Authors: August McLaughlin
He finishes applying the cold, lotion-like substance then drapes a towel around her shoulders. Her hair is clipped atop her head, heavier now from the smelly goo. He moves her to the covered toilet seat and brushes her cheek with his hand. She wants to snap at it, crush it between her teeth. But she doesn’t dare. She must sit quietly and comply.
“Stay here,” he says, then leaves and locks the door.
She glances around the room. Where exactly does he think she might go? Through the heavy walls? The locked doors? The bolted windows?
His timer buzzes and he returns. He pulls the foil pieces from her hair, brushes it then blows it dry. She closes her eyes and imagines that the heat is coming from the sun or a sauna. At least, for once, she’s warm.
He places her before the bathroom mirror, more for his benefit than hers. She looks not at her reflection but through it, staring until her features blur and all she sees are clouds.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“I do.” She knows the answers to his quiz. But she isn’t lying; she does appreciate clouds.
As he guides her to his bedroom, she holds her breath. No matter what happens, don’t give up.
He hands her a fluffy pink dress, more like a child’s than a woman’s. “Put this on then come to the kitchen. I’m getting hungry, aren’t you?”
She ignores the glint in his eyes before he leaves. She looks around, pleased. She’s not only out of the basement, but alone in an unlocked room. Slowly but surely, she’s gaining his trust. The more she gains, the less strength she may eventually need to get away.
Chapter Fifteen
Claire parks her car in the lot outside Dr. Marsha Swenson’s office, hoping her wobbly legs will carry her inside. She met with Dr. Marsha weekly for two solid years after her parents died. Though contacting her former therapist seemed like the proper protocol after her purging episode, anxious butterflies inside her beg her to turn around. Once a patient, always a patient, she thinks, noting the ironic feel of turned tables.
You can handle this, she tells herself, and makes her way into the beige, brick building.
She sits in the small waiting room, tapping her foot and flipping mindlessly through a magazine until the wooden door creaks open.
“Claire, please come in.” Dr. Marsha’s voice is as soothing as she remembers.
The counselor leads her to a small room furnished with a gray sofa, a matching chair and a high-tech entertainment system. The basket of toys and shelves of colorful books hint at the youthful nature of her clientele.
“It’s good to see you. It’s been a long time.” Dr. Marsha wears a familiar warm smile.
“It has. Almost eight years. I’m glad to see you, too.” Her throat tightens; she suddenly feels warm. “I, um…”
“It’s all right, take your time.” Like all good therapists, Dr. Marsha allows Claire the time and emotional space she needs.
Claire takes a self-composing breath, closes her eyes then gives her planned preamble. “First, I wanted to thank you, both for fitting me in so soon and for helping to inspire my career choice. I work as a therapist now.”
“You do? That’s wonderful. I’m not surprised. You always had strong instincts, and the ability to empathize with others, even at a young age. If I contributed in any way, I’m honored.”
Claire smiles then looks down. Just let it out, she prods herself. “It’s been ten years since the accident. And I’ve been doing well overall. But recently, I’ve had some... challenges.”
“What kind of challenges?”
Anxiety swells inside her. Admitting her behavior to herself was far easier than stating it out loud—particularly to an adult she admires. “I haven’t been feeling like myself. It’s like I look in the mirror and see someone else—someone older, unattractive and...lost. And there’s this loneliness... I wish Elle was here.”
“I remember how close you two were.”
“We still are, though she lives in New York now. But even before she moved, I felt like we should be closer. Like we should know everything about each other, think with the same head or something. I must sound ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Marsha says. “Close friendships are quite special. I sometimes think of my sister in St. Louis moments before she phones me.”
“Maybe that’s it. Since I don’t have siblings, I’ve self-appointed Elle my sister.”
Dr. Marsha smiles. “Have you discussed these feelings with her?”
“No. I guess I feel like she should know without my saying anything. I’m not even sure why I’m talking about this.”
