In Her Shadow (2 page)

She types his email address, a series of random numbers at Yahoo, then clicks
Send
. She pulls the envelope from her purse and recounts its contents. This’ll cover a nice new purse, she thinks, or the Donna Karan suit she’s been eyeing.

It may be Claire’s birthday but she seems to be getting all the presents.

Chapter Four

“Wake up. What’s wrong?” His voice rings with urgency as he jostles her awake.

Why is he waking her in the middle of the night? Fear numbs her. Please, not now; she can’t take it.

She cracks her eyes open and notes slivers of light framing the windows. Her insides quiver. She never sleeps in—never. “I’m…nothing’s wrong. I’m fine,” she mutters, aware that, most likely, she isn’t.

She tries to sit upright, but fails. Her head throbs. Her eyelids long to close.

He flips the light on and darts to her bedside. “No!”

His panic heightens her own. What is it? What does he see?

She holds her breath so as not to inhale his as he hovers closer. He lifts her chin. His eyes scan her face like laser beams searching for answers. She won’t look at him, at least not his eyes. She fears they’ll snatch her up, and there’s too much darkness in them. She wriggles her nose; something feels stuck. What is trapped inside?

He feels her forehead, checking for fever. She must have one, as his hands are chilled.

As he stretches her eyelids open, another fear strikes her: Is he reading her thoughts? Her heart accelerates as she tries to close her mind’s door. He’d surely punish her for her thoughts.

“Stay here.” He leaves, fumbling, clumsier than usual—or, panicked?

He returns with his black leather work bag and reaches inside for his stethoscope. She shivers; it’s cold to her skin. The thermometer mutes the sound from her ears. His light beam removes the clarity from her eyes. Everything’s spotty now. She’s numb, hazy, confused… and sick, she reminds herself; she must be. For a moment she is thankful he’s near. If she’s as sick as she fears, he might save her.

The causes will be her fault, though. Everything always is.

He lifts her pajamas. She gasps. Don’t!

But he does. He stares at her belly as though she’s done something wrong. She can’t bear her own eyes on her body, much less his. She’s fat…so what? It’s never made a difference to him before. As he rests his head sideways on her stomach, she winces. It’s not his bristly whiskers that hurt most, but the tenderness of her flesh—bruised, like rotting fruit.

“It hurts,” he says. An accusation, not a query. Has he determined what’s wrong? She’s not sure she wants to know.

He rolls her onto her side, presses his stethoscope to her back, taps it with his finger. Upon command she breathes in and out while he listens. Compared to hers, she observes, his breath sounds urgent.

He straightens up, glaring at her. “You haven’t been eating, have you? What have you done with the food I’ve left for you?” He scavenges the room, looks under blankets, her bed.

Does he think she’s that stupid? She’d stopped hiding food the day he discovered dinner remnants under the rug, in her shoes, in the trash bin. She has advanced techniques now.

“Tell me you haven’t been vomiting.” Fright hangs in his voice and fills the creases in his brow.

Her chin trembles, tears fill her eyes, words seem pointless. What good would lying do?

Wrath rising like an angry balloon in his chest, he grasps her forearms. His desperate eyes glare at her before he releases her, as though he doesn’t wish to break her. But maybe he should.
Go ahead,
she thinks, I dare you. Instead, his rage melts into sorrow as he moves her head to his chest and cradles her. “It’s going to be OK. I’ll take care of you...whatever it takes.
”

Whatever it takes?
What does he mean? Moistness falls from his cheek to her head. She’s never made him cry before. She’s frightened by his urgency, but more so, drained. She senses the need to worry, decipher him and his words. Later, she thinks. Now she’s not capable.

She succumbs to exhaustion, no longer caring whether she’s sick or safe or hurting. Her entire body, every bit of her soul, long only for sleep. Within moments she’s found it—a dark sleeping place that suits her like a custom-chiseled cave. Best of all is what she feels once she’s inside of it—an overwhelming sense of nothingness.

Chapter Five

Claire punches the code into the security system of her apartment, and Zola bounds toward her. “Hi Sweetness.” She makes the doggy sign for “hello” then pets Zola as she sniffs her post-work feet. “You make my morning seem like a silly dream.”

