He misses his daughter more than ever lately. Ten years have passed since he saw Dawn smile, felt her arms around him, heard her laugh. A parent should never lose a child. Goes against nature. Maybe that’s what he likes about his orchard—order, predictability. Even with erratic weather, snow coming this month or that, he knows with certainty when the apples will appear and when they won’t. Dawn loved picking apples as much as she loved CC’s pie.
As he pulls two more honey crisps from the tree, he hears rustling in the trees. Better not be the damn ’coons, he thinks. One year the rascals damn near stole half his harvest. And picky they were. Took mostly the best ones.
As he bends down to add the apples to his stash, the rustling repeats, seemingly closer. Whatever it is moves slow. Maybe a stray cat, he thinks. A brisk breeze sweeps through the air, bringing a soft whistling sound and the smell of soon-coming snow.
A hand grasps his shoulder. Gil gasps. Drops the apples and notes another sensation—the end of a gun pressed into his back.
Then the voice he hoped to never hear again sounds—almost a whisper, millimeters from his ear: “It’s been such a long time, Gil. Have you missed me?”
The moisture vanishes from Gil’s throat. He’s angry. Panicked. “I t-told you never to come back.” His hands are raised, palms facing outward—an involuntary move, but not of surrender. He won’t let the bastard hurt him, not this time.
“Now that you mention it, I do recall you saying something to that effect. But you see, that little request of yours? All that talk about staying away? Threat is a better word. It hasn’t done either of us much good.”
Gil clenches his teeth, anger seething through his body. “What do you want from me?”
“Excellent question. That brain of yours is sharp! Because see, today is your lucky day. You can make up for almost everything. I might even forgive you...leave you alone, for good. Would you like that?” He pauses, cocks the gun. “Answer me.”
“Yes. Just don’t shoot.”
“I need something from your precious Claire-belle. I can do it...peacefully, if you cooperate. Or I can go to her and take it myself.”
“Stay away from her!” Another click—he’s released the safety. “I’ll get it, whatever it is. W-what do you need?”
He flashes a photograph before Gil’s eyes—a sickly woman lying on a bed. “I need her to help save this woman’s life. Her organs are failing...such a shame.”
“But why Claire? She’s a psychologist, not a d-doctor.”
“Oh, but I am...remember? Of course you do. I’ve come in handy, haven’t I?”
“But that was before I knew—”
“I...said...cooperate.”
“Y-yes. I will. What...whatever you need. Just promise you’ll leave us alone.”
He leans in and whispers his needs into Gil’s ear as though wanting to be as close as possible when terror strikes him.
The plot is so horrific, it removes the air from Gil’s chest. His body goes numb. The world around him tilts and spins as pain strikes his head like an ax. “Aggah... Cee...cee...h-lelp.”
He drops to the ground. Help! Hurts...head.
“Lunch is almost ready.” CC’s voice sounds in the distance. “Gil?”
Stay...away. CC! Gil tries to speak or stand, but can’t. His thoughts grow garbled. Dawn... Claire... Death.
Then the man who fractured his family in so many ways leans again into his ear. “I guess I’ll just do what I must.” He darts away moments before CC appears.
“Gil!”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Examining her reflection in the mirror, Farrah notes the glimmer in her eyes. She’s finally admitted to herself that her giddiness surpasses financial gain. She knows little about the man, other than the huskiness of his voice, his ability to pay her substantial sums of cash and the need to keep his plans for Claire confidential. Yet when he called her yesterday in response to her email, requesting her highest-paid mission to date, she found herself more enticed by his chosen meeting place than the monetary reward. She adds a fresh layer of lip gloss then proceeds to the sleazy, no-tell motel entrance.
She walks toward his room, her adrenaline surging. Is he as alluring as the sound of his voice? She’s imagined a tall, broad-chested man with dark, silver-streaked hair. Maybe like George Clooney? Then again, with a voice, mystique and bank account like his, who cares? He could look like Shrek and she might do him.