“Had you planned on discussing something else?”
“Yes, actually.” With her eyes planted on the carpet, she briefs the therapist on the surprise birthday cake and passing out at her grandparents’ house
“Are you able to talk about your parents freely now? With your grandparents?”
“I can talk to my grandfather, but not when Grandma’s within earshot. Which she usually is.”
“I see. Well, if I were in your position, I imagine I’d feel alone, pained, perhaps frightened. When we bottle our feelings up, they don’t go away—”
“They enlarge, I know.” Did her problems stem from years of near silence? Walking on eggshells around her family? “It’s funny that I haven’t considered that.”
“It’s always easier from the outside looking in. And those of us who spend a great deal of time helping others emotionally sometimes need reminders. We all need to reach out on our own behalf—to family, friends...our own therapists.”
It strikes Claire that Dr. Marsha probably has her own therapist. She shouldn’t feel ashamed to reveal...anything. Already, the anxious balloon inside her has diminished. A bit more and she can breathe.
“I know we’re nearly finished, but there is one more thing I should mention...” She’ll address her perceived stalker another time, she decides. Elle was probably right: the man in the car wasn’t the problem, but stress. Dr. Marsha’s insight, in a roundabout way, confirmed it.
“The day after the episode at my grandparents,’ I was at the park with my boyfriend, Hank. One minute we were eating bagels and the next... I felt like I’d eaten something poisonous. I rushed to the bathroom and, when I it didn’t come out naturally, I used my finger to...help it along.” She pauses. “No, I didn’t just
help
it. I purged.”
She awaits Dr. Marsha’s response with clenched fists, sweat pooling under her arms.
“Have you done this before? Or since?”
Claire shakes her head. “No, but I called you right after it happened this morning, and I didn’t feel up to eating lunch. I think I might have if I had. And I have no clue why.”
“None at all?”
“Only a few guesses.”
“Such as?”
“Well, I’d passed out due to panic that arose while eating the day before. And I have some sort of stomach bug. And this birthday was tougher than others, being the ten-year anniversary and all. What you said before, about the fear and loneliness, keeping things in... Could they inspire this type of impulse?”
“As you know, Claire, purging often has less to do with food and everything to do with emotions. Perhaps you’ve been trying to purge yourself of those difficult emotions. I wonder what might happen if you open up some to a loved one—your grandfather, for example.”
“You think my symptoms would go away?”
“They may.”
“It’s strange... I know I can go to Gramps with anything, but we’re so used to avoiding the subjects of Mom, Dad and the accident. Doing so feels a bit wrong. Like I’ll break the rules or burden him.”
“Have you considered that he might
want
to discuss these things? He’s been forced to bottle things up similarly, no?”
“He has... I suppose I’ve been too fixated on my end of that bargain to give his much thought.” Claire sits up straighter, feeling as though the light in the room brightened. “Talk about an a-ha moment.”
Dr. Marsha pulls out a thick, black appointment book. “That will do it for today. Would you like to schedule another session? This slot is open next week.”
Claire checks the calendar on her phone, part of her mind stuck on Grandpa, sharing a heart-to-heart about Mom. If she didn’t have patients of her own to tend to, she might race off to see him right now. “Next week sounds great.”
Claire exits the building with renewed confidence. But once settled in her car, she sees him.
A man sits in his car at the lot’s perimeter, facing her. The color and shape of the car matches the car she saw at the digestive center.
It’s nothing, she tells herself. Lots of people drive black SUVs. Stress triggered her paranoia the other day when she felt watched; this is simply a reminder. An
exact
reminder, she notes, unable to quell the feeling—watchful eyes, staring from a distance. They burn into her skin, sending chills over it.
She examines the car in the mirror then turns to face the driver directly, hoping he’ll shift his focus elsewhere.
He doesn’t. Her chills rise higher.
Drive over there, she commands herself.
Facing your fear can take it away
. With shallow breath she turns the key in the ignition.
