A Vision of Fire

Caitlin crossed the room unsteadily. There was a wave of guilt: had she done something to send Maanik drifting away? Had she crowded her? Had her proximity triggered a panic attack?

It was the mention of candles that got to her. That seemed to transfix her.

Was fire a metaphor for “gunfire,” the transformation of something foreign and terrifying into a concept she could understand?

This was not the first fire reference Caitlin had heard since she’d been introduced to Maanik. There was Ben’s interpretation of the language: fire, arms, pain. There were the flames Caitlin had seen flashing in the vision with Gaelle. And there was Atash, the boy who had set himself on fire in Iran.

Or is this a dead end? she wondered. Fire was not exactly uncommon.

“Doctor?”

Caitlin snapped from her reflection. “Yes?”

“May I ask what you are thinking? I feel so helpless.”

Caitlin turned to her. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She looked into the woman’s tired eyes. “Mrs. Pawar, how does your husband cope with stress? I mean the mechanism.”

“He prays.”

“In the apartment?”

“Sometimes. He must be seen in public, to show himself as a humble man, and he goes to a temple here or among Indian-Americans on Third Avenue. However, he prefers to pray in the living room.”

“In ‘the peace of many choices,’” Caitlin said.

Mrs. Pawar brightened. “Yes.”

“Then you’ll understand, perhaps, what I’m about to say. When we pray, we close our eyes. We relax our bodies. We access a spiritual side that is driven by faith, not logic. I believe your daughter has done something like that, only much deeper. She spoke to me briefly about how she thinks she ‘disappears.’ Maanik may have created what she thought was a safe place for herself inside, except her fears got in there with her. They have become real things made of fire, loss, physical pain.”

“My poor girl—”

“Mrs. Pawar, if this is a self-induced trance, I must get ‘in there’ and bring her out.”

The woman nodded as Caitlin spoke. There was a hint of hope in her eyes.

“I’m coming back tonight, with Ben,” Caitlin said. “In the meantime, I want you to do something for Maanik.”

“Anything.”

“Look after yourself. Feed yourself well, take a nap if you can, take a walk, even if it’s just to take Jack London around the block.”

“But the way I look,” the woman said. “If I meet someone I know—”

“Chances are pretty good that anyone you run into around here has been impacted by the situation in Kashmir. They will understand and respect your privacy.”

Mrs. Pawar agreed and Caitlin checked her watch. She had a twelve-thirty session and could just make it. Excusing herself, she hurried from the apartment into the corridor. While she waited for the elevator, she registered that the atmosphere seemed different than before. The sense of omen seemed closer.

Exponentially closer.

Rushing to her appointment, Caitlin left a message for Ben telling him to clear his schedule for the evening, then grabbed a cab. Her mind scanned what she recalled about the Iranian boy. His brother was executed, he set himself on fire, he was hospitalized. She looked him up again in the newsletter. Logorrhea; no suggestion of a language or gestures, but then this was Iran. Even medical information didn’t exactly get out intact.

Had Atash been trying to mimic some kind of pain he was feeling, expressing it as fire, or was it another cause, something deeper and not voluntary? Or was he simply rebelling against the murder of his brother? Caitlin tried to do a search online to see if he was still alive but the cab ride was too short. She was then thrown into several straight hours of sessions with clients. Taking advantage of a short break in the late afternoon, she looked up the rat infestation at NYU. It seemed to be centered around an old mansion on Fifth Avenue, an exclusive club for world travelers. There were no teenagers on the premises, as far as her quick check could determine before her next client.

As her appointments rolled through the afternoon, Caitlin’s regulars appeared to be doing surprisingly well. Most of them had been relying more heavily on group therapy in her absence, groups she had set up months ago. After her final client, she read a text from Ben saying he would meet her at the Pawars’ apartment.

Before she left the office, Caitlin called on her colleague Dr. Anita Carter, who filled in for her when there were emergencies. African-American and originally from Atlanta, she had a classic New York approach to problems: acknowledge them, solve them, file them, and go to dinner. Caitlin seriously envied her uncanny ability to compartmentalize.

“Just a heads-up,” Anita said. “You’ve got a couple of bean counters who’ve expressed displeasure about your recent period of unavailability.”

“Let me guess,” Caitlin said, “Lauren from hospital admin and Phil from CUNY.”

“The lady’s not just a healer, she’s a psychic!” Anita said.