Colin
Chloe and I stand outside the independent living community, the three-story apartment complex looming in front of us as we look up at it like it’s a courthouse waiting to deliver us a life sentence.
Well, that’s how she’s looking up at it.
I’m still dazzled by how beautiful she looks, my eyes tracing the soft curves of her hips and the heart-shaped lines of her red lips.
The shiny, black combat boots on her feet shouldn’t look good with the dress she’s got on, but she makes them look like they were made to be worn together.
“Ready?”
She looks over at me before flattening her hands down her stomach, down the navy-blue dress with tiny buttons from hem to chest. The fabric is tight on her bust and hips, flowing to her shins. Her hair is half pulled back, thick, golden waves cascading down her back. “Do I look okay?”
I smile fully, because I can’t help it, and her eyes light up as her gaze traces the shape of my lips in return. “You’re stunning, Chloe. Always.” I wrap my hand around hers and guide her toward the building.
We stop at the administrative office first, checking in with the ladies at the front desk who greet me with friendly hellos. They’re immediately on the receiving end of Chloe’s death stare. I chuckle to myself, keeping my hand wrapped around hers so she knows I only have eyes for her.
“Detective,” the red head sitting behind the desk greets. I recognize her as Emily, one of the main girls to help my mom get settled when we first moved her in.
“How’s she doing?” I greet in return.
She smiles wide, giving Chloe a tiny nod in greeting before shifting her attention back to me.
“She’s doing okay,” Emily says warmly, her smile remaining bright even though her tone carries an edge of concern.
“A bit more tired than usual lately, but still attending most of her activity sessions.” She hands me a folder over the top of the desk, and I release Chloe’s hand to flip through it, each word on the page a painful razor against my skin—tiny, stinging cuts against my flesh as the regret of leaving my mother so far away from me springs to the forefront of my mind again.
Emily continues talking as I review the notes from staff over the past few weeks. Missed swimming last week. Stayed in bed most of the week before. Skipped a few meals in the last couple days.
“Vera is the nurse who sees her most often. Despite what you see in there,” Emily says, nodding toward the reports like she can sense the worry washing through me, “Vera reports Elizabeth’s mood to be bright and alert more often than not.”
I nod absently at the folder in front of me, Emily’s reassurance only slightly working as my stomach bottoms out. Chloe’s hand finds my thigh, the warmth of her fingertips bleeding through the fabric of my jeans grounding—though only distantly.
“Who’s that?” Chloe asks, pointing to a flyer on the wall behind Emily. The paper displays the face of an older woman I don’t recognize; though it’s likely another resident, I assume, since she’s smiling from a wheelchair with bright white hair that ends at her shoulders.
Emily turns to the flyer before twisting to face us again, her smile turned down into a frown.
“Diane. She passed away last week,” Emily explains, her words low, slow, and solemn.
“We’ll be having a memorial for her next week.
All the residents just loved her.” She turns back to the flyer that holds the details of the memorial service on it, her face lingering in that direction.
“What happened?” Chloe asks, and it’s just like her to be blunt and slightly inappropriate that I can’t stop a chuckle from rumbling through my chest.
Turning back to us, Emily leans forward, her voice dropping to a hush like she’s getting ready to engage in gossip about the poor woman’s death.
“We’re not entirely sure,” she says, her eyes shifting from side to side.
“She’d been having some fits, a bit abnormal for her, but she was otherwise fine.
Healthy. Karina found her unresponsive in her bed last week when she didn’t show up to breakfast.”
I swallow the newly formed lump in my throat, overcome with a tense spiral of nerves in my stomach, though I can’t pinpoint why.
Perhaps it’s the reminder that life is fleeting, unpredictable.
The possibility that my mother’s face could be on that flyer next blares brightly in my mind, even though her bone disease doesn’t exactly put her on the path to an early grave.
Still, she’d been lively when I saw her last. Excited about the new place and all of the activities the facility boasted. She was looking forward to being around people who could empathize with her, people who could find connection together as they aged gracefully, in community.
So why is she skipping meals? Staying in bed all week?
“She’ll be happy to see you,” Emily says, her voice echoing as it draws me back to the present.
