Gillian Anderson - A Vision of Fire

“The Country Office in the Islamic Republic of Iran has—how shall I put it? Insubstantial influence over the Ministry of Health.”

“I am aware of that, Mr. Director, but the condition of a patient there may have a great impact on patients here and in Haiti.”

“This must be serious,” he said thoughtfully. “You called me ‘Mr. Director.’”

“Sir—”

“And now ‘sir,’” he said.

“—this is urgent,” she pleaded. “I don’t have time to file a formal request. Is there any way you can get me in?”

“Based on something so vague? No. If you can write something that can, perhaps, expand upon what little you’ve told me?”

Expand? she thought. The minds of young people are being assaulted by a force that only animals and I can detect. Why don’t I just say that ? Or hell, why not just stick out my right hand and think it at him?

Then a text from Ben arrived. It was just one word: Done .

Caitlin quickly talked her way off the call and phoned him.

“Ben—are you serious?”

“Very.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

“You can thank Mohammed Larijani, a translator at the Permanent Mission. He’s the one who’s making it happen. He’s telling the Iranian ambassador that an American doctor needs to consult with Iranian doctors. Very good propaganda for them. You don’t mind being used that way, do you?”

“Not at all.” She didn’t have time to work through the double meaning his tone implied.

“I hope it’s worth it,” he added.

“It will be,” she said as she went to her bedroom and began packing. “Ben, are you okay?”

“I’m fine. My friend in Jammu is alive, his girlfriend’s in the hospital.”

“That’s good. But I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Have a safe trip.”

“I will. Hey, Ben?”

“What?”

“A psychiatrist walks into an Iranian bar. She orders scotch with crow.”

Ben was silent.

“Not even a chuckle?” she asked.

“Not now. Not today.”

“I’m sorry you feel like that,” she said sincerely. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

“I’ll text the details of your trip. Mohammed thinks you can get on the two o’clock Aeroflot flight. I have to go now.”

She said thanks again and good-bye, ended the call, and did what she always did when there was a challenge: looked ahead. She called her father and asked if he could please come back to the city. He agreed, of course. He always did.

Caitlin felt terrible all over. It was partly the ever-ready generosity of her father, partly the aftershock of what Ben had said to her, but she couldn’t stop feelings of guilt from clouding her mind. Still, she had a job to do.

Jacob didn’t help her self-regard. She had never taken two trips so closely together. She kept him home from school so they could have a half day together but he was furious throughout, making a point of ignoring her with abrupt turns of his back at first and then acting as if she were invisible. Finally, as her time to leave approached, Jacob simply removed himself. He sat in his room with his eyes closed and without hearing aids. If he sensed her coming into his room to say good-bye—and she suspected he did—he did not acknowledge it.

Caitlin had learned years ago that during these rare angry moments, any touch—tapping his hand or hugging his shoulders—would be akin to slapping him. It didn’t leave her with many choices. But she could, and did, sit across his desk from him for several minutes so that he knew she was present. She kept her hands placed near him, not touching, so he could smell her hand lotion. And she noticed that his ankle was in contact with the leg of the desk, which had a slight wobble, so she knew he felt it as she wrote a note on his Museum of Natural History dinosaur notepad, which would be waiting in his line of sight when he opened his eyes.

I love you, Jacob , it said. I’ll Skype you as soon as I get a connection and I’ll be right back. XOXO

Her father gave her a big hug before she headed out to the waiting car.

“Don’t worry about Jacob,” he said.

“Of course I’m going to worry about him,” she said, sighing.

“I mean it, Miss Caitlin O’Hara,” he said as if he were reprimanding her thirty years ago. “You have to save all your worrying for yourself on this trip. I want extra caution from you, hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“Zero risks. I don’t care who needs help, you find someone else to help them.”

“It’s just one boy in a hospital bed. No natural disasters to run from.” She tried to smile.

He kissed her forehead. “God, I hope so.”

Just before Caitlin sat in the waiting sedan, Ben called with good news: she would not have to swing by the United Nations to pick up her papers. Not only would the Iranian ambassador’s wife meet her at the airport, Caitlin was invited to ride with them and their staff on the state jet.

A smile spread across Caitlin’s face. She thanked him again. He told her not to mention it. And meant just that.

She reached JFK and was met by a member of the mission staff, who advised her to put her head scarf on before they boarded. Caitlin reached into her carry-on and tied on her scarf—a present from Ben on one of their trips. He’d grabbed it from a nearby bazaar after she’d forgotten hers at the hotel, and the laughter they shared over its cheesy print had always trumped her vanity. She was then taken to the gate and across the tarmac to the waiting aircraft. The wife of the permanent representative of Iran welcomed Caitlin to join her fortuitously timed trip home to greet a new baby niece. After a period of courteous chitchat Caitlin curled into a plush fold-down seat with an eye mask and instantly slept. Exhaustion had finally caught up with her, and the thirteen hours felt like a gift.

She slept through the flight, a continuous rest for the first time in weeks, until the same staff member who had met her at the airport woke her.

“We will be landing within the hour,” the young man told her.

With the hum of the jet engines sounding especially loud in ears still full of cottony sleep, and the kick of guilt already starting again in her gut, Caitlin navigated to the restroom with her carry-on bag. She changed into clothes she hadn’t worn in years: tight jeans; a crisp, white Pink-brand shirt; and a bright red Yves Saint Laurent knee-length coat with long sleeves. She chose black eyeliner and mascara and a heightened but natural shade of lipstick, then applied them all a bit more strongly than she ordinarily would have. Finally she added short black suede boots with high heels and tied a red-and-blue Hermès Liberty scarf over her hair, carefully winding the ends around her neck. Ben’s cheesy scarf would not be appropriate in Tehran. It did not escape her sense of irony that she was preening for a theocracy in a way she never had for any man.

When she reentered the cabin, the representative’s wife, chatting on her phone, smiled and nodded approvingly. It was a small thing, but it felt good to have done something right.

Tehran’s time was eleven thirty in the morning. Caitlin’s concern about getting to Atash as soon as possible had made its way from Ben to Mohammed to the representative. The ambassador’s wife informed Caitlin that her guide would meet them at Imam Khomeini International Airport and take her directly to the hospital. At their private gate she was introduced to a woman in a severe black and gold head scarf and designer sunglasses pushed back on her head. She introduced herself as Maryam, no last name, and spent little time coordinating with the representative’s wife before ushering Caitlin through customs to a black sedan.