A surge fills her groin. As soon as he said, “I’ve never had such a beautiful woman assist me,” she knew he’d be making dual types of deposits this round.
She wonders if she should feel guilt over disliking Claire so intensely. Thanks to Ms. Fiksen, she is doing quite well now. Reminding herself of her upcoming rewards, she banishes the thought.
She reaches room 16A and smiles; he’s cracked the door open. Absorbing a breath, she places her hand on the knob. “Hello?” she says, aiming to match his seductive tone.
“Come in.”
That voice! She steps into the dark room, dimly lit by three candles on the nightstand. He lies on the bed, wearing slacks and a dress shirt, his hands braced casually behind his head. His body looks as broad and alluring as she hoped. And the dimness doesn’t hide his handsomeness. Late fifties, early sixties—the kind of man who grows more distinguished with age. Silver hair, a chiseled face and sparkling, alert eyes. Should she hurry over? Pounce on top of him? No—she’d rather savor his pursuit.
“Well?” he asks.
“Mission accomplished.” Facing his bed, she feels a rush of discomfort. She isn’t used to a man maintaining control. She feels her insides melt into a vulnerable puddle as he stares at her. “May I?” She points toward the bed.
“Please.”
She sits down and slips off her heels. Handing him a copy of Claire’s resignation letter she helped forge, her confidence returns. “Sykes will open it Monday morning at the earliest. The office will be empty all weekend.”
He reads the letter by the candlelight, then nods. “Fine job.”
Now what? Her throat goes dry.
“I have something for you.”
As he reaches for his briefcase, she undoes her top blouse button. He withdraws an envelope thick with a wad of cash and hands it to her. Then he runs his hand over her arm, kisses her neck, begins undressing her.
Chills appear on every inch of her skin. Turning, she kisses him harshly.
She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles him, tearing the clothes from her body like useless wrapping tissue. She’s never felt so desperate, so wanting. She relishes his watchful eyes as she rides him, his massive penis an attribute to add to her list. He places his hand over her mouth as she orgasms, perhaps knowing that the sound would echo through the building.
Suddenly he pushes harder. Harder.
“Stop!” she cries. “You’re hurting me!”
Her bliss transforms into panic as the needle pierces her neck. She feels herself slipping away as he takes his turn on top of her. Unable to move, she feels his body tense—just before she gasps her final breath.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Claire arrives home from a long hike with Zola, grateful for the weekend. Between her birthday, health challenges, nightmares and patients, the last five days felt more like months. She feeds Zola then takes a steaming shower.
While patting herself dry with a thick cotton towel her phone rings. Seconds later, it rings again. Then again. Talk about persistent. She wraps herself in a towel and walks to the kitchen. Her call history displays her grandparents’ cell number—a phone they rarely use. Concerned, she immediately calls back.
“Hello? Grandma, is that you?” She hears nothing but forced breathing and a whimpering cry.
“Gil…”
“What is it, Grandma? Is it Grandpa? Is he okay?” No response. “Are you okay?” Still nothing. “Grandma, where are you?”
She hears shuffling sounds in the background, people moving and talking. Then,
a louder voice over an intercom.
“Grandma, are you at the hospital?”
“Hos...hospital. Gil…”
“Grandma.” She tries to sound calm. “I need you to put a nurse on the phone. Can you do that?”
Moments later a nurse comes on the line. Her first words hit Claire like a fist in the stomach. The rest of what she says blurs together until Claire hangs up and drops to the floor beside Zola.
“It’s Grandpa,” she says, reaching for her dog. “They think he had a stroke.”
*****
The gasoline smell adds to her unease—toxic fumes to fuel their journey to the hospital in Hastings. Hank peers in at her from the driver’s side as he fills his tank. “Can I get you anything? Coffee or soda? Toss that in the trash?”
Though the tissue clenched in her fist is soggy and useless, she can’t seem to let it go. “I’m good, thanks.”
