some of the congregation is sleeping. Chloe is dressed in one of her new outfits: a chic blouse and a tweed skirt.

Chloe looks at James. He returns her gaze and lays his hand on top of hers, dropping an encouraging smile. She is slightly uncomfortable, but accepts the gesture. Chloe looks back at the podium. Patrick is sitting in the choir. She blinks. Patrick is gone. An old man sits in his place.

James notices her furrowed brows and the lack of color in her face. Chloe excuses herself as the service is drawing to a close and the congregation is bowed in prayer. Kathleen notices, but continues, undaunted. She can only hope James is not embarrassed.

•

Chloe, bent over the bathroom sink, splashes some cool water on her face. She feels sick. She reaches for a towel and dries off, pressing the fabric against her eyes, willing the visions to fade and never return. She can still see the bus slamming into her father. She can still see him waltz out into traffic. Perhaps she has been avoiding church not solely because Sundays are good for writing. Perhaps she has been avoiding this place because it is where she first saw her father. In the doorway. Haloed in morning sunlight.

Chloe opens her eyes, low and behold, to see Patrick standing behind her. Chloe gasps, nearly stumbles aside, and chucks the towel at him. He catches it.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” she demands.

He shrugs his shoulders. Simply, “Because I can’t.”

Chloe laughs wryly and resumes dabbing the droplets off her chin. “It’s easy,” she quips. “Just do the same thing you did for 24 years…”

Patrick’s expression saddens. Chloe suddenly regrets her words. “You think I enjoy this? Tormenting you the way I do? I don’t. I need an explanation as much as you do. We deserve to know the truth.”

Chloe rounds on him, tired of communicating through the mirror. “What is there to explain? Last time I saw you a bus hit you.”

“Correct.” He faces her. “And I woke up the next morning and I was fine.”

Chloe’s stomach churns. “It was a dream,” she tries.

His eyebrows jump up, unconvinced of the rouse. “A dream we both shared?”

“No,” she corrects. “It was ma’ dream.”

He tilts his head. “Are you dreaming now?”

Chloe shakes her head. “This isn’t happening. It’s not real. You’re dead. You’re dead.” She turns to leave. Patrick seizes Chloe’s left hand and spins her around to face him again. He takes one of her fingers. He pulls it back until it hurts. “Cut it out!” she commands. “You’re hurting me.”

Patrick nods. “That’s pain. You feel the agony surging through your body? Undeniable in your waking hours. Yet, in dreams you feel no pain. Because dreams are not real—merely projections of your subconscious. Echoes. Fragments.” Chloe looks concerned, watching him warily.

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