In Her Shadow (15 page)

After a page of general information—her mother’s age, birth date, address and medical history—Dr. Marsha’s notes begin. Claire scans each page quickly, barely breathing.

Seventeen years old, mother of one-month-old baby girl (Claire)... PT expressed stress over schoolwork, ability to manage motherhood and education. Curious about her role in life, her future. Seems to have taken to motherhood—her top priority
—
yet seems guarded. Discomfort/sadness when asked about William (fiancé), seems unwilling (not ready?) to discuss. Underlying depression? No mention of insomnia, as per noted by father.

Words under the heading ‘Background’ stand out like braille to the blind:

PT’s father found and read her diary, which expressed plans to run away, refusal to marry. PT seemed defiant/secretive/unwilling to disclose details. Argument over reading the diary led to compromise: PT would talk to a professional, if not to father. (PT refused to discuss these matters upon intake.)

Mom planned to run away? Why? To avoid marrying Dad? What about him saddened her? They always seemed happy together, in love.

She recalls her grandpa’s words: “He had some...mental problems...” Did these “problems” cause Mom to fear marrying him? And damn it, what were they?

Then again, Mom was young—extremely. Depressive moods, anxiety and sleep problems seem like natural reactions for a seventeen-year-old girl launched from youth to adulthood after a night of passion. The proverbial “cold feet” could have struck her as they do many brides-to-be.

She reads the file again, wishing she had subsequent installments. If only she could go back in time, make like a fly on the wall, hear her mother’s words, confessions and revelations. But the file and session with Dr. Marsha are all she has for now.

Hopefully they won’t lead to jail time.

Claire resumes driving, her thoughts ping-ponging between Dr. Marsha’s words and the file, each statement triggering a slew of questions. Who did her mother plan to meet the day they died? And what was this important matter he planned to discuss? Though grateful to have learned more, the session left her with more questions than answers.

And her own issues remain as cloudy as whole milk. Maybe stress does underlie her dreams. But that doesn’t explain their content, or the disordered eating symptoms she thought for certain were linked to Mom.

Maybe you’re just fat
, a voice echoes in her head, startling her.

Whose
voice? Why is this happening? She shakes her head, but the thoughts stay planted. She glances in the rearview mirror.

Face it. Stop looking for excuses.

She glances at her thighs, observing the way her flesh spreads horizontally on the car seat—symbols of her failure.

Well
, the voice prompts,
do something about it
.

Her watch reads 1:40; she has some time before her session with a patient. She pulls to the side of the road, blocks away from Peterson. Telling herself she’s simply alleviating stress, she steps out of her car and begins walking, then running—the edges of her work shoes grinding blisters into her heels. She pounds her feet, moving with urgency, expelling her anger on the pavement.

She makes round after round of the downtown streets until the chill relieves her perspiring skin and blood seeps from her blisters. Feeling her pulse on her neck, she confirms she is in her desired heart zone—
ninety calories burned every ten minutes
.

She checks her watch.
Come on. Move it!
She’s barely burned one apple.

Eight minutes before the start of her session, she stops, breathless, outside the clinic, waiting for her heart rate to slow. She feels exhausted, pained...successful. Her first sense of peace in days.

“Claire,” Sykes greets her as she steps inside the clinic. “You all right? You look flushed.”

“Yeah, I went for a walk. Great way to let off steam.” She smiles and tries not to wince. Every step has felt like bee stings on her heels.

“Sorry to hear about your grandfather. How’s he doing?”

“Better, thanks. They moved him out of intensive care.”

“That’s wonderful news. Say, you haven’t heard from Farrah lately, have you?”

“No, why?”

“She didn’t show up to work yesterday or today. No warning to anyone.”

“That’s weird,” Claire says. “Has anyone contacted her loved ones?”

“Haven’t been able to locate any. If you hear anything, let me know. I’ve called the police as a precaution.”

In the restroom she removes her shoes and peels away her socks, the cotton fabric sticking to the bloody spots. Rinsing her feet, she ponders Farrah, realizing how little she knows of her coworker. Who are her loved ones? What is her life like? Lately it seems Claire knows more about her patients than people in her own life. She places tissue on her heels before heading to her office.

