Chapter Text
Chapter Ⅰ
{ two flickering flames }
–— ✴︎ 2011 ✴︎ —–
Chloe stares down at her cell phone after ending the call with her husband for a brief, stunned moment before retreating back into her mom’s kitchen. She swallows the bitter words poised on the tip of her tongue — willing herself to find any semblance of calm — and sets both the phone and wine bottle she’s been holding down on the counter.
She will not cry. She won’t give him the satisfaction.
A stuttering breath blows past her lips as Chloe struggles to remove the foil wrapper encapsulating the bottle neck. They always have to make it so fucking impossible… Once that’s dealt with, she busies herself in pursuit of a corkscrew. Trying — and failing — to keep her emotions in check, indignation flaring and coursing through her the longer her hunt turns up empty. It’s not just the delay in getting a damned drink, it’s that she knows she’s not the one being unreasonable here.
No matter what Dan or my mother say to the contrary.
Chloe wasn’t expecting the moon. She’s never needed gifts, lavish parties, or grand gestures. They both know what’s most important to her. What she wants more than anything in the world. Simply, to spend quality time with her family, continuing beloved traditions and forging new memories. Together.
She wonders if that really is too much to wish for.
Chloe ignores the familiar sting of disappointment welling up in her eyes. What did she expect? That on the eve of her 30th birthday† her husband would magically move heaven and earth to make her feel special? That just this once, he’d come through on a promise and at least be present?
She’s not ready to admit she let herself fall for his same well-worn lines. It’s becoming enough of an issue that she wonders if the root problem lies somewhere buried beneath her own feet. She continues taking him at his word, believing the man actually means what he says. And that’s on her, isn’t it.
Chloe wants to trust him, though, or at the very least, trust that he’s working on it. He keeps dropping the ball, breaking promises at the last possible second, effectively pulling the rug out from underneath her, and then expecting her to just roll with the punches, picking up the pieces behind them. All with a smile on her face.
He claims none of it is on purpose. That this newly forming bad-habit and worrisome pattern of his is nothing more than growing pains — a phase that will pass, he swears — as he tries to adjust to finding a better work/life balance between his newfound professional responsibilities and the duties to which he owes his young family.
And that’s understandable. Really.
Chloe can give him that, can’t she? That’s what a supportive wife should do. Right? It’s what she’s been trying to do, giving her husband plenty of time, grace and ample understanding while he figures it out. Meanwhile, navigating her own career and holding down the fort at home, she’s been the one to fall on the sword over and again — compensating — while he gives her nothing but the runaround and the same tired excuses for why it keeps happening. And why it’s never his fault.
An equal share of give and take. That’s what she thought they’d have when they got married. That she’d actually have a partner she could rely on. Was that really too much to ask for?
Chloe slams a drawer shut in chagrined irritation — fuming — but the hushed shhhnapt the soft-close glide the cabinetry makes is anything but satisfying in the heat of her anger. What she’d fucking give to scream and vent…. She sucks in a breath instead, white-knuckling the counter and willing herself to get a grip. Chloe rounds her back and falls forward over her body into a deep bend, hanging her head, heavy and languid below where her hands grasp the counter’s edge. She brings her trembling chin to her chest, clamping her eyes shut to keep frustrated tears from falling.
“You are not this fucking fragile, Decker. You’re a fierce, strong woman who can handle herself. Who’s endured far worse than a shitty birthday,” Chloe whispers to herself. “Shake it off,” she commands.
Chloe focuses on fortifying her breath, following the flow of it in through her nostrils, noticing the outward expansion of her ribs as her lungs fill with air; the silent howl her exhalations make as they blow past pursed lips. She stays with it until her heart rate has evened out, and on another long exhale she stretches, folding ever inward into an even deeper bend.
“You will not break over this,” Chloe affirms. She knows she has every right to be upset, but she also doesn’t need to make this a bigger deal than it is. It’s just like he said, not even he’s happy he’ll be missing her birthday. Again, her thoughts wryly quip.
Dan swore his undercover assignment would only last a couple of days, tops. He was confident it was an open and shut case that’d be solved easily, once they flushed out the suspect. He would “for sure” be home in time for Taco Tuesday, but that was over a week ago, and Chloe knew the second he’d called just now — clocking the strained tenor of his voice — what was coming. Or rather, who wasn’t… He spent the entire conversation in damage control, aware he didn’t have a leg to stand on, nor any good news to counter the bad, more than aware she’d be pissed and hurt — and rightly so.
Which is why he began on the defensive as he broke the news.
“Look, I know what you’re going to say, but what would you have me do?” Dan implored. “Tell Luis, ‘Hey, sorry dude, but you’re on your own’? My hands are tied here, and it’s not fair to always make me out to be the bad guy either, Chlo. Especially when I’m under this much pressure and you know how it is. You think I enjoy this, feeling like a shitty husband? Or like I even wanted to make this call and hear you cry on your birthday?”
Chloe hadn’t been crying, but what good would it have done to correct him? He’s positive now the case will wrap up sometime in the next week. At least he’s getting better at hedging his bets, and she guesses that’s something. Dan promised he’d make it up to her when he got back. He’d said the same thing last year when he worked a double shift, then came home with his tail between his legs, bearing only a convenience store greeting card and a fake, single red rose. Chloe’s smart enough not to hold her breath for anything more than that. He might as well be promising me the moon at this point…
Chloe chews on her lip, biting down hard. The sharp burst of pain is enough to spur her back into action. She arches her back, hinging at the waist and straightening her spine, shoving her embittered feelings aside as she stands and returns to her prior search.
Begrudgingly, she admits Dan’s right about a few things. They’re both cops. They’ve been working towards this for years, and she knew being married to a homicide detective was going to be tough, even at the best of times. Especially since she has the same professional aspirations herself. These are her life choices, and her burdens to bear it seems, so she’s just going to have to suck it up.
Besides — what’s a birthday if not just another day of the year, the same as any other day? It’ll be fine, she self-soothes. I’ll be fine.
She finally locates a corkscrew buried in the back of her mom’s junk drawer, and stabs the pointy end into the cork, twisting it around and around with effort. Not bothering to hide another huff of annoyance upon closer inspection of the label. Her mom knows she’s not a fan of Syrahs, but it’s from an exclusive Napa winery Chloe knows is her mom’s favorite. It’s not cheap — not by a long shot — and Chloe would never hear the end of it if she tried to reestablish her preferences.