She leans her head against the passenger window as they drive, observing landmarks she’s driven by countless times on her way to or from her grandparents’ house. The Mega-Mall— “an atrocity...too damn big for its own good,” by Grandpa’s standards. Sun Fish Park, where he dropped her off for summer camp as a kid. A billboard for Treasure Island Casino. “Grandpa took me there for my eighteenth birthday,” she tells Hank.
“The casino?”
“Yeah, he had this speech prepared. Something about how...life is a gamble and all you can do is try your best and use your head. But every once in a while you should say ‘Screw it,’ and risk everything. Put it all out there on the table.”
“Sounds like a pretty philosophical guy.”
“I think it was just an excuse to take his granddaughter to the casino.”
Hank smiles. “A fun guy then, in any case.”
“He was. He is.” How could she have said that?
“Did you win anything?”
“No. Luckily I only had twenty bucks to start with.” She hadn’t cared about winning or losing. She told Grandpa he could leave her alone at “the tables” since she was “now a grownup and all.” She never told him, but she was relieved that he stayed.
Hang on, Grandpa. I still need you.
“Guess this is it.” Hank pulls into the Regina Medical Center parking lot.
At the sight of the hospital, she feels numb, unable to breathe. Her anxiety increases from a wave to a surge as Hank walks around the car and opens her door. “Wait.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing... Can we just sit here for a minute?”
He squeezes her hand. “You’re going to be okay.”
She wishes he was speaking as a doctor rather than her boyfriend. But it isn’t merely Grandpa’s state or prognosis that frightens her. Something even worse awaits them. They’re all in harm’s way—she feels it. The hospital houses not only disease, but a vicious monster.
Get a grip. Are you listening to yourself? Stress is triggering paranoia, she decides, noting that her other problems seem trivial compared to Grandpa’s condition. Her feared “stalker” could drive up in his fancy SUV and she might not care; nothing matters but Gramps. Maybe that’s why entering the building seems petrifying. Hospitals have never troubled her before, but they’ve never held her grandfather in the ICU.
With clammy hands she unbuckles her seat belt then places her feet on the ground outside her door. She freezes up again. “I don’t think I can do this.”
She feels like one of her phobic patients, one who feels they can’t fly or swim or face spiders. A magnetic force field seems to push her away, promising distance between her and the facility. What is going on?
“You can, come on. Let’s take it slow and easy.” Hank helps her to her feet. Her knees buckle as they walk, but she prods herself to keep moving, fighting the urge to turn and run in the opposite direction. She tightens her grip on Hank’s arm; they were almost there.
They approach the reception desk. “Gil Adolfsson,” she hears herself say.
“Ah, yes…” The nurse glances at her computer screen. Claire understands few of her words: “...ICU...your grandmother’s with him...”
She moves like a robot, clutching Hank’s arm as he ushers her toward the room. Through Grandpa’s doorway her eyes draw to the piece of machinery—an IV drip, tubes hanging down, fluid pulsing through them.
“You okay?” Hank asks.
She takes a breath. “I...think so.”
A nurse stops the two of them. “You’re both family?”
“I’m his granddaughter,” Claire says.
“I’ll be right here if you need me,” Hank says, then plants himself outside the door.
Claire enters Grandpa’s room, relieved to feel a normal level of apprehension and concern—no more panic.
“Hi Grandma.”
“Hello dear,” Grandma barely mumbles. She sits beside him, her head taking up half of his pillow.
Claire places her hand on his arm, careful not to look at the IV machine nearby. He doesn’t even look like Grandpa. His wrinkled face has sunken in, as though all of the smiles he’s ever worn have fallen from his spirit and are pulling down on him. But his chest continues to rise and fall. He’s breathing. Focus on that.
Unsure whether he can hear her, she says what comes to mind: “I’m sorry this happened to you, Gramps... You’d better get well soon. We have more fishing to do.” She smooths his arm with her hand, noting its dryness, then leans down and kisses his forehead.
She walks around the bed and kneels beside Grandma. “How are you doing? Can I get you anything? Some water or coffee?”
