In Her Shadow

by August McLaughlin

  She hears a sound and stops. Holding her breath, she listens—nothing. Sensing the need to hurry, she rushes through additional photos. The last she views depicts a grown woman. It is recent, judging from the image quality and glossy paper. The woman from the images she spotted on his computer—the woman he’s been watching...

  She glances at the two beds standing side by side and prays with all of her might, hoping a God exists who will hear her. PLEASE...let him bring her here alive.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Thanks for seeing me today,” Claire says, taking a seat in Dr. Marsha’s office.

  “My pleasure. It sounded important.”

  “I know you counseled my mother.”

  The blunt statement gives her strength. She sits up straighter while Dr. Marsha’s face drains of color. Ah, caught you! “You must’ve guessed I’d figure that out.”

  “The thought did cross my mind. I suppose I hoped you hadn’t.”

  Claire nods, appreciating her honesty.

  “I hope you can understand that patient confidentiality applies. I’m not able to discuss—”

  “Of course I understand that. But you might have information that could help fill in the gaps, not just for me, but for my grandpa. He had a stroke.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Thank you. He seems to be improving. He can’t talk yet but when he looks at me he seems anxious to tell me something. And this morning, I was asking him questions. He squeezed my hand to answer yes or no. I believe he’s worried about me. It’s something to do with my parents. I was looking through my grandfather’s things when I found records of your sessions with my mother. Why was she seeing you? Was it because of my father?”

  The mention of her father peaks Dr. Swenson’s attention; her eyes lock with Claire’s. “My grandfather told me about him,” Claire says.

  “He...did?” Dr. Swenson sounds shocked.

  “I know about his mental problems. I’m assuming that’s why Mom met with you—it had to be difficult to deal with his illness. Was it schizophrenia? Depression?”

  “To be honest, I don’t know. I never counseled him.”

  “Did anyone?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

  “What about my mother, then? What can you tell me about her?”

  “Claire, I wasn’t even sure it was appropriate at the time for me to treat you after your mother’s death, but your grandfather insisted. I suppose he thought that since Dawn and I worked well together, you and I might, too. But I must uphold patient confidentiality—”

  “Stop!” Claire places her head in her hands. She pauses, takes a breath, continues. “Look...I’m sorry to put this on you. And trust me, I can imagine the situation you’re in. But my parents are gone. And I only learned recently that the accident was their fault—”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Dr. Marsha winces. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “But you did. Please, I’m begging you! I won’t tell anyone what you share with me. My grandfather is troubled by this and...something is very wrong in my life right now. I’m not sure I can help him or myself if you don’t help me. Please!”

  Dr. Swenson sighs. “I last saw your mother a few days before she died. She told me she’d received a letter, that someone she hadn’t seen in years wished to see her. He had information to share—something he wasn’t willing to reveal beforehand—and demanded that she see him alone.”

  “Well, who? She must have told you.”

  “I wish I knew more.” The therapist looks down. “She seemed quite anxious about the ordeal, so I encouraged her to talk to her parents, your grandparents, about it. She refused. I suggested she decline the meeting, if she could, or at the very least, bring your father.

  “Now I don’t have any proof as to what happened the day of her accident. But I do know she planned to see him on your birthday. That’s really all I know.”

  “You think that my parents went to see some old friend and… he killed them?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying that the timing was...coincidental. By the end of our session, she’d decided she wouldn’t go. But she was very emotional. I wouldn’t be surprised if she changed her mind, saw him, became upset...”

  “The report said they’d taken Valium. Did she have a drug or alcohol problem? Was she on medications?”

  Dr. Swenson shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge. But I’m not a psychiatrist. If she was on medications, she never told me about them.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone about the letter?”

  “I did. I spoke to the Hastings police. When I followed up later I was told that the case was closed and the records showed no one’s involvement, other than your parents.”

  “But you still suspect—”

  “Suspect is the appropriate word. I have no proof, just...feelings.”

  Which are often proof enough, Claire thinks. “If not to discuss my dad’s emotional state, can you tell me why she was seeing you in the first place?”

  She smiles. “Your mother was a woman with strong feelings. She felt happiness more than most people are capable, but sadness, despair, too.”

  “Bipolar?”

  “No, I never thought so. From my perspective she was a woman with a tremendous heart who’d been through a lot, starting a family at such a young age...and who loved her daughter deeply. She needed a place to discuss her feelings.”

  Claire glances at her notes. “Did my mom have an eating disorder?”

  “Dawn? Heavens no. She adored food and seemed comfortable in her body. She would’ve told me otherwise. To be honest, she was a breath of fresh air after the many teenagers on diets I’ve seen…especially nowadays. Is that why you’re here? Are you struggling with—?”

  “No!” Claire snaps. “Sorry. It’s just...some of my memories and nightmares involve food. They also involve... Was I ever molested?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Do you believe you were?”

  “I’m not sure—I mean, no. I don’t think so. It’s a foggy memory, more like a dream—or dreams, I should say. Mom is in some of them, a lot of pain...and blood.”