Which is fine. She’ll make do, just as she always does.
Chloe pulls down her mother’s stemware, pouring herself a generous measure, and then swirls the thick, crimson liquid around — once, twice, thrice — before taking a small sip. The alcohol burns hot and acidic, and she works her mouth around the chewy, full-bodied texture. Struggling to get it down. She has no idea how she’s going to be able to hide her grimace while drinking this, and Penelope Decker will definitely notice. Chloe can already hear her now:
What’s wrong? Don’t you like it, honey? Here I was trying to get you something nice, but I can see my efforts were in vain — yet again. Tell me, will I ever be enough? How do you think that makes me feel?
Chloe knows she’s being unfair, and perhaps unkind, but she’d really like to avoid having to go through the same song and dance they always find themselves in. Her dad had always been the one in the middle, carefully balancing their polar extremes, but since his death they’ve struggled to find any semblance of equilibrium. Chloe doesn’t have the energy to spend the rest of her Saturday night pacifying her mother’s guilt over the state of their relationship.
Or lack thereof…
She glances over at the baby monitor when she hears her three and a half year old daughter murmur in her sleep, snuggling in closer to her favorite stuffed animal on the tiny screen. Thankfully, Trixie still seems to be out like a light in the downstairs guest bedroom, and Chloe’s heart expands three-fold as she watches her slumber.
She loves her innocent little monkey so much, and her chest tightens with the overwhelming desire to protect.
It’s one thing for her husband to let her down continuously, but what happens if he starts making promises he can’t — or won’t — keep to their daughter? How many teacher’s nights, school plays… birthdays will he excuse himself from because something “more important” came up at work? Chloe wants them to have a close relationship like she experienced with her own father, but she doubts how that will be at all possible if Dan continues putting his family last.
Chloe’s heart aches with it. She’s not going to be able to shield her little girl from the consequences of his behavior forever if he keeps this up.
The sound of her mom’s ridiculous, heeled house slippers softly clacking on the hardwood as she makes her way downstairs pulls Chloe from her anxious thoughts. She makes a last ditch attempt to hide her inner turmoil — shutting down and guarding against her mother’s sharp eye and incessant need to voice notes of criticism — by assuming the role of picture perfect happy birthday girl.
Bracing herself, Chloe’s face splits into a rictus of forced cheer.
“Sweetie?” Her mom’s voice carries down from the stairwell in her trademarked singsong, but Chloe can hear the cutting undertones slicing through the two syllables, adept as she must be in quickly sussing out and deciphering impending emotional peril when dealing with the woman who birthed her. Penelope rounds the corner, stepping down into the room and shooting a piercing look over at her expectantly. “Well? What did my son-in-law have to say for himself? Will he be here soon? He’s cutting it awfully close…”
Great. Of course she fucking eavesdropped.
Chloe’s pretense at being fine takes a direct hit, and her smile flatlines as her makeshift defenses fall, crumbling to dust. Well. Shit. Chloe massages her forehead, trying to smooth out her expression into something more neutral. Safe.
She supposes it was too much to expect her mother would give her some privacy. What is there even to say, though? The truth is too fucking depressing. So, Chloe says nothing. She holds onto her wine glass like it’ll save her from drowning, a buoy to keep her afloat a while longer. She leans back against the counter, her shoulders slumping.
For once, her mom reads her like an open book and comes running.
“No, don’t tell me something came up. Again!?” Penelope exclaims, dramatically pulling her into a crushing hug. Chloe barely moves her glass away in time. “Oh, pumpkin, you poor thing! He’ll be back home sometime tomorrow, though, won’t he?”
“Ah — no — but that’s the nature of the job, mom. We both know that. I knew once Dan made detective things would change.”
“True, but your father never once missed one of my birthdays. Dan’s left you all alone two years in a row — it’s simply unacceptable!” Her mom’s arms tighten around her shoulders before she’s pulling back to look Chloe in the eyes. “Now see honey, aren’t you glad after all that I was able to work a miracle to fly home and save the day?”
“Wow, you’re unbelievable,” Chloe mutters, bristling and inhaling sharply. As she abruptly pulls out of her mother’s embrace, the Syrah sloshes in her glass, threatening to spill. She pushes past Penelope, putting as much distance between them as possible by rounding the counter, the peninsula serving as a physical divide.
The gall of this woman. Chloe takes a large gulp of wine, past caring if she makes an unflattering face, truly incensed. The flush of alcoholic heat burning through her sets fire to her veins, and fuck if it doesn’t stoke her ire on both counts. God, if her mother and her taste in wine weren’t truly maddening at times.
“What did I do now?” Penelope gapes after her daughter, her hand over her heart, wearing a doe-eyed, bewildered expression as she plays dumb. As if she hasn’t a clue why Chloe’s upset. As if she doesn’t know precisely her part in this. Penelope predictably falls back into the role of wounded, innocent victim, but Chloe isn’t moved by her performance. Not in the least.
“Mom — you told me you were going to be here the whole weekend!” She hisses. “Why do you think I brought Trixie over last night when I got off my shift, thinking you’d already be back? We could have just stayed home, but instead, we spent the whole day here waiting for you, after you finally deigned to let me know today at noon that you’d booked a later flight, just so you could squeeze in a few more meet and greets. And you just walked in the door less than half an hour ago, well past ten!”
Chloe takes a deep breath, her eyes slipping over to the closed door of the guest room. “You didn’t even get to see Trix before I put her down for bed. It’s been more than two months since you’ve last seen her, mom…
“Not only that, but you didn’t think it was worth mentioning to me that you’d actually only be home for a blink of an eye — handing me a random bottle of wine and telling me you’ll be treating me to a late brunch tomorrow before you’ll be off again — as you’re flying out in the afternoon!”
“Yes, and be that as it may, at least I made an effort to see you on your birthday. How was I supposed to know Daniel wouldn’t be here, or would be calling so soon after I got in? Don’t punish me for his ineptitude, pumpkin. Plus- Plus! I figured you’d already have plans for tomorrow evening! And you can hardly blame me for being in such high demand on the convention circuit. It’s not like I can disappoint my fans, Chloe Jane.”
“Mm. No, you’re absolutely right mom. How could I ever be so selfish as to not think of your fans on my birthday.” Chloe takes another sip of the Syrah, scowling.
