In Her Shadow (12 page)

She takes one composing breath, then another. She lifts the glass to her lips, trembling, preparing to sip. Wait—she just needs a moment.

For the first time since she can remember, she longs for an appetite—any amount of willingness or desire to eat. She’d loved food once, before she learned that food equaled fatness. She recalls herself as a child—the smiling girl who fell asleep hoping she’d dream of pancakes. “So I can be ready for breakfast,” she’d told him as he tucked her in.

You’ve done it before, you can do it again, she thinks, prodding herself to focus.

She takes another breath, closes her eyes. She opens her mouth and with her chin still trembling, she takes a sip. Her heart races; she might hyperventilate. Freedom, she reminds herself. Don’t give up. She can lose all the weight she wishes to later.

She forces herself to breathe slowly until her heart rate slows, aware that one sip won’t suffice. She thinks of her mother, the stranger in whom she once held faith. If for no other reason, do it for her.

With her eyes closed tight, she gulps the beverage down, fighting not to gag. Her body quivers; she can feel it moving, expanding within her, adding layers to her fatness.

Laying her head down, tears drips down her face onto the pillow. She’s exhausted, but she did it. She tucks the knife beneath her pillow, sensing the need for a short break. In moments she feels herself drifting toward sleep. She allows it—more fuel for her feat.

Once she wakes, she’ll try again.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Can I get you anything?” Claire asks as she and Hank step inside her grandparents’ house. “I’m sure there’s plenty of food in the kitchen.”

“Maybe in a bit,” Hank says. “I could stand to wash up first. Mind if I take a shower?”

“Not at all.” She leads him to the bathroom, gives him fresh towels then wanders to the living room.

The house seems somber—a nest without its flock. It feels empty, and eerily quiet. Houses seem to know when its residents are gone. She observed the same during college. Each time she returned from a Hastings visit her dorm room seemed desolate. As a remedy, she purchased goldfish—live beings to greet her when she entered, a pair so that each had a friend. When she showed up one day to find Yoko floating, belly-up, she cried her way through a tissue box, wondering whether her tears were in response to Yoko’s passing or to what she’d represented: companionship, welcoming, a way to feel “not-alone”. Though saddened when John floated to the top days later, she deemed goldfish romantic, deeply feeling creatures. Real love existed, if only in her fishbowl.

When she made the mistake of sharing the tale with Grandpa, he put her in her place: “Damn thing probably killed the other one first then died from guilt. Not everyone’s as good-hearted as you, Claire-belle. Remember that when you meet those
Boston
boys.”

Grandpa took every opportunity to warn her of the evil organisms called
men.
Apparently, Massachusetts men are a particularly plague-ridden breed. What she’d give for such a warning now—any reason to hear his voice.

She walks down the hallway and into his den. Every aspect of the room exudes his spirit—the classic oak desk, shelves crammed with books, the open newspaper he’d been reading, the trash overflowing with crumpled junk mail. His office is the one area of the house that Grandma doesn’t touch; Claire appreciates the fact now more than ever.

She sits at his desk and smiles. From this position, a photo of her mother and one of her faced her grandfather straight on. She opens his bottom right drawer and thumbs through the files labeled with Grandpa’s black pen. Bills, Car Insurance, Damn Taxes…
Ever so Grandpa.

At the back of the drawer her hand meets a thick folder. As she pulls it out, tears fill her eyes. Dawn. A file dedicated to Mom.

She stares at it, wondering if opening it signifies prying, yet longing to absorb every page. She takes a breath then lifts the cover slowly. It holds grade school photos, report cards, a faded construction-paper greeting Mom made for him as a child.

She stops when she comes to a folded newspaper clipping tucked inside a plastic bag. Through the plastic she reads the date on the page’s border: October 17th, 1994—the day after the accident. With trembling hands, she opens it.

Her eyes lock on the image—her parents’ car, crushed like a can in a recycling bin. She absorbs the headline:
Hastings couple killed in car wreck on daughter’s 16
^th
birthday. Drugs likely involved.

