Chloe by Cleveland McLeish Page B

is ironic, being that
one of them is quite devil-like and it certainly is not Chloe. “That’s how
customers describe you.”
    Chloe keeps reminding herself to be respectful. As much
resentment as she has for Sandra, the woman is still her supervisor. There are
probably plenty of other people lined up for this position. Chloe cannot afford
to lose it. If she says the wrong thing, and is reported for it, she is gone.
“Instead of constantly finding fault,” she tries, “show me how to please you.”
    Sandra ventures a step forward, scowling up at Chloe with
all the tenderness of a bloodthirsty shark. “If it was up to me, the only thing
I would be showing you is the door.” With that, Sandra storms past her and back
out onto the floor.
    Chloe sighs.
    •
    The next morning, Cleopatra is busying herself by fixing
breakfast. There is a carton of milk, a block of cheese, and a cheese grater on
the counter next to her, along with a half-empty egg container. She stands over
the stove scrambling an ample portion of eggs. Her face is swollen and bruised.
Greg is not home.
    Chloe, fully dressed for work, walks into the kitchen. She
hovers in the entrance, blindsided by the spectacle of her mother cooking. They
have not spoken since their spat. As endearing as the act is, Chloe is not
partial to eggs. She hates the taste and hates the texture. Instead, she
crosses to the pantry. Chloe takes out a box of cereal and grabs the milk off
the counter.
    Cleopatra blinks, noticing her presence for the first time.
She watches as Chloe fills a cereal bowl. “I was making breakfast.”
    Chloe nods, following it up with a shrug as she puts the box
back into the pantry. She wishes she sounded more apologetic when she says, “I
don’t eat eggs.”
    Cleopatra looks down at the simmering pan of yellow mush.
She frowns to herself and blinks several more times. “I forgot.”
    Chloe’s brows knit together, regarding her strangely. As
addlebrained as her mother normally acts, this is taking it to a new level.
“Neither do you,” she reminds her. Cleopatra gives her no response, nor any
indication that she heard her as she takes the pan off the burner and starts
fishing through cabinets for Tupperware. It will probably take at least two
bins to fit that many eggs in.
    For the first time, Chloe is able to get a good look at her
face and the green-purplish knots bubbling up on the skin. Her eyes grow. Her
stomach lurches. “What happen to your face?” she gasps.
    “Walked into a door,” Cleopatra responds, sounding
shamelessly rehearsed.
    Chloe’s shock turns into a deep frown. She has a newfound
loathing for Greg and a newfound reason to view her mother as a coward.
“Right,” she says tersely. Chloe yanks open the silverware drawer and finds a
spoon.
    She knows if she says more, or asks her mother why she puts
herself through this torture, that she will start crying. The emotional storm
is constantly brewing. Once the waterworks start, they will probably never
stop. Neither of them need that. Chloe will be late for work, which will be the
final straw where Sandra is concerned.
    Chloe slings her bag over her shoulder and takes her cereal
to the kitchen table. She lets her bag slide off her shoulder and onto the
floor. A thought occurs to her. She swings around towards Cleopatra once more.
“Gonna go church with James Sunday.” After garnering her courage, “Wanna come?”
    It takes Cleopatra all of a second to drone, “Not ma’
thing.”
    It is not Chloe’s thing either, but she wants to try
something new. And the way James talks about it makes it seem like a good place
with good people—two things Chloe is fairly unfamiliar with. It can’t be all
bad, right? Before she can stop herself, “What is your thing mom? Walking into
doors?”
    Cleopatra shuts the last cabinet, her search for Tupperware
coming up empty. She changes her mind and ladles the eggs onto a plate. She
moves to the toaster and inserts four slices of bread.