Penelope looks like she’s going to say something else, but then frowns, motioning at Chloe’s wine glass. “You know, that really is better after it’s been chilled, dear.”
Chloe loudly groans and pushes the stemware off to the side. Sitting down on one of the barstools in defeat at the peninsula, laying her forehead on the cool countertop and closing her eyes. That’s it —
She’s waving a white flag. She gives up. She’s calling it a night, and will sleep right here.
The room becomes awfully silent until Penelope sighs. Chloe can hear her mom corking the wine, can feel the vibrations of her dragging the bottle along the countertop from where her head rests, before lifting it off the edge. Penelope’s heels gently click on the tile floor as she moves around the island to the other side of the kitchen, where Chloe hears the fridge door opening. Her mom rummages around making room for the wine, and then pulls something else out. Soon after, the silverware drawer clinks open for a few seconds, before being ssshnapt-closed again.
Penelope carefully sets whatever she’s brought out onto the counter in front of Chloe, and softly clears her throat. “Can I interest you in some devil’s food cake, baby?” She asks temptingly, the dulcet tones of her voice sincere and honeyed. “I got it for tomorrow after brunch, but it looks like you could use some cheering up, and a bit of an early celebration.”
“Yeah,” Chloe mumbles tiredly against the counter, “I guess that’d be nice, mom.” She doesn’t move, taken by a lovely thought of her baby. Chloe hums idly around a warm smile. “You know, Trixie hasn’t had any chocolate cake yet. She’s going to lose her ever loving little mind when she finally gets a taste of it.”
“That’s because she inherited her grandma’s sweet tooth.”
“Hah. Thanks for that,” Chloe deadpans.
“Don’t mention it, sugar.”
Chloe rolls her eyes and lolls her head, but when she looks up, her mom is smiling down at her, holding out a fork like an olive branch. In front of her is a store-bought cake, still in its bakery box. Chloe accepts the fork and Penelope pops the lid, sticking 3-0 candles on top of the cake and striking a match.
“Happy birthday, Chloe Jane. I am sorry I won’t be spending more time celebrating with you this year, but I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she attests, her eyes misting over. “And, I want you to know, your daddy would have been so proud to see the woman you’ve become over this past decade.”
The apology and sentiment are genuine. Chloe’s grateful for her mom’s words, and appreciative of this gesture of goodwill. Chloe’s mouth pulls to one side despite herself as she chokes up.
“Thank you,” she quietly whispers.
“Are you going to blow the candles out, my dear?” Penelope muses.
Chloe’s drawn in by the two flickering flames of the candles, dancing together in hypnotic synchronization, momentarily mesmerized. Something pulling deep within. She doesn’t have a clue what to wish for. She leans forward, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath anyway — but there it is again, that tug on her spirit, halting her movement and making her think.
What does she want? What can I ever expect to have? Chloe wants to have herself, if nothing else, and as she blows out the candles, she makes it a point to promise herself just that.
The two sit in companionable silence as they each help themselves to bites of rich, velvety cake straight from the box.
“Why don’t you have any other plans, pumpkin?” Penelope asks after a while. “For my 30th, Michelle Pfieffer surprised me with a girl’s trip to Las Vegas. It was wild fun.”
Chloe hums again while licking sinful dark chocolate frosting off her fork, before responding, “I can only imagine.”
Penelope lifts a delicate, sculpted brow, intently awaiting an answer to her question. Chloe laughs.
“Okay, well — besides being a hardworking public servant with a toddler, and not being friends with Michelle Pfieffer — it’s not like any of my industry peers kept in touch once I left to join the police academy. And that’s fine. It’s not like Vegas has ever been my scene.”
“It’s a wonder you’re mine sometimes,” Penelope teases.
“Surprise, I’m yours and dad’s. Funny how that works,” Chloe says around a grin. But Penelope grows uncharacteristically quiet as she takes another bite of cake. The woman is clearly mulling something over, and Chloe gives her the space to do so.
Her mother’s sad eyes swim up to her.
“Your dad always seemed able to understand you — relate to you — in more ways and with more ease than I ever could. You two naturally clicked,” Penelope softly rasps. “Not that I wouldn’t have loved to, but—” she swallows audibly around the vulnerable truth of it, as the pain of her regret, of a widow’s grief and a mother’s guilt, twist torturously upon her features.
Penelope tries to hold her daughter’s gaze, tries to finish articulating her admission to a perceived personal failing, to the heart of her shame — a rare occurrence, indeed — but she can’t seem to get the words out. When her hand clutches at her heart this time, she’s not acting. Chloe takes pity on her and reaches out, placing her free hand lightly over her mom’s. Crossing the divide.
“But you’ve always tried, and that’s what matters. I know I haven’t always made it easy on you, either.” With her other hand, Chloe sets down her fork, and likewise drops her gaze to stare at the devil’s food cake. “Dad just… got me on a different level. Take our birthday traditions every year for example. You always threw me a big party — inviting everyone under the sun — and while I was grateful for that, he’d wake me up super early and take me for a drive up the coast.
“We’d roll down all the windows and pretend like we were flying, the wind whipping my hair around my face so wildly, it was hard not to choke on my own laughter. He’d put on my favorite music, and take me to Paradise Cove Cafe up in Malibu for a big breakfast. Then we’d trek down to El Matador State Beach, exploring the massive sea stacks, and if the tide was low enough, seeing which sea caves we could check out. I’d play, and then we’d just hang out and do art together on the beach for hours.”
“Oh, don’t remind me. You’d always come back filthy — covered in sand and charcoal smudges, or dried paint in your hair — and it was up to me to get you all cleaned up and looking presentable before your parties. You’d always have a big toothy grin, too, like you knew something I didn’t.”
“Mom, that’s kinda the point,” Chloe chuckles. “I loved it back then. We loved it. Dad didn’t get to spend a lot of time on plein air painting outside of work—” Chloe shifts in her seat, her fingers absently picking at a loose thread on her shirt sleeve “—and getting to share in a hobby with him when we each had the time, it meant so much to me. I’d give anything to spend another birthday like that with him.”
Penelope smiles sadly at her daughter, before getting up to rinse off her fork. “It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself think about your dad’s love of painting,” she murmurs. Chloe stretches and pads over, joining her mom at the sink. Penelope looks at her warmly. “I’m glad you shared that with him, pumpkin. It meant the world to him, too.”
