The affluent part of Arcadia Bay is the usual diorama of sprawling houses and pedicured lawns. She parks in front of the Amber House and just sits there, thinking that maybe she should have called instead. She actually pulls out her phone, but at that moment the front door opens, and Rose Amber comes out on the porch. She stands there, waiting, hands clasped together. Even from fifty feet away, there's so much hope and doubt and fear all at once on her face, that it almost makes Chloe cry. She may be a Stepford wife, but no one is ever going to think Rose is not Rachel's real mom.
Chloe gets out of the truck and heads towards the house.
"Hey there, Mrs. Amber," she says, waving.
Rose is frozen in place. She says nothing, only watches Chloe's face.
"I don't have news," Chloe says hurriedly. "I thought you might…"
She cuts off, seeing pain and disappointment and maybe relief on Rose's face, and slows down, until she stops completely.
After a moment's hesitation, Rose comes forward and hugs her. They stand there, hugging silently for a minute.
"Oh, Chloe," Rose says. "Joyce told me that you were gone, and when I saw your truck out there, I thought… I thought…"
"No, Rose. I'm sorry."
"Did you… were you trying to… find Rachel?"
"No, actually. That was a… different thing. But I'm going to try now. That's why I'm here."
Rose scans her face for clues, or lies, then leads her inside. While she makes tea, Chloe stands in front of the grandfather clock. It shows five after five.
Chloe places the plates on the table. A painting of cubist royalty takes up the better part of the dining room wall.
"Oh, look! It's the original whogivesashit!"
Back in the kitchen, she asks Rose for her next task.
"Would you be a dear and ask Mr. Amber what he is going to drink?"
"I will be a dear."
The DA in question is hiding behind the newspaper screen. The forest fire his daughter started is all over the front page.
"Ah, Chloe. What can I do for you?"
"What's your vice, Mr. Amber?" she asks.
"Excuse me?"
"You wife wants to know what you're going to drink for dinner."
"Oh. Let's say, sherry."
"OK. One, two, three… Sherry!"
"Comical. Chloe, maybe you can help me with something…"
She's back in front of the clock, three years in the future. It still shows five after five. What the shit? Is this thing on? The pendulum swings, though, and there's a clear clicking noise when the hand moves.
"Sugar?" Rose calls from the kitchen.
"Yeah… two," she replies, puzzled. Do flashbacks not take any time? If true, this means no delegating unpleasant tasks to AutoPrice. Damn it.
They drink the tea in silence for a while.
"Mrs. Amber… Rose… Can I ask you something?"
"I would appreciate it very much if you did, Chloe."
"And don't get offended or anything. I say shit, sometimes…"
"I think I've known you long enough, now."
"OK. So let's say I had a dream, and in this dream you and… Mr. Amber… shit… well, you stopped looking. You know? After a while. Is that even possible? I mean, is there any reason in hell that would make you say, 'She probably ran away, and there's nothing we can do at this point, so we're just going to accept that?'"
Rose Amber doesn't answer for a while, but at least she doesn't splash hot tea in Chloe's face.
"Chloe," she finally says, "are you trying to tell me something?"
"No. No, I swear, Rose. I just want to know."
Rose sighs.
"Well. If we ever did… Look, if Rachel is gone and we get no word or progress for a long time… Believing that she ran away and stopping the search might become a better option, than… Than finding… her…"
She can't say it and Chloe doesn't need her to. She nods.
What kind of world does this?
She remembers being pissed about the Ambers giving up, in the hallucination future. About everyone giving up. She gets it now, somewhat. It makes sense. Finding her in that junkyard… Ugh. No. Not in front of Rose. She pushes the thought away. Yet even as she does, she knows that she will not give up. She will not let it become the better option. Especially now that she already checked the junkyard and found nothing.
"Do you mind if I look around Rachel's room?"
"Feel free, Chloe. We've been through it a few times, though. Us and the police, both."
"That's OK. I know I'm a few weeks late."
I just want to see things Rachel left behind. I just want to find her safe and sound in her bed, by some miracle. Let this all be a prank. Let it be a misunderstanding. Let it be that Rachel came up with this whole elaborate ruse just to avoid me, because she's pissed still. Please.
"I think you're the only one in the world I can trust," Rachel says.
"I don't know… I bet there's like, one other chick in Australia, who's super trustworthy."
"Not a chance. You're one in a hundred infinities, Chloe Price."
Rachel turns over to lie on her back, reaching out to brush the bracelet on Chloe's wrist with her fingers.
"I wore this bracelet my entire life. Never asked why. Never even thought about it. Somehow, I think I always knew. Even when I didn't know. That my real mother was gone."
"You should take it back, Rachel."
"No. There's nowhere else I'd rather keep it than right there."
The room is empty, of course. The bed is made.
Chloe finds herself holding her wrist.
Wait. I had the bracelet? Not Frank? Why did I… How did I get it? The lamp post. Rachel gave me the bracelet that night under the lamp post, because I asked her to prove to me that she was serious about running away. Right? But… no. I asked her for… a kiss, didn't I? We kissed then. I know we kissed. It was… our first time. Did I get the bracelet after? No! No, she had it after! But… fuck. Didn't I ask her to get a star tattoo? How can I have multiple memories of the same event? Is this drug fucking with my real memories now, too?
"That's just great."
While the flashback is still fresh in her memory, which is some kind of twisted mindfuck Chloe prefers to just snag in stride, she scans the walls. The astrology charts and the maps and the Machiavellian wisdom still hang, but the hats and the masks and the stars are all gone. The sky globe is still around, and the travel posters. Most of the inspirational shit is off the cork board, replaced with acceptance letters to about a dozen schools. Chloe sees headers from Yale and Harvard Law, USC, UCLA, AFI, Columbia University. Ivied coats-of-arms and whatnot. Rachel never said she had that many options open. Just that she was looking at a couple of Cali schools. Was that because Chloe was so excited about Cali and looking for places and generally dreaming the Cali dream? In between the letters are rave fliers and ticket stubs from the shows they went to. On the dresser, there's a photo of the two of them, dancing on the beach.
Tears come without warning. Chloe gasps and wipes them off roughly. Clearly, her nerves are shot. Must be the sign of aging.
She contemplates stealing the pic, but sort of forgets about it halfway through the thought. Peeking from behind the frame is another ticket stub. This one doesn't have a matching pair and is from Matthew Knight Arena in Eugene, dated February 28. Oregon vs Oregon State. Basketball.
There's a flashback, but either she's really distracted, or it's completely incoherent. Either way, she barely registers it. There's… snow and… a creek… and a screen door?
She goes back downstairs. Rose is in the living room, reading Bleak House.
"Hello again," she says.
"Do you happen to know who Rachel went to this game with?"
"What game? Oh, that one. They got free tickets at school. I guess Oregon was courting Blackwell's finest, so a group of them went. Principal Wells drove, I believe. Rachel was really bummed about going, I think."
Which is probably all true, except this is the first Chloe hears of it.
"Didn't Rachel tell you?" Rose asks, shrewdly.
"Uh… not who were all going…"
"Do you think it's important?"
"I… uh… I'm just grasping for straws, Rose. I'll see you later, OK?"
"Any time, Chloe."
Rose sees her to the door.
"And Chloe…?"
"Yeah?"
"Rachel... loved… I mean, loves you. You know that, right?"
For a while, Chloe can't respond, so she just looks away and nods.
Finally, she says, "You too, Rose."
It's the closest she's ever seen Rose Amber to crying.