  Dr. Marsha nods. “It sounds like many of the feelings you experienced surrounding the accident are resurfacing. It’s understandable, considering the timing—near a prominent anniversary of the occurrence and your grandfather’s health crisis.”

  “I’ve considered stress as the trigger.”

  “Perhaps it’s time that you and your grandfather had a good talk…once he’s recovered, of course. Are you certain he fears for your well-being?”

  “I guess I can’t be sure... He’s only mumbled and squeezed my arm. It’s more of a strong hunch, I suppose.”

  “Do you have any other reason to believe you’re in danger?”

  Did she? She considers mentioning the man in the SUV she feared was watching her, but decides against it. “I suppose not.”

  “Good. I wonder if your grandfather might be concerned that you learned more details of the accident—the drugs and so forth. That would cause him a great deal of distress, no?”

  She nods. “It would.”

  “Perhaps you should put your investigating on hold for now. Tell your grandfather you did so, and when he’s closer to his usual self, you can discuss everything. It might serve as a powerful healing experience for both of you. I’ll even see the two of you together if you’d like. In the meantime, stay close to your family. It’s an important time for that.”

  A phone rings. Dr. Marsha retrieves her cell from her desk and glances at the caller ID. “I apologize. Would you mind? This may be a patient emergency.”

  “Not at all.”

  Dr. Marsha steps out and closes the door. Claire ponders the therapist’s advice, finding it offsetting. Had the therapist actually told her what to do? That’s not the way therapists are taught to operate. Why would she suggest that Claire stop investigating? There
must be something to find.

  She glances around the room. Her eyes land on the file cabinets—three tall units, standing side by side against the far wall. It’s worth a shot.

  Moving quickly and quietly, she begins opening drawers. The files are organized alphabetically. She thumbs through the second drawer, her pulse accelerating when she spots the label, “Fiksen.”

  Her hopes deflate. It’s her own file. Nothing useful there.

  She jumps to the first drawer and spots it: Adolfsson, Dawn. Her mother’s maiden name.

  Dr. Marsha’s voice and footsteps echo from the hall. “All right then. Next week sounds fine. Let me just grab my schedule.”

  Claire closes the drawer and sits down moments before the door swings open.

  “Be right back,” Dr. Marsha whispers then takes her calendar into the hall, leaving the door a crack open behind her.

  Now’s her chance. In a swift move, Claire retrieves the folder. She grabs her coat from the wall hook and tucks it inside.

  “You don’t need to leave,” Dr. Marsha says, stepping into the room. “We have a few more minutes, longer if you’d like to make up for what I took just now.”

  “Actually, I do. I have an emergency of my own to tend to.”

  “I see. I hope everything’s all right.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure it will be.” She smiles at Dr. Marsha, feeling as though a neon sign hangs over her head: Thief! For a greater good, she thinks to herself, hoping she’s right.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Marsha Swenson records session notes in Claire Fiksen’s file then moves to her desk in the adjacent room. Are you sure you want to know? she asks herself. Regardless, she feels she need. She logs onto her computer and opens the web browser. With trembling fingers, she types the name she hoped never to deal with or come across again in her lifetime.

  She finds him quickly. A list of websites featuring his work appear—too long, and too current. Damn it to hell! Clicking the top link, his name appears on the screen, along with his photo. The therapist stares at the face, enraged. “You better stay away from her!”

  Judging from the address at the bottom of the page, he’s moved his practice even closer. She closes her eyes and does something she hasn’t done in years:—she prays. Please God, keep Claire safe from harm. If it turns out she hasn’t done the right thing, she might never forgive herself.

  There is one more step she can take, one she should have taken repeatedly over the years. She can report him. He hasn’t threatened her in years... What harm could one phone call to the police do? She lifts the telephone receiver from her desk and takes a breath.

  Darkness falls over her like a black curtain before she senses the presence behind her chair. “Please, don’t hurt her!” The final words spills from her, a primordial plea. She feels the pain of the needle a moment before the world goes black.

  “Don’t worry, doctor. She’s in very good hands.”

  He waits—watching and listening until the therapist breathes her last breath, pleased that his work went smoothly. Poor Dr. Marsha. She has no idea how much her advice to Claire will assist him, make his plan even easier.

  He takes the clump of keys from Dr. Marsha’s purse, digs around for any useful information he might have missed and makes the office appear ransacked. A file cabinet on its side, a stolen wallet, papers strewn about the floor. And for now, a dead servant in the middle. For the fun of it, he snaps a few pictures. It really is...artwork.

  Once it’s dark, he’ll return to do away with the body. Simple. A piece of cake.

  No more searching, indeed, Claire-belle. Best you sit back and wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Claire drives toward Peterson. Unable to wait until she reaches the clinic to read the file, she pulls to the side of the road. The folder is thinner than she would’ve expected considering her mother met with Dr. Marsha for a year or more.

  She opens it and realizes why. It contains not routine therapy notes, but intake materials—a three-page packet of details reaped from her mother’s initial session and, most likely, Grandpa’s input.

  After a page of general information—her mother’s age, birth date, address and medical history—Dr. Marsha’s notes begin. Claire scans each page quickly, barely breathing.

