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.
“Absolutely.” Claire plunges her fork into her green beans, using her peripheral vision as her guide. The fear is usually greater than the consequence, she tells herself like she tells her clients. If she just eats, her fears will dissipate.
“How was work today?” Grandpa asks. “How are them patients of yours?”
“Work was good.” She decides against mentioning the party, and especially the cake. “Patients are doing well. I’ll be starting with a couple of new ones soon.”
“That’s good. Smart that the clinic uses you. They don’t know how lucky they are.”
Grandma nods toward the uneaten pork roast. “Don’t you like it?”
“I do, it’s…amazing.” She hates lying. She feels Grandma’s eyes as she lifts a forkful to her mouth. Her nostrils seem to close involuntarily; her teeth clench.
“Whatever happened with that friend of yours?” Grandpa asks. “What’s his name? Hal?”
“Hank,” she says. Breathe, breathe!
“Oh yeah, Hank. What’s he do again?”
Grandpa’s chewing seems amplified—saliva sloshing like ocean waves, his tongue flopping around between bites. “He’s a…almost a doctor.”
Grandma still watches her. Claire places the pork in her mouth and moves it to the inside of her cheek, trying not to taste it.
“A doctor, eh? Would be nice to have one a those in the family,” Grandpa says.
As he reaches for his water glass Claire tries to spit the pork into her napkin. Instead, it catches in her teeth and falls to the back of her mouth.
Her throat tightens like a flytrap. She leans forward and cups her hands over her mouth.
“Claire-belle? What’s wrong?” Grandpa asks.
She darts from the table, knocking her knee against the oak stand that held her great-grandmother’s vase. It falls to the floor, shattering.
As she runs through the backyard fruit trees, the chilled air sends her tears streaming all over her face. Tree branches prick her skin. Dried leaves crunch beneath her feet like fragile skeletons. She runs and runs as though fleeing from something—or someone.
The dizziness intensifies until she’s overwhelmed. Black spots fill her vision. She reaches for a tree for balance, but it’s too late. Her world goes black.
Chapter Eight
She continues her pretend-sleep, wondering what he’s up to. After another round with the blood machines, several hours if her estimation is right, he detached her and has remained at his desk, fixated on...something. His silence peaks her nerves. What she’d give for some sound—television, anything to keep her company. He’s not even playing his wretched music...
She observes him at his desk, noting his attire—slacks, a dress shirt. Is he leaving for work? The notion should please her; she misses the days he departed often. But the multiple changes alarm her—his clothes, his extreme focus while he works at his desk, the fact that it must be daytime, yet he hasn’t forced her to eat. For years he’s forced food in her—without exception. She doesn’t want the calories, of course, but her mouth is dry like paper. Will she only receive blood from now on? Maybe that’s why he’s dressed for work; blood is in plentiful supply at the hospital. And what is he working on so diligently? Perhaps it’s all part of her treatment. In all the time she’s spent studying weight control, she now wishes she’d learned something about kidneys.
To fill the time, she contemplates new strategies. She doesn’t have the same freedom she had when he allowed her upstairs, but she has something new: his frequent absence. He’s been on a mission, too, it seems—something that requires time spent away. And because of it, she’s gained a mirror.
<
br /> She took it on impulse after he left it on her bedside table yesterday then stashed it under her mattress. The thought pleases her. It’s nice to have something of her own. Plus, she’d gotten away with concealing it—a skill she was afraid she’d lost. Could a mirror help her escape? Perhaps not. But she must stay vigilant, ready for any opportunity.
She imagines reaching for the mirror, smashing it into several pieces. Him, hovering over her from various angles. Her, reaching below for her self-concocted knife. A large glass shard in her hand, poised at his face, stomach or neck. Or maybe his eyes—end the gaze she loathes for good. If he lets her out again...
Hopefully she would have enough strength—physically and emotionally—to follow through. If she manages to free herself from the basement she must be prepared to use whatever tools she can access in any necessary way.