Without saying a word Grandma pats Claire’s arm with her hand, then rises and walks to the restroom.
Claire considers the studies she’s read regarding spouses passing away shortly after losing their husbands or wives, presumably the result of grief and depression. She drives the thought away. Grandpa is not going to die. And Grandma will be fine.
Claire pulls a chair to Grandpa’s bedside, sits down and rests her head on his bedrail. Alone with him for the first time in the hospital, Claire sheds tears. She places her hand on his chest, noting the strong sound of his heartbeat—a sign, she hopes, of stubbornness.
“I know you’ll wake up when you’re ready, Gramps. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about many things—especially about Mom. Maybe if I opened up more to you, you wouldn’t feel so stressed. Is that what’s happened?” She grabs a tissue from the bedside table and wipes her tears. “I’ve decided that from now on, my birthday will be a celebration of Mom and Dad, not just the anniversary of the accident.”
She clutches his hand and feels a responsive squeeze. “Grandpa?”
His body stiffens, his back arches, his face crumples into a grimace. His hand tightens around hers, nearly crushing it. He makes a sound—a guttural yelp without words.
“Nurse!” she cries.
The bathroom door opens as his heart machine starts beeping. Grandma gasps. Two nurses and a doctor rush in, pushing past Claire and her grandmother. They stand outside his door, clinging to each other as Grandpa clings to life.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Hours later, a tall doctor in his late forties enters the waiting room. Claire and Hank stand while Grandma remains seated. This is it, she thinks, clasping Hank’s arm tighter.
“Mr. Adolfsson is stable,” the physician says then introduces himself as Dr. Paul Schrieffer.
“Thank God.” Claire feels the tenseness in her shoulders soften. “What happened?”
“His heart rate increased, but not to a dangerous level. It lowered back down on its own and seems stable. Did he talk to either of you? Seem responsive in any way?”
“He squeezed my hand,” Claire says.
He nods. “He likely regained consciousness briefly, which caused his heart rate to accelerate.”
“He seemed rather…upset.” She chooses her words carefully, aware of Grandma’s frail presence.
“When stroke victims awaken they’re often frustrate
d, particularly when they aren’t able to communicate,” Dr. Schrieffer explains. “Agitation is no cause for concern.”
Grandpa’s distraught face fills her mind. He seemed far more than agitated.
“His condition, though serious, is no longer critical. We’ll keep him in the ICU for monitoring. He may be moved to a regular room soon.”
“So his prognosis is good?” Claire asks.
“It’s difficult to say for certain, but since we caught the stroke early, we were able to use a plasminogen activator to reduce the clotting. He still has a lot of plaque buildup, however, which is what caused the blockage in his arteries. We’ll perform an endartectomy in the next few days—a procedure that should reduce the build-up and hopefully prevent a recurrence.”
“Where is the clot located?” Hank asks.
“Not sure of the exact spot, but definitely in an artery leading to the brain, cerebral thrombosis. He’s stable now, which is positive. If everything goes smoothly and he regains consciousness I imagine he’ll be able to start rehabilitation treatments soon.”
“And if it doesn’t go smoothly?”
“As with any surgery, there are risks. Swelling, blood clots…in rare cases, heart attack, seizures, additional strokes. Since arterial diseases affect the whole body, we can’t be certain how he’ll respond. I’ve done this procedure many times though, and in most cases, the results are positive.” He looks at Claire intently. “You should be grateful he got here quickly.”
She can’t argue with that. Grandma is known to call the doctor at the sign of a sneeze, especially when it comes to Grandpa. Her notorious paranoia may have saved his life.
“It’s common for a spouse to experience shock,” Schrieffer says, lowering his voice. Grandma, though several feet away, seems worlds away in her mind. “They must be close.”
“They are.” Like salt and pepper shakers, Claire has often thought. Grandma for perseverance, Grandpa for spice. “It’s really okay for her to stay here tonight?”
In Her Shadow Page 8