On The Run: Part Two

Chapter Eleven - "Chloe"

Sarah

They were buried at the St. Paul’s Church cemetery in Toronto, Canada. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, the cold biting its way through my gloves, as I stared at the two headstones lined side by side.

ANNABELLE MIRANDA LANE. BELOVED MOTHER AND FRIEND.

FEBRUARY 2ND, 1963 - JUNE 15TH, 2005. [AGED 36]

HAROLD CHRISTOPHER LANE. BELOVED FATHER, BROTHER AND FRIEND.

SEPTEMBER 30TH, 1961 - JUNE 15TH, 2005. [AGED 39]

I wondered if she ever got an opportunity to visit. Were they good enough to her that she’d even want to?

There were no flowers, or sign that there’d been any previously – no dead leaves or stalks – at the foot of the headstones. Just the snow covered grass and the frosted letters of their names.

I crouched down with a sigh.

“Thank you,” I murmured softly, my foggy breath making it’s way up into the air, like a message at the end of a balloon string. I’d like to think they’d been great. Seeing them in the hospital when I’d given her up, they’d seemed like angels. They’d unburdened me joyfully making no attempts to hide their joy despite my state. Chloe had masked everything else.

I got up and walked over to where Hal was standing, stoic as a statue.

“I need to make one more stop,” I said to him, looking at my watch. I was really cutting it close, and I knew that Jerry would be more than pissed off if I missed the interview. Or whatever it was.

My father and I were supposed to go riding with the vice-president candidate and his family in Houston at five p.m., and it was almost eleven a.m., meaning that I’d have to go straight to Texas by myself if I didn’t leave within the next hour, as opposed to arriving with my father and having the press there to take pictures as Senator Philip Wallis – the vice-president-to-be – picked us up with his own family.

Like I said, charade.

“Miss Parks, Mr. Brennings just called me. He said to tell you that – and I quote – you need to get your behind onto the plane this instant or so help me God, I will come there and drag you myself. His words,” Hal said quickly, looking very uncomfortable.

I smiled to myself.

“Got it. One more stop, I promise. And Hal? Don’t pick up any more of his calls; at least not until we’re safely ensconced in the plane back to New York,” I said, getting into the waiting car and rambling off an address to the driver.

The house was what I could only describe as a cottage – a very lopsided cottage. It was a modern building, but the weeds on the roof and the flowerpot-cluttered porch made it feel like the start to a curious fairytale.

“Here we are. Number fourteen, Knightsbridge Road,” the driver said.

“Hal, it’s okay. Just wait in the car. I’ll be out in no time,” I said, stepping out.

“Miss Parks, I’m afraid I can’t do that. Your father was very specific in his orders. Please. I’ll stand outside the front door, if you prefer. But no more than fifteen feet,” he said, following me.

“Fine. I don’t even know if they’re home anyway.”

I rang the doorbell, and before I could wig out and head back home knowing that I’d at least tried, the door swung open.

“Why, hello!” a woman in a floral frock said, the scent of poppies and dough clouding her.

Definitely a fairytale.