“Absolutely, I recommend it. She can stay in his room; there’s an open bed. We make exceptions for such cases when we can. I think it helps the patients and their loved ones—non-scientifically speaking, of course.”
As Dr. Schrieffer leaves, Claire offers her arm to Grandma. She touches her back as they walk back to Grandpa’s room, her grandmother seeming more slouched than she usual. “He knows you’re here, Grandma. That’s probably why he woke up.”
She guides Grandma to a chair and gives her a blanket. “I’ll come back with some of your things. Then Hank and I will stay at your place. So if you need anything, just call.” She kisses the top of her head and then approaches Grandpa.
“Love you, Gramps,” she whispers. She kisses his cheek and walks out with Hank, feeling as though two-thirds of her heart remain in the room, hoping she’ll get it all back.
Chapter Twenty-Six
She listens as he types at his computer, wondering how long she’s been back in the basement. A few days at least. Meanwhile she’s wracked her brain for ways to escape, Her moods have ranged from eager and hopeful to totally resigned, depending on whether a new idea strikes, another gets shot down, and whether she’s had sleep or calories. The thick shakes, as much as she hates them, give her energy. Ideas often follow, triggering bursts of hope, adding fuel to her get-out-of-here fire. When she’s particularly weak, hope feels like the thing she should let go of. If that’s the case, the thick and fatty shakes are as foolish as she thought.
He stands and adds sheets to the bed he placed next to hers last night while she slept.
“Wake up.” His voice cuts through the silent air and her thoughts. “I need to move you.”
She opens her eyes and gives him a blank stare. She knew this was coming. Why else would there be a second bed?
He lifts her and lays her down on the freshly made bed, then straps her down. The hard bowl beneath her is how she’ll “relieve” herself while he’s away. She holds her breath while he moves the pillow from her former bed to the new one, places it under her head.
He didn’t notice, she thinks, smiling on the inside. The knife, she still has it.
“I won’t be long,” he says, opening her mouth. He’s only just returned and he’s leaving again? Not that she minds. He hands her a water glass and places two pills on her tongue. She recognizes them: pills that help her sleep.
As he turns to leave, his expression almost warm, she recalls the man he used to be, nearly begs him to stay. Please don’t leave. Come back!She’d experienced a similar longing before—the first time he hovered over her. She’d watched as he transformed from the man she knew and trusted into an alien creature. His eyes, like cold steel, bore into hers, all traces of warmth and humanness vanished.
She remembers calling out to him, pleading for help from the very man who was hurting her—the man who said ‘no’ to her dream of having a mother, ‘no’ to having a puppy, ‘no’ to seeing Uncle Bob again, ‘no’ to everything she wanted and was. But it wasn’t the Monster she was beckoning. She reached for the person with heart, who must have been lost inside of this...monster. After all, goodness doesn’t simply disappear. Something or someone had hidden it from him, made it inaccessible. When she couldn’t reach his loving nature, she knew she was no longer safe, but a captive...much like she is now. When she woke the next morning, hoping the whole ordeal had been a nightmare, her bloodied underwear proved otherwise. For years she refused to surrender hope that his goodness might return. She knows now that goodness won’t find her within his grasp. Whatever stole his warmth had it for keeps. She’s got to find it elsewhere.
She listens as his footsteps fade then diminish. She’s left in silence...alone, with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. Not fully alone, she realizes—she has the knife. While it certainly hasn’t taken the physical pain away, it’s acted like medicine to her spirit, simply knowing it’s tucked beneath her mattress. It brought comfort from the moment he carried her back downstairs without discovering it. Something of her own, for protection and, she hopes, escape.
She quickly moves the sleeping pills from the inside of her cheek, spits them into her palm then hides them beneath her mattress. She can’t risk sleeping now. Every moment that he’s away is invaluable, and draws his return closer. She reviews what she observed before he left, in hopes it might reveal how much time she has. The photographs of the woman, boxes of supplies he carried down the stairs and loaded into a storage closet. There were sounds—his phone ringing, muffled words when he walked to the stairs to take a phone call, the chalky liquid he forced her to drink. Additional shakes sit in a cooler at her bedside. She’s to drink another before nightfall. She can’t make sense of it, and doesn’t much care. Best she use the time wisely.
