In Her Shadow

by August McLaughlin

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Giddy from the epiphany, Claire rushes to her bedroom closet and retrieves an old photo album. Yellowed and dusty, it’s the only album she knows of that depicts her mother’s youth. The pages smell of old furniture and stick together slightly as she flips them.

  Once she realized that her mother was a prime candidate for postpartum depression, she snapped from confused, rookie detective to investigative psychologist. She’d missed it, most likely because of the joy Gramps swore Mom felt regarding parenting— “even before you were born,” he’d said. But considering her grandfather’s long-held secrets, he might say anything to protect Claire’s feelings. Parenting joy aside, Mom held most PPD risk factors: young pregnancy, changes in social relationships, changes in her body at an already vulnerable age...

  Wait. Changes in her body. Weight gain. Disordered eating habits? But Dr. Marsha had assured her otherwise. A teenage girl, post pregnancy, with no body image issues? None at all? PDD might even explain Claire’s own symptoms.

  Her eyes are drawn to a photo of Mom at a pizza restaurant with friends. Claire smiles at her mother’s face—practically a mirror image of her own, complete with the same goofy expression Claire sports in impromptu photos.

  In the same photo, her mother’s plate holds a half-eaten slice of pizza and a leftover crust. She clutches a cherry-red can of regular Coke. She appears healthy, of normal weight. Claire observes no signs that cry eating disorder. But such symptoms remain secret, she knows, and not all sufferers are bone-thin. Take herself, for example. She glances down at her abdomen, resisting negative self-talk.

  She dials Dr. Marsha’s office again, reaching the same answering service. Who else might have answers? Sykes. He not only specializes in marriage and family counseling, but wrote his dissertation on postpartum conditions. She dials the clinic, her anxiety turning into relief at the sound of his voice.

  “Claire. How can I help you? Are you feeling better?”

  “I am, thank you. Hoping to be back to work tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ve been going through some patient files and wondered if you could help me clarify something. Do you happen to know if Valium is used to treat postpartum depression?”

  “Used to. It’s been linked with SIDS and other infant problems, though. So it’s not most psychiatrists’ first choice these days. I’d suggest you ask Farrah, but...she still hasn’t turned up.”

  Claire pauses, feeling selfish. With all that’s been happening, she’s barely thought of her missing coworker. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I sure hope she shows up tanned from the Bahamas and we all missed the memo.”

  “So do I,” Sykes says. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yes, actually. How often do anxiety and depression carry on afterwards in women with PPD?”

  “If the onset is acute? Symptoms usually last less than a year, but I’ve seen repercussions go on for decades. All depends on the person—their support system, willingness to heal and so forth. Long-term treatment helps, particularly in severe cases.”

  “Severe as in—”

  “Suicidal tendencies. Harm to self or others. Same old, same old.”

  “Right. That makes sense. Thanks for your help. And please, keep me posted if you hear anything from Farrah.”

  Claire hangs up, hoping her curiosity and impatience are to blame for her hypothesis—that Mom had severe PPD, related long-term depression, the tendency to pose harm to herself or others.

  Was Mom the one with ‘mental problems’? It would make sense; Gramps would protect his daughter’s memory to the end. Or perhaps both of her parents suffered... Psych patients attract.

  Her thoughts spin as she takes Zola outside, so much so, she barely notices the single-digit temperature. Self-harm... The accident... Valium. Overdose? Was Mom really planning to see someone the night of the accident? Or did she plan to run away? Or, worse...

  When Zola stops to relieve herself, Claire closes her eyes and forces calming breaths. You are blowing things way out of proportion. She’s done all she can for now, she decides. Two people can fill in the answer blanks: Gramps and Dr. Marsha. Until they do, her endless worry and speculation won’t help.

  As she leads Zola inside the building, then down the hallway toward her door, the phone rings from inside her apartment. Once inside, she leaps across the kitchen table for the phone, but misses it.

  A beat later, her cell buzzes in her pocket. A Hastings number. The hospital. She answers with a trembling hand.

