Free In Her Shadow by August McLaughlin Page A

load. It seems lately that he grows frailer by the week.
    They situate themselves in the boat. Grandpa revs the engine, cuing Claire to draw the anchor and untie the ropes that secure it to the dock. They drift out slowly for several yards then Grandpa calls from the driver’s seat: “Ya ready?”
    She gives him a thumbs up and they’re off, bounding over the water. The spritz from the cool water splashes up and mists the skin on their hands and faces. Claire has always been roused by the roller coaster-like lilt the boat ride inspired in her stomach. She squealed when she was a kid, “Wheee!” The “wheee’s” are still there, only quieter. Zola sits in her usual guardian position, upright and watchful. Her curly ears flap in the wind and she looks to be relishing it.
    Grandpa shifts to low speed and begins circling. He’s found the spot. Moments later they are anchored, ready to eat lunch then bait their hooks. “Us first, fish later. Then us again.” One of Grandpa’s many fishing mantras.
    An anxious Claire holds her breath. She lifts the lid on the cooler, already fearing its contents. She pulls out two turkey sandwiches, a baggie of carrot and celery sticks and a plastic container of sliced hardboiled eggs. Eight-hundred-sixty-eight calories, she speculates. That can’t be right. How could she even know that? Where she once saw textures, flavors and reward she sees numbers, risks and damage. It’s just food ; she’ll be fine. She makes a mental note to discuss her food fixation with Dr. Marsha then looks at her grandfather, hoping she won’t ruin their shared time with her issues . “You weren’t kidding. This really is…”
    “Boring? You can say it.”
    “I was going to say healthy. You sure Grandma didn’t do all this?” Behind her polite words, uneasiness churns in her stomach. If she couldn’t stomach a bagel, the last thing she ate then un-ate, how would she tolerate this? Take a breath, it’s nothing bad . Meanwhile she wonders where she can turn if she has to throw up. If she chooses to purge , she corrects herself—a scolding. Her newfound secret backup plan. If the time comes, it won’t feel like a choice.
    “I made this myself. You doubtin’ your gramps? I might be crusty and old but I know a few things.” He bites a large chunk out of his sandwich, seemingly oblivious to Claire’s apprehension.
    “I didn’t say you were crusty .” She smiles and takes a smaller bite of her sandwich. It is…tolerable....and...delicious? Relief. She relishes the morsel, maneuvering it sumptuously in her mouth, for a moment reunited with the food-loving, no-trouble-eating Claire she’s been for most of her life. The bread: Grandma’s homemade multigrain, subtly sweet with the taste of honey and husky from the flavor of rye. The turkey slices: moist and fresh, the way she prefers them. This might be the perfect setup to talk openly about Mom, Dad and possibly the symptoms that led her into therapy.
    “So you’re really feelin’ fine now?” Grandpa asks again.
    “Yeah, I really am.” She takes another minuscule bite.
    “Cuz there’s something I need to... You been havin’ any...mental problems? Ya know, like the ones your clients have?”
    “What? Why are you asking?”
    “I wasn’t gonna say nothin’ cuz you never had a problem with it before, but…your f-father—he had some...mental problems.” He spits it out like old gum.
    “What kind of mental problems?”
    “Mood swings, nightmares...sometimes headaches. He’d go weeks without sleep then get all ants-in-his-pants hyper. In those days, no one talked much about those things, not in Hastings anyway.
    “When you were real little, he got some medicine that helped. I didn’t mean to keep it from ya. Just didn’t see a need to say anything till now. I...heard you cryin’ and mumblin’ in your sleep after we got back from Doc Travers’ the other night. Just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
    His body sags before