Gillian Anderson - A Vision of Fire

Caitlin ceded her Sunday morning with Jacob to one of his school friends, who’d come over to plan a partnered science project. Determined not to resort to working, Caitlin found herself sitting on the couch watching TV—and the face of Ambassador Pawar as reporters’ microphones bristled around him. Earlier that morning, the entire Indian delegation had, as a group, walked out of the United Nations building. Within minutes, the Pakistan delegation had followed. The talks had imploded.

Ambassador Pawar was holding fast to his diplomatic façade as he read a statement. “By no means does this presage a final decision on behalf of either country,” he said. “We are simply cooling our minds for future discussions.”

Caitlin hoped there was some truth to it, that the delegations had simply burned out. Yet as she inspected the ambassador’s face, she saw a set to his jaw that she had only seen when he was speaking of Maanik’s troubles. She suspected the disruption of the talks had been caused by something much more serious than exhaustion. She considered calling Ben, who had been silent since their discussion about the video.

Just then her phone buzzed. Speak of the devil. The text was from Ben but there was no message, only a video link. The owner of the video had posted it with a caption: “Crazy Haiti!” and a winking emoticon. Caitlin clicked the link and gasped. The first thing she saw was a young Haitian woman, her eyes rolled to the sky, her left hand angled away from her body, her right arm arcing across her torso—precisely the same gesture Maanik had made in her trance.

With a deep chill racing down her back, Caitlin watched the video all the way through. The familiar, unintelligible speech—it had to be speech—was difficult to hear on the recording. She thought she recognized two other gestures; then the young woman started screaming and a few minutes later the recording ended. Caitlin immediately watched it again, leaning forward from the couch and hunching over her phone.

What the hell is going on? she wondered. Two young women, geographically isolated, culturally unconnected, with the same physio-psychological symptoms? If there was a trigger, it had to be found. If there was more information that could help Maanik, she had to obtain it.

Just as she registered the silence behind her in the dining nook, she heard a sharp rap on the table. She turned to see both children staring at her in concern. Though his hearing aid was on, Jacob had knocked to get her attention.

“Mom, are you okay?” he said and signed.

“I’m fine,” she signed back. “Everything’s okay.”

“Who’s that screaming?” he signed.

Caitlin realized she should have muted her phone as she watched the video.

“It’s a girl,” she signed. “A client,” she said, hedging.

“Are you going to help her?”

“If she’ll let me,” Caitlin signed back, and it wasn’t a lie: she was going to have a session with this young woman even if she had to catch a flight to Haiti that night. Caitlin patted his shoulder and headed to her bedroom. Behind her Jacob rapped on the table again. She turned.

“Are you leaving soon?” he signed with a sigh.

She half-laughed and signed, “Knock before entering my brain, kiddo.”

He laughed too. “I did!” he signed. Then he quickly resumed his work with his friend. He knew he wasn’t allowed to press for details about her “kids,” as he had once called them.

Caitlin’s phone buzzed in her hand. A text gave a young woman’s name—Gaelle Anglade—with an address in Jacmel, Haiti, and an international phone number. There was also a message from Ben: UN Youth Development office says she’s fine. Taken to hospital released within hour. English-speaker.

That last was a little push. Ben knew Caitlin all too well. She sat on her bed, took a very deep breath, and tapped in the phone number.

“Allo, Anglade Charter Fishing,” said a young woman’s voice.

“Hello, is Gaelle Anglade there?”

“I am Gaelle,” she answered.

That was unexpected. The young woman’s voice was unhurried; Caitlin made sure hers was the same. “Hi, Gaelle. My name is Dr. Caitlin O’Hara and I am calling from New York City. Do you have a minute?”

There was a brief hesitation. “Do you need a boat?”

“Sounds like a great idea but perhaps some other day.” Caitlin chuckled. “Gaelle, I have a patient who I think is experiencing the same thing that happened to you in the market yesterday.”

Gaelle was silent for so long Caitlin said, “Hello?” to see if she had hung up.

“Are you a friend of Dr. Basher?” Gaelle’s voice was cautious, thick with distrust.

“I don’t know him.”

“Then… you saw that video?”

“I did,” Caitlin admitted. “It was a terrible invasion of your privacy and I’m sorry. I would like to help.”

There was silence, but it was a connected silence. She had not ended the call.

“How?” the young woman asked. It was not so much a question as a challenge.

“My patient has had repeated episodes, and while I have treated them I am still searching for a cause. I believe that talking with you might help.” Caitlin paused, then said, “I am concerned for you as well as for her, and very interested to learn if you too have had other episodes.”

“I do not have demons,” Gaelle stated. She seemed embarrassed.

“Of course not!” Caitlin replied. “Good lord, no!” She was well aware of what the woman would be up against in her culture, where Catholics, Protestants, and Vodou believers did not always live free of friction.

Caitlin heard the young woman speak away from the phone in Haitian Creole, talking to a male voice in the background. When she returned to the call, she asked Caitlin to repeat her name slowly and said she was looking her up online.

Caitlin obliged and heard typing. “You live in Jacmel?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why you were in Port-au-Prince yesterday?”

“I train women at the market to use smartphones. It is a combination literacy and technology program.”

“Do you work for a phone company?”

“No, for my stepmother. She takes people out to fish. I am also studying to be a nurse. I would like to be a social worker so I find visiting programs to volunteer with. I have found your website, doctor.” Her voice turned upward. “You are a psychiatrist.”

“That is correct. I work with young adults.”

“Do you think I am ill? Mentally?”

“Not at all. I believe that you had a reaction to something—”

“Like an allergy? Peanuts? We don’t have food allergies in Haiti,” she said with disgust. “We cannot afford to.”

“I don’t believe it was digested or airborne,” Caitlin replied, as she would to a fellow professional. “It was something else.”

“I see.”

“I want to try and find out what it was. Gaelle, can I come see you? Can I meet you tomorrow?”

She heard the girl say, “ Pas bon, pas bon ,” but wasn’t sure whether she was saying “Bad, bad” to her or to the person with her.

“Gaelle?” Caitlin pressed. She didn’t want her to jump off the phone.

“No, thank you,” Gaelle said defensively. “I had a CAT scan yesterday, in Port-au-Prince. There is nothing wrong with me. That is in the past.”

“Gaelle, my other patient has had multiple experiences this past week. It appears the past does not always stay past. I’m afraid that what happened in the market could happen again. I just want to be sure. That’s why I am willing to fly down.”