In Her Shadow (6 page)

A surprising calmness fills her as an idea fills her mind: a plan of escape, a mission all her own. Can she manage it? Is it worth trying? She has nothing more to lose...

Touching her reflection, she makes a silent oath. She’ll give the plan her all, no matter what. No matter how hard it gets. The first step... It’s a hard one.

She sits up, waits for the dizziness to pass, the spots to clear from her vision.
You can do this, she prods.
Slow and steady... Pushing her palms down on the mattress for stability, she swings her legs off the side of the bed until they touch the ground.

Standing slowly, one hand braced on the mattress, she takes a slow breath, waits out a new wave of lightheadedness. Then she gathers her strength and walks to the top of the stairs.
This is it—no turning back.
She leans toward the locked door, places a chilled hand on the wooden surface.

“Love? My love?” she calls out.

The words feel toxic in her mouth. She hasn’t called him ‘Love’ since she realized that what he was doing to her was wrong.

“Love…” She taps on the door and calls him again. She listens, hears footsteps, moving closer.

“Darling?” His voice thrusts a rock in her gut. He’s right outside the door.

“Yes, it’s me. Can you let me out, my love? I’m hungry. Perhaps I can cook us something like I used to.” She recites the carefully composed words.

The long pause that follows fills her with dread. Is he considering her words? Is he angry?

He unlocks the deadbolt, turns the knob slowly, opens the door partway. She holds her breath. If he’s cross he’ll punish her. If he’s not...

Focus. Be brave.

“Is it really you, darling?” He speaks through the open crack.

“It really is. Please open the door. I miss you.”

He opens it fully and looks in her eyes. Fear tingles in her pores, simmering water that wants to break into a boil. She fights to hide her anxiety.

He squints, seemingly unsure whether he can trust her. He reaches out and pulls her up into the doorway, squeezing her so tightly she can barely breathe. Perhaps it’s good—she’d rather not inhale.

“Too skinny,” he says, stepping back.

Don’t let him see your fear. “
I’m all right…just a little hungry. Perhaps I’ve had the flu. But I’m better now, I promise. Why don’t I cook for you, like I used to? We’ll eat together.”

Satisfaction fills his eyes. “Meatloaf?”

“Yes!”
She’s got him.
“Meatloaf, your favorite. Potatoes, too.”

He shoves her back inside, landing her on the top stair, breathless.

“What are you doing, love?” She tries to sound calm.

“We need supplies. Stay here and rest.”

He closes the door, locks it.

She pauses in the stairway, stunned—she actually did it. She even made it through the door, farther than she’d expected. Should she have darted away?

She imagines rushing through the kitchen, out the door and into the sunshine. Or—the snow? Whatever the month or season, it isn’t time to run. Too risky, and she has many steps to go. Each one, though painful, marks another brick along the yellow brick road—her road to dreams and freedom.

For the first time in months she nearly smiles. Her plan has officially begun
.

Chapter Thirteen

“What do you mean, he
might
have been following you?” Elle asks. “Was he or wasn’t he?”

Claire walks Zola around Calhoun Park as they chat over the phone, keeping an eye out for Hank. He’d sent her a text during his night shift, inviting her to a breakfast picnic.

“Well, I didn’t actually get a good look at him. But I heard footsteps.” She shivers at the memory. “You know how you can just feel when someone’s looking at you? I felt it... Then, when I turned to look at the car behind me, the headlights flicked off and the driver got out. And I think he took a picture. Who
does
that? He sped away like a flipping maniac. I’m telling you, Elle. It wasn’t normal.”

“He took a picture of you?”

“In my direction, at least.”

“Wait, why were you at the doctor’s office in the first place?”

“My birthday wasn’t as...uneventful as I would’ve liked.” She fills Elle in on the clinic surprise party and her panic at her grandparents’ house. “I thought I was just wigged out over the anniversary until I passed out and woke up at Dr. Travers’ office. He sent me in for some tests.”

 
“My God, Claire. What do they think it is?”

“Probably nothing serious. A stomach bug of some sort.”

