Gillian Anderson - A Vision of Fire

He just shrugged and served an extremely fast ball, which she missed.

“I don’t want to go,” he signed. “You have to sweeten the pot.”

She chuckled. “Where on earth did you pick up that phrase?” she signed.

“I read it. Don’t change the subject.”

“All right, what are you thinking?”

“Extra hour of TV.”

“No way.”

“Okay, we order dinner.”

His reply was so fast she laughed. Her kid was learning to set her up.

“Okay,” she signed, feigning resignation, “but you pick the restaurant.”

“No, I pick the restaurant!” Then he giggled as he saw how she’d gotten him.

On their way home, they turned the corner onto their block and walked into the light of the setting sun. Suddenly Caitlin felt a strange pressure against her chest again, a profound sense of being watched, and that whatever was watching her was smarter and faster and fiercer. She grabbed Jacob’s hand, walked briskly, looking around for someone, something.

It’s just me , she told herself unconvincingly. It’s just the exhibit and Maanik.

She was suddenly distracted by the sight of a black sedan parked outside her brownstone apartment building. A tall, blond man with an earpiece and an arm cast nodded when he saw her, though she didn’t know him. He opened one of the back doors and Ambassador Pawar stepped out, followed by Mrs. Pawar. They stood together, composed and elegant, icons of stability despite everything they were going through.

“Hello,” Caitlin said, offering her hand to the ambassador and his wife in turn. She introduced Jacob, who signed his welcome. The Pawars caught on and dipped their heads toward him, smiling.

“Thank you for seeing us,” the ambassador said pleasantly.

“Is everything all right?” Caitlin asked, not willing to wait until they got upstairs.

He responded with a half smile. “There is a saying, ‘ Durlabham hi sadaa sukham .’ It means that one cannot have happiness alone.”

Caitlin smiled back.

Upstairs, with Jacob ensconced in his room poring over menus, Caitlin seated the Pawars in the living room. She offered them tea, which they declined, stating that they only intended to stay a few minutes.

“How was your day?” she asked generally, but meant the ambassador.

“Taxing,” he replied.

Caitlin turned to Mrs. Pawar. “Maanik?”

“There have been no further incidents,” the woman said. “I’ve instructed Kamala in what to do. She will call if there is a recurrence.”

“I see,” Caitlin said.

“The blackberries,” the ambassador said. “It is somewhat disturbing that one can have that much power over a child. Over any human being, though I confess I could benefit from a cue like that in my professional life.”

Caitlin smiled.

“Maanik did agree to the cue,” Mrs. Pawar reminded him.

“Yes, I would not have done it without her consent,” Caitlin said, trying to reassure them. “And believe me, if she ever feels an urgency to communicate that is more important than calming down, she can and will ignore the cue.”

The Pawars seemed surprised by that.

“So she is not helpless,” the ambassador said.

“Not in that sense, no.”

“Then our real daughter is merely locked away somewhere?” he asked.

“In a manner of speaking, that’s the case with many of the kids I see. But we frankly don’t know yet what Maanik is experiencing.”

Mrs. Pawar pressed her palms together and the ambassador suddenly seemed to be searching for words—or courage, she couldn’t be sure which.

“Dr. O’Hara,” he said slowly, “I know that our daughter needs help—help we must continue to provide as quietly as possible. This is not an easy thing for a father to do, to weigh his responsibilities against the well-being of his daughter. Yet it must be done.”

The ambassador hesitated. Caitlin sensed that he was about to take a considerable leap of faith—or rather, a leap of science over faith.

“Dr. O’Hara, I would like to ask that you continue to work with Maanik, at our home, by whatever means you deem best. I do not pretend that simply because I can turn my daughter off”—his voice caught and he cleared it—“that somehow she is healed. That is clearly not the case. I would like you to find the cause if you can—within the parameters of our home.”

“Do you believe the problem is psychological?” Mrs. Pawar asked.

“As opposed to a head trauma?” Caitlin said. “I believe so. There are no swollen areas or cuts, no sensitivity to sound and light, no irritability or confusion, clearly no issues with balance—in short, nothing to suggest even a mild head injury.”

Both of the Pawars seemed to exhale as one.

“Then please continue,” Mrs. Pawar said. “Please.”

Caitlin was moved. She took a breath and said, “I’m very grateful that you feel this way and I will be honored to continue treating Maanik.” She reached forward and each of them grasped one of her hands. “Thank you for your trust.”

Mrs. Pawar clasped her hand more firmly before she could withdraw it. “I am afraid,” she said. “I do not wish to put that burden on you—”

“It’s no burden at all,” Caitlin assured her, squeezing the woman’s hand gently. “As I said, this is what I do. First there is some research I’d like to complete. I will call tomorrow.”

The ambassador put a comforting arm around his wife as they rose. He left Caitlin with a grateful smile as she saw them out the door.

After they left, she ordered Indian food as per Jacob’s instructions and they watched TV. She checked her e-mail every two minutes, hoping to hear from Ben. There was nothing. She decided not to call him.

Late that night, lying in bed, Caitlin found herself thinking of the photo exhibit. She thought of Maanik, of the child in the photograph at the UN. She reached to the wall and drummed on it with her fingers. For the first time, she was initiating it instead of Jacob.

After a pause, she felt and heard him drumming back. It made her smile. And then, as if a witch’s spell had been broken, she plunged into sleep.

Croix-des-Bossales Market

Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Dr. Aaron Basher hurried after the seven-year-old girl, one arm wrapped protectively around the emergency medical kit slung from his shoulder. The ground was slippery with thin mud, discarded plastic wrappers, and the overflowing sewage that covered most of the city. He kept one eye on the little girl, her steps purposeful though her feet flapped in the tattered shoes of a man, shoes that sloshed muck onto her toes with every step. She turned, flashing her “Lollipop Guild” T-shirt, which, like most apparel for the residents of Port-au-Prince, had been rejected by American thrift shops, sorted in Miami, and shipped to Haiti semi-legally.

If irony were clean water, this would be a paradise , Aaron thought, not for the first time.

“She was waving her arms around,” the girl pattered, “and she was saying something, nothing we know, and most of the women say she got a spirit but other women say no, she got the devil. She was talking so fast, it’s very important to her, she even drop one of the phones she shown us!”

A fresh wave of stench pushed away the exhaust fumes that saturated the city. As he covered his nose with his sleeve, Aaron heard a woman screaming nearby. The ragged, shrill terror of the cry sent a chill over him. This was not a daytime sound, nor was it the kind of desperate shout that accompanied the attacks and assaults that regularly befell the populace after sundown.

“Then she start to scream,” continued the little girl, gliding over the thickening trash and looking proudly around at the collection of small children who were now trailing them, curious what the white man in his scrubs was going to do.