Her bright, warm smile is back, though it’s not comforting at all.
I pull Chloe by the hand toward the fresh air, letting it fill my nostrils and lungs as we continue along the first floor to my mother’s unit.
Resistance halts my forward movement, and I stop, looking back at Chloe who’s rooted her combat boots to the ground. “You’re tense,” she says, and I let the tight breath in my chest loosen. “She’ll pick up on it.”
She takes a step closer, lifting her hand to my face and letting it rest against my cheek.
I can’t resist the urge to lean my face into her palm, attempting to find an ounce of peace in this moment that feels thick with uncertainty.
I nod against her hand, holding her stare and wondering how I ever saw anything evil in these bright, golden irises staring back at me.
The fading purple bruise sits high on her cheekbone, the edges turning yellow and their edges fading even further into the cream of her ivory skin.
I’d called her an optical illusion, and I feel that more than ever right now; the mystery of what you’ll get whether you’re seeing her from far away or up close.
Her soft, beautiful skin fading to that ugly bruise.
The shiny, worn boots kissing the edge of her flowy dress.
Her silent demand to relax and her gentle caress of my skin.
She’s a walking, chaotic contradiction, and somehow she’s constantly lulling me into calmness.
She’s saying it all with her eyes, her lips parting as if attempting to guide me through a breathing exercise. I let another breath leave my lungs in a whoosh, expelling a grain of tension from my shoulders with it.
Turning from her to the door, I rap my knuckles lightly against the wood before twisting the knob and pushing forward, the crisp air of my mother’s apartment instantly causing a rush of chills to break out across my skin.
“Hi, Mom.” I cross to my mother as she sits on the couch in the middle of the room.
Her gaze shifts from the TV to me slowly, eyes slightly vacant, which tightens my chest again.
She appears absent, but she smiles when she sees me, reaching her hands out as I approach.
Her fingers are hot when I take them in mine, leaning down to kiss her cheek before pulling away.
Her hair is tied back out of her face, and albeit seeming far away, she looks put together—a bit of makeup on her face and dressed like she plans to leave the house today—which is a good sign.
“This is Chloe.” I pull Chloe gently forward, and her gaze bounces between us, a look of something I can’t read flashing across her features before she plasters a smile—a fake smile, because I know what those look like on her—onto her lips.
She turns her attention to my mother, reaching out to take one of my mom’s hands in both of hers.
“Chloe Stark,” my mother muses, looking up at her. Her smile grows, adoration lighting up her olive-green eyes.
Obviously, my mother is aware of the work I do. Very aware of my involvement in Caroline Stark’s arrest. Perhaps vaguely aware of my fixation with Chloe in the months and years after the arrest, because I couldn’t exactly tell her I was stalking who I now believe is a mostly innocent woman.
But the look on my mother’s face is more intrigue and reverence rather than the surprise I’d expected to see from her finding out I’ve brought along the daughter of the murderer I put in prison.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Mills,” Chloe says, repeating the line I’d heard her practice at her house yesterday. She releases my mother’s hand and flattens them down her dress again, probably wiping the sweat off her hands that I’d felt when I’d taken them myself.
My mom waves a hand at her. “Please, call me Elizabeth.” Lifting her hands in my direction again, I take them and help pull her to standing, giving her a minute to find her balance before she’s headed for the kitchen.
“How are you feeling?” I ask her, glancing around her apartment.
We’d unpacked all of her things together before I left, but her apartment feels even more lived in now.
Framed pictures of me and my siblings rest across the mantle, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes at my brother and sister, smiling proudly from their frames like they have any care in the world for the frail woman moving away from me.
The curtains over the window are drawn closed, which doesn’t surprise me because some of the usual medications my mother takes causes bright light to hurt her eyes occasionally.
Her favorite cat-shaped Tiffany lamp glows softly from the table near the couch, various shades of color shining through the paneled glass and reflecting on the wall behind it.
Regardless of the homey energy I feel, there’s an undercurrent of peculiarity waving through me. A feeling of uncertainty I can’t put my finger on, like something is…off. But what?
“Tired,” my mother calls behind her.