The release from her run carries her through two sessions, almost surpassing caffeine in effectiveness; it definitely beat food. It didn’t, however, keep her stress over Mom’s file at bay. After her last patient calls to cancel, she opens it again.
Refusal to marry
....

She retrieves a photo of her parents from her desk drawer, for the first time sensing distance between them. Dad’s arm is draped over Mom’s shoulders, but Mom doesn’t hold him back. Is she imagining it? Were her parents forced to marry, being only seventeen? In small town, conservative-minded Hastings, she wouldn’t be surprised.

She can’t take not knowing any longer. She picks up the phone and dials Dr. Marsha. As the phone rings, she wonders what she’ll say. How can she inquire without giving the fact that she took the file away?

Feeling heated, she stands. The room tips as though she’s caught in a sea storm or suffering from intense vertigo. She grasps the back of her chair for balance.

“Hey Claire.” Bonnie pokes her head into her office. “Sorry, is it a bad time?”

Claire wipes the concerned look from her face and forces a smile. “No. Come in.”

“Marnie Thompson brought these as thanks for her treatment. I think they’re fresh out of the oven.” She carries a plate of brownies.

The smell of cocoa fills the room as Bonnie moves closer. Claire’s dizziness rages. Her heart races; her throat tightens. She can’t speak or scream.

When her eyes meet the plate, thoughts of her parents, and the accident, join forces with the ingredients on the plate. The world seems to fall away. Her eyes lock onto a cheesecake-topped brownie at the plate’s center. Eggs, cheese, butter...

Why do you fucking care? It’s just food!

She watches as Bonnie moves closer, panic in her eyes.

“Mom!”
she hears herself cry. Her body seems weightless as her legs buckle beneath her.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“So what happened exactly?” Claire moves to an upright position in the bed and looks at Dr. Bergen, the mid-forties doctor who’s been treating her.

She awoke at United Hospital in Minneapolis, unsure what she remembered and what she merely dreamed. According to Hank, after passing out at the clinic she was rushed to the emergency room where she remained unconscious for several hours. Bonnie, having the wherewithal not to contact her grandmother, phoned him immediately.

Considering the situation and the panic she experienced just prior, she feels unusually calm. And, she notes, hungry.

“It seems you suffered from hypoglycemia. In severe cases, low blood sugar can cause loss of consciousness. Do you recall what you ate and drank beforehand?” He pulls a pen from his breast pocket to jot notes.

Hank’s watchful eyes feel like policemen’s flashlights in the movies. “I…hardly ate anything all day, or lately really, other than coffee and Diet Coke.” She pauses. “I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

“Yes, your friend here told me,” the doctor says. Claire smiles subtly at Hank. He barely knows the half of it. “Sorry to hear of your grandfather’s stroke.”

“Thank you.” As the doctor explains further details of her condition her thoughts turn to the IV machine hooked to her arm. Though nearly identical to the contraption that triggered panic in Grandpa’s room, it doesn’t alarm her. And for once she feels unafraid of food.

“I’d like to keep you overnight for monitoring purposes,” Dr. Bergen finishes. “If everything checks out, as I presume it will, you can return home first thing tomorrow. And no more skipping meals or I suspect I’ll see you again shortly.”

“Girl scout’s honor.” She smiles, raising her hand in three-finger salute.

As the doctor leaves, Hank approaches her bedside. “You gave us quite the scare, missy. Sure you’re feeling better?”

“Positive.” In fact, she feels better than she has in weeks. But why? “Is it normal to feel this great after having a blood sugar attack?”

Hank smiles. “Once it’s fixed, absolutely. Nothing feels better than getting all of your levels back to normal. You were probably dehydrated, too. They had you on oxygen earlier. Food, water, air... Not things generally considered optional.”

“Well I think it’s safe to say I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Can I get you anything?” Hank adds. “Doctor said I can stay until nine-thirty, which gives me…” He glances at his watch. “…about half an hour.”

Too little time to get into the day’s events, she decides. And besides, she’s exhausted in mind and body. She longs for normal food and conversation—no secrets to uncover, no paranoia to pursue.