A knock on her window causes her to jump.
“Claire.”
Dr. Marsha stands outside the window, holding Claire’s pocketbook. She rolls down the window.
“Sorry if I startled you,” the therapist says. “Figured you might need this.”
“Thank you. I do.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m—yes, I’m fine.” Her breath sounds as though she’s just sprinted a mile. Should she tell her?
She glances in the rearview mirror. The car is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
She stirs the potatoes.As the garlic scent wafts into her nose, she wishes he’d stop staring. His eyes feel like fire brands, the kind farmers use to mark cattle.
Once the potatoes are soft, he hands her a butter stick. She tries not to touch it as she slices a pat and drops it in. It melts into the mixture, tainting perfectly good potatoes with animal fat and calories. If she ponders the butter hard enough, she could probably vomit, without need for poison or her fingers.
Since he’s watching, she withstands her nausea.
“That’s it?” he asks.
“Just to start with.” She knew he wouldn’t let her skimp. She cuts another pat and drops it in. He stares harder; she adds more.
She pours heavy cream into the mixture, trying to imagine it’s skim, or better yet—water. But the density is a giveaway. She pretends it’s poison instead, imagines feeding it to him, watching him swallow, panic replacing his smile as he struggles to breathe.
“It looks lovely,” he says.
Shame spills over her like the fatty milk. His kind tone reminds her of another time, when he was good to her and they were happy—at least she thought they were. But that was many years ago, when bringing a mother home was a possibility. The outside air, visits to the city... They all seem like faded memories now, or maybe she dreamed them.
A lump forms in her throat. Is she supposed to love him? Does she? Is it wrong to wish him misery? To want to leave? She glances down at her bulging belly and remembers the pain. His body writhing on top of her No. What they share isn’t love. Perhaps it never was.
The timer buzzes. The meatloaf is done. Steam hits her face as she opens the oven door, the meaty smell adding to her revulsion. She retrieves the pan and sets it down quickly, wishing she could chuck it out the window.
“Do it again,” he says, “slower.”
She should’ve guessed.
She turns toward the oven so her rear faces him. He leans closer, watching. She bends until her head almost reaches the ground. The pink dress flutes out; he can see almost everything.
“Again,” he says.
She repeats the process. Again. Again. Again.
She tries to distance herself from what is happening, pretends she doesn’t care.
“Lower,” he says. “And wider.” She bends farther, sure she’ll topple from dizziness. She widens her stance until the open air chills her vagina. “Stay there.”
Braced in her position, she hears the familiar sound from behind.
Fwap, fwap, fwap.
For the moment she’s relieved. She’d rather he do the work with his hand than force her to do it. And she’s relieved she doesn’t have to watch.
The sound quickens, he groans then exhales. Finished. “Let’s eat.”
She carries the plates toward the dining room.
“Where do you think you’re going, darling?” he asks tersely.
Too bold. She was hoping he’d let her into another room. One step at a time, she reminds herself and walks to the kitchen table.
After she sits, he ties her ankles to the chair. The ropes seem to hurt more than last time. Probably because her ankles have grown even fatter during the months since.
“Take it off first,” he says. He removes his shirt then stands and unzips his pants. Then he watches her struggle with her dress—forbidden fruit he’s resisting.
He won’t resist for long, she realizes. That’s the unfortunate part.
Everything below her eyes is what she hates most—her body and food. Still, she tells herself,
if you eat now, you can get away later.
It’s her only path toward regaining control.
She takes bite after bite, fighting them down. To her, the meat is feces, the potatoes, piles of lard. Together they form a cancer that eats at her soul. Terminal. Malignant. She wouldn’t care if she died right now; how could Hell be worse?
After her last bite, she sits trembling, longing to vomit.
“Good girl,” he says and unties her. “You can clear the plates now.”
As she washes the dishes, she lets tears spill out. It’s the only release she can manage. She finishes, exhausted, hoping he’ll let her sleep.