In Her Shadow (3 page)

“I’m glad you don’t mind if I act a little strange tonight.” She runs her fingers through the spaniel’s fur, hoping the awkwardness is indeed temporary. Like many deaf dogs, Zola’s non-hearing senses are acute, including her emotional sensitivity. Seeming to sense Claire’s angst, she nestles extra close to her in bed.

An hour later she lies fully awake in bed. And no matter how many blankets she loads on, her body remains chilled. She spots Zola staring at her, on concerned alert. “I’m fine, girl,” she says, patting her head.

When a dose of Nyquil proves fruitless, she flicks the light on and lifts her parents’ photo from her bedside table.

“Hi guys...” Tears drip from her eyes as she squeezes the photo to her chest. “You always told me I had a ‘cry button,’ didn’t you? Well, I’m not pushing it on purpose. I just…I miss you.”

She looks at the photo, as though awaiting response. But she doesn’t need to hear the words to reap their sentiment. Her parents are here with her; they love and miss her, too.

Finally, she drifts to sleep, hoping all of her angst will pass by morning.

Chapter Six

She’s not sure if she fought him physically or merely inside her head. All she remembers is her urge to fight him, to gouge her teeth into his skin and kick him away, wishing her feet bore spikes. But she’s far too weak. At first she thought he was trying to help her when she woke long enough to interpret what he was doing. Now that she knows the truth, she can’t destroy the memory or her thoughts; they’ve become a mental plague: Sugar water. Calories. Fat-makers.

She watches as fluid flows from the machine into her punctured arm, racing through her veins like toxic bees on a mission to ruin her. She’s no doctor but she’s not foolish either. He threatened her once: “If you don’t eat, I have ways to force it into you.” She knew he’d meant the machines she’d seen at the hospital when she was small.

“What are they for?” she’d asked.

“They’re helping her eat,” he’d replied.

She feared the sharpness of the needles then. Now she dreads the liquid. Calorie-laden syrup saturates her body. She barely cares that he’s strapped her to the bed—the lesser of her problems.

How can he hurt her like this?

A memory leaps to her mind. She sat at the breakfast table, wearing the white turtleneck he’d given her for her tenth birthday. He stared at her chest in a way she’d never seen. She wondered if she’d spilled something until she looked down and saw what he had—pea-size bumps protruding from her chest. Frightened, she crossed her arms to hide them.

“Is my little girl changing?”

He finally spoke then made her stand. He placed his hands on her hips. “You know, you have your grandmother’s figure.”

She began to tremble. Grandma Fran had been round and fat. And lonely.

She’d wrapped her emerging breasts with an ace bandage and vowed to never wear light-colored, fitted shirts again. She still hasn’t. And still she’s fighting the fat, the loneliness—and HIM.

Tears drip from her eyes as she listens to the beep of the machine. He must hate her fat as much as she does.

She wonders how many calories each beep represents. Ten? Twenty? One-thousand? She quivers; it’s too much for her heart to take. Perhaps his goal is not to help or save her as he claims, but to kill her. To load her up with fat and calories until morbid obesity swallows her.

She imagines her belly and thighs growing so immense, she can’t see her shoes or what color pants she’s wearing. The fat would swallow her face, flesh folding inward until she’s blinded. At least then she couldn’t eat. Assuming she kept the needles away, not a calorie or morsel could enter. Or perhaps she’d remain huge on the outside and the lithe woman she aspires to become could swim freely in her ocean of fatness.

She dozes in and out of sleep, not knowing how long each bout lasts. A fine line stands between reality and her nightmares. If only it was all a nightmare. What she’d do to wake up in another world, somewhere with friends and laughter, where she could step outside and feel the sunshine on her skin.

The old hunting cabin fills her thoughts, the abandoned spot hidden in the trees. Uncle Bob, the nice man with the pretty dogs, showed it to her years ago. One day when she’d decided to run away, she became lost and made a secret wish, as she often did—that one, for guidance. A doe ran past, elegant like a ballerina, followed by her baby. The deer led her to the cabin. From then on it was her hiding place, her place to think, rest and dream when life grew rough. Never again did she have trouble finding it. She had so much freedom then and didn’t even know it. For over a year now, she hasn’t so much as seen the backyard. If only she could click her heels like Dorothy and return...

