Hot water washes away dirt, blood and tears. She gets a flashback of Max in her bathroom, just reminiscing away, while the future Chloe Price - she knows - is back in her room, blazing. It's hella weird, but after the last one it's almost welcome. Almost.
She phases back in, noting how she's still upright in the shower, even though she spent the last five minutes as a hovering, disembodied eye in another reality. Or rather, unreality. Check out autopilot Chloe, she thinks. AutoChloe. AutoChloe does all right by herself while the real Price is out tripping. This is good to know, but also raises questions.
What is AutoChloe like? How do flashbacks look from the outside? Does she just zone out? Loops into whatever she was doing and continues doing that until she phases back in? Like soaping yourself in the shower? Can she do higher level stuff? What happens if she flashbacks while driving?
She can't be sure, but she feels like it must have happened at least once by now, just working off of how often the flashbacks come versus how much time she spent behind the wheel today.
Still here in one piece, so AutoChloe has to be able to drive. What else can she do? Can she talk?
Can she talk to Price-Madsen hybrid, for example, while the real Chlo is in hyperspace, solving nonexistent crimes with her imaginary friend?
The thought makes her feel better, and as she wraps the worn-ass pirate towel around, she's surprised to find herself grinning in the mirror.
What if this AutoChloe girl is different? Like a complete opposite of her? A polite, friendly girl? What if she and mom - and Mustache from Planet Dipshit - hatch a plot to get rid of the crazy punk alter ego for good?
The grin becomes laughter, which she hopes, as she crosses the landing from the bathroom to her room, Joyce doesn't hear.
Good thing I haven't had weed today yet, she thinks. Or that shit would be no laughing matter.
Laughter doesn't last, anyway. The room is a downer.
A few minutes later Chloe stands in front of the closet, just like Rachel did 18 days earlier. She is dressed. She isn't crying - there's been enough of that - just thinking. On the dresser there's a bunch of Rachel's makeup. On the floor between the bed and the dresser, there's a small stack of Rachel's books. Girl with a Dragon Tattoo on top.
"Terrible book," Rachel says. A memory. Not a flashback.
She runs her hand along the sleeve of the red-and-black flannel shirt.
Max is wearing Rachel's shirt, t-shirt and jeans.
"Ready for the mosh pit, Shaka Brah," she says, while doing this super-awkward thing with her finger and her hips.
"Mmmmaybe not," says Chloe Price from the bed.
She phases back in and reaches for her emergency stash without missing a beat. It's a pathetic roach, far below the standards of dignity, but beggars can't be choosers. She lights it with the reverence of an Olympic torch-bearer and lies back on the bed, the Oregon State official ashtray on her chest.
It feels good.
Everything slows down.
Chloe thinks back to the motel.
She remembers watching TV - the Hot Dawg Man cartoon was on - while methodically flushing the pills down her throat - three at a time - with mouthfuls of Jack mixed with Pr. Amaury. She remembers touching the gun handle every five seconds, to make sure she could find it easily when the time came. She remembers finishing everything and getting up from the bed to put the empty bottles on the counter and turning off the TV and settling back down on the pillows and touching the pack of smokes and the gun.
She remembers flipping through her phone and seeing a million texts and missed calls from her mom and whoever else, and another million of her unanswered and unreturned calls to Rachel, and despite everything, she thinks about Rachel, because she wants her last thoughts to be about her.
She remembers lighting a smoke and she remembers remembering herself smoking on the train tracks, like a dream within a dream. A dream that lasts three days. It's the three days of May 2010, when she and Rachel really met for the first time. It's the three days that gave her extra three years of life. She remembers reliving those days and getting expelled - or was it suspended - from Blackwell again, and the play and Rachel under the street lamp and Rachel getting stabbed and her lying dad. It's confusing and weird and some of it seems wrong, but a lot of it is so beautiful that she wishes it never ended.
She remembers wondering if she had already died and this was her proverbial life passing before her eyes, and she remembers thinking that maybe dying wasn't so bad, after all.
And when she reached the end of those three days and her memory began to fast forward through all of the happy times, she really thought that was it.
Except it wasn't.
Except she saw Rachel's phone, buzzing with her unanswered calls, and before she could understand anything, she was no longer Chloe, or no longer just Chloe, and all the crazy magic shit started happening, with the storms and maniacs and suicidal girls and… and…
And she couldn't stop any of it, until Max tore that photo and she and future Chloe drove away, leaving her behind.
Leaving her to come back to life, possibly with permanent brain damage.
The roach helped, but now it's dead and everything becomes a bit overwhelming again. She puts the ashtray away, so that there's nothing between her and the big question. The drug dream doesn't seem strictly real, judging from the empty grave in the junkyard, but is it just an amalgamation of her fears and anger and heartbreak, or is it a message, some bullshit allegory from a higher power? Is it telling her that Rachel really is missing and in danger? Or is that what her sick, dumped mind wants to believe?
"Sometimes people need you, though," William Price says from behind the wheel. "Even when they don't admit it."
Great. Thanks, dad. Let's add flashbacks of dreams to the mix. Another helpful hint that clears up fuck all.
"So what if they do?" she asks the empty room.
So get off your fucking bed. Smoke break is over.
She does and goes to her computer and checks the email and the local news. She should buy shit if she wants to save; Ultra Death is coming in June; her Frontside subscription expired, but she can get three more issues for free, if she fills out a survey. They found a homeless guy dead by the docks; another bookstore is closing its doors; and Sean Prescott spoke about the bright future at the Pan Estates Grand Opening.
Nothing from Rachel. Nothing about Rachel.
She grabs her dad's jacket off the hook and heads down.
It's tempting to just rush the door, but she makes an effort. Joyce is at the dining table, smoking a cigarette. A thought to pull out her own smoke and join in billows in Chloe's mind. It could be like a mother-daughter thing. Like a mother-daughter-whose-fault-it-is-that-the-mother-is-smoking-again thing. She would probably do it on any other day, but today she's not in the mood. So she just pulls out a chair.
"Are you leaving again?" Joyce asks.
"You were right," Chloe says.
"Are you saying we should make an appointment?"
"What? No. I mean you were right about Rachel. She wouldn't leave like that."
"Well, I'm glad you agree, honey, but…"
"So I'm going to find her."
"Chloe…"
"Mom, this is what I need. A purpose. Not a doctor."
"There are people who are already looking for her."
"Like who? Arcadia Bay's finest? They don't give a shit."
"I'm sure they're doing their best."
"I'm sure they are, but that's not saying much."
"Oh, Chloe. What do you know about finding someone?"
"I know you have to look! Anyway, I'm not trying to start a fight about this."
She gets up from the chair.
"I promise I'll do better about staying in touch."
"Chloe, wait."
Joyce puts out the cigarette, opens her purse and pulls out her wallet. She hands Chloe three twenty-dollar bills.
"Here."
After a pause, Chloe hugs her, and not because it's a polite thing to do.
"Thanks, mom. I'll see you later."
The sun is bright and huge, as if seen through a magnifying glass. There's plenty of daylight still left. The truck starts up quickly. It seems focused and ready to go. Just needs some gas.