It’s nothing, she tells herself. Lots of people drive black SUVs. Stress triggered her paranoia the other day when she felt watched; this is simply a reminder. An exact reminder, she notes, unable to quell the feeling—watchful eyes, staring from a distance. They burn into her skin, sending chills over it.
She examines the car in the mirror then turns to face the driver directly, hoping he’ll shift his focus elsewhere.
He doesn’t. Her chills rise higher.
Drive over there, she commands herself. Facing your fear can take it away. With shallow breath she turns the key in the ignition.
A knock on her window causes her to jump.
“Claire.”
Dr. Marsha stands outside the window, holding Claire’s pocketbook. She rolls down the window.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the therapist says. “Figured you might need this.”
“Thank you. I do.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m—yes, I’m fine.” Her breath sounds as though she’s just sprinted a mile. Should she tell her?
She glances in the rearview mirror. The car is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
She stirs the potatoes.As the garlic scent wafts into her nose, she wishes he’d stop staring. His eyes feel like fire brands, the kind farmers use to mark cattle.
Once the potatoes are soft, he hands her a butter stick. She tries not to touch it as she slices a pat and drops it in. It melts into the mixture, tainting perfectly good potatoes with animal fat and calories. If she ponders the butter hard enough, she could probably vomit, without need for poison or her fingers.
Since he’s watching, she withstands her nausea.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“Just to start with.” She knew he wouldn’t let her skimp. She cuts another pat and drops it in. He stares harder; she adds more.
She pours heavy cream into the mixture, trying to imagine it’s skim, or better yet—water. But the density is a giveaway. She pretends it’s poison instead, imagines feeding it to him, watching him swallow, panic replacing his smile as he struggles to breathe.
“It looks lovely,” he says.
Shame spills over her like the fatty milk. His kind tone reminds her of another time, when he was good to her and they were happy—at least she thought they were. But that was many years ago, when bringing a mother home was a possibility. The outside air, visits to the city... They all seem like faded memories now, or maybe she dreamed them.
A lump forms in her throat. Is she supposed to love him? Does she? Is it wrong to wish him misery? To want to leave? She glances down at her bulging belly and remembers the pain. His body writhing on top of her No. What they share isn’t love. Perhaps it never was.
The timer buzzes. The meatloaf is done. Steam hits her face as she opens the oven door, the meaty smell adding to her revulsion. She retrieves the pan and sets it down quickly, wishing she could chuck it out the window.
“Do it again,” he says, “slower.”
She should’ve guessed.
She turns toward the oven so her rear faces him. He leans closer, watching. She bends until her head almost reaches the ground. The pink dress flutes out; he can see almost everything.
“Again,” he says.
She repeats the process. Again. Again. Again.
She tries to distance herself from what is happening, pretends she doesn’t care.
“Lower,” he says. “And wider.” She bends farther, sure she’ll topple from dizziness. She widens her stance until the open air chills her vagina. “Stay there.”
Braced in her position, she hears the familiar sound from behind. Fwap, fwap, fwap. For the moment she’s relieved. She’d rather he do the work with his hand than force her to do it. And she’s relieved she doesn’t have to watch.
The sound quickens, he groans then exhales. Finished. “Let’s eat.”
She carries the plates toward the dining room.
“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” he asks tersely.
Too bold. She was hoping he’d let her into another room. One step at a time, she reminds herself and walks to the kitchen table.
After she sits, he ties her ankles to the chair. The ropes seem to hurt more than last time. Probably because her ankles have grown even fatter during the months since.
“Take it off first,” he says. He removes his shirt then stands and unzips his pants. Then he watches her struggle with her dress—forbidden fruit he’s resisting.
He won’t resist for long, she realizes. That’s the unfortunate part.
Everything below her eyes is what she hates most—her body and food. Still, she tells herself, if you eat now, you can get away later.It’s her only path toward regaining control.