  Though the doctor’s words sound hazy, she gathers their meaning. Life as she’s known it has ended. Life before Grandpa’s death, life after.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The fragrant floral arrangements strike bitter contrast to the ache in Claire’s heart. After a drive to Hastings she barely recalls, she’d arrived at her grandmother’s house and a steady stream of visitors—neighbors stopping by offering casseroles, pies and condolences.

  Grandma sits in her rocking chair, face blank, tears streaming from her eyes. She scarcely says a word, other than the occasional “Gil…” which breaks Claire’s heart further. Even Zola seems concerned. She goes back and forth between Claire’s side and Grandma’s.

  As the visitors thin, Cynthia Galway, the organist from Grandma’s church, approaches Claire in the kitchen. “I wanted to offer to stay here tonight, but your grandmother doesn’t seem terribly responsive.”

  Claire glances around the house, noting its pronounced emptiness. “Would you stay? I’d really appreciate it. I know Grandma would, too.”

  “It’d be my pleasure. Now come. Let’s fix you both something to eat. What will it be?” She peruses an assortment of foil- and plastic-topped dishes. “Hot dish, hot dish or…hmm, hot dish?” She lifts the foil from a ceramic dish. “Guess we Hastings folks aren’t much for variety.”

  “Hot dish sounds fine.” Hot dish, Claire thinks. Another Minnesota-ism she’ll have to explain to Hank.

  After a meal she pokes at, Cynthia eats and Grandma doesn’t touch, Claire guides Cynthia upstairs to the guest room. Aware that Grandma won’t likely move from the living room, she returns there and eases her into a more comfortable position in her rocking chair. She adds another blanket to her then sprawls on the sofa in hopes of finding sleep.

  An hour passes. Exhaustion pulls down on her like heavy weights. But her thoughts, and perhaps her weariness, keep her wired. She can’t free the image of Gramps squeezing her arm from her mind. Or ‘D’... His hand tightening when she’d said her mother’s name. What did it mean? What was he trying to tell her?

  Her phone buzzes—Elle calling from Paris. Claire slips into the kitchen and takes the call, grateful for the diversion.

  “I just got your message. I’m so sorry,” Elle says. “I’m flying in tomorrow. I got the last day off the shoot.”

  “You did?”

  “Of course I did. Are you kidding? I can’t work like this. Besides, you need me.”

  As they talk and cry together, the speculation she shared with Hank seems right—she misses Elle more when life grows tough. Maybe they haven’t lost their connection after all.

  “Anything I can bring? Or do for you?” Elle asks.

  For a moment, she considers telling Elle everything—about her food and weight fixation, the man she saw while making love to Hank, her session with Dr. Marsha. But she can’t bring herself to do it. Another time. “I...can’t think of anything better than seeing you.”

  “Everything will get better, Claire. Promise.”

  I hope so. She hangs up, noting that the conversation worked like Nyquil. Though Grandpa’s last communication remains pressed in her mind like an oversized question mark, her weariness is winning out. If she’s lucky, sleep will bring clarity...and answers.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  She doesn’t wait but five minutes after he leaves to undo her restraints. They now snap open with ease; last time she did it with her eyes closed.

  The moment he’d
called her Dawn rather than “love” or “my darling,” pieces of the puzzle seemed to snap together, as though it should have been obvious all along. Dawn—the name inked on the backs of several photos. He never wished to make love to her, but to Dawn. He’d molded her into his fantasy, the woman he lost. The woman they both lost, really.

  Since then, her emotions have remained mixed. How could she grieve for someone she never knew existed? That isn’t entirely true; she has wondered about her. At times her presence seemed as close and tangible as the floor felt to her feet. Or maybe it was just the idea she sensed; the notion of having someone to love and take care of her, whether she was rightfully hers or not. “Uncle” Bob was never really her uncle, and he was kind. Blood-related or not, she had planned to welcome the mother he’d promised with loving arms. Someone whose love didn’t hinder on... She stares at the nearby bed. That.

  But none of that matters now. Dawn must have died—been killed?—years ago.

  With tears in her eyes, her throat tightening, she reminds herself of her mission. Soon he’ll return with the other woman in the pictures—hopefully alive. Now is not the time for mourning, but for preparation.

