In Her Shadow

by August McLaughlin

  She takes the elevator down to meet him at seven-thirty, noting that the dopamine rush she studied in psych courses is more than textbook jargon. Good, she thinks. She might need the feel-good chemical tonight. If only she’d had it earlier. Pushing thoughts of her birthday away she steps into the brisk air, pleased they’d decided on Galliano’s. Hot plates of pasta sound like perfect fuel for her chilled body and ravished belly. The rumble in her stomach pauses when her eyes meet Hank’s.

  “You look great,” he says. As he leans in to kiss her, she relishes his smell—some combination of fabric softener, deodorant and Crest.

  Once inside his dark green Jetta, immaculate aside from the strewn about textbooks, tenseness seeps from her body. The role of passenger brings respite after a long day.

  “Deltoid tuberosity, trochlea, greater/lesser tubercle... Catchy,” she says, reading the sticky note on his dashboard. “A love poem for me?”

  “Depends... How turned on are you by arm bones?” He shoots her a grin. “That’s my new study-at-stoplights tactic. Hopefully I won’t need cue cards after my residency.”

  A short drive and three Dave Matthews songs later they reach their destination.

  The interior of Galliano’s keeps par with its cuisine. The velvet-covered booths are nestled with enough space between them to allow for dinner-for-two intimacy. Renaissance paintings adorn the walls—mostly reprints or copies of Roselli, Martini and Ghiberti. Classical music swoons as the host leads them to a corner booth.

  A server approaches with a wine list. “I’ll take a…” Claire glances at the menu. “…Diet Coke.”

  “You sure?” Hank asks. “I was gonna order a bottle of wine.”

  “Okay, great.” Diet Coke was an odd beverage choice anyway. She prefers her soft drinks straight up—sugary syrup and all. In fact, she isn’t sure what made her order it anyway.

  “We’ll take both,” Hank says. “A bottle of Merlot and a diet soda for the lady.” He looks at Claire. “Sorry, pop.”

  “It’s easy if you think about it,” she says as the server departs. “Pop fizzes and pops. It doesn’t soda.”

  “Is that what they taught you at Harvard? That pop doesn’t soda?”

  “That and so much more,” she replies. A coy grin forms on her lips as thoughts of naughty things she hopes they’ll partake in later surface. She didn’t expect to feel enticed tonight, but she welcomes it. “Listen. I know I said I didn’t want to even mention what today is...”

  “Shit. I hope you weren’t expecting—”

  “No,” she stops him. “I meant what I said about no gifts or anything. But just so you know: I think my parents would be glad I’m here with you tonight.”

  He reaches across the table and grasps her hand. “I am, too.”

  After several minutes of perusing menus, Hank sets his down. “How was work?” he asks.

  “What?” She’s exploring the menu like a kid in a toy store. Everything looks so good! “Oh, sorry. Can we decide first? I’m just really hungry.”

  “Are you kidding? I love that you’re a girl who eats. Do you know how many in LA don’t?”

  A girl who eats. Terrific. She can think of countless descriptions she’d prefer. She imagines a tableful of lithe model/actress-types swooning over him as he eats. “Oh, Hank, you’re sooo sexy when you eat! Here, have some more!”

  As Kiki the imaginary model moves an olive from her mouth to Hank’s, Claire snaps herself out of it. She scans the menu further, salivating. One day of barely eating has enlarged her appetite several-fold, giving personal significance to the term “feast or famine.” Chicken cacciatore, goat cheese ravioli, minestrone, double crusted garlic bread...and hallelujah—flourless chocolate torte.

  “Do you like calamari?” Hank asks.

  “Are you kidding? Love it.” And she can’t recall the last time she had the pleasure. Most Minnesotans she knows prefer cod.

  The server returns and takes their order—an array of dishes no two humans could finish in one sitting, if several days.

  “I think my stomach just did the ordering,” Hank says as the server leaves.

  “In that case, your stomach is brilliant.”

  Hank laughs and lifts the wine bottle. “Top your glass?”

  “I’ll stick with Diet Coke for now.”