If only she could search his desk, his computer, his files. There must be clues to her whereabouts, and his. Perhaps he’s hidden other useful information, money, a copy of the key to the upstairs door. Regardless, her freedom requires freeing herself from the bed. She examines the straps binding her legs and torso down. No such luck.
Unless...
She reaches inside her pillow case and retrieves the knife. Think about this, she prods, restraining herself from chiseling her way out of the bands promptly. If she sets herself free, she’ll have to reconnect the straps before he returns. Should she risk it? There’s no harm in trying. She clutches the weapon in her hand.
She touches the fastening clips on the sides of her mattress—one on each side, in line with her ribcage. At least they’re not locked. Two additional straps cross her thighs. She uses the mirror to gain a better view. In the dim light, she can barely make out the details. If she places the knife at the proper angle, it’s possible.
With caution, she forces the blade between the clasp and the strap. It’s well-secured, not surprisingly. She wiggles the glass; nothing happens. Her breath is labored. Even subtle movements exhaust her. Keep trying.
Fumbling harder, she tries again, using all of her might to force it open. Her hand slips; she nearly drops the knife—No! She brings it to her chest, holds it tightly in her fist. With her eyes closed, she catches her breath. That was too close.
Lying back, drained, she glances at the beverages in the cooler. “If you don’t drink it you won’t get well,” he’d said. Should she try? She loathes the thought. But she does need strength... You can make up for it later, she tells herself.
She takes one composing breath, then another. She lifts the glass to her lips, trembling, preparing to sip. Wait—she just needs a moment.
For the first time since she can remember, she longs for an appetite—any amount of willingness or desire to eat. She’d loved food once, before she learned that food equaled fatness. She recalls herself as a child—the smiling girl who fell asleep hoping she’d dream of pancakes. “So I can be ready for breakfast,” she’d told him as he tucked her in.
You’ve done it before, you can do it again, she thinks, prodding herself to focus.
She takes another breath, closes her eyes. She opens her mouth and with her chin still trembling, she takes a sip. Her heart races; she might hyperventilate. Freedom, she reminds herself. Don’t give up. She can lose all the weight she wishes to later.
She forces herself to breathe slowly until her heart rate slows, aware that one sip won’t suffice. She thinks of her mother, the stranger in whom she once held faith. If for no other reason, do it for her.
With her eyes closed tight, she gulps the beverage down, fighting not to gag. Her body quivers; she can feel it moving, expanding within her, adding layers to her fatness.
Laying her head down, tears drips down her face onto the pillow. She’s exhausted, but she did it. She tucks the knife beneath her pillow, sensing the need for a short break. In moments she feels herself drifting toward sleep. She allows it—more fuel for her feat.
Once she wakes, she’ll try again.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Can I get you anything?” Claire asks as she and
Hank step inside her grandparents’ house. “I’m sure there’s plenty of food in the kitchen.”
“Maybe in a bit,” Hank says. “I could stand to wash up first. Mind if I take a shower?”
“Not at all.” She leads him to the bathroom, gives him fresh towels then wanders to the living room.
The house seems somber—a nest without its flock. It feels empty, and eerily quiet. Houses seem to know when its residents are gone. She observed the same during college. Each time she returned from a Hastings visit her dorm room seemed desolate. As a remedy, she purchased goldfish—live beings to greet her when she entered, a pair so that each had a friend. When she showed up one day to find Yoko floating, belly-up, she cried her way through a tissue box, wondering whether her tears were in response to Yoko’s passing or to what she’d represented: companionship, welcoming, a way to feel “not-alone”. Though saddened when John floated to the top days later, she deemed goldfish romantic, deeply feeling creatures. Real love existed, if only in her fishbowl.