She takes bite after bite, fighting them down. To her, the meat is feces, the potatoes, piles of lard. Together they form a cancer that eats at her soul. Terminal. Malignant. She wouldn’t care if she died right now; how could Hell be worse?
After her last bite, she sits trembling, longing to vomit.
“Good girl,” he says and unties her. “You can clear the plates now.”
As she washes the dishes, she lets tears spill out. It’s the only release she can manage. She finishes, exhausted, hoping he’ll let her sleep.
He opens the refrigerator and retrieves a white box. No!
“I wanted to share this with you the other day,” he says, taking a piece of cake out of the box. “It was a very special day. But there’s still time to celebrate.”
She quivers. Her throat constricts. One bite and she’ll vomit... Do something!
As he approaches the table, she leans toward him, lowering her face to his thigh. She kisses it softly, then more sensually, wetting his skin with her tongue. It tastes salty; his prickly hairs tickle her nose.
He turns toward her, placing the cake on the counter, forgotten for the moment. She opens her mouth, glad it’s not the cake she’s tasting.
She’s safe and surviving, at least for now.
*****
Her full stomach feels like a garbage dump as she lies motionless beside him. He hadn’t meant for her to sleep here, she’s certain of that. But he fell quickly to sleep, as he tended to do, after...
Was it necessary to give him more? She almost couldn’t help it. She saw him eyeing the cake again; she had to do something.
She should feel elated—she’s upstairs in an unlocked room, fearing him less since he’s asleep. But any stirring could wake him. Besides, how can she feel joy when she’s stuffed with food? The calories and fat grams taunt her, calling her FAT, UGLY, USELESS, a FOOL.
Amidst her self-loathing, she wonders why she cares. If she hates herself so much, shouldn’t she surrender? Let the FAT consume her, give HIM control? Her indomitable optimism is one of her top complaints. Don’t give up, it says, no matter what.
Sometimes she imagines the encouraging voice is a friend, someone who knows there’s more to her than she realizes.
But what does not giving up mean? She ponders her escape plan—yes, that’s part of it. What about now? If she lets the food sit... No way. She can’t bear it. Like holding her breath under water, each second adds to her misery. If she opens her mouth she’ll drown, but she can’t take the pain much longer. She must either slip out of bed and vomit or do something about it from here. Is there such thing as silent purging?
She forces herself to contemplate her fatness, her piled-up dinner plate, the butter stick, the meat she ingested. Something moves subtly inside of her.
Try harder.
She pictures him carrying a baby calf to the kitchen.
That does it. Nausea swirls in her gut. Vomit flavor fills her mouth.
She turns her head as the food-stuff falls to the floor, most of it landing on her dress. She reaches for it, moving cautiously. She has to get rid of it before he sees—
“What are you doing?”
His voice causes her heart to sink then pound as fear replaces he
r disappointment. “Nothing, I...”
Damn it! She braces herself for a lashing, or who-knows-what he might do. At least she got the food out. Focus on your success.
But he doesn’t punish her. He peers over the bedside, whispers “No...” then bolts from the bedroom, her vomit-splashed dress in his hands.
When he returns and lifts her sheet-bundled body from the bed, she observes his cause for worry—there are bloodstains on the floor.
She thought she was only tasting meat. Though frightened by the blood, she’s more frightened by what’s happening. She only just escaped!
“I’m OK. I love you, remember?” she says, pleading silently that he won’t take her back downstairs, hook her to the machines.
But it’s too late. He carries her out of the bedroom, the hall into the kitchen... toward the stairway. No! Not back to the basement already. Think, she prods. Do something!
Panning the kitchen, her eyes land on a large knife—the one she used to cut the potatoes. Can she manage it? Glancing around, she spots her half-full water glass from dinner on the table.
“May I have some water?” she asks. “Please.”
He pauses then eases her down to sit on the countertop. As he turns to retrieve the glass, she grasps the knife and tucks it in the sheet.
He holds the glass to her lips. She takes a sip. As he carries her back down the stairs toward the dungeon, she prays he won’t discover her secret.