  The calamari arrives and Claire reaches for a piece. But the moment she touches the crumbly coating, nausea replaces her hunger. Chills coat her skin, but she’s hot, perspiring. The room seems to whirl around her. She stands.

  “You okay?” Hank asks.

  “Yeah, I, uh…I’ll be right back.”

  In the restroom, she braces herself over the sink. There must be a reasonable explanation. She can’t have food poisoning—she hasn’t eaten anything yet.

  She takes slow breaths, attempting to slow her elevated heart rate and mellow her erratic emotions. Think rationally, she encourages. Maybe even one glass of wine was too much after little food all day. Or maybe Diet Coke has goofy side effects. Or maybe...it stems from the calendar date. But it’s never made her ill before. And she felt fine minutes ago.

  Whatever the cause, she sees no choice but to pull herself together. The longer she spends in the bathroom, the more she’ll have to explain. And what would she say? Unwilling to let anything ruin her first enjoyable birthday evening in ages, she takes additional breaths and heads back to the table.

  “You okay?” Hank asks.

  “Yeah, sorry. I felt weird for a minute, but I’m fine now. I probably should’ve eaten something before the wine. Wimpy I guess.” She feels the falsity of her smile. Can he tell? Sweat dots her forehead and pools under her arms. She wipes her brow, her fingers like icicles to her temples. At least the room is dark.

  He looks at her the way Claire imagines he looks at patients—eyes squinted, his brow furrowed with concern.

  “No need to get all doctor-like on me now,” she says, maintaining her forced smile. “I’m fine. Promise.”

  He seems convinced. Now, to convince herself.

  She sips water, squeezing the glass to keep her hands from trembling, as he begins a story from his work day. Good—he’s moved on.

  “So Mrs. Kingsley, the girl’s mom, is all freaked out because she thinks she got the chicken pox from another first grader who rubbed it on her on purpose, and…”

  Claire’s heart continues to pound. She tries to focus on Hank’s words, find them intriguing as she normally does. Instead, she clings to them—a safety boat to pull her ashore. Why is she so anxious?

  When the server returns with their entrees, Claire holds her breath and looks away. Once she looks at the food display, she exhales in relief. Although not exactly eager to indulge, her nausea and nervousness have lessened, landing her at a satisfying medium—she’ll eat, but not too much.

  For the remainder of the meal, they eat and chat with ease. Once they’ve paid the bill—split equally, at Claire’s insistence—she glances at her watch and does a double take. “It’s almost eleven?”

  “Haven’t you noticed you make time fly, m’lady?” Hank asks.

  As they step outside Claire feels as though October has fast-forwarded to early January. “My God, it’s freezing.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be used to this?” He asks, seeming less affected by the temperature drop.

  “I’m serious. Doesn’t it feel colder than usual?” Is she colder because of her anxiety or more anxious because of the chill?

  “My God, your lips are turning blue. Want to wait inside while I get the car?”

  “No, it’s okay. Let’s just hurry.”

  Normally the interaction would summon romance, something like making out wildly until they were so turned on they could barely contain themselves during the drive to his or her place. They’d make passionate love until cold was the furthest thing from their bodies and minds. Now, though, Claire yearns to go home and curl up in bed beside Zola—her only desired company.

  Once he pulls up i
n front of her apartment, she kisses him in a fashion that says, “You’re terrific,” without hints of wanting more. For a moment his tender mouth lures her from her urge to call it a night. But her urge wins out.

  “Thanks for tonight,” she says, “and for being so great about everything.”

  He brushes her cheek with his thumb, a tender look in his eyes. “Want me to come up? Pour you a bath?”

  “Thanks, but I’m wiped. I’ll probably be out in ten minutes.” Careful not to let her eyes reveal her thoughts or feelings, she focuses between his left pupil and the perimeter of his nose.

  He kisses her again and she steps out of the car.

  She opens her apartment door to find Zola snoring on the sofa. Judging from her scampering feet the squirrels in doggie dreamland were giving her a run for the money. Her nose twitches as she senses Claire’s smell, causing her to wake and open her eyes. She wriggles, awaiting Claire’s approach.

  “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.