When she made the mistake of sharing the tale with Grandpa, he put her in her place: “Damn thing probably killed the other one first then died from guilt. Not everyone’s as good-hearted as you, Claire-belle. Remember that when you meet those Boston boys.”
Grandpa took every opportunity to warn her of the evil organisms called men. Apparently, Massachusetts men are a particularly plague-ridden breed. What she’d give for such a warning now—any reason to hear his voice.
She walks down the hallway and into his den. Every aspect of the room exudes his spirit—the classic oak desk, shelves crammed with books, the open newspaper he’d been reading, the trash overflowing with crumpled junk mail. His office is the one area of the house that Grandma doesn’t touch; Claire appreciates the fact now more than ever.
She sits at his desk and smiles. From this position, a photo of her mother and one of her faced her grandfather straight on. She opens his bottom right drawer and thumbs through the files labeled with Grandpa’s black pen. Bills, Car Insurance, Damn Taxes… Ever so Grandpa.
At the back of the drawer her hand meets a thick folder. As she pulls it out, tears fill her eyes. Dawn. A file dedicated to Mom.
She stares at it, wondering if opening it signifies prying, yet longing to absorb every page. She takes a breath then lifts the cover slowly. It holds grade school photos, report cards, a faded construction-paper greeting Mom made for him as a child.
She stops when she comes to a folded newspaper clipping tucked inside a plastic bag. Through the plastic she reads the date on the page’s border: October 17th, 1994—the day after the accident. With trembling hands, she opens it.
Her eyes lock on the image—her parents’ car, crushed like a can in a recycling bin. She absorbs the headline: Hastings couple killed in car wreck on daughter’s 16th birthday. Drugs likely involved.
Drugs?
This can’t be right. But it has to be—it’s there before her in black and white.
She scans the article again. The journalist called her parents’ death a “senseless, tragic accident” in which they’d been found crushed in their car after swerving from the road and into a tree. The autopsy showed alcohol and benzodiazepines—Valium—in their blood. Her father’s blood contained lethal amounts; her mother’s far less. They’d been drunk, stoned and driving. Only the date matches Claire’s memory: “...their daughter’s sixteenth birthday.”
Had her father tried to kill himself? Overdosed by accident? And if Dad was the one with emotional problems, why would Mom take drugs?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A freshly showered Hank finds Claire sitting on her grandpa’s den floor, poring over the article.
“You need to see this,” she says, handing him the article.
He reads it, seeming to shift quickly from curious to captivated. Once he’s finished, he hands the clipping back to Claire. “So all these years, you never knew?”
“Not about the drugs and alcohol. Maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe this is why I blocked the day they died from my memory. I figured if I forgot it, there was good reason, that it was probably too painful. I never suspected this…”
“Post-traumatic stress,” Hank says.
Claire nods. “Maybe this is what Grandpa was trying to tell me, why he seemed upset.”
“You heard what the doc said. It’s normal for stroke patients to get agitated.”
She shakes her head. “It seemed like more than that. He didn’t seem agitated until after I mentioned Mom and Dad. I even mentioned the accident. And there’s one other thing...”
Hank listens as she describes her conversation with Gramps during the fishing trip.
“What kind of problems do you think he meant?” Hank asks.
“I honestly don’t know. Anyway...it shouldn’t really matter. They’re gone. It’s tragic no matter what. And who knows, maybe they met up with friends that day and had a couple of drinks. And so what if they took Valium? Half of my patients take that, or something like it. I, of all people, shouldn’t judge them based on what medications they took. People accidentally OD all the time. I can’t imagine my dad doing it on purpose.”
“I’m surprised no one ever mentioned any of this to you, though. Family or neighbors or whomever.”
She shakes her head. “Grandma won’t talk about my parents or the accident. Grandpa knows not to press. And people in Hastings keep to themselves. They’re friendly, don’t get me wrong, but confrontation is like a four-letter word. It’s how small towns work.”