  Seventeen years old, mother of one-month-old baby girl (Claire)... PT expressed stress over schoolwork, ability to manage motherhood and education. Curious about her role in life, her future. Seems to have taken to motherhood—her top priority—yet seems guarded. Discomfort/sadness when asked about William (fiancé), seems unwilling (not ready?) to discuss. Underlying depression? No mention of insomnia, as per noted by father.

  Words under the heading ‘Background’ stand out like braille to the blind:

  PT’s father found and read her diary, which expressed plans to run away, refusal to marry. PT seemed defiant/secretive/unwilling to disclose details. Argument over reading the diary led to compromise: PT would talk to a professional, if not to father. (PT refused to discuss these matters upon intake.)

  Mom planned to run away? Why? To avoid marrying Dad? What about him saddened her? They always seemed happy together, in love.

  She recalls her grandpa’s words: “He had some...mental problems...” Did these “problems” cause Mom to fear marrying him? And damn it, what were they?

  Then again, Mom was young—extremely. Depressive moods, anxiety and sleep problems seem like natural reactions for a seventeen-year-old girl launched from youth to adulthood after a night of passion. The proverbial “cold feet” could have struck her as they do many brides-to-be.

  She reads the file again, wishing she had subsequent installments. If only she could go back in time, make like a fly on the wall, hear her mother’s words, confessions and revelations. But the file and session with Dr. Marsha are all she has for now.

  Hopefully they won’t lead to jail time.

  Claire resumes driving, her thoughts ping-ponging between Dr. Marsha’s words and the file, each statement triggering a slew of questions. Who did her mother plan to meet the day they died? And what was this important matter he planned to discuss? Though grateful to have learned more, the session left her with more questions than answers.

  And her own issues remain as cloudy as whole milk. Maybe stress does underlie her dreams. But that doesn’t explain their content, or the disordered eating symptoms she thought for certain were linked to Mom.

  Maybe you’re just fat, a voice echoes in her head, startling her.

  Whose voice? Why is this happening? She shakes her head, but the thoughts stay planted. She glances in the rearview mirror.

  Face it. Stop looking for excuses.

  She glances at her thighs, observing the way her flesh spreads horizontally on the car seat—symbols of her failure.

  Well, the voice prompts, do something about it.

  Her watch reads 1:40; she has some time before her session with a patient. She pulls to the side of the road, blocks away from Peterson. Telling herself she’s simply alleviating stress, she steps out of her car and begins walking, then running—the edges of her work shoes grinding blisters into her heels. She pounds her feet, moving with urgency, expelling her anger on the pavement.

  She makes round after round of the downtown streets until the chill relieves her perspiring skin and blood seeps from her blisters. Feeling her pulse on her neck, she confirms she is in her desired heart zone—ninety calories burned every ten minutes.

  She checks her watch. Come on. Move it! She’s barely burned one apple.

  Eight minutes before the start of her session, she stops, breathless, outside the clinic, waiting for her heart rate to slow. She feels exhausted, pained...successful. Her first sense of peace in days.

  “Claire,” Sykes greets her as she steps inside the clinic. “You all right? You look flushed.”

  “Yeah, I went for a walk. Great way to let off steam.” She smiles and tries not to wince. Every step has felt like bee stings o
n her heels.

  “Sorry to hear about your grandfather. How’s he doing?”

  “Better, thanks. They moved him out of intensive care.”

  “That’s wonderful news. Say, you haven’t heard from Farrah lately, have you?”

  “No, why?”

  “She didn’t show up to work yesterday or today. No warning to anyone.”

  “That’s weird,” Claire says. “Has anyone contacted her loved ones?”

  “Haven’t been able to locate any. If you hear anything, let me know. I’ve called the police as a precaution.”

  In the restroom she removes her shoes and peels away her socks, the cotton fabric sticking to the bloody spots. Rinsing her feet, she ponders Farrah, realizing how little she knows of her coworker. Who are her loved ones? What is her life like? Lately it seems Claire knows more about her patients than people in her own life. She places tissue on her heels before heading to her office.

  The release from her run carries her through two sessions, almost surpassing caffeine in effectiveness; it definitely beat food. It didn’t, however, keep her stress over Mom’s file at bay. After her last patient calls to cancel, she opens it again. Refusal to marry....

  She retrieves a photo of her parents from her desk drawer, for the first time sensing distance between them. Dad’s arm is draped over Mom’s shoulders, but Mom doesn’t hold him back. Is she imagining it? Were her parents forced to marry, being only seventeen? In small town, conservative-minded Hastings, she wouldn’t be surprised.

  She can’t take not knowing any longer. She picks up the phone and dials Dr. Marsha. As the phone rings, she wonders what she’ll say. How can she inquire without giving the fact that she took the file away?

  Feeling heated, she stands. The room tips as though she’s caught in a sea storm or suffering from intense vertigo. She grasps the back of her chair for balance.

  “Hey Claire.” Bonnie pokes her head into her office. “Sorry, is it a bad time?”

  Claire wipes the concerned look from her face and forces a smile. “No. Come in.”