She hears his footsteps. With caution, she opens one eye, enough to see him without giving her wakefulness away. He’s carrying a tray topped with a pitcher and a glass. In his periphery she sees the machine. Her relief in finding she’s no longer attached to it dissipates once she spots the bags. They hang from the machine like crimson buoys, warning swimmers of dangerous terrain.

Sugar water is clear, she realizes. The bags are filled with blood.

*****

She wakes, startled. Her breath is loud and labored. It’s as though hours have passed in a blink. When did she fall asleep? Something happened just before, something awful. But what? An image of the blood bags fills her mind. The beeping machine, the needles. That’s right...

She glances at her arm. A deep magenta bruise circles a pierced red hole, like a bull’s eye. The machine is gone. If she slept through its removal, she slept too hard. On the positive side, she feels rested for the first time in weeks.

She spots him at his desk. He stands and approaches, wearing dress pants, a tie.

“How do you feel?” He asks then takes her vitals.

“All right.”

“I need to leave for a while,” he says.

“Where are you going?”

“To get help for you.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me?” He isn’t facing her but she senses a glare; he doesn’t appreciate prying. She chooses her words carefully. “I just want to know so I can help make it better.”

“Drink this.” He hands her a glass filled with thick, white liquid.

She presses her lips to the rim, pretending to sip.

“If you don’t drink it you won’t get well,” he says.

“I’ll drink it all, I promise.”

In a swift move, he angles the glass so she has no choice but to drink or turn away. Fearing punishment, she opens her mouth. Her chin trembles, her insides squirm as the chalky liquid seeps down her throat. If she had more strength, she’d fight him with her fists. Instead, she uses her only feasible weapon—cooperation.

“Thank you,” she says. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“I’m taking care of you,” he says, touching her face.

It’s the first softness she’s seen in him in some time. She figures he’s genuinely fearful for her well-being—for his own sake, of course—or sad for what he feels he must do.

“You’re crying,” he says, part statement, part question.

“I guess I’m just scared.” Perhaps her only honest statement of late.

As he leans forward to hold her, she spots a bag with papers sticking out on the chair behind him. She needs a better view. “I love you!” she yelps and holds him tighter. It works. She can’t make out most of the words, but she sees enough. The top of the book cover reads, “Kidney Transplant Protocol, American Medical Association.”

Her heartbeat quickens. What’s wrong with her kidneys?

Chapter Seven

“Grandma? Grandpa? I’m here.” Claire steps into the house, relieved that though tonight’s dinner would honor her birthday, the actual date has passed. Her relatively uneventful work day was medicinal—enough sessions to keep her busy, but no crises to magnify the lingering post-birthday fatigue. And no one, not even Farrah, mentioned the surprise bash or cake. Seeing her grandparents now seems like the perfect follow-up and wrap-up to whole ordeal.
Let life go on
...

“Well if it isn’t the prettiest birthday girl I ever set eyes on.” Grandpa Gil hobbles toward her in a way that mismatches his ebullience. His sixty-five years haven’t been good to his stature; he appears closer to seventy-five.

“More like a birthday
grownup
.” She hugs him. “But I’ll take the compliment any day.”

“Good. And I’ll reserve the right to call you my girl any day. Hope you brought your stomach. Grandma’s been cookin’ up a storm since breakfast. Hey…” He leans toward her. “…think you could pass me some buttered rolls again?”

“Maybe
one
roll. What if Grandma knows what she’s talking about?” she teases. Though butter ranks high on Grandma’s list of forbidden foods, her homemade wheat rolls are to die for, especially topped with butter.

“Good old Uncle Arvide lived to be 103,” Grandpa says. “He drank whiskey all day—”

“—and ate steak every night, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll get you one.” Claire smiles. If Uncle Arvide ever actually existed, he’s probably chuckling in his grave.