Once she steps out of this house, she will flee. She doesn’t know where she’ll go—how can she? She’s not even sure where she is. But those details are secondary. What matters most is her freedom. She’ll be gone, away, liberated like the birds in the sky and the deer that once led her to the cabin.
She winces audibly as a sharp pain strikes her side. He rushes to her bedside; she must be more careful.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, seeming more concerned than angry.
“Nothing...I’m just thirsty. May I have some water?”
As he walks to the freezer along the far wall, she has an idea. Quickly, she retrieves the mirror from beneath her bed, holds it so she can see his computer monitor. What is he looking at so intently?
He returns—too quickly. She replaced the mirror just in time.
He places an ice cube in her mouth. “You can have that for now.”
Why an ice cube? It doesn’t matter. For now, she’s eager for hydration. She savors the frozen water as he checks her vitals, examining the images she glimpsed on his screen.
They were pictures of a woman—not posed photos, certainly not portraits. They were snapshots, slices of life. A woman walking across the street, sitting at a table at a...restaurant? Standing in a group of people, holding food of some sort. She couldn’t see the face, but she’s fairly certain they all showed the same woman. If only she could examine them close up...
Though innocent seeming, something bothers her about the photos, perhaps because they’re HIS pictures. Innocence isn’t his game. They remind her of something, perhaps a movie or television program she’s seen... Voyeuristic—that’s what they seemed.
He has been, or is, watching someone.
“Is the pain worse?” he asks.
She shakes her head, though truthfully it’s much worse. She’s learned to rise above it most of the time, the way she does when he takes her to bed. If he deems her condition improved, he might let her out of the basement. Just...maybe.
As he presses gently on her back and lower side, stabbing pain radiates through her body, so intense it takes all of her will to withhold a reaction. But she manages to, swallowing it deftly with her mind. It’s just a sensation. Good practice, she thinks. She may need to strengthen all of her skills to escape.
He presses again, moving his fingers to various spots on her lower back and abdomen. Every area he touches feels painful and raw. She clenches her teeth, resisting the tenderness, trying to lure her thoughts away from her body. But when he touches a particular spot on her back, she gasps. It’s as though the glass shard she imagined has moved from her mind to inside of her, grating against her insides with its jagged edge.
He grasps her forearms, one in each hand, using more gentleness than normal. But the vehemence in his eyes is stronger than ever. “I am going to save you.”
Not ‘help,’ she notes. Not ‘cure.’ Whatever is wrong with her is worsening. For once it’s he who is afraid. Deathly afraid, for her life.
Chapter Nine
She tries to open her eyes but the light hurts them. Her head aches. She lies on her back…somewhere. A hospital?
“Claire, can you hear me?”
A man’s voice jolts her. Wait. She knows that voice. “Dr…Travers?” Her voice sounds hoarse, distant.
“That a girl,” he says.
“Is she awake? Claire?”
“Gramps.” She opens her eyes slowly and is struck by déjà vu. She’s been in this office numerous times when she was younger, for everything from booster shots in kindergarten to annual exams. Grandpa likely asked the same question when she woke after her appendectomy.
“Why am I… What happened?” A memory flashes in her mind, something frightening but elusive. Before anyone can answer, she remembers: meat, fear, running. Was there something else?
“Seems you had some kind of reaction and panicked a bit,” Dr. Travers says. “Do you remember anything?”
“I ate something…and I was running…outside I think?” She’d run in fear, but of what?
She recalls the dizziness, the darkness.
Her heart races. “Did I fall?” She feels her face and head for wounds or bandages then examines her body. Nothing.
“You did, then you fainted,” the doctor replies. “No broken bones or external injuries, which is a blessing. Do you recall how you felt beforehand? Any swelling? Itching or nausea? Tightening in your throat?”
“All of that, I think…except maybe itching.”
“How did you feel before dinner?”
“I…felt fine.”
Dr. Travers nods and makes notes on her chart. “Could’ve been an allergic reaction or some kind of intolerance to something that you ate.”
“Really? I’ve never had any allergies.”