Chloe’s vision blurs and she clears her throat, not wanting to cry. She’s made it thus far, she thinks, but her mom reaffirming the cherished memories she and her dad had shared together on her birthdays and beyond — that he’d made sure he created for her — were every bit as important to him as they’d been to her?
Tears wet Chloe’s cheeks and she smiles, sniffling.
“You know, mom, dad always wanted my advice on which seascape compositions you’d treasure more. Always going on and on about how much he loved painting the ocean, because the colors were as strikingly dramatic as your pretty blue eyes.”
“Stop,” Penelope chuffs, her eyes glassing over.
Neither of them move, the soft susurration of running water from the kitchen tap lulling between them as they relish in the rare, tender moment between mother and daughter, each reminiscing about happier times with their favorite person.
Chloe clears her throat again, turning off the faucet. Penelope passes by, squeezing Chloe’s upper arm as she goes. Instead of calling it a night, however, she lowers down a large box from the hall closet, hoisting it over to the coffee table in the living room, and setting it down in a huff while perched precariously in her slippers.
“What’s this, mom?” Chloe asks, her curiosity piqued.
“Some of your dad’s old art supplies. I never had the heart to get rid of them all. Maybe you can look through it and see if there’s anything you’d like to keep? You can take it all if you want, honey. I know he’d love it if you got back into it someday.”
“You think so?” Chloe wonders aloud, slightly unsettled. Her brows knit together and her stomach clenches. Like her mom, it’s been ages since she’s dared to permit herself to think about her dad’s love of art — or to contemplate the arts in general — at all.
They stand together staring down at the closed box, before it’s Penelope’s turn to blindly reach for Chloe’s hand, clasping it in hers gently.
“Your dad always had his suspicions you’d grow up to become a fine artist one day,” she confesses, chuckling quietly. “We used to bicker over it all the time. I’d been certain you were destined for the silver screen. You had all the makings of a leading lady, destined to become Hollywood royalty. Real superstar potential. The looks, the poise, the raw talent — and of course — the pedigree. It’d never been hard to imagine your name up in the big lights, you winning the Oscar, or all the acclaim you’d inspire…
“After you left acting, I mourned all the lost opportunities we might’ve had together as a powerhouse mother/daughter duo. As unstoppable and influential as the likes of Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson. Attending red carpet and black tie events together, photo shoots and world press tours…. As much as I grieved losing your father, honey, it felt like I lost you, too. At the very least, we lost our chance to connect and share in something as grand and fabulous — as truly creative — side by side. It- hurt for a long time that you turned away from that, just as you were finally getting noticed.”
“Mom—” Chloe tries to interject.
“No, let me finish. I never expected you’d leave all that behind to go into police work of all things, and I think your decision would’ve surprised your father, too. Probably would have scared the hell out of him, and honestly, after how he died… it scares the hell out of me,” Penelope lets out a tremulous sigh, squeezing Chloe’s hand twice before letting it go. Her arms wrap around herself, and her voice softens. “My point is — your dad would’ve delighted in proving me wrong, to see you leave the spotlight on your own terms, focusing on your art instead. But as it happened…
“His tragic passing hit us both so hard. I may have been crushed to see you walk away from all we’d worked for, but I understood you were processing your grief in your own way. At any rate, I was proud of you for knowing when it was time to change course, bravely letting your heart be your guide, and forging your own path in order to find yourself. The irony wasn’t lost on me, either — I mean, you got your legendary stubbornness from me, after all — that once you’d made up your mind, there’d be no stopping you. No matter the danger or risks. And here you are, so close to achieving all you’ve worked hard for.”
“I- I don’t know what to say to all that—”
“You don’t have to say anything at all, honey. You’re going to make an incredible detective someday, just like you’re already an incredible mom. I- may not always be the best at biting my tongue, but I’ve always respected your tenacity and grit, no matter what you set your mind to. I love you, Chloe Jane. Your daddy always will, too.”
Chloe looks back down at the box. “I miss him,” she admits simply, her arms falling limp at her sides.
“Oh, pumpkin, me too. Perhaps we’ve both been needing a reminder that while he’s gone, he hasn’t left us completely. Bits of his soul are tucked soundly into the memories he’s left us with; in his love of art, too. Who knows?” She nods towards the unassuming box. “Maybe you’ll find inspiration to draw again. As I said, he’d love it if you someday did.” Penelope kisses the top of Chloe’s head, leaning in to give her a hug goodnight. “I still can’t believe it’s been thirty years since he gave me the greatest gift of all. My miracle girl…”
–— ✴︎ —–
{ long-lost treasure }
Chloe doesn’t know what’s gotten into her, or how long she stands there boneless, beyond exhausted by the emotional rollercoaster and surprising twists and turns of her evening thus far. Cake and all her mother divulged, for example. For all Chloe was angry at Penelope for — and with good reason — they haven’t had a more meaningful or honest conversation in… too damn long.
Chloe stifles a yawn, barely moving. Still purely transfixed, just —
Just. Staring. At the box of art supplies, off into the middle distance… her gaze darting around the room aimlessly as she fights the magnetic pull back to the same spot, trying to look at anything other than the box, and all it represents. All the joy and love her dad exuded. All the emotional upheaval I’ve experienced since his death…
She has the oddest sense the past is pouring in from all sides to envelop her in the warmth and safety of her father’s embrace, however. She can almost hear the gentle hearted timbre of his voice calling down to her from upstairs, as he did in yesteryears, making sure she had everything she’d need for their morning ahead full of beach exploration and art: Forecast calls for a bright, sunny day! Hope you’re ready to make some new memories, monkey!
Chloe’s face feels warm, and she swallows around the lump in her throat, tears streaming down from her red-rimmed eyes.
So much for not crying on my birthday.
Whatever this catharsis is — some small bit of long overdue healing, maybe — Chloe can’t help but feel as though she’s standing on the precipice of something bigger. More profound. As if all she has to do is reach out and open Penelope’s version of Pandora’s Box in order to find the missing clue. Solving the mystery. Revealing all…
Chloe wants to as much as she doesn’t, and while she tries to decide which, her fingers wrap under the lip of the lid on their own accord. Her heart drum rolls, galloping riotously inside her chest at an ever faster clip, the moment paradoxically speeding up and stretching out the longer she stalls, swelling to a crescendo upon bated breath in her anticipation…. Chloe’s impatience and insatiable curiosity, her innate instinct to investigate further, is absolutely, positively dying, willing her to OPEN IT ALREADY —
However, no sooner does she begin lifting the lid, then errant static discharges, zapping her fingertips. She yelps and yanks her hand back, bringing her fingers into her mouth to lightly suck on them, as if she’d been burned by an open flame.