Drugs?

This can’t be right
. But it has to be—it’s there before her in black and white.

She scans the article again. The journalist called her parents’ death a “senseless, tragic accident” in which they’d been found crushed in their car after swerving from the road and into a tree. The autopsy showed alcohol and benzodiazepines—Valium—in their blood. Her father’s blood contained lethal amounts; her mother’s far less. They’d been drunk, stoned and driving. Only the date matches Claire’s memory: “...their daughter’s sixteenth birthday.”

Had her father tried to kill himself? Overdosed by accident? And if Dad was the one with emotional problems, why would Mom take drugs?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

A freshly showered Hank finds Claire sitting on her grandpa’s den floor, poring over the article.

“You need to see this,” she says, handing him the article.

He reads it, seeming to shift quickly from curious to captivated. Once he’s finished, he hands the clipping back to Claire. “So all these years, you never knew?”

“Not about the drugs and alcohol. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe this is why I blocked the day they died from my memory. I figured if I forgot it, there was good reason, that it was probably too painful. I never suspected this…”

“Post-traumatic stress,” Hank says.

Claire nods. “Maybe this is what Grandpa was trying to tell me, why he seemed upset.”

“You heard what the doc said. It’s normal for stroke patients to get agitated.”

She shakes her head. “It seemed like more than that. He didn’t seem agitated until after I mentioned Mom and Dad. I even mentioned the accident. And there’s one other thing...”

Hank listens as she describes her conversation with Gramps during the fishing trip.

“What kind of problems do you think he meant?” Hank asks.

“I honestly don’t know. Anyway...it shouldn’t really matter. They’re gone. It’s tragic no matter what. And who knows, maybe they met up with friends that day and had a couple of drinks. And so what if they took Valium? Half of my patients take that, or something like it. I, of all people, shouldn’t judge them based on what medications they took. People accidentally OD all the time. I can’t imagine my dad doing it on purpose.”

“I’m surprised no one ever mentioned any of this to you, though. Family or neighbors or whomever.”

She shakes her head. “Grandma won’t talk about my parents or the accident. Grandpa knows not to press. And people in Hastings keep to themselves. They’re friendly, don’t get me wrong, but confrontation is like a four-letter word. It’s how small towns work.”

Hank moves closer, looks her in the eye. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about the fishing trip ordeal?”

She smiles. “Touché. Maybe... But I’m learning.”

They spend the next hour watching mindless TV, Hank falling in and out of sleep. Her mind, as usual, prefers to stay awake. With the shock lessened, she can assess other details of her quandary. It makes sense that her father would take medication, but why Mom? What more has Gramps kept from her?

She closes her eyes and walks herself through the fishing trip. Grandpa’s inquiries about her digestive symptoms, and shortly thereafter, “mental problems”. She envisions the light, bland meal he’d prepared—not remotely his typical fare. Food and mental problems... Mental problems involving food!

She sits up straight, recalling the scale at her grandparents’ house, the haggard image she saw in the mirror, the horror that swept her at the sight of her birthday dinner, the food at Galliano’s. What if Gramps was referring to Mom’s mental problems, and those challenges involved food? Of the many psychiatric disorders that tend to be inheritable, eating disorders rank high.

Even the timing fits. If Claire repressed memories about her parents’ accident, she could easily have forgotten Mom’s battle with weight and food. Subconsciously linking them with the accident could cause a personal resurgence now. Valium for anxiety...about food!

Claire feels a rush of energy; she is onto something. But energized or not, the clock reads one-thirty. She’ll decide what to do about her epiphanies—if anything—tomorrow.

She retrieves blankets and pulls them over herself and the sleeping Hank. Cozying up to his warm body, she feels at peace enough to join him.

A sound startles her awake—or is it a feeling? She shivers as her eyes adjust to the darkness. The room feels silent, empty. Grandpa’s in the hospital, she thinks. No wonder she feels alone. Glancing at Hank, relief overwhelms her.