She has a weapon of her own now. From the looks of things, she’ll need to use it.
Chapter Seventeen
“So what do you think? Is this more stress and paranoia?” Claire asks. She cradles her cell on her shoulder as she finishes giving Zola a much-needed bath in her tub.
“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you these things, Doctor Fiksen?” Elle asks teasingly.
Claire half-laughs. “Maybe. But like I said...therapists see therapists. And according to Dr. Marsha, they also need to lean on friends.”
“Well that latter part I can handle. My unofficial diagnosis? I’d say that seeing a black SUV twice in one week doesn’t raise many red flags. At least not for me. Did you see the guy’s face? Any other signs he was actually watching you?”
“No and...no. Unless you count my gut feelings, which I’m not entirely sure I can trust lately.”
“What do you mean?” Elle asks.
“I think I’ve been displacing my angst over my birthday and the whole decade anniversary thing. If I’d been talking more, opening up to you and Hank and Gramps, maybe I wouldn’t feel so frazzled. Dr. Marsha seems to think so.”
“Hon... You can call me anytime. You know that, right? I had no idea you felt like you couldn’t.”
See? Her point exactly. Claire’s instincts continually tell her that she and Elle are so close they don’t need to explain or confide—not trustable. “I do know that. I guess just haven’t been making much of an effort.”
“Wanna talk now? I have an hour before yoga.”
“Thanks, but I’m thinking of joining Gramps for church.”
“Ah...fun fun. Catch a big one for me.” Elle knows as well as she does that Grandpa’s ‘church’ consists of fishing for several hours on Lake Isabelle.
An hour later, Claire speeds down the open highway, grateful for Zola—her living, breathing, now clean, security blanket. Zola sits in the backseat, her nose fixated on the air breezing through the gap she left in the window. And no one is following us, she notes, aware that peeking at Zola is only one reason her eyes now frequent the rearview mirror.
No red flags, Elle said. She’s probably right.
Grandpa stands outside the house as they pull up, looking as though he’s been waiting for hours. Fishing poles stick up from his truck like crooked antennas, accentuating the lures that hang from the rim of his canvas fishing hat. Claire smiles as she notes his ancient, faded bumper sticker: I’d Rather Be Fishing.
“That’s what you’re wearin’?” He stares at her as she slides out of her Camry.
“What, not flashy enough?” She does a catwalk turn in her sweater, faded jeans and ratty old Converse. “You didn’t leave me much time for wardrobe planning.”
“A fisherman is always prepared. We’re the Minutemen of the sea. Hop in.”
She climbs into the passenger seat and Zola follows. The familiar smell of gasoline and Styrofoam cups of live worms and leeches feel oddly reassuring, reminders of the countless fishing adventures they’ve shared.
“Remember the time I threw all the fish back in?” she asks.
Grandpa shakes his head and chuckles. “Couldn’t figure out how they were all disappearin.’ We’d had half a bucket. I turned around and saw you holdin’ one and whisperin’ something, then ya tossed it back in.”
“I had to apologize for piercing them.” She laughs out loud at the memory. At the time, she’d been watching news reports of an Alaskan oil spill and feared she was contributing to the extinction of the world’s fish by trawling for walleye.
“Thank goodness you came to your senses. We have a fish fry this Friday and I’m providin.’ So none of those shenanigans, hear me?”
He pulls the truck up near the dock and begins unloading their gear, then hauls it to the boat. Claire overloads her arms in hopes of reducing her grandfather’s load. It seems lately that he grows frailer by the week.
They situate themselves in the boat. Grandpa revs the engine, cuing Claire to draw the anchor and untie the ropes that secure it to the dock. They drift out slowly for several yards then Grandpa calls from the driver’s seat: “Ya ready?”
She gives him a thumbs up and they’re off, bounding over the water. The spritz from the cool water splashes up and mists the skin on their hands and faces. Claire has always been roused by the roller coaster-like lilt the boat ride inspired in her stomach. She squealed when she was a kid, “Wheee!” The “wheee’s” are still there, only quieter. Zola sits in her usual guardian position, upright and watchful. Her curly ears flap in the wind and she looks to be relishing it.