Chloe blinks and takes several steps back, shying away from the moment and proverbial ledge, shuffling back into the kitchen to splash cool water on her face. She then puts the cake away and finishes tidying up, checking on the baby monitor and getting herself a glass of water, before heading back over to settle on the couch. Sorting through all the scattered puzzle pieces of her thoughts.
Hopefully she can put them together and come away with a clearer picture of what she’s feeling.
She starts by picking over something her mom said that had rubbed her the wrong way. “I was proud of you for knowing when it was time to change course, bravely letting your heart be your guide, and forging your own path in order to find yourself.”
That may be her mom’s romanticized perception of what went down, but it’s not the whole, unvarnished truth, is it?
Becoming a cop hadn’t been about “bravely” following her heart, sagely knowing when to pivot in a new direction, as if stepping into her dad’s shadow, trying to fill his shoes, and following in his footsteps has ever been a cake walk. Certainly not in the way her mom believes it to have been. As if Chloe had just been biding her sweet time before finally embarking on a grand adventure chasing after her heart’s deepest desires.
No, the catalyst which spurred Chloe to turn her back on the only life she’d ever known had nothing to do with her bravery. Let alone her heart. Quite the opposite, actually.
Chloe’s entire childhood and education was immersed in the arts, albeit primarily in acting and theater. And while she remembers enjoying parts of that — fun exercises in her acting classes, the thrill of nailing a part and having the privilege of bringing characters and stories to life — the rest of it was grueling work. Especially for an adolescent. 5 AM call times. Fourteen hour days. Endless auditions, memorization of lines, and never ending rehearsals.
As her mom mentioned, dealing with the press — and the other side of that particular coin: the fucking paparazzi. Scumbags and cockroaches. Every. One.
Her mom took all of her considerable connections within the industry, though — plus her unshakable belief in her daughter’s acting chops — and practically paved the way for Chloe to have a successful career in the Hollywood limelight. Penelope Decker had been riding the high of her career in the late 80s and 90s, and while the Vampire Queen undoubtedly reigned supreme whilst networking, constantly working on pulling strings and getting projects lined up for herself and her daughter, she never — not even once — asked if that was what Chloe wanted.
For all, or little, Chloe liked about acting, it had never moved her quite like creating art had. What she’d told her mom was true. She’d loved it for a time. A very long time, truth be told. Right down to the depths of her soul.
She had loved sharing it with her dad, too. Loved that he’d sat down next to her one day when she was very little (after taking notice she’d been doodling on the edges of her scripts), and asked if she wanted to learn more about drawing. About art. And just the feeling of being asked what she’d wanted for once, with no conditions or expectations to be met within her answer…
Chloe can still remember it as if it were yesterday — though her age at the time is now a bit hazy — that fuse being lit, his question blazing through her like a bolt of lightning, charging forth from the outer edges of the cosmic aether, straight down into her small body. Lighting her up from the inside.
“YEAH!” She’d cried, jumping up and beaming. The charge of energy propelling her forward as she flung her tiny arms around her dad’s neck, positively radiating. When she pulled back to look at him, her utter delight and joy was mirrored back to her on his face.
It’d been a magical, pivotal moment.
After that, art became their thing. Her dad didn’t tell her what to draw or what she should paint next. He didn’t direct her, feeding her lines and ideas, like everyone else in her life. While he taught her all he knew and shared his love of capturing California landscapes with her — how being out in nature while painting in the open air made him feel more relaxed — he only ever encouraged Chloe to go out and find her own muse.
Making art… getting lost in the wonder and inevitable frustration of the creative process, the fun and satisfaction that comes with finding innovative solutions; in honing her eye and visual voice; in letting color and line tell a story…. It all used to make Chloe feel as light as a feather, as if she had wings and could actually fly…
She’d been nearly twenty, when her entire life came screeching to a halt. Forever knocked off its axis. Never to be the same. Just before the premiere of her first major film debut, her dad had been shot and killed in an armed robbery while on duty. She knew her dad had a dangerous job, but his senseless death still managed to shock her to her core.
Everything that made her… her… felt wrong after that. She was just as dead inside, and in her grief Chloe buried that once starry-eyed part of herself, the aspiring artist, right alongside him.
Chloe takes a sip of water and hugs her knees to her chest, wondering if her dad had been right. If everything had been different — if he only lived — would she have eventually chosen to follow her true passion into the world of fine art? It’s so thoroughly unlike the life she’s painstakingly built for herself the last decade that she struggles to imagine it. She doesn’t dare linger on the thought.
No, more likely than not, she probably would have kept acting, perhaps going on to have the type of career her mom always dreamt for her instead. Her parents may have had great hopes — even held certain expectations between them — that Chloe would choose to become an artist in one medium or the other, but honestly…
None of it seemed to matter anymore after his death. The idealistic, creative life she grew up in shattered overnight, the ugly harshness of reality finally brought to bear.
If God did exist — and was up there, watching over them — it was starkly evident to Chloe that he harbored no love for the Decker family. How incredibly fucked up was it… how unbelievably unfair was it, for such a good man to be callously gunned down in cold blood like that? And for what? John Decker didn’t deserve to die a horrific death, bleeding out on a grimy bodega floor.
After he was taken from them, creating art simply became too painful, rubbing too closely against the wound of her grief, for Chloe to find any solace in the endeavor. When all the colors of the rainbow mixed and muddied together, blending into black, the colors of her soul had become likewise shrouded. The very thought of acting out her despair — giving it voice and form, whether in character or paint — felt suffocating.
Chloe hadn’t wanted to play make believe any longer. She’d wanted something real, tangible and solid. She’d wanted something she couldn’t have. I just wanted my dad back… Without his tether to hold onto, Chloe felt like she was free falling, the cord linking her to her own creativity cut short. Forever lost to the abyss.
Choosing to plant her feet firmly on the ground instead of losing herself in flights of fancy, Chloe set her sights on more realistic, grounded ambitions. Not wanting to let the torch her father carried for so many years — the torch of a fallen hero, her hero — to be extinguished, she looked towards criminal justice and becoming a homicide detective, immersing herself in hard facts, critical thinking, logic and reason.
