“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 Sonatacrooning 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.
He finishes applying the cold, lotion-like substance then drapes a towel around her shoulders. Her hair is clipped atop her head, heavier now from the smelly goo. He moves her to the covered toilet seat and brushes her cheek with his hand. She wants to snap at it, crush it between her teeth. But she doesn’t dare. She must sit quietly and comply.
“Stay here,” he says, then leaves and locks the door.
She glances around the room. Where exactly does he think she might go? Through the heavy walls? The locked doors? The bolted windows?
His timer buzzes and he returns. He pulls the foil pieces from her hair, brushes it then blows it dry. She closes her eyes and imagines that the heat is coming from the sun or a sauna. At least, for once, she’s warm.
He places her before the bathroom mirror, more for his benefit than hers. She looks not at her reflection but through it, staring until her features blur and all she sees are clouds.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I do.” She knows the answers to his quiz. But she isn’t lying; she does appreciate clouds.
As he guides her to his bedroom, she holds her breath. No matter what happens, don’t give up.
He hands her a fluffy pink dress, more like a child’s than a woman’s. “Put this on then come to the kitchen. I’m getting hungry, aren’t you?”
She ignores the glint in his eyes before he leaves. She looks around, pleased. She’s not only out of the basement, but alone in an unlocked room. Slowly but surely, she’s gaining his trust. The more she gains, the less strength she may eventually need to get away.
Chapter Fifteen
Claire parks her car in the lot outside Dr. Marsha Swenson’s office, hoping her wobbly legs will carry her inside. She met with Dr. Marsha weekly for two solid years after her parents died. Though contacting her former therapist seemed like the proper protocol after her purging episode, anxious butterflies inside her beg her to turn around. Once a patient, always a patient, she thinks, noting the ironic feel of turned tables.
You can handle this, she tells herself, and makes her way into the beige, brick building.
She sits in the small waiting room, tapping her foot and flipping mindlessly through a magazine until the wooden door creaks open.
“Claire, please come in.” Dr. Marsha’s voice is as soothing as she remembers.
The counselor leads her to a small room furnished with a gray sofa, a matching chair and a high-tech entertainment system. The basket of toys and shelves of colorful books hint at the youthful nature of her clientele.
“It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.” Dr. Marsha wears a familiar warm smile.
“It has. Almost eight years. I’m glad to see you, too.” Her throat tightens; she suddenly feels warm. “I, um…”
“It’s all right, take your time.” Like all good therapists, Dr. Marsha allows Claire the time and emotional space she needs.
Claire takes a self-composing breath, closes her eyes then gives her planned preamble. “First, I wanted to thank you, both for fitting me in so soon and for helping to inspire my career choice. I work as a therapist now.”
“You do? That’s wonderful. I’m not surprised. You always had strong instincts, and the ability to empathize with others, even at a young age. If I contributed in any way, I’m honored.”
Claire smiles then looks down. Just let it out, she prods herself. “It’s been ten years since the accident. And I’ve been doing well overall. But recently, I’ve had some... challenges.”
“What kind of challenges?”
Anxiety swells inside her. Admitting her behavior to herself was far easier than stating it out loud—particularly to an adult she admires. “I haven’t been feeling like myself. It’s like I look in the mirror and see someone else—someone older, unattractive and...lost. And there’s this loneliness... I wish Elle was here.”
“I remember how close you two were.”
“We still are, though she lives in New York now. But even before she moved, I felt like we should be closer. Like we should know everything about each other, think with the same head or something. I must sound ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Marsha says. “Close friendships are quite special. I sometimes think of my sister in St. Louis moments before she phones me.”
“Maybe that’s it. Since I don’t have siblings, I’ve self-appointed Elle my sister.”
Dr. Marsha smiles. “Have you discussed these feelings with her?”
“No. I guess I feel like she should know without my saying anything. I’m not even sure why I’m talking about this.”
“Had you planned on discussing something else?”
“Yes, actually.” With her eyes planted on the carpet, she briefs the therapist on the surprise birthday cake and passing out at her grandparents’ house
“Are you able to talk about your parents freely now? With your grandparents?”
“I can talk to my grandfather, but not when Grandma’s within earshot. Which she usually is.”
“I see. Well, if I were in your position, I imagine I’d feel alone, pained, perhaps frightened. When we bottle our feelings up, they don’t go away—”
“They enlarge, I know.” Did her problems stem from years of near silence? Walking on eggshells around her family? “It’s funny that I haven’t considered that.”
“It’s always easier from the outside looking in. And those of us who spend a great deal of time helping others emotionally sometimes need reminders. We all need to reach out on our own behalf—to family, friends...our own therapists.”
It strikes Claire that Dr. Marsha probably has her own therapist. She shouldn’t feel ashamed to reveal...anything. Already, the anxious balloon inside her has diminished. A bit more and she can breathe.
“I know we’re nearly finished, but there is one more thing I should mention...” She’ll address her perceived stalker another time, she decides. Elle was probably right: the man in the car wasn’t the problem, but stress. Dr. Marsha’s insight, in a roundabout way, confirmed it.
“The day after the episode at my grandparents,’ I was at the park with my boyfriend, Hank. One minute we were eating bagels and the next... I felt like I’d eaten something poisonous. I rushed to the bathroom and, when I it didn’t come out naturally, I used my finger to...help it along.” She pauses. “No, I didn’t just help it. I purged.”
She awaits Dr. Marsha’s response with clenched fists, sweat pooling under her arms.
“Have you done this before? Or since?”
Claire shakes her head. “No, but I called you right after it happened this morning, and I di
dn’t feel up to eating lunch. I think I might have if I had. And I have no clue why.”
“None at all?”
“Only a few guesses.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’d passed out due to panic that arose while eating the day before. And I have some sort of stomach bug. And this birthday was tougher than others, being the ten-year anniversary and all. What you said before, about the fear and loneliness, keeping things in... Could they inspire this type of impulse?”
“As you know, Claire, purging often has less to do with food and everything to do with emotions. Perhaps you’ve been trying to purge yourself of those difficult emotions. I wonder what might happen if you open up some to a loved one—your grandfather, for example.”
“You think my symptoms would go away?”
“They may.”
“It’s strange... I know I can go to Gramps with anything, but we’re so used to avoiding the subjects of Mom, Dad and the accident. Doing so feels a bit wrong. Like I’ll break the rules or burden him.”
“Have you considered that he might want to discuss these things? He’s been forced to bottle things up similarly, no?”
“He has... I suppose I’ve been too fixated on my end of that bargain to give his much thought.” Claire sits up straighter, feeling as though the light in the room brightened. “Talk about an a-ha moment.”
Dr. Marsha pulls out a thick, black appointment book. “That will do it for today. Would you like to schedule another session? This slot is open next week.”
Claire checks the calendar on her phone, part of her mind stuck on Grandpa, sharing a heart-to-heart about Mom. If she didn’t have patients of her own to tend to, she might race off to see him right now. “Next week sounds great.”
Claire exits the building with renewed confidence. But once settled in her car, she sees him.
A man sits in his car at the lot’s perimeter, facing her. The color and shape of the car matches the car she saw at the digestive center.
In Her Shadow Page 5