“It could’ve been a bad batch of something or a particular food you didn’t know you were sensitive to. We’ll get you in for some tests in a couple of days. Until then, best if you don’t eat or drink anything out of the ordinary. If you can remember what you ate recently, that would be helpful, too.”
The cake. She has no desire to discuss it.
Dr. Travers gives her a referral to a digestive specialist in Minneapolis and a prescription for pain pills. “Just in case,” he tells her.
“Appreciate your seein’ us so late,” says Grandpa.
“My pleasure.” Dr. Travers looks at Claire. “Get some rest now.”
Claire thanks him and they head to Grandpa’s car. As she climbs in, she realizes that she has no recollection of the drive to the clinic. She shivers. Such loss of control makes her uncomfortable.
She stares out at the starry sky as Grandpa drives, then glances at the clock—ten o’clock?
“You sure you’re all right?” he asks.
“Yeah, just…embarrassed.”
“For what? Wasn’t your fault.”
“Is Grandma okay? I hope she doesn’t think her cooking had anything to do with this. I’ll replace the vase.”
“That ugly thing? I should thank you. And CC’ll be fine. You know her. She’ll be good as new in the morning, like nothing happened. Claire, I know the doc said it might be allergies, but other than that, is everything all right? Anything you wanna talk about?”
“You mean…was I thinking about Mom and Dad? I always do, this time of year especially.” Was he alluding to the ten-year anniversary? She decides not to mention it.
He reaches over and squeezes her hand. “They’d be mighty proud of you, ya know…all the people you help. Still remember your momma’s face the first time she held you. So proud.”
Claire pictures her mother, seventeen years old and pregnant, smiling down at her protruding belly. She closes her eyes and senses her perfume lingering in the air. Thanks, Mom. She needed to feel her tonight.
They return to an immaculate house—table cleared, food put away, all surfaces shiny and kissed with lemon. Grandma is likely asleep.
“You hungry?” Grandpa asks. “I can make you a sandwich or some tea if you like. We still have birthday cake.”
“I should probably call it a night. Can you wake me at six?”
“
Sure thing.”
“Thanks again…for everything.” She kisses his cheek and walks toward the stairs.
“Any time. But next date, let’s go somewhere more exciting. Whaddya say?”
“Deal.” She smiles.
She tiptoes up the stairs to avoid waking Grandma and flicks the light on in her room. A small package sits on her pillow. Beneath the shiny blue paper she finds a framed photo of her mother—pregnant, just as she’d envisioned. A small card reads “Happy Birthday, Claire-belle. Love, Gramps.” He’s given her the perfect gift. She sets the photo on her nightstand, changes into flannel pajamas then climbs into bed, longing for sleep.
But the moment she closes her eyes, the sensations return: the brisk night air, the desperation, the terror.
She feels herself falling. No!
She bolts upright, her heart pounding. She reaches for the photo, holds it to her chest. Then, as though guided by Mom, a fond memory surfaces. The summer before the fourth grade, she had a nightmare at sleep-away camp. She’d gone to the camp’s office and phoned her mother, hoping she’d speed to Lake Milaca and retrieve her.
“I don’t have to come get you for you to feel safe,” Mom had said. “Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, remember? Home is right there with you, Claire-belle. I’m there, Grams and Gramps are there. You need to stay and have fun so you can tell us about your adventures when you come home.”
Her words soothed her then―and now. She rests her head on her pillow, amused by the film that plays in her head: she as Dorothy, Zola as Toto, Grandpa as the lion—though not cowardly―and Grandma, Auntie Em. Her mother, the good witch, floats above as their angelic supervisor.
She smiles. “Love you, Mom. Think you can keep watching over us tonight?”
Claire drifts toward sleep, sensing that she will.
Chapter Ten
He sits in his car, marveling at his good fortune, listening to Vivaldi’s “Spring.” Appropriate, he thinks, and increases the volume. The very night he chooses to drop by good old Gil’s home, Claire’s car is parked outside.
In Her Shadow Page 3