Hank moves closer, looks her in the eye. “Is that why you didn’t tell me about the fishing trip ordeal?”
She smiles. “Touché. Maybe... But I’m learning.”
They spend the next hour watching mindless TV, Hank falling in and out of sleep. Her mind, as usual, prefers to stay awake. With the shock lessened, she can assess other details of her quandary. It makes sense that her father would take medication, but why Mom? What more has Gramps kept from her?
She closes her eyes and walks herself through the fishing trip. Grandpa’s inquiries about her digestive symptoms, and shortly thereafter, “mental problems”. She envisions the light, bland meal he’d prepared—not remotely his typical fare. Food and mental problems... Mental problems involving food!
She sits up straight, recalling the scale at her grandparents’ house, the haggard image she saw in the mirror, the horror that swept her at the sight of her birthday dinner, the food at Galliano’s. What if Gramps was referring to Mom’s mental problems, and those challenges involved food? Of the many psychiatric disorders that tend to be inheritable, eating disorders rank high.
Even the timing fits. If Claire repressed memories about her parents’ accident, she could easily have forgotten Mom’s battle with weight and food. Subconsciously linking them with the accident could cause a personal resurgence now. Valium for anxiety...about food!
Claire feels a rush of energy; she is onto something. But energized or not, the clock reads one-thirty. She’ll decide what to do about her epiphanies—if anything—tomorrow.
She retrieves blankets and pulls them over herself and the sleeping Hank. Cozying up to his warm body, she feels at peace enough to join him.
A sound startles her awake—or is it a feeling? She shivers as her eyes adjust to the darkness. The room feels silent, empty. Grandpa’s in the hospital, she thinks. No wonder she feels alone. Glancing at Hank, relief overwhelms her.
She lies there staring at him, watching his chest rise and fall, listening to his breath. As she snuggles up against his back, he pushes his body farther into hers. A giddy surge sweeps through her. She kisses his shoulder then slides her hand beneath his shirt and strokes his skin. He moans softly, turns to face her. Their lips meet.
They kiss, first tenderly, then fervently. She pulls off her shirt then watches him undress, enticed by his watchful, wanting eyes. Their bodies entangle. She feels feminine, her softness pressed against his muscular body, as her desire intensifies and take
s over. She rises up and straddles him. Heat surges through her body as he enters her. She releases a blissful moan.
Guiding her onto her back, he covers her mouth with his then sits up, riding her. She arches her back, savoring it. The moment she closes her eyes an image fills her mind, the silhouette of a man hovering over her—the wrong man. He’s holding her down, staring into her with come-hither eyes. No. It hurts!
Her eyes snap open to see the same man braced over her.
“Stop!” She shoves Hank away and hears a thud as he falls to the floor, crying as dizziness overwhelms her. She drops her face into her hands. Her chilled body trembles as tears soak her hands.
She doesn’t move until her sobs soften to whimpers. Sensing Hank’s presence, she opens her eyes. He sits near her on the sofa, his face lined with concern.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft and measured.
“I...think so. I don’t know what happened. Did I hurt you?”
“I’m maybe a little bruised. You have a black belt I don’t know about?”
She can’t smile at his joke. She just shoved the man she adores on the ground while making love. “God, I can’t believe I did that.”
“Talk to me.” Hank moves closer and places his hand on her knee. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
Perhaps she had.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Claire lies beside Hank, wide awake. She can’t remove the image of Hank, startled on the floor after she shoved him out of her mind—or the reason she did so. Had she been half-asleep? It’s as though her recent nightmare reoccurred in real-time. But it hadn’t felt like a dream... It’s as though the man with monster eyes stepped out of her nightmare and into her life.
She walks herself through the dream, drawing up as many details as she can. The man carrying her, his unpleasant smell, the tenderness from his shoulder pressing into her abdomen. The pain in her wrists as he forced her down on the mattress then pinned her down. She’d fought him, fought the ache...
In Her Shadow Page 9