In Her Shadow (11 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing... Can we just sit here for a minute?”

He squeezes her hand. “You’re going to be okay.”

She wishes he was speaking as a doctor rather than her boyfriend. But it isn’t merely Grandpa’s state or prognosis that frightens her. Something even worse awaits them. They’re all in harm’s way—she feels it. The hospital houses not only disease, but a vicious monster.

Get a grip
. Are you listening to yourself? Stress is triggering paranoia, she decides, noting that her other problems seem trivial compared to Grandpa’s condition. Her feared “stalker” could drive up in his fancy SUV and she might not care; nothing matters but Gramps. Maybe that’s why entering the building seems petrifying. Hospitals have never troubled her before, but they’ve never held her grandfather in the ICU.

With clammy hands she unbuckles her seat belt then places her feet on the ground outside her door. She freezes up again. “I don’t think I can do this.”

She feels like one of her phobic patients, one who feels they can’t fly or swim or face spiders. A magnetic force field seems to push her away, promising distance between her and the facility.
What is going on?

“You can, come on. Let’s take it slow and easy.” Hank helps her to her feet. Her knees buckle as they walk, but she prods herself to keep moving, fighting the urge to turn and run in the opposite direction. She tightens her grip on Hank’s arm; they were almost there.

They approach the reception desk. “Gil Adolfsson,” she hears herself say.

“Ah, yes…” The nurse glances at her computer screen. Claire understands few of her words: “...ICU...your grandmother’s with him...”

She moves like a robot, clutching Hank’s arm as he ushers her toward the room. Through Grandpa’s doorway her eyes draw to the piece of machinery—an IV drip, tubes hanging down, fluid pulsing through them.

“You okay?” Hank asks.

She takes a breath. “I...think so.”

A nurse stops the two of them. “You’re both family?”

“I’m his granddaughter,” Claire says.

“I’ll be right here if you need me,” Hank says, then plants himself outside the door.

Claire enters Grandpa’s room, relieved to feel a normal level of apprehension and concern—no more panic.

“Hi Grandma.”

“Hello dear,” Grandma barely mumbles. She sits beside him, her head taking up half of his pillow.

Claire places her hand on his arm, careful not to look at the IV machine nearby. He doesn’t even look like Grandpa. His wrinkled face has sunken in, as though all of the smiles he’s ever worn have fallen from his spirit and are pulling down on him. But his chest continues to rise and fall. He’s breathing.
Focus on that
.

Unsure whether he can hear her, she says what comes to mind: “I’m sorry this happened to you, Gramps... You’d better get well soon. We have more fishing to do.” She smooths his arm with her hand, noting its dryness, then leans down and kisses his forehead.

She walks around the bed and kneels beside Grandma. “How are you doing? Can I get you anything? Some water or coffee?”

Without saying a word Grandma pats Claire’s arm with her hand, then rises and walks to the restroom.

Claire considers the studies she’s read regarding spouses passing away shortly after losing their husbands or wives, presumably the result of grief and depression. She drives the thought away.
Grandpa is not going to die
. And Grandma will be fine.

Claire pulls a chair to Grandpa’s bedside, sits down and rests her head on his bedrail. Alone with him for the first time in the hospital, Claire sheds tears. She places her hand on his chest, noting the strong sound of his heartbeat—a sign, she hopes, of stubbornness.

“I know you’ll wake up when you’re ready, Gramps. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about many things—especially about Mom. Maybe if I opened up more to you, you wouldn’t feel so stressed. Is that what’s happened?” She grabs a tissue from the bedside table and wipes her tears. “I’ve decided that from now on, my birthday will be a celebration of Mom and Dad, not just the anniversary of the accident.”

She clutches his hand and feels a responsive squeeze. “Grandpa?”

His body stiffens, his back arches, his face crumples into a grimace. His hand tightens around hers, nearly crushing it. He makes a sound—a guttural yelp without words.

“Nurse!” she cries.

The bathroom door opens as his heart machine starts beeping. Grandma gasps. Two nurses and a doctor rush in, pushing past Claire and her grandmother. They stand outside his door, clinging to each other as Grandpa clings to life.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Hours later, a tall doctor in his late forties enters the waiting room. Claire and Hank stand while Grandma remains seated. This is it, she thinks, clasping Hank’s arm tighter.

