minimizes the empty document and opens her picture
folder. She begins clicking through pictures of Patrick, her real dad, and her
mom in happier days. 25 years ago feels like an eternity. Cleopatra never
smiles like that anymore, nor nurtures the same fire in her eyes. She looks
like a different person. The woman in the next room is but a shadow of her
former self—a living shell.
Chloe turns her attention to Patrick, grinning next to
Cleopatra. She touches the face of the father she never knew, longingly staring
at him. She knows if he were here, life would look completely different. They
would be a family, not a train wreck. She adjusts her hand and covers Cleopatra
standing next to him. If their places had been exchanged—if Cleopatra had died
in the accident and Patrick had lived—would life be better too?
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.
Chapter 5
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
folder. She begins clicking through pictures of Patrick, her real dad, and her
mom in happier days. 25 years ago feels like an eternity. Cleopatra never
smiles like that anymore, nor nurtures the same fire in her eyes. She looks
like a different person. The woman in the next room is but a shadow of her
former self—a living shell.
Chloe turns her attention to Patrick, grinning next to
Cleopatra. She touches the face of the father she never knew, longingly staring
at him. She knows if he were here, life would look completely different. They
would be a family, not a train wreck. She adjusts her hand and covers Cleopatra
standing next to him. If their places had been exchanged—if Cleopatra had died
in the accident and Patrick had lived—would life be better too?
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.
Chapter 5
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
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