In Her Shadow (13 page)

“You
think
? I would hope so. Means you’re human,” he says, spreading butter on a muffin half. “You have a lot going on.”

She holds the smoothie glass in her hand, determined to drink it. She takes a breath then a cautious sip.
Think of it as fuel.
She tries the bran muffin. Though she can’t stomach the notion of butter, the crumbly cake is tolerable. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think it’s possible Grandpa was trying to tell me something? I get that the agitation, or whatever Dr. Schrieffer called it, is normal. But there was something more—a desperation, intention.”

“He could’ve just been desperate to speak or move normally,” Hank says. “It’s not something we come across in the ER so much, but I’ve heard of patients trying to communicate specific messages during hospital stays.”

“Like what?”

“There was this case my physiology prof told me about where this woman who was severely burned, so bad she couldn’t speak, was able to tell the authorities who started the fire.”

“How?”

“A nurse helped her type it on a computer. That’s an extreme case, I would guess. But you never know.”

“And my grandpa’s being agitated...” Claire adds. “Does that mean I shouldn’t press?”

“If he
wants
to say something? I would think he’d be more upset if you didn’t address it. But what do I know? I’m still a rookie.”

One who makes a whole lot of sense, she thinks.

After Hank leaves for the Twin Cities, Claire returns to Grandpa’s den. Using his scanner, she photocopies the newspaper article then opens the bottom desk drawer to re-file the original.

She thumbs through the folders until she reaches the tab labeled ‘Dawn.’ Behind it, she spots one she’d missed: ‘Dawn - Medical.’ She retrieves the folder and leafs through it until a stack of faded receipts falls to the floor, each with the heading,
Midwest Mental Health Network.

Mom was in therapy?

She flips through the receipts, struggling to wrap her mind around what they reveal: her mother was in therapy for at least a year, starting with an intake session on November 17th, 1986—weeks after Claire’s birth. And her therapist was none other than Dr. Marsha Swenson.

Chapter Thirty

She awakes to scuffling sounds. He’s returned.

She opens her eyes and sees him searching the area around her—on the floor below the bed, beneath her covers. She pretends to sleep as he forages, she presumes, for wetness. Any sign of the beverages he’d left for her with explicit instructions: drink them, every drop. She’s as astonished as he is that she managed to not only consume them, but keep them down.

Finally, he stops hunting for evidence, because, for once, there was none to hide. Not of the beverage, anyway. But the knife she’s been using on the clasps still tucked beneath her pillow, makes her feel like an ugly version of the princess and the pea.

When he transfers her to the other bed to change her bedpan, she’s certain he’ll discover it. All of her meticulous planning and diligent work—one foolish slip-up could ruin it all. She lies on the adjacent bed, predicting how he might react. Will he turn toward her, enraged? Use it on her? Simply keep or hide it? Someone must be looking out for her, though, for he never touches her pillowcase.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says before he leaves. She’d wanted to ask him whether the additional beverages and extra sleeping pills meant he was leaving for a longer time. But something about his disposition makes her especially anxious, leaves her too afraid to ask. She’s noticed something different, an eagerness she’d seldom seen in him before. Perhaps that’s why he missed the knife... Rushed, his mind focused elsewhere.

Now that he’s gone, she recalls other times he seemed eager—the first time he added peroxide to her hair, the day he began altering her wardrobe, swapping her jeans and sneakers out for flouncy dresses and high heels. He’d looked at her as though she were his canvas, the apparel and dye his paints.

She learned quickly that the alterations were not gifts for her, as he’d suggested, but his own obsession, his self-serving treats. He was also eager yesterday, as he looked at the woman’s photos then bustled about the basement with medical equipment, the papers at his desk, the added bed... He is focused on a project; she knows that much for sure. And like his last project, dressing then treating her like a “woman,” the results won’t be good.

She retrieves the knife, her heart still pounding from the close call. If he’d found it...

Stop
. He hadn’t. No use worrying. It’s time to forge ahead.