While that may sound like a brave choice to some — because… yeah, being a cop isn’t for the faint of heart — Chloe signed up for the police academy because she didn’t feel brave enough to follow her true passions. Ironically, it’d been the safer option at the time. It’s a solid paycheck, at the very least, and strong job security is no small thing. Not to mention, she is effectively paid to turn off her emotions in order to do her job. So. An actual blessing.
Chloe sets her water glass down on an end table, spinning her understated wedding band around her ring finger.
For better or worse, she has chosen a different life from what her parents once imagined her living, and it’s led her to this point. Married to a homicide detective with a little monkey all her own, and this close to achieving the next pivotal step within her own career. She just needs to take the initiative and break a case, convincing the brass she’s ready for the promotion through action.
Chloe will make detective someday — God may not care whether or not good people are murdered, but I do — though, nevertheless, her heart and soul pull at her, a small voice in the back of her mind ahem-ing, reminding her of the birthday promise she just made to herself. How can I have all of me if I’m not willing to rekindle this particular flame?
Her vision softly refocuses, falling onto the box of art supplies in front of her. Perhaps her mom is right, in a roundabout way. Chloe’s spent an entire decade locking her love of art and creativity away. Perhaps it’s been enough time. Perhaps… familiarizing herself with her dad’s art supplies will be the key in reclaiming some small piece of herself. “He’d love it if you did.”
Without much further ado, Chloe slides down onto the floor and kneels between the couch and the coffee table, removing the lid to the box. A small cloud of dust releases into the air and she bats away the motes filtering through soft rays of lamp light.
Inside, the box is full. On top are several books on color theory and perspective that Chloe picks up and flips through. A book titled, The Oil Painter’s Bible: An Essential Reference for the Practicing Artist, and an old copy of PleinAir Magazine from the late 90s. There’s a carved wooden box beneath that, holding all of her dad’s charcoal pencils and used chamois cloths, covered in soot. Alongside that is a jar of gunky old brushes.
“Sometimes, nothing’s better at replicating all the scraggly dry foliage of the California landscape,” her dad had explained to her once, demonstrating what the frayed bristles could do on canvas.
Chloe picks up an old Altoids tin tucked beside the jar, and hinges it open to reveal several kneaded erasers, one still in its plastic wrap. There’s a large charcoal thumbprint of her dad’s still pressed into one of the gnarly used ones — perfectly preserved after all this time — and she doesn’t think her mom could have given her a more meaningful birthday present if she had tried. Chloe clicks the tin shut, setting it aside for safe keeping, and removes the other items from the box. She sets them out on the coffee table to inventory them and get a better look at all her mom kept.
There’s a canvas-cloth roll Chloe’s dad organized all of his nicer paint brushes and palette knives in, and below that is the blue metal tackle box where he stored all his tubes of oil paint. There’s his composition viewfinder, and a smattering of clanking metal items: clamps, guides, rulers, mini-sized palette cups… and her dad’s metal flask he used as a travel-sized water bottle. There’s even a few small canvas boards with some of his color and compositional studies, done in oil paint.
Chloe slides a thin, wooden artist’s palette out from in between the paints and the side of the box, marveling at the full spectrum of the rainbow suspended in the dried, hardened paint globs arranged in an arc along the edge. Harmonious tints and shades in various blues and teals — the last colors her dad ever personally mixed — fill the inner expanse of the palette, and Chloe’s eyes water. What were you painting, I wonder?
She sets it aside with all the rest, leaning her body over the side of the storage box and tipping it slightly forward. The tackle box full of paint seesaws, teetering as if propped on something wedged underneath it, and loose drawing pencils roll on the bottom of the box. Chloe pushes aside all the items on the coffee table, making room, and then lugs the large box of paints out in order to further investigate.
When Chloe peers back into the storage box, her breath catches in her throat. It’s a sketchbook, but not one of her dad’s. It’s —
It’s one of mine…?
Chloe’s fingers shake, trembling as she reaches forward to pick up a long-lost treasure, but she hesitates… goosebumps spreading over her prickling skin, the hair on her forearms rising in alert. As if her body is bracing, anticipating another coming jolt of static electricity, but instead —
Chloe’s vision whites out in a massive, brilliant wink of a flashbulb the size of the sun. She falls backwards, slouching against the couch, rapidly blinking away lambent afterimages and physically reeling as migraine pain strikes. Her head splitting open. What the fuck?
God, she must be more tired than she thought. Chloe presses the heel of her palm into her right eye for good measure, seeing stars as the migraine aura sparkles across her field of vision. She stretches her arms overhead, then massages the knots of tension at the base of her skull and the back of her neck. She combs her fingers through her hair and yawns. Fuck, it must be late. When she catches the time on the clock above the fireplace, she startles. Mm. Scratch that. It’s entirely too early…
Chloe’s been thirty for an entire hour and hadn’t even noticed.
She glances over at the mess she’s made, at the art supplies and books scattered across the coffee table, then down to her sketchbook innocuously resting at the bottom of the box. All of this will still be here in the morning, she tells herself.
But Chloe doesn’t move, and it takes her several long minutes to get up. She doesn’t make it far, taking a seat and perching on the edge of the couch cushion. It takes considerably more effort to ignore the rebellious urge to pick up the sketchbook and spend the rest of the morning getting lost in the imaginative world of her childhood mind. Instead, Chloe reminds herself she’s an adult, and proceeds to do the responsible thing by padding over to the guest room, sliding open the barn door as quietly as possible, and slipping inside.
She gets ready for bed in relative silence, the only two sounds synchronously filling the room are Trixie’s hushed breathing and the lull of ocean waves softly breaking two blocks away. Chloe curls herself around her baby girl and tries to ignore her pounding head, summoning the will to drift to sleep. But the longer she lays here, the louder — and closer — the waves sound through the open window… and the more she can’t stop thinking about her dad. And art…
The weekend of my 10th birthday, when I… I got the…
A large yawn overtakes her, and then another in quick succession. Chloe’s mind fights the pull under, but it’s not long before she’s falling into restless slumber as her body succumbs to her burnout… and her consciousness is swept back out with the ocean tide.
–— ✴︎ —–
{ lines on the horizon }
Luminous sea spray breaks in bright bursts on all sides of her small body, as a cool swash of pacific salt water swirls sea foam around her waifish ankles, tiny bubbles popping playfully across ticklish skin.
