Chloe by Cleveland McLeish Page A

reaches around to her back pocket
and pulls out her cell phone. She dials the number for Kenneth Ross’s office.

Chapter 7
    The receptionist checks her in and escorts her to a room
down the hall. Chloe finds herself in a serene and relaxing office with an
aquarium in the center. The sound of the bubbling, buzzing filter is enough to
lull her to sleep. Chloe lies in a reclining chair, staring at the ceiling.
This office feels oddly familiar. Meanwhile, Doctor Kenneth Ross sits in an
upright chair with notebook and pen.
    Ross is an older, willowy gentlemen with the slim remains of
an accent. He has a pleasant voice, not unlike waves breaking on the shore. He
has a face that suggests he was very handsome in his youth, having succumbed to
time’s unforgiving price but aged well regardless. He exudes tranquility the
way a rose exudes perfume.
    “How are you these days?” he asks her, penning in today’s
date into the upper left hand corner of his notes.
    Chloe drums her fingers on her stomach. She shrugs, feeling
strange, as though she has been here before. This is the way all psychiatrist
offices look in movies. This feels scripted. “Not sure,” she confesses
honestly, fighting the urge to conform like a fatal disease.
    Ross observes her. “You look good,” he supplies with an
agreeable smile, crossing his legs at the knee. He pens something into his
notes.
    Chloe makes a face. She squirms and averts her eyes from his
affable face, now imprinted on the ceiling. “If you say so.”
    “You don’t agree,” he infers, glancing up from his notes
over the rim of his delicate glasses.
    Chloe spreads her hands helplessly, finding all this
business just another way to beat around the bush—to ignore the elephant in the
room—to conveniently forget that she is laying in a psychologist’s office, in a
shrink’s lair, to candidly discuss the fact that she sees dead people. “That’s
not why I’m here.”
    “Indeed,” the Dr. concurs. “Small talk is good though,” he
explains, as though it rectifies everything. “Helps you to relax.”
    Chloe assumes a surly frown. Her eyes track to Ross and she
levels him with an expression that conveys she will not be bought. “Not a problem
if this session was free.”
    Ross smiles patiently, sits back, and resumes penning things
into his notes. “Why are you here?” he asks.
    Finally, they are getting down to business. Chloe resumes
staring up at the ceiling, scouring for patterns in the textured paint. “I’ve
been seeing things,” she confides in him. “I’ve seen things like wine changing
color, ma’ mother’s name and face on ma’ license. Ma’ dead father. I’m wide
awake when it happens. It just happens. No one seems to notice but me.”
    Ross makes a sound that originates in his throat, conveying
that he acknowledges and hears her. “Do you have any hobbies?” Ross asks.
    Chloe’s brows knit together, struck by the sudden, seamless
transition to a new subject. He had no reaction to her confession—adverse or
otherwise. Chloe flounders with more confusion. She does not know what she
expected to happen, but she does know what she did not expect: that . “I
write.”
    “Do you enjoy writing?” Ross asks her amiably.
    Chloe nods her head. She finds herself surprised that she
enjoys discussing this with him, much more so than her worrisome visions. “Yes.
Want to write full time. Just not financial rewarding at the moment.” Chloe
looks forward to the time, whenever that might be, when she can live off the
income earned from her writing.
    “It’s not strange for a writer to have illusions,” he
informs her, as though that is supposed to be a comfort. Chloe is almost
impressed at how well he was able to tie the two seemingly different subjects
together. “New writers often tend to confuse dreams with reality.”
    The idea that Chloe’s driving passion is also the reason she
cannot choose between what is real and what is contrived is