“Well you know what I think…”

“Too many doctors equal too many problems.” She’s heard her say it before—Elle prefers Eastern medicine.

“Right, present boyfriend exempt, unless he turns out to be an asshole. I’m telling you, yoga and green tea changed my life.”

Claire smiles. Elle surprised the both of them when she transformed from a Dorito-scarfing chocoholic to Ms. Grassroots Granola after moving to Manhattan. “True, but were you fainting among the fruit trees in your grandparents’ backyard beforehand?”

“Point taken. But you do have a stressful job. Might not be a bad idea to get some massages or take up tai chi or something. And Claire, this stalker guy... Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you’re just super stressed out and overreacting?”

Stalker guy
. Thoughts of the echoing footsteps and the car screeching off send chills over Claire’s skin. She clears her throat. “You’re probably right.”

But then why can’t she accept it? Was it simply offset by his rudeness? The shock of his behavior? Stress makes sense, she tells herself, longing to agree with Elle’s logic.

“You still there?” Elle asks.

“Yeah, sorry. Can I call you later? Hank will be here soon.”

“Second fiddle to hot doctor man, I get it.”

“Stop it, you know that’s not true.” On the contrary, she longs to have Elle here in the flesh. Now, especially.

“I’m kidding. Have fun and feel better. I’m off to the Hamptons for the rest of the weekend, that retreat I told you about. Chat next week?”

“For sure.”

“Earth to Dr. Fiksen. Anybody there?” Hank startles her. Straight off a night shift, he wears scrubs and smells of hospital disinfectant. The odor has grown on her; a symbol of their reunions after consecutive night shifts. She kisses him then holds him tightly.
Thank God you’re here
.

“Guess you missed me,” he says.

“I did.” She draws back to look at him. “How are you?”

“Good now. Brought your favorite.” He holds up a bag from Einstein Bros. Zola jumps eagerly, maybe assuming it holds dog treats. “How’s the Zola-girl doing?”

“She’s good,” Claire replies. “Gave me a workout this morning. Shall we sit?”

They move to a park bench and Hank peers into the bag. “We have...pumpernickel, cinnamon raisin, poppy seed and…blueberry.”

God, she loves blueberry bagels, from Einstein Bros. in particular. Her stomach is equal parts anxiety and eagerness as she selects one. She’s hardly eaten lately; one bagel won’t hurt...
Will
it?

Hank hands her a fresh cup of coffee and she takes a bite. Her mouth fills with excitement—like an orgasm in her mouth; it tastes so good! Slow down, she prompts. At the moment she can see herself scarfing down this bagel and several more.

She feels a flutter in her stomach—maybe nothing. She chews slowly, noting a creamy texture inside. It tastes rich...fattening. The flutter accelerates. “What’s the stuff inside?”

“Oh, that’s their latest schmear, like whipped cream cheese only better. They mix other stuff in, too...their own
special recipe
.” He bites into his bagel. Claire hesitates with hers.

“So you’ll love this one,” Hank says. “Last night a homeless person came in, swearing she was one of the Golden Girls. Remember that show? She must’ve been schizophrenic…but she really believed what she was saying. She had Sophia’s voice down pat...”

Claire tries to listen and calm herself.
It’s just fluffed up cream cheese
, something she eats often. She takes another bite. But as the food reaches her throat, her skin begins to crawl. She feels anxious, sick, something churning inside of her. Fatty, oozing, thick...

She shoots up from the bench and gives Hank Zola’s leash. “Be right back.” She hurries to the public restroom.

Braced over the toilet, she awaits vomit.
Come on... Come out already
. She’ll feel better after. Nothing happens. Her nausea increases. Tears fill her eyes. She isn’t sure she can take it.
Come out!

A lump forms in her throat but sits stubbornly below her uvula, adding to her grief. Without a thought she places her first two fingers in her mouth and presses. In a simple move, like pressing
Eject
on a computer, the bagel comes out. She examines the remnants with pride. She’s done it.

“Claire? Are you okay?” Hank calls from outside.

“I’m fine. Be right out!” Did he hear? She flushes, washes and dries her hands then steps outside.