She slips it back into the clasp. She finds the proper angle more easily this time; her practice is paying off. Moments later, like a tight jar that’s been loosened after excruciating attempts, she feels a subtle pop. A release. She glances to her side and notes the clasp that kept the right side of her torso stationary now dangles at the end of the strap.

 
She’s overwhelmed with a sense of hope. Soon, she’ll be set free.

She quivers as she swallows the last chalky sip of her third shake in the last twenty-four hours—more calories than she’s consumed on purpose in months, perhaps years. The aftertaste lingers, as though it has permanently stained her teeth, the roof of her mouth, her tongue. Or is she imagining it?

She’d done the opposite years ago. As a child, when they ran out of her favorite ice cream she’d visualize the chocolate marshmallow swirls until her daydreams, her fervor, instilled its taste. Anguish might work in similar ways.

Though the calorie-rich beverages trigger emotional pain, she knows that she must consume them. Amid the nausea and heartache they inspire, she can feel them adding strength to her body. She’s committed to her pact—eat now, diet later. She reminds herself that freedom is worth everything, even obesity.

Chapter Thirty-One

Claire scours the breakfast dishes in her grandparents’ kitchen, feeling as heated as the sudsy water. She wonders which perturbs her more—the fact that her grandparents never revealed Mom’s therapy with Dr. Marsha or that Dr. Marsha didn’t. Patient confidentiality, she gets it. But the therapist must know more about Mom than she disclosed. In other words, she lied.

Her cell phone buzzes from the table—the hospital. Why would they call so early, unless... She clutches the phone, aware that her world might collapse in a moment.

“This is Claire Fiksen.”

“He’s awake.”

“Oh, Grandma. He
is
?” She feels some of the tenseness ease from her body. She’d better not be dreaming. “That’s great news! Is he doing okay? What did the doctor say?”

Grandma stutters, a sign Claire is moving too fast. “He’s awake,” she repeats.

Those couple of words inspire boatloads of hope. “This is fantastic, Grandma. Thanks for calling. I’ll be there soon.”

Claire takes a cab to the hospital. Later on, she’ll catch a bus back to the city. Once she arrives there, a nurse leads her to her grandfather’s room and then leaves. Through the open door, she spots Grandma seated in a chair by the window, a ball of yarn at her feet, long needles in her hands.

Recovery unit, Grandma knitting
—both positive signs.

“Hi Grandma.”

“Hello dear.” CC stays focused on her handiwork as Claire approaches and kisses her cheek.

She moves to Grandpa’s bedside, her heart racing. “Hi Gramps.”

He opens his eyes slightly and looks at her as though observing a stranger. Not the welcome she’d anticipated, but she’s pleased.
He’s awake.

“Grandpa, it’s me...Claire.” She grasps his hand, feels a slight responsive squeeze. “You hanging in there?”

He continues to stare, his face stoic. He reminds her of an infant about to utter his first word. Though the ideas are there, he lacks necessary skills.

“It’s all right,” she says. “You don’t have to say anything. Save your strength.”

But he seems eager to communicate. He opens his mouth. A breathy sound emerges—not quite a syllable.

“It’s all right,” she repeats. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezes her hand tighter, much as he had the previous night. This time he doesn’t let go. She tries to remain calm. “What is it, Gramps? You okay?”

“He’s fine, dear,” Grandma says. “The doctor said he’s better.”

“That’s...great, Grams.” She looks in his eyes. “You’ll be up and running around soon.” She tries to free her hand from his, but can’t. His squeeze intensifies; his eyes grow wide.

“Grandma, could you get me a cup of coffee? I could really use some, but Grandpa’s holding my hand. I’d like to stay here with him.”

“Sure, dear.” She sets her knitting on the chair and heads toward the door.

Though guilt strikes her for asking her frail grandmother to run an errand, she needs the alone time. Once she’s left, Grandpa opens his mouth again. Still, no sound.

“Grandpa, do you understand me? If you do, squeeze my hand.” His grip eases, then tightens. “Good. Do you know why you’re in the hospital?” Another squeeze. “Do you...like broccoli?” No squeeze; she smiles. “What about fishing?” He squeezed again. “Good...” She was getting somewhere.