She follows the aromatic mist of pork, spiced apples and baking bread to the kitchen. Grandma CC stands at the stove, basting the roast slowly and with precision.

“Do you smell the apples, dear?” Grandma asks. “I added them to the roast this morning.”

“How could I miss them?” Her stomach rumbles as she inhales deeply again. Grandpa’s orchard-fresh apples and Grandma’s cooking are a match made in heaven, Claire’s appetite its rightful offspring. Tonight she plans to feed it. “Can I help?”

“Oh, no. I’m almost finished.”

Grandma continues her task and silence fills the room. Grandpa swears that Grandma was full of life before the accident, but Claire scarcely recalls the woman who once uttered more than small talk, sang while washing dishes, and laughed at everyone’s jokes. The first time Claire mentioned her mother after the funeral, Grandma snapped at her: “Dawn...is...
dead
. My little girl is dead! Are you trying to hurt me?” When Grandpa found Claire sobbing in her bedroom, they agreed to never mention Mom around her again. As a therapist, Claire recognizes the unhealthy nature of their agreement; at the time, it seemed the right thing to do.

In the washroom, Claire spots the scale. It lures her like a birthday horoscope—something she doesn’t much care about, yet she detests unpleasant results. With perspiring palms, she steps up onto it and closes her eyes.
Regardless of what it says, it doesn’t matter
. She hasn’t seen her weight since her physical a few months ago. Doc said her weight of 135 was “just right.”

 
She looks down.
One-thirty-eight.
After eating close-to-nothing all day, she was up three pounds? She should have at least lost water weight. Scales vary, she reminds herself. And weight fluctuates. Most importantly, it is
just a number
.

Yet she feels like she’s been socked in the stomach. Utter failure. She looks in the mirror.
Is this how you measure your self-worth now?
No way. She will not resort to teen-like insecurities or go against the very counsel she gives. Does she fear the largeness of her life? Surpassing a decade without her parents?

“Claire-belle, dinner’s on.” Grandpa’s voice.

“I’ll be right there.”
Stop analyzing and pull yourself together
, she tells herself. She closes her eyes and takes several deep breaths.
You’re fine. Everything’s fine
.

She moves to the dining room. The table is adorned with fine linens, delicate china and a simple bouquet of peonies. The famous wheat rolls circulate the table as Grandma piles roast pork and green beans almandine onto their plates.

“It all looks delicious.” Claire passes a buttered roll under the table to Grandpa.

“Sure does, my love,” he adds. “A fine spread as always.”

Grandma smiles. “The rolls have enough fiber to keep us all regular.”

From anyone else, the comment would have inspired laughter; from Grandma, it’s a simple fact.

Grandpa shoots Claire a knowing glance. “Let’s pray.”

As Claire bows her head, she glimpses the food on her plate. A subtle squeeze strikes her stomach, the beginning of nausea.
You’re fine
, she tells herself. She takes a slow breath.
It’ll pass.

“Dear heavenly father,” Grandpa begins, “thank you for this meal CC made for us, and for Claire and her birthday that we’re celebrating today…”

Claire’s thoughts whirl like particles in a snow globe: nausea, fear—MEAT, its image is plastered on the backs of her eyelids. She feels paralyzed—terrified at the thought of opening her eyes, or worse—eating.
Keep talking, Grandpa. Please don’t make me look
…

Queasiness overwhelms her. She can’t take it!

“In the name of the Holy Spirit…”

No!
She jumps to her feet.

“What’s the matter?” Grandpa asks.

“Nothing, sorry. My...foot fell asleep. I’m gonna walk it off real quick.”

She hurries to the back porch. Though the crisp air relieves her hot skin, her body trembles like an anxious leaf.
Pull yourself together, she snaps. Stop acting crazy!

She takes another deep breath and returns to the table.

“Sorry about that, weird kink in my foot. On my butt too much today, I guess.” She sits down, careful to make it look as if nothing happened.

“You sure you’re okay?” Grandpa asks. Grandma remains focused on her plate, eating one precisely cut morsel at a time.