Gillian Anderson - A Vision of Fire

Caitlin lifted her shoulders high and dropped them—a literal effort to shrug off the residue of the afternoon. Ten more minutes before Jacob would be down. She discreetly massaged just above her eyebrows, the tips of her ears, behind her ears, down her skull to her neck. It helped.

Her phone vibrated once—a text from her younger sister, Abby, a surgeon in Santa Monica, California: How was it??

Caitlin sighed. She knew what this was about: last night’s date, which now seemed a hundred years ago. She’d text back later. She signaled the server for the bill, closed her eyes, and listened to the low murmur of conversation around her, cars outside, the flutter of a paper pinned to the wall near a heating vent.

Maanik came back to her thoughts—would she remember what happened when she woke? Caitlin thought of Ben, how scared he had seemed. Did he know something he wasn’t sharing? She thought of all her clients whose appointments she’d had to cancel that afternoon, and the UN negotiations.

“Will that be cash or charge?”

Startled back to the room, Caitlin gave the server seven dollars and gathered her things. She exited the café into the lobby, peered through its windows onto Twenty-Seventh Street, saw nothing unusual. She checked her messages. Nothing new. She walked around the lobby twice, sat down on a bench made of recycled plastic, thought of Jack London back at the Pawars’ apartment. She smiled, then called her own therapist and left a message, asking for a call back. “Nothing urgent,” she said. Caitlin just needed to talk.

Then Jacob was hurrying across the lobby, still young enough to be excited to see her, saying and signing, “Hi, Mom!” at the same time. At school he leaned toward sign language as a means of communicating; after school he usually used his hearing aids. Caitlin marveled at how he straddled both worlds, even when faced with occasional pressure from other kids to “pick one.”

He shoved a food container into her hands and made her try some of the salad he’d just prepared. She smiled as she accepted a plastic fork from her son and jabbed it into the julienned carrots and jicama doused in what appeared to be a light vinaigrette. It was delicious and she said so.

As they left the lobby for the cab ride home, Jacob enthused over the chemistry of cooking with eggs. Fire engines loudly raced by and she winced but quickly forgot them, completely and gratefully absorbed in the moment, in their shared signing, laughing, and camaraderie.

Caitlin and Jacob were wrapped in a blanket on the couch in their Upper West Side brownstone apartment. The curtains were closed, the dishwasher was humming quietly, and Jacob was rapidly flipping through channels on TV. At this speed she wondered what could possibly be registering in his brain.

Caitlin wondered whether this was a sign of his transition into a preteen: where once he had shown tiredness by curling into a corner of the couch with his head on the armrest, now he channel-surfed like a zombie. She would wait to see if the behavior repeated on other nights.

But besides his restlessness, their time together was blessedly normal, and Caitlin cherished that. Each day was a challenge, today more than others, and she embraced these moments as if each were a little bit of Christmas morning.

“Okay, you,” Caitlin said and signed, though his hearing aids were on. “My eyeballs are getting whiplash. Time for bed.”

She was expecting an argument but didn’t get one. He just headed for the bathroom, tapping the glass of the aquarium on his way out but not waiting to see if his bandit cory would peek out of her plastic castle.

“Teeth and face,” she called. She heard the faucet start.

She turned off the TV, booted her tablet, and picked up their high-strung cat, who was prowling on the couch. Five minutes later, Jacob and their tabby Arfa were both asleep.

Even Jacob’s slightly off mood had felt like a relief from Caitlin’s day. He anchored her hectic life, tuned the world for both of them to a mellow pitch. But the mood never seemed to stick when she was on her own again. Even now she was losing the magic as she focused on e-mails, got back into her work head. As if on cue her phone buzzed. It was her therapist, who had become a dear friend long ago.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Barbara said.

“Just finished TV time with Jake.”

“Excellent. I’m glad you weren’t working after six o’clock for a change.”

“Says the shrink who’s doing just that,” Caitlin replied.

“Touché,” Barbara said. “I blame the inventor of cell phones.”

“Remember when the world turned without us for hours at a time?”

Barbara laughed. “And then there were vacations. Remember those?”

“I’ll keep it short,” Caitlin promised. “I’ve been restless today in a way that’s different for me.”

“Who or what was different in your routine?”

“There’s a case that’s much more personal and emotional, but I treated the condition, not the patient.” Caitlin’s answer had anticipated Barbara’s next question. “What I’m actually wondering is, could my unease be perimenopause?”

“When did you get back from the relief camp?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“Well good lord, Caitlin—”

“Okay, point taken. I’m still readjusting. But maybe I should be tested?”

“I think the result would be turningfortyosis,” Barbara said. “You forget that it’s the new thirty. Don’t let the social programming kick in.”

“I know, I’m not a hypochondriac. It’s just, something is off.”

“Sure, but I’d vote for exhaustion. And the peri tests are inconclusive anyway. I’d prescribe a couple weeks of dedicated health—real exercise, not just running for a cab. Take your vitamins, especially B and D, eat more vegetables—”

“I’ve been good about that. Well, Jacob’s been good about it and I’ve benefited.”

Barbara laughed. “And sleep. Actual sleep, not the occasional Ambien. Also, take some time off.”

“You don’t want much, just miracles,” Caitlin said as her phone beeped with another call. It was from a private caller. Her gut burned a little; she had a feeling who it might be.

“You asked, I answered,” Barbara replied.

“All right, will do. Hey, I need to take this other call—”

“Okay, but keep it short. Maintain your boundaries.”

“You’re a mind reader. Talk soon.” Caitlin switched to the other call. “Hello?”

“Dr. O’Hara?” said a man’s voice.

“Mr. Pawar.”

“Please, it’s Ganak. I am sorry not to be visiting you in person, to thank you. But eyes are upon me.”

“Not a problem. How is Maanik?”

“She is a little better.”

Caitlin heard strain in his raw, raspy voice. “Did she have another episode?”

“Yes, but not like before.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We’re not sure. It was—forgive me, I am not used to describing these things. It was as if she was there with us at dinner, eating her soup, but she was listening for something else.”

“Did she talk at all? Respond to you?”

“No. It was as though she was on the alert for something. But not in an urgent way. It’s very difficult to explain.”

“How long did that go on?”

“Perhaps five or six minutes. She said nothing the entire time and we did not want to question her until we spoke with you.”

“I understand.” Caitlin paused to consider the situation. “Mr. Pawar—Ganak. Maanik may have been suffering from a mild, self-induced trance.”

“I’m sorry. Do you mean she hypnotized herself?”

“Not exactly,” Caitlin said. “Did Mrs. Pawar tell you I used hypnosis to stabilize her?”