After taking Zola for a short walk, she pulls a turquoise cashmere turtleneck and fitted jeans from her closet. Stylish and cozy isn’t the easiest combination to come by as temperatures drop, but she’s lived in Minnesota most of her life and has learned a few things. Though Hank lived in California until two years ago, it doesn’t seem to matter; the guy can wear a snowsuit and ski mask and manage hotness. 

She takes the elevator down to meet him at seven-thirty, noting that the dopamine rush she studied in psych courses is more than textbook jargon. Good, she thinks. She might need the feel-good chemical tonight. If only she’d had it earlier. Pushing thoughts of her birthday away she steps into the brisk air, pleased they’d decided on Galliano’s. Hot plates of pasta sound like perfect fuel for her chilled body and ravished belly. The rumble in her stomach pauses when her eyes meet Hank’s.

“You look great,” he says. As he leans in to kiss her, she relishes his smell—some combination of fabric softener, deodorant and Crest.

Once inside his dark green Jetta, immaculate aside from the strewn about textbooks, tenseness seeps from her body. The role of passenger brings respite after a long day.

“Deltoid tuberosity, trochlea, greater/lesser tubercle... Catchy,” she says, reading the sticky note on his dashboard. “A love poem for me?”

“Depends... How turned on are you by arm bones?” He shoots her a grin. “That’s my new study-at-stoplights tactic. Hopefully I won’t need cue cards after my residency.”

A short drive and three Dave Matthews songs later they reach their destination.

The interior of Galliano’s keeps par with its cuisine. The velvet-covered booths are nestled with enough space between them to allow for dinner-for-two intimacy. Renaissance paintings adorn the walls—mostly reprints or copies of Roselli, Martini and Ghiberti. Classical music swoons as the host leads them to a corner booth.

A server approaches with a wine list. “I’ll take a…” Claire glances at the menu. “…Diet Coke.”

“You sure?” Hank asks. “I was gonna order a bottle of wine.”

“Okay, great.” Diet Coke was an odd beverage choice anyway. She prefers her soft drinks straight up—sugary syrup and all. In fact, she isn’t sure what made her order it anyway.

“We’ll take both,” Hank says. “A bottle of Merlot and a diet soda for the lady.” He looks at Claire. “Sorry,
pop.
”

“It’s easy if you think about it,” she says as the server departs. “Pop fizzes and pops. It doesn’t soda.”

“Is that what they taught you at Harvard? That pop doesn’t soda?”

“That and so much more,” she replies. A coy grin forms on her lips as thoughts of naughty things she hopes they’ll partake in later surface. She didn’t expect to feel enticed tonight, but she welcomes it. “Listen. I know I said I didn’t want to even mention what today is...”

“
Shit.
I hope you weren’t expecting—”

“No,” she stops him. “I meant what I said about no gifts or anything. But just so you know: I think my parents would be glad I’m here with you tonight.”

He reaches across the table and grasps her hand. “I am, too.”

After several minutes of perusing menus, Hank sets his down. “How was work?” he asks.

 “What?” She’s exploring the menu like a kid in a toy store.
Everything looks so good!
“Oh, sorry. Can we decide first? I’m just really hungry.”

“Are you kidding? I love that you’re a girl who eats. Do you know how many in LA don’t?”

A girl who eats. Terrific.
She can think of countless descriptions she’d prefer. She imagines a tableful of lithe model/actress-types swooning over him as he eats. “Oh, Hank, you’re sooo sexy when you eat! Here, have some more!”

As Kiki the imaginary model moves an olive from her mouth to Hank’s, Claire snaps herself out of it. She scans the menu further, salivating. One day of barely eating has enlarged her appetite several-fold, giving personal significance to the term “feast or famine.” Chicken cacciatore, goat cheese ravioli, minestrone, double crusted garlic bread...and
hallelujah
—flourless chocolate torte.

“Do you like calamari?” Hank asks.

“Are you kidding? Love it.” And she can’t recall the last time she had the pleasure. Most Minnesotans she knows prefer cod. 

The server returns and takes their order—an array of dishes no two humans could finish in one sitting, if several days.

“I think my stomach just did the ordering,” Hank says as the server leaves.