Chloe frolics along the water’s edge, running to and fro between the sea stacks and rock formations. Full of giddy energy. Swell after swell chases her further into a sea cave, where each wave trails off within… only to change direction in a quiet rush, trickling back and sluicing out from whence it came. All the while, the yawning mouth of the rock face stands agape and at the ready, ever thirsty for every small sip or sustained drink.
Chloe’s feet dip beneath the soft, wet sand swimmingly. She wiggles her toes, giggling at the squelching sensations between them. Another wave crashes against a boulderstone, sneaking up on her cheekily — fanning wide, arching high — and getting the drop on her. Chloe’s heartbeat is as wild as her lighthearted, girlish squeals of laughter are free. Her surprise rings out in joyous echo on cavernous walls; her childish delight lifting on high to join the raucous chorus of seabirds outside the cave.
The light shifts, rays of morning sunshine pouring in from the cave’s various openings. Chloe dances in and out of white beams, purely enchanted. Both by the way the picturesque seascape beyond is naturally framed, and the way the glittered surface of the ocean dapples, streaming all the way out and blurring with the lines on the horizon. Another wave breaks upon the shoreline, and —
A familiar hand materializes, floating before her and offering a wrapped gift. Chloe visibly vibrates, springing up and down on her feet, her expression happy and her mouth open, holding her hands up to the sides of her face before lifting them away in jazzed excitement.
“For you, birthday girl.” Dad’s warm voice murmurs throughout the cavern in surround sound… but he is nowhere to be seen. Chloe twirls in place, swiveling her head in search of him, coming full circle to face his outstretched hand. His amused, gentle chuckle filters in through the light, his encouraging voice sounding again, nudging her to, “Go on, open it…”
Chloe jumps, the gift now in her open palms. She raises her stunned gaze. Dad’s hand has joined in on his disappearing act, vanishing in thin air, but his presence still lingers. She grins then, making quick work of unwrapping his present, first removing the gold metallic gift bow — sticking it on top of her head — then ripping open the glossy, patterned paper to reveal its contents.
She stares at what Dad got her in awed wonder. He remembered… The leather bound sketchbook (with two metal clasps locking along the side) is one-of-a-kind and artisanal, with marbled endpapers and handmade paper, speckled with flecks of glitter and tiny flakes of gold foil woven into its fibers. It’s the very same one she couldn’t stop staring at with googly heart eyes at the local art store, and is the most beautiful, most magical artist’s sketchbook Chloe has ever seen in her entire life… and now it’s all hers.
The softcover edges are meticulously hand-stitched and lined with gold seed beads. The leather is dyed ombré, in colors ranging top to bottom from a tinted light hue of azure sky, brightening into a more vibrant cyan, then blending deeper into saturated shades of cerulean and phthalo blues. The embossed, elaborate design features a framed central medallion and circular tree of life. The symmetrical branches and twining roots are adorned with more golden beads on metallic foiled leaves.
Behind the medallion’s gold frame is a scene depicting air and sea. Hanging vertically above, a golden sun and its bursting rays pass through a sky of rolling clouds, looming in the corners and high heavens. Under the midline of the medallion, a horizon line sits above (and behind) the tree’s roots, delineating day from night. A shining crescent moon mirrors the sun’s position directly below the frame, reflected upon an inky, starlit ocean full of gently rippling waves. It too is foiled metallic, while the sun, moon and stars are all dotted in bespeckled, tiny gold sequins and sparkling beads.
Chloe looks up, wanting to thank him, but she becomes distracted by the lights bouncing off the cover and illuminating the interior of the cavern, like a disco ball reflecting an entire cosmos of twinkling stars. She’s swept into carefree frivolity once more, getting lost in the dazzling array.
The light shifts in a brilliant flash of white, temporarily blinding her. Chloe loses her balance and nearly trips. She crouches down low, curling in on herself, breathing hard and shielding her eyes with the hand holding her sketchbook.
“Careful, monkey!” Dad’s voice carries in concern, his warning gentling upon the breeze some distance behind her.
Chloe peeks open an eye. She’s not inside the sea cave anymore, but out on the beach proper. She begins to stand, but a gust of wind blows around her, causing Chloe to lose her footing for a second time. Her jelly sandals perilously scramble for purchase on the wet rocks as she frantically sways, windmilling her arms out to her sides before narrowly regaining her balance.
She sheepishly peers over her shoulder. Dad stands next to his portable French easel, which is finally set up to paint, but his arms are folded over his chest as he turns more fully towards her. From all the way over here, he doesn’t look too happy. Chloe gives him a shaky thumbs up, anyway.
“M’fine, dad! Cross my heart—” But her gangly legs wobble unsteadily, essentially cutting her off. Dad’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline, clearly unconvinced.
“If I bring home a scraped up birthday girl, mom will not be pleased, Chloe Jane,” Dad yells. “So just—” he sighs, grinning despite himself, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he rolls his eyes in good-humor. Chloe’s face breaks into a toothy smile as he continues, “—just promise you’ll be very, very careful while looking for things to draw over there. Deal?”
Yep! Chloe bobs her head up and down in easy agreement, then turns her full attention onto the placement of her feet, taking cautious steps forward. Then — when dad turns back to his easel, facing the opposite direction — she daringly leaps onto another raised platform of rocks jutting up from the sand, slowly making her way along the front perimeter of a sea stack in search of tide pools.
Flocks of seabirds fly in murmuration, swooping and swirling above the coastline as she meanders, the flapping of their wings harmonizing with the rhythm of the waves. A humongous seagull lands not far from her, distracting Chloe from her mission. She quickly pulls out one of the charcoal pencils she’s stashed in the front pocket of her overall shorts, and flips open her sketchbook — papers fluttering noisily in her haste — but before she can draw a single line, the bird squawks indignantly, as if in protest, and brusquely takes off.
The light shifts, warbling through an arched stone doorway leading to another stretch of sand on the other side of the beach. Chloe glances back to her dad, making sure the coast is clear to explore further than she normally would. Dad’s still at his easel looking through his viewfinder, engrossed in compositional studies, so she takes the opportunity to wander.
Chloe steps through the arch, finding the warmth of the morning a bit toastier on this side, the sun peppering her face in kisses.