“Is it okay for me to eat with this thing on?” She lifts her IV-attached arm. “I could really go for some pizza or something, if the cafeteria’s still open.”

He grins. “Thatta girl. Eating should be fine. I’ll go check it out. Anything else?”

“Mmm…Coke. Make it a regular.”

Once Hank steps out she reaches for the phone and calls the Hastings hospital. Grandpa remains stable—sleeping and no notable changes. Grandma, too, seems fine.

Hank returns toting plastic-wrapped somethings. “Sorry...no pizza. But I got the next best thing... Pastrami on sourdough from the vending machine. If you close your eyes, it almost tastes like pepperoni. At least that works for me during night shifts. And here’s your
pop
.” He hands her a red can.

“You’ve got the terminology down. I’m impressed.”

Though her recent food angst and panic episodes bring anxiety, she feels compelled to eat. It will strengthen you, her inner voice chides, sounding more like her own voice than the monstrous ED tone of earlier. Improved blood sugar seems to be benefitting her in numerous surprising ways. Or perhaps she senses the need for strength in the coming days—if she decides to investigate further, that is.

Once she begins eating, she’s glad she listened to her inner voice; her famished belly welcomes the meal. They dine on faux-pizza, sipping Cokes and chatting with ease until it is time for Hank to leave.

“So around nine tomorrow?” he asks.

“You’re picking me up?”

“Were you planning to hitchhike?” He smiles. “Of course I am.”

“Oh...but can you make it eight? No...seven?” Her to-do list spins open like Santa’s scroll in her mind:
walk Zola, shower, see Dr. Marsha, if possible
...

“I almost forgot,” Hanks said. “Bonnie said not to worry about work tomorrow. She said to call when you feel up to it and to take as much time you need
. She cleared it with Sykes.”

“But Doc said first thing in the morning—”

“Stop.” He places a finger to her lips. “You need...to...rest. Didn’t you hear what the doctor said? Good thing I was here as a witness. Want me to check in on Zola?”

Her relieved grin is answer enough. “What did I do to deserve you?” She retrieves her keys from her purse and hands them to Hank.

“Uh, besides the fact that I rather like you? I seem to recall a certain someone putting up with odd hours and endless nightshifts, helping me cram for finals and...who was it that waited on me hand and foot when I sprained my ankle playing basketball?”

“That’s right,” Claire says. “In that case, mind cleaning my apartment while you’re at it?”

“Let’s not push it. The alarm code still her name?”

“It is. Thanks. And Hank, about the other night...”

“What, you mean seducing me then throwing me off the bed?” He smiles. “I told you, I’m over it. Just... rest.”

“Yes, doctor.” She sighs and drops her head to her pillow. “It’d better be worth it.”

“Good night.” Hank shakes his head, kisses her forehead then flicks the main light off as he exits.

She moves into a comfier position—or tries. At least the pillows are soft.
I wish I may, I wish I might, have only happy dreams tonight…

The two women hold hands as they walk through a sunlit forest. Claire has never felt so close or connected to anyone. How she adores her best friend. She inhales a waft of spring-fresh air—sweet, perhaps the smell of berries. The lush green grass pokes at and tickles her toes through the gaps in her sandals. She glances at the pair of female feet walking with matching stride beside hers. She smiles. It’s odd, but comfortable, that they don’t need words. Their communication is deeper, as though they share the same mind, heart and soul.

As the pair continues to walk in sync, a breeze catches their hair. When Claire first glimpses the woman’s face, she’s startled, them calm...perhaps more than she’s ever been. Elle! She would have recognized her sooner, but she’s lightened her hair, and the bright sun made it difficult to see her face.

They lock eyes. She’s beautiful, Claire thinks, filling up with pride. So delighted for her kindred spirit, she feels her bliss and beauty are equally her own. Claire brushes her arm against a sharp tree branch; the woman grimaces, then laughs. “At least we’re sharing.”

The two walk farther and Zola appears. She rushes to Claire’s feet, then to her friend’s, then back at her. Her eyes dart back and forth—anxiously? Perhaps Zola needs a friend, too—another animal to share her heart.