“Did you get sick in there?” Hank asks.

She feels his eyes studying her. “I’m fine…But there’s...something I should tell you.”

She gives him a watered-down version of the episode at her grandparents’ house—more like an upset stomach than a breakdown. She doesn’t mention vomiting.

“You should’ve said something.” He touches her back. “God, did I just feed you something you’re allergic to?”

“I doubt it. I don’t know
what
I’m allergic to, if anything. I’m supposed to eat stuff I’m used to until I find out for sure. And trust me, I eat bagels all the time.”

“It was the damn schmear, wasn’t it?” He shakes his head.

“Maybe, but you’re right.” She loops her arms around him. “I should’ve told you.”

“It’s fine...as long as you make up for it.” He pulls her close.

She’s relieved to see him slip from physician back into boyfriend. “And how might I do that?” She smiles as he mumbles nonsense in her ear then kisses it. “I think I can manage that.”

“You sure you’re all right?” He steps back, feels her forehead.

“I’m fine.” She moves his hand to her lips. “Now will you please stop worrying,
doctor
?”

He shakes his head. “What am I going do with you?”

She drives to her apartment, fixating on what had happened. The nausea, the toilet, her desperation... She was going to throw up anyway, right? She’d merely helped it along. Factual or not, she can’t accept it. She imagines a patient describing similar events and feels the color drain from her face.

 
She hadn’t vomited; she’d purged.

Chapter Fourteen

Her neck is craned over the bathroom sink as toxic fumes add to her queasiness. He stands close by, yet for once she can’t smell him; even his aroma is overpowered by the stench. She tries breathing only through her mouth but tastes the chemicals. Do fumes have calories? She imagines a thick cloud of chemicals adding layers to her fat then holds her breath.

She knew this was coming; each time he begins taking her as his Love, the one he beds with, he alters the color of her hair. Why it still is so hard? It’s only temporary, she reminds herself, another step toward freedom. It isn’t what she would choose for herself, but it’s an expected part of her plan.

 
She didn’t mind the hair color the first time. Again, her thoughts leap back to just after the woman never came, after she’d tried to run away. “You’re going to look so pretty,” he’d said—no longer his “little princess,” but a “real woman…all grown up.” She ignored the odor and neck pain and imagined a gorgeous woman looking back at her from the mirror—the kind she’d seen in magazines and cosmetics commercials. Was he really making her beautiful?

When she looked in the mirror afterward, she saw not a fashion model but an apparition of herself. The amber glow of her hair had been stripped away by peroxide, leaving brittle, white straws in its place.

He consoled her, telling her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He gave her a new dress—red with white pinstripes and matching high heels. They hurt her feet, but she believed him; they made her legs look long and pretty. They dined on veggie burgers and ice cream, her favorites, and she began to wonder if this womanhood thing held merit.

He’d led her to his bedroom afterward for “something special.” With Beethoven’s
Moonlight Sonata
crooning in the background, she learned the truth: womanhood equals pain. She’s hated orchestral sounds ever since.

Was it the next day she ate the ice cream? He was away at work and she’d felt too sick to eat breakfast. When her hunger peaked later, she ventured to the kitchen. She considered heating the food he’d prepared for her—toast and eggs—then had a better idea.

She retrieved the carton of Edy’s from the freezer and ate several spoonfuls straight from the container. She felt like a rebel, a recluse and a diva all at once.

But then, she couldn’t stop. She continued eating, driven by…something, until shame replaced her joy and the frozen cream numbed her throat. When she finished the half-gallon she sat on the floor, sobbing. She couldn’t even rebel correctly.

She didn’t eat the rest of the day, first from fullness then from guilt. The next day, she attempted to starve herself as punishment. But after he left for work it happened again. This time, Ben & Jerry’s.

As her body expanded, she wasn’t sure which she feared most—fatness or pregnancy. It didn’t matter; she’d done research on the internet and learned that calorie restriction could fix both.
She must not have been pregnant, she decided later, as it took a long time to hone her dieting skills. Back then having a child was the last thing on her mind. Even so, she might have preferred it to food-induced fatness.