She quickly comes upon a tide pool finally worthy of stopping at, and carefully sits down cross-legged next to the shallow waterside. She takes a pause, the sharp, rocky surface making for an uncomfortable perch — even in her jeans shorts worn over her bathing suit. Chloe adjusts nevertheless, leaning forward, peering over, and taking a look through the glassine surface. Below, she finds a tiny world teeming with all sorts of beautifully-colored marine animals and li’l fishies.
Chloe hums, as happy as a clam while cracking open her sketchbook, her pencil flying, filling an entire page with flowering sea anemones with flowing jellied tentacles and spiky sea urchins. She moves on from studies into caricatures. Her two favorites are a rather shy crab and a spindly starfish she’s affectionately named Steve. She’s just turned to a new page when she shivers, goosebumps rising all over her skin —
She hears something shooting up out of the waves like a torpedo, but then the sound of much larger wings powerfully beating fills the air, and swarms of birds scatter in frenzied, chaotic disarray. Two clusters regroup, splitting off in opposite directions, but in shared outcry.
Of course Chloe missed it, preoccupied as she was with her sketches, so she scans the sky, looking for the source of all the commotion. Unfortunately, her eyes catch on the sun for half a second too long, and she’s trying to blink away the bright spots until her vision returns to normal (more or less), when she sees it — him? — barrel rolling mid-flight and heading straight towards the very stretch of beach she’s currently on. Chloe doesn’t move a muscle, purely transfixed and just… stares.
She’s not sure what she was expecting, but of all the possibilities, it wasn’t a massive wingspan — looming large and ethereal — more beautiful than any birds’ she’s ever seen before. Except these wings aren’t on a bird, they’re on the back of —
The angel lands lightly in a smooth and graceful maneuver for all he came in hot, perching onto a big rock not far from Chloe. He’s naked, but sits down directly onto the sharp, jagged surface anyway, paying it no mind. The angel bends deeply over himself, rounding his back and curling one of his sopping wet, feathery appendages round to his front — the other drifting aloft behind him, dripping sea water in pooling puddles on the sand — promptly focusing on the task at hand. Which apparently entails a thorough washing of his wings, starting with his massive primary feathers.
The longer Chloe stares at the golden incandescence of the angel’s white wings — lit ever so perfectly in the morning light — the more a crackling, pearly white static presses into her from all sides, blinding her mind’s eye until all she sees is his radiance before her, compelling her to —
–— ✴︎ —–
Chloe bolts upright, her eyes peering brightly into the darkened hull of her mother’s guest room, twinkling orbs of visual aura sparking across her vision. The mental image of the angel, bathing on the ocean shore, starkly follows her into waking consciousness. No matter how much she tries to blink him away, his wings are burned into the back of her eyelids, his profile seared into her brain. Her heartbeat flutters rapidly, beating at a hummingbird’s pace.
It was just a dream. Juuust a… a dream, Chloe self-soothes, trying to calm her racing mind as much as her stuttering heart. Why oh why did it have to feel so insanely real, though? Chloe specifically remembers her dad giving her the sketchbook within that sea cave at El Matador State Beach in Malibu the weekend of her 10th birthday. She remembers sitting at the edge of the tide pool, too, drawing sea anemones, and- and that silly starfish.
Those things actually happened. But… the rest of it? She’d just been dreaming all that… Right?
Trixie stirs in her sleep at Chloe’s side. She tends to her daughter, all the while thanking God— (err, or rather, thanking the stars) this kid is such a heavy sleeper and, at least in this, takes after her father. Once Chloe makes sure her baby girl isn’t going to wake, she soundlessly peels herself away and steals into the other room. Who knows how much sleep she actually got, but —
There’s no hesitation this time. Chloe reaches into the open storage box and picks up her most cherished possession, one she thought was lost forever. Padding over to the chair in the corner of her mother’s living room — the one her dad used to sit in all the time as he read the paper — Chloe switches on a small reading lamp. She takes the large throw blanket her mom keeps over the chair arm and pulls it over her bare legs, as she’s only in her sleep shorts and a thin tank top, getting comfortable.
Chloe clicks open the two latches on the side of her sketchbook, hastily flipping through its lightly textured pages — flecks of gold leaf and glitter glinting in the low light — filled to the brim with the colorful artwork of a child. Pages of crayon scribbles, oil pastels, colored pencils… even watercolors, warping the paper. She couldn’t really say what she’s searching for — until her fingers still, her movements abruptly cease, and she can barely breathe…
Chloe stares at the open spread dumbfounded. The date in the upper left hand corner, written in loopy cursive and underlined, twice, reads November 9th, 1991. Three days after her birthday. Both pages feature charcoal sketches of the angel, exactly how he was in her dream, perched upon the rock… nude (though thankfully turned to the side, his bits covered as he grooms his wings). Scrawled between her sketches are copious, contemporaneous notes — she is her father’s daughter, after all — detailing the encounter nearly twenty years ago to the day. The descriptions match the details within her recollection now, too, and… uh —
She could almost convince herself the angel had been nothing more than a dream, a figment of a child’s overactive imagination at play — one who, in particular, had always been enthralled with nature and birds… flight — but it’s all here. In black and white.
Chloe flips back a page, and it’s just like it was in her dream and her memory. Sea anemones and urchins… Steve. She flips forward again, laying the sketchbook open in her lap. She carefully leafs over the tipped in piece of vellum — pressed within the spine of the book to keep the charcoal from smudging between the facing pages — to get a better look at a large drawing of the angel’s wings… when she sees it.
Holy fucking shhh—
The glassine mini-envelope her small hands had once taped to the inner bottom margin of the page for safekeeping, is unbelievably — all these years later — somehow still here. Actual proof. Hard evidence– or soft, as it were? Once upon a time, not all that long ago… hours even, Chloe would have been absolutely sure she’d dreamt this detail, too, the gauzy memory having an inherently dreamy quality to it.
Watching it slowly waft and float down after he disappeared in the blink of an eye, and then swooping over to pick it up from the wet sand before it blew away in the breeze…
Chloe pushes her fingernail into the pad of her thumb hard, painfully digging into her flesh, and… Okay. Yep, that hurts. But she had to check. Didn’t she? And if she is really awake right now, and she’s not seeing things —
“Then it wasn’t just a dream,” Chloe breathes. She lifts the flap of the envelope, its contents faintly visible through the sheer, waxy paper. With shaking fingers, she delicately pulls out the tiny feather, lucent and aglow, shining with the undying light of the heavens. “It- It’s all too real…”