Grandpa shifts to low speed and begins circling. He’s found the spot. Moments later they are anchored, ready to eat lunch then bait their hooks. “Us first, fish later. Then us again.” One of Grandpa’s many fishing mantras.
An anxious Claire holds her breath. She lifts the lid on the cooler, already fearing its contents. She pulls out two turkey sandwiches, a baggie of carrot and celery sticks and a plastic container of sliced hardboiled eggs. Eight-hundred-sixty-eight calories, she speculates. That can’t be right. How could she even know that? Where she once saw textures, flavors and reward she sees numbers, risks and damage. It’s just food; she’ll be fine. She makes a mental note to discuss her food fixation with Dr. Marsha then looks at her grandfather, hoping she won’t ruin their shared time with her issues. “You weren’t kidding. This really is…”
“Boring? You can say it.”
“I was going to say healthy. You sure Grandma didn’t do all this?” Behind her polite words, uneasiness churns in her stomach. If she couldn’t stomach a bagel, the last thing she ate then un-ate, how would she tolerate this? Take a breath, it’s nothing bad. Meanwhile she wonders where she can turn if she has to throw up. If she chooses to purge, she corrects herself—a scolding. Her newfound secret backup plan. If the time comes, it won’t feel like a choice.
“I made this myself. You doubtin’ your gramps? I might be crusty and old but I know a few things.” He bites a large chunk out of his sandwich, seemingly oblivious to Claire’s apprehension.
“I didn’t say you were crusty.” She smiles and takes a smaller bite of her sandwich. It is…tolerable....and...delicious? Relief. She relishes the morsel, maneuvering it sumptuously in her mouth, for a moment reunited with the food-loving, no-trouble-eating Claire she’s been for most of her life. The bread: Grandma’s homemade multigrain, subtly sweet with the taste of honey and husky from the flavor of rye. The turkey slices: moist and fresh, the way she prefers them. This might be the perfect
setup to talk openly about Mom, Dad and possibly the symptoms that led her into therapy.
“So you’re really feelin’ fine now?” Grandpa asks again.
“Yeah, I really am.” She takes another minuscule bite.
“Cuz there’s something I need to... You been havin’ any...mental problems? Ya know, like the ones your clients have?”
“What? Why are you asking?”
“I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ cuz you never had a problem with it before, but…your f-father—he had some...mental problems.” He spits it out like old gum.
“What kind of mental problems?”
“Mood swings, nightmares...sometimes headaches. He’d go weeks without sleep then get all ants-in-his-pants hyper. In those days, no one talked much about those things, not in Hastings anyway.
“When you were real little, he got some medicine that helped. I didn’t mean to keep it from ya. Just didn’t see a need to say anything till now. I...heard you cryin’ and mumblin’ in your sleep after we got back from Doc Travers’ the other night. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
His body sags before her in a way Claire has never seen. He sits hunched over, seeming smaller, older than he did minutes before.
She edges to his side of the boat, kneels down before him and encircles him with her arms. Though she senses much more to the story, she knows it’s not the time. For the moment she just wants her grandpa to be okay.
“It’s all right, Grandpa, everything’s fine. I’m fine. No mental problems, I promise.” But even if she had such problems, would he react like this? What wasn’t he saying?
She rocks him gently in her arms and can feel the weight of him, both physical and emotional. He leans on her for support, his body heavy like the burden he’s been carrying. She rubs his back lightly and feels her heart breaking in sad harmony with his sobs.
Like the waves that follow the boat, his crying wanes. He soon breathes normally, looking more like himself again.
“You could’ve told me, Gramps. It must have been horrible to keep this to yourself all these years.”
And whatever else he’s hiding. Dr. Marsha was right; they’d both been bottling things up. At least she wasn’t keeping any secrets—nothing major, anyway.
In Her Shadow Page 6