  She finds the peroxide in the bathroom cabinet and applies it to her ash blonde roots. While waiting for the bleach to set, she retrieves the photograph of Dawn that she’s chosen—her prototype. She knows it’s a stretch. How can she pass for the vibrant platinum beauty? Looking down at the body she continually wishes there was less of, she understands why he’s long expressed disappointment. Then again, he had confused her for Dawn the other day and, if she recalls right, numerous times before. She has to try. Dawn and sex. His Achilles’ heels.

  Using the photos, his projector and more determination than she ever deemed possible, she begins creating a shrine, a tribute to her. It’s also, she hopes, an effective trap.

  “I may need your help with this one.” She speaks aloud to her muse, hoping that if heaven exists, she can hear. Whether she ever planned to care for her or not, Dawn is her prime inspiration. Particularly if he contributed to Dawn’s death, her escape and freedom will be in her honor.

  She pulls the other woman’s recent picture from the envelope—the woman she wishes to save. She might need her assistance, too. She places that photo under her pillow for good luck, then walks to the bathroom to rinse her hair.

  Peering into the mirror she feels as though she is staring not at a stranger, as she’s sensed countless times before, but at her kindred spirit. Her heart has a place; she belongs. Though her hair color is fake, she feels real. She dries and styles her tresses. “All of me can’t be wretched,” she says, touching the mirror with her fingertips, contemplating the beauty.

  She slips into the dress she wore the last time he carried her to the basement to stay, relieved to find that it still fits, yet disappointed by its lack of looseness. Later, she reminds herself. She can lose all the weight she wants later. After slipping on the black pumps she finds an old tube of mascara, some powder and Vaseline to use as lip gloss in the bathroom drawer. It isn’t much, but it will do.

  She places the knife beneath her mattress then resumes her place in bed, eager to peruse the photos again. Who know what she’ll learn this time?

  After one full dress rehearsal, she’ll await his arrival. Anxiety simmers within her. If this plan doesn’t work, her life, and that of the woman, are at stake.

  And that woman is all she has left.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  After a morning filled with additional visitors and phone calls, Claire takes Zola for a long walk through Grandpa’s orchards. Though the night hadn’t clarified matters regarding Gramps, she feels less stressed having rested. The crisp outdoor air and movement add to her refreshment, making for welcome medicine.

  She returns to find Cynthia bustling between the kitchen and dining room, manning phone calls, storing food, arranging floral bouquets. “Can I help?”

  “Sure, dear. You can put these in water.” Cynthia hands her two bouquets. “I didn’t realize Gil had such a large extended family.”

  “They were never very close. His only brother died in World War II, but he has loads of cousins. They’re all rather conservative, from what I understand. Not quite on the same wavelength as Gramps. Smart, though. Scientists, doctors, a theologian...”

  “Impressive. So was Gil, though.”

  Claire smiles. Yes, he was.

  She carries the flowers to the kitchen. Nostalgia overwhelms her as she opens the first bouquet: violets, Mom’s favorite. Cradling them to her chest, she feels her mother’s arms encircling her, inhales her sweet perfume.

  “Those are lovely.” Cynthia appears in the doorway. “Who are they from?”

  Claire opens the card. “Dearest CC, Sending my love and deepest sympathy. Malcolm. One of Grandpa’s cousins, I think. I should show them to Grandma. Where is she?” So taken by the flowers, she hadn’t realized that Grandma had left her post in the living room.

  “Right here, dear.” Grandma enters, freshly showered and dressed. “Aren’t those lovely.” She reads the card, beaming, then pulls a kettle from the cupboard. “Why don’t you two take them out to the dining room and have a seat. It’s time I helped some around here. Cinnamon tea sound all right?”

  Claire shoots Cynthia a confused look. “It’s... Yes! Sounds great, Grams.”

  Claire leads Cynthia to the dining room, feeling as though layers of bricks have been lifted from her load. “What do you think happened?”