“Do you want to tell me something?”

He squeezes—hard.

“Is it about you? Your health?”

Nothing.

“Is it...about me?”

Yes.

“Does it involve Mom?”

Yes
. A tighter squeeze.

“And Dad?”

Another.

“Does it involve our talk on the lake? My dad’s...mental problems?”

He squeezes even harder.

“Grandpa, whatever problems he had, I don’t have them. Even if I did, I’d take care of it. I’m a therapist, remember? I have lots of resources. Nothing bad is going to happen to me. Do you understand? Whatever it is—please don’t worry.”

She pauses, her jumbled mind unable to conjure additional questions.
Come on...think
. “Is there something you want me to do?”

His grip tightens; she feels her knuckles crunching together. “Grandpa, I don’t know what to do... Please let go. You’re scaring me.”

He opens his mouth again then releases her hand, seemingly drained of energy. Grandma will return soon. She watches as his eyes blink slower, slower, as though he might doze off.

Unsure whether she can handle any more of this, she grasps his hand again. “I’m seeing Dr. Marsha, my old therapist. Do you think that’s a good idea?” She figures if nothing else, he might worry less knowing she’s sought guidance. Telling him what she learned about Mom’s therapy seems futile.

Rather than respond with a squeeze, his hand moves, positioned as though grasping an object. Is it a spasm? Should she call for a nurse? No—his movements aren’t erratic. He appears to be...writing something.

Claire finds a pad and pen in her purse. She places the pen in his hand; he grips it. Holding the paper below the pen, she helps him tap it, showing him it’s there. He makes a grumbling sound.

He squeezes the pen, moves it about the page.
That’s it, Gramps
. He draws a line, then a curve—the letter ‘D’ is what it looks like.

“D,” Claire says so he could hear. His scrawl loops up, as though starting another letter. Then, his hand froze, seemingly stuck. “‘D’ for...” She tries to help him. “Dawn?”
Mom.
..

His hand goes limp. “Grandpa?”

He releases a faint grumbling sound then his breathing grows deeper. She’s exhausted him to sleep.

In case he can still hear her, she leans in and says softly in his ear, “I love you, Gramps. Thank you for talking to me. Whatever you’re concerned about, I promise I’ll make it okay.”

She kisses his cheek then sits down, staring at the message. Hank was right. Grandpa does want to convey something. But Claire was right, too. Whatever he’s desperate to tell her, it’s far from good.

Chapter Thirty-Two

As she slips the knife into the fourth and final clasp, her tremors stem not from weakness or exhaustion, but from joy. She moves the knife in a particular way until, as simply as lifting the tab on a soda can, it opens. She sits for a moment, stunned, physically able to move from the bed but struggling to believe it.

She’s done it, finally—her first major step toward freedom. If she had more strength she might jump, dance...perhaps squeal. She hasn’t felt this elated since she learned how to purge.

Easy, she prods. Dizziness threatens as she sits upright then lowers her feet to the floor. Her first few steps give the feeling of stepping out of roller skates after hours in the rink. She’s only done it once, but she’ll never forget that sensation. A feeling of freedom—connectedness to your feet and the ground after hours of separation. In this case, days.

She listens for sounds, any sign he’s returned. Though eager, she must stay focused.

She’s lost track of the time, but senses she has at least several hours. It doesn’t seem he’s been gone as long as he was last time, and two more shakes remain to be eaten. If she hears a sound, notes any sign of his presence, she’ll move quickly. She’ll re-connect the bottom straps first. If he enters before she’s finished, she’ll lie and tell him she undid the top two for some urgent reason. She can’t let him discover she’s been up and walking around; that could ruin everything. For now, it’s time to press on. Every passing second is one closer to his arrival.

Knife in hand, she continues walking until she reaches his desk. She’s chilled and cautious as she investigates, afraid to touch anything, as though one fingerprint might alert him of her rebellion. Even scanning the desktop with her eyes feels illicit.

Open the drawers, she prompts, then grasps the handle of each with a trembling hand.