“In that case, your stomach is brilliant.”

Hank laughs and lifts the wine bottle. “Top your glass?”

“I’ll stick with Diet Coke for now.”
 

The calamari arrives and Claire reaches for a piece. But the moment she touches the crumbly coating, nausea replaces her hunger. Chills coat her skin, but she’s hot, perspiring. The room seems to whirl around her. She stands.

“You okay?” Hank asks.

“Yeah, I, uh…I’ll be right back.”

In the restroom, she braces herself over the sink. There must be a reasonable explanation. She can’t have food poisoning—she hasn’t eaten anything yet.

She takes slow breaths, attempting to slow her elevated heart rate and mellow her erratic emotions. Think rationally, she encourages. Maybe even one glass of wine was too much after little food all day. Or maybe Diet Coke has goofy side effects. Or maybe...it stems from the calendar date. But it’s never made her ill before. And she felt fine minutes ago.

Whatever the cause, she sees no choice but to pull herself together. The longer she spends in the bathroom, the more she’ll have to explain. And what would she say? Unwilling to let anything ruin her first enjoyable birthday evening in ages, she takes additional breaths and heads back to the table.

“You okay?” Hank asks.

“Yeah, sorry. I felt weird for a minute, but I’m fine now. I probably should’ve eaten something before the wine. Wimpy I guess.” She feels the falsity of her smile. Can he tell? Sweat dots her forehead and pools under her arms. She wipes her brow, her fingers like icicles to her temples. At least the room is dark.

He looks at her the way Claire imagines he looks at patients—eyes squinted, his brow furrowed with concern.

“No need to get all doctor-like on me now,” she says, maintaining her forced smile. “I’m fine. Promise.”

He seems convinced. Now, to convince herself.

She sips water, squeezing the glass to keep her hands from trembling, as he begins a story from his work day.
Good—
he’s moved on.

“So Mrs. Kingsley, the girl’s mom, is all freaked out because she thinks she got the chicken pox from another first grader who rubbed it on her on purpose, and…” 

Claire’s heart continues to pound. She tries to focus on Hank’s words, find them intriguing as she normally does. Instead, she clings to them—a safety boat to pull her ashore. Why is she so anxious?

When the server returns with their entrees, Claire holds her breath and looks away. Once she looks at the food display, she exhales in relief. Although not exactly eager to indulge, her nausea and nervousness have lessened, landing her at a satisfying medium—she’ll eat, but not too much.

For the remainder of the meal, they eat and chat with ease. Once they’ve paid the bill—split equally, at Claire’s insistence—she glances at her watch and does a double take. “It’s almost eleven?”

“Haven’t you noticed you make time fly, m’lady?” Hank asks.

As they step outside Claire feels as though October has fast-forwarded to early January. “My God, it’s freezing.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be used to this?” He asks, seeming less affected by the temperature drop.

“I’m serious. Doesn’t it feel colder than usual?” Is she colder because of her anxiety or more anxious because of the chill?

“My God, your lips are turning blue. Want to wait inside while I get the car?”

“No, it’s okay. Let’s just hurry.”

Normally the interaction would summon romance, something like making out wildly until they were so turned on they could barely contain themselves during the drive to his or her place. They’d make passionate love until cold was the furthest thing from their bodies and minds. Now, though, Claire yearns to go home and curl up in bed beside Zola—her only desired company.

Once he pulls up in front of her apartment, she kisses him in a fashion that says, “You’re terrific,” without hints of wanting more. For a moment his tender mouth lures her from her urge to call it a night. But her urge wins out.

“Thanks for tonight,” she says, “and for being so great about everything.”

He brushes her cheek with his thumb, a tender look in his eyes. “Want me to come up? Pour you a bath?”

“Thanks, but I’m wiped. I’ll probably be out in ten minutes.” Careful not to let her eyes reveal her thoughts or feelings, she focuses between his left pupil and the perimeter of his nose.

He kisses her again and she steps out of the car.

She opens her apartment door to find Zola snoring on the sofa. Judging from her scampering feet the squirrels in doggie dreamland were giving her a run for the money. Her nose twitches as she senses Claire’s smell, causing her to wake and open her eyes. She wriggles, awaiting Claire’s approach.