Page 57 of Inferno
“How did her lack of support affect your marriage?” Dr. Gilliard asked, pulling Stan back to the present.
He frowned.“Lack of support?”
“Well, yes. She didn’t want you to become a firefighter, even though she knew how important it was to you in the aftermath of losing your parents. I imagine her reaction must have been very difficult for you.”
Stan shook his head. “I didn’t see it that way. She genuinely admired my reasons for wanting to become a firefighter, and she knew I’d be good at it. But she was scared for me. She didn’t want our boys growing up without their father, and she didn’t want to end up a widow like her mother. I understood where she was coming from. So I never thought she was being unsupportive.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Stan saw Dr. Gilliard making notations on her pad. After several moments, she asked quietly, “Have you ever thought of quitting?”
Stan was silent, pondering her question even though he already knew the answer.
But how could he explain to her what it was like to crawl down a pitch-black hallway with searing waves of heat pushing him to the floor? How could he articulate the thoughts that raced through his mind as he instinctively groped his way through the darkness, doing a primary search for victims even as he prayed that they had already escaped? How could he verbalize the emotions that swept through him—a double-edged cocktail of dread and relief—when he discovered a body among the smoke and flames? How could he describe the adrenaline-fueled sense of urgency that pumped through his veins as he hefted the victim over his shoulder and began the painstakingly perilous journey toward safety? How could mere words adequately capture the sheer exhilaration he felt upon reaching the exit and hearing the victim inhale that first ragged lungful of clean air?
Firefighting, and saving lives, were in Stan’s blood. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else. So he answered Dr. Gilliard the only way he could. “No.”
“You’ve never thought of finding another line of work?” she confirmed.
“No.”
The doctor jotted more notes. “Since you’ve been putting out fires for fourteen years, I assume Prissy has accepted your job by now.”
“She has.” Stan paused. “I think what really helped is that she bonded with the wives of the other firefighters. They formed a support group that helped them encourage one another. Thankfully she’s been able to find a similar network here as well.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.” Stan smiled softly. “Now don’t get me wrong. She still watches the news and worries whenever there’s a major fire, and she still expects a phone call from me the moment I get back to the fire station. But after all these years, I think she’s finally at peace with what I do for a living.”
“So you don’t want to rock the boat.”
“Exactly.If I tell her about the nightmares—which always end with me dying—then we’ll be back to square one. I can’t put Prissy through that, not after I’ve spent the past fourteen years assuring her that nothing’s gonna happen to me.”
“In all likelihood, Stan, nothingisgoing to happen to you.”
When Stan was silent, Dr. Gilliard continued pragmatically, “You and your brother suffered a devastating tragedy. Not only did you lose your parents, but thenyouhad the terrible misfortune of seeing the autopsy photos.”
Stan grimaced, remembering the day the arson investigator had showed up to speak to Mama Wolf about the fire, which had been caused by a gas leak. When the two adults stepped into the kitchen for privacy, Stan had stolen a peek at the contents of the envelope the investigator had unwittingly left on the coffee table. He’d been horrified by the gruesome pictures of his parents, who were charred beyond recognition