“Mr. Adolfsson is stable,” the physician says then introduces himself as Dr. Paul Schrieffer.

“Thank God.” Claire feels the tenseness in her shoulders soften. “What happened?”

“His heart rate increased, but not to a dangerous level. It lowered back down on its own and seems stable. Did he talk to either of you? Seem responsive in any way?”

“He squeezed my hand,” Claire says.

He nods. “He likely regained consciousness briefly, which caused his heart rate to accelerate.”

“He seemed rather…upset.” She chooses her words carefully, aware of Grandma’s frail presence.

“When stroke victims awaken they’re often frustrated, particularly when they aren’t able to communicate,” Dr. Schrieffer explains. “Agitation is no cause for concern.”

Grandpa’s distraught face fills her mind. He seemed far more than agitated.

“His condition, though serious, is no longer critical. We’ll keep him in the ICU for monitoring. He may be moved to a regular room soon.”

“So his prognosis is good?” Claire asks.

“It’s difficult to say for certain, but since we caught the stroke early, we were able to use a plasminogen activator to reduce the clotting. He still has a lot of plaque buildup, however, which is what caused the blockage in his arteries. We’ll perform an endartectomy in the next few days—a procedure that should reduce the build-up and hopefully prevent a recurrence.”

“Where is the clot located?” Hank asks.

“Not sure of the exact spot, but definitely in an artery leading to the brain, cerebral thrombosis. He’s stable now, which is positive. If everything goes smoothly and he regains consciousness I imagine he’ll be able to start rehabilitation treatments soon.”

“And if it doesn’t go smoothly?”

“As with any surgery, there are risks. Swelling, blood clots…in rare cases, heart attack, seizures, additional strokes. Since arterial diseases affect the whole body, we can’t be certain how he’ll respond. I’ve done this procedure many times though, and in most cases, the results are positive.” He looks at Claire intently. “You should be grateful he got here quickly.”

She can’t argue with that. Grandma is known to call the doctor at the sign of a sneeze, especially when it comes to Grandpa. Her notorious paranoia may have saved his life.

“It’s common for a spouse to experience shock,” Schrieffer says, lowering his voice. Grandma, though several feet away, seems worlds away in her mind. “They must be close.”

“They are.” Like salt and pepper shakers, Claire has often thought. Grandma for perseverance, Grandpa for spice. “It’s really okay for her to stay here tonight?”

“Absolutely, I recommend it. She can stay in his room; there’s an open bed. We make exceptions for such cases when we can. I think it helps the patients and their loved ones—non-scientifically speaking, of course.”

As Dr. Schrieffer leaves, Claire offers her arm to Grandma. She touches her back as they walk back to Grandpa’s room, her grandmother seeming more slouched than she usual. “He knows you’re here, Grandma. That’s probably why he woke up.”

She guides Grandma to a chair and gives her a blanket. “I’ll come back with some of your things. Then Hank and I will stay at your place. So if you need anything, just call.” She kisses the top of her head and then approaches Grandpa.

“Love you, Gramps,” she whispers. She kisses his cheek and walks out with Hank, feeling as though two-thirds of her heart remain in the room, hoping she’ll get it all back.

Chapter Twenty-Six

She listens as he types at his computer, wondering how long she’s been back in the basement. A few days at least. Meanwhile she’s wracked her brain for ways to escape, Her moods have ranged from eager and hopeful to totally resigned, depending on whether a new idea strikes, another gets shot down, and whether she’s had sleep or calories. The thick shakes, as much as she hates them, give her energy. Ideas often follow, triggering bursts of hope, adding fuel to her get-out-of-here fire. When she’s particularly weak, hope feels like the thing she should let go of. If that’s the case, the thick and fatty shakes are as foolish as she thought.

He stands and adds sheets to the bed he placed next to hers last night while she slept.

“Wake up.” His voice cuts through the silent air and her thoughts. “I need to move you.”

She opens her eyes and gives him a blank stare. She knew this was coming. Why else would there be a second bed?

He lifts her and lays her down on the freshly made bed, then straps her down. The hard bowl beneath her is how she’ll “relieve” herself while he’s away. She holds her breath while he moves the pillow from her former bed to the new one, places it under her head.

He didn’t notice, she thinks, smiling on the inside. The knife, she still has it.

“I won’t be long,” he says, opening her mouth. He’s only just returned and he’s leaving again? Not that she minds. He hands her a water glass and places two pills on her tongue. She recognizes them: pills that help her sleep.

As he turns to leave, his expression almost warm, she recalls the man he used to be, nearly begs him to stay.
Please don’t leave. Come back!
She’d experienced a similar longing before—the first time he hovered over her. She’d watched as he transformed from the man she knew and trusted into an alien creature. His eyes, like cold steel, bore into hers, all traces of warmth and humanness vanished.

She remembers calling out to him, pleading for help from the very man who was hurting her—the man who said ‘no’ to her dream of having a mother, ‘no’ to having a puppy, ‘no’ to seeing Uncle Bob again, ‘no’ to everything she wanted and was. But it wasn’t the Monster she was beckoning. She reached for the person with heart, who must have been lost inside of this...monster. After all, goodness doesn’t simply disappear. Something or someone had hidden it from him, made it inaccessible. When she couldn’t reach his loving nature, she knew she was no longer safe, but a captive...much like she is now. When she woke the next morning, hoping the whole ordeal had been a nightmare, her bloodied underwear proved otherwise. For years she refused to surrender hope that his goodness might return. She knows now that goodness won’t find her within his grasp. Whatever stole his warmth had it for keeps. She’s got to find it elsewhere.

She listens as his footsteps fade then diminish. She’s left in silence...alone, with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. Not fully alone, she realizes—she has the knife. While it certainly hasn’t taken the physical pain away, it’s acted like medicine to her spirit, simply knowing it’s tucked beneath her mattress. It brought comfort from the moment he carried her back downstairs without discovering it. Something of her own, for protection and, she hopes, escape.

She quickly moves the sleeping pills from the inside of her cheek, spits them into her palm then hides them beneath her mattress. She can’t risk sleeping now. Every moment that he’s away is invaluable, and draws his return closer. She reviews what she observed before he left, in hopes it might reveal how much time she has. The photographs of the woman, boxes of supplies he carried down the stairs and loaded into a storage closet. There were sounds—his phone ringing, muffled words when he walked to the stairs to take a phone call, the chalky liquid he forced her to drink. Additional shakes sit in a cooler at her bedside. She’s to drink another before nightfall. She can’t make sense of it, and doesn’t much care. Best she use the time wisely.

If only she could search his desk, his computer, his files. There must be clues to her whereabouts, and his. Perhaps he’s hidden other useful information, money, a copy of the key to the upstairs door. Regardless, her freedom requires freeing herself from the bed. She examines the straps binding her legs and torso down. No such luck.

Unless...

She reaches inside her pillow case and retrieves the knife. Think about this, she prods, restraining herself from chiseling her way out of the bands promptly. If she sets herself free, she’ll have to reconnect the straps before he returns. Should she risk it? There’s no harm in trying. She clutches the weapon in her hand.

She touches the fastening clips on the sides of her mattress—one on each side, in line with her ribcage. At least they’re not locked. Two additional straps cross her thighs. She uses the mirror to gain a better view. In the dim light, she can barely make out the details. If she places the knife at the proper angle, it’s possible.

With caution, she forces the blade between the clasp and the strap. It’s well-secured, not surprisingly. She wiggles the glass; nothing happens. Her breath is labored. Even subtle movements exhaust her. Keep trying.

Fumbling harder, she tries again, using all of her might to force it open. Her hand slips; she nearly drops the knife—No! She brings it to her chest, holds it tightly in her fist. With her eyes closed, she catches her breath. That was too close.

Lying back, drained, she glances at the beverages in the cooler. “If you don’t drink it you won’t get well,” he’d said. Should she try? She loathes the thought. But she does need strength... You can make up for it later, she tells herself.