She lies there staring at him, watching his chest rise and fall, listening to his breath. As she snuggles up against his back, he pushes his body farther into hers. A giddy surge sweeps through her. She kisses his shoulder then slides her hand beneath his shirt and strokes his skin. He moans softly, turns to face her. Their lips meet.

They kiss, first tenderly, then fervently. She pulls off her shirt then watches him undress, enticed by his watchful, wanting eyes. Their bodies entangle. She feels feminine, her softness pressed against his muscular body, as her desire intensifies and takes over. She rises up and straddles him. Heat surges through her body as he enters her. She releases a blissful moan.

Guiding her onto her back, he covers her mouth with his then sits up, riding her. She arches her back, savoring it. The moment she closes her eyes an image fills her mind, the silhouette of a man hovering over her—the wrong man. He’s holding her down, staring into her with come-hither eyes.
No. It hurts!

Her eyes snap open to see the same man braced over her.

“Stop!”
She shoves Hank away and hears a thud as he falls to the floor, crying as dizziness overwhelms her. She drops her face into her hands. Her chilled body trembles as tears soak her hands.

She doesn’t move until her sobs soften to whimpers. Sensing Hank’s presence, she opens her eyes. He sits near her on the sofa, his face lined with concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft and measured.

“I...think so. I don’t know what happened. Did I hurt you?”

“I’m maybe a little bruised. You have a black belt I don’t know about?”

She can’t smile at his joke. She just shoved the man she adores on the ground while making love. “God, I can’t believe I did that.”

“Talk to me.” Hank moves closer and places his hand on her knee. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

 
Perhaps she had.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Claire lies beside Hank, wide awake. She can’t remove the image of Hank, startled on the floor after she shoved him out of her mind—or the reason she did so. Had she been half-asleep? It’s as though her recent nightmare reoccurred in real-time. But it hadn’t
felt
like a dream... It’s as though the man with monster eyes stepped out of her nightmare and into her life.

She walks herself through the dream, drawing up as many details as she can. The man carrying her, his unpleasant smell, the tenderness from his shoulder pressing into her abdomen. The pain in her wrists as he forced her down on the mattress then pinned her down. She’d fought him, fought the ache...

She thinks back to her speculations about Mom. Disordered eating habits, poor body image, nightmares, panic... The symptoms could all stem from being molested. What if she isn’t experiencing PTSD from her parents’ deaths but from her own experience? After what just happened with Hank, it seems almost obvious. Perhaps she hasn’t been dreaming, but remembering.

But why would the memories resurface now? What has changed in her life? Stress, she concludes. Ten years since the accident... Grandpa’s stroke. The thought of Grandpa lying in the hospital gives her some perspective. Even so, it’s not enough.

She guides herself as she would a patient. First, she reminds herself that she’s alive and well. Anything that might have happened to her during childhood is not happening now. As a mature, capable adult, she can handle challenges—even discovering horrifying truths.

Next,
seek help
. She’ll call Dr. Marsha to see if they can meet before their next scheduled appointment, or at least talk by phone.

She can’t bear lying still with her thoughts any longer. Careful not to wake Hank, she rises and heads to the bathroom. After a hot shower, she moves to the kitchen and places a pan of Grandma’s bran muffins in the oven for reheating. Though the notion of food triggers nerves, she has to eat. Since her lab tests came out clean, she has no excuse, other than her own neurosis. And starving herself won’t do anything but worsen her emotional upheaval; she relays the same advice to patients all the time.

By the time Hank joins her in the kitchen, the air smells of apples and cinnamon. Fresh fruit smoothies sit at each of their places on the table, along with cups of yogurt topped with ground flaxseeds and granola. She pours two cups of hot tea and adds them to the spread.

“This looks awesome,” Hank says. He wraps her in his arms. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”

She kisses him then offers him a seat. “I couldn’t sleep. And besides it’s the least I could do. I’m so sorry about last night.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I am. I think I was half asleep and my nightmare bled into reality.”
Sort of true.
“I can’t believe I...” She forces away the image of Hank, post-shove, on the floor. “I think I’ve been stressed out.”