  “Well, I was going to tell you that she seemed a bit...chipper this morning. But I didn’t expect all this! A phone call came for her at about eight-fifteen. I asked her if she’d take it—and she did! It was a cousin. Maxwell I think. Or—”

  “Malcolm?” Claire glances at the violets on the table.

  “Yes, that’s it, Malcolm. Anyway, she chatted with him for a while. When I came back to check on her, she’d gone upstairs.” Cynthia looks up at the ceiling. “Hallelujah. The Lord is mysterious.”

  Grandma enters with a tray of steaming teacups, fruit salad and bran muffins.

  “This looks delicious,” Claire says, absorbing the aroma of cinnamon and apples.

  “And high in fiber,” Grandma adds.

  Claire smiles; her grandmother is back. During the meal, Claire notices that while sadness remained in Grandma’s eyes, it no longer seems to numb her. Though somber, she appears alive—perhaps even hopeful. Claire wants to ask her how she felt, what changed, hear details of her conversation with Malcolm. But, she thinks better of it. Grandma has improved; that’s what matters.

  After breakfast Claire retrieves a phone message from a Dr. Rosemary Jacobs. She’s taken over some of Dr. Marsha’s patients for the time being. Claire resolves to call her later.

  On her way upstairs to shower and change, she spots Grandma in her room, gazing into her closet. “Hi Grams.”

  “Hello dear.”

  “It’s chilly today. You may want a sweater—”

  “He liked this suit, didn’t he? Well, no, I don’t suppose he liked suits much at all. I suppose he wore them for my sake.” She stroked the arm of a suit jacket, a melancholy smile curving the edges of her lips.

  Claire tries to withhold her tears but can’t. Grandma extends her arms. “Come.”

  Claire rushes into her arms and sobs. It has been years, perhaps decades, since Grandma last coddled her.

  “There, there,” Grandma says, rubbing her back. “It’s all right, Dawn. Let it all out, sweet child.”

  Startled, Claire takes a step back. “Claire.” Grandma looks puzzled. “My name, Grandma... It’s Claire.”

  “I know that!” she snaps. “You don’t think I know my own granddaughter’s name?” She refocuses on the closet, her manner shifting from soft and nurturing to the more rigid woman Claire knows. “Yes, this suit will be fine.”

  As she pulls a navy suit from the closet and lays it on the bed, Claire feels invisible. Grandma has re-entered her private wor
ld—a place where Claire never feels welcome. What is it about Malcolm that lured her out of it? She shivers, recalling the distorted image she’s seen in the mirror. Perhaps they all have alternate identities.

  Once in her car, Claire calls Rosemary Jacobs. “Dr. Jacobs, this is Claire Fiksen. You left me a message?”

  “Ah, yes...Claire. You tried to reach Dr. Swenson. Are you a patient?”

  “Former patient, actually. I saw her once recently.”

  “That explains why I didn’t find you in her files. As I mentioned in my message, Dr. Swenson is…away, and I’m filling in. How might I be of help?”

  “Is she all right? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just that when I spoke to her last week she didn’t mention anything about going away.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss her situation. I realize it’s not ideal to see a substitute therapist, but if you’d like to meet, I have several openings next week.”

  Something isn’t right. Think. “That won’t be necessary. Can you tell me when she might return? She’s actually an associate of mine now. I’m a therapist myself, at Peterson in Minneapolis.”

  “I see. Is Rutherford Sykes still in charge there?”

  Claire smiles; the cool edge in the woman’s voice has softened. “He is.”

  “Wonderful. I took a course from him at the U years back.” She pauses. “Well I’m afraid I have some bad news... Actually, I’m not sure I’m the appropriate person to tell you this. Perhaps I should put you in touch with the chief investigator...”

  “Wait—investigator? Please tell me what’s going on.”

  “Dr. Swenson was...murdered. Someone ransacked her office last Thursday night. They stole drugs and killed her. One of her associates found her Friday morning. I’m so sorry.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “I don’t even know what to say. God, Claire. I’m so sorry.” Sitting across from Claire at Perkins Restaurant with bleary eyes and unkempt hair, Elle’s exhaustion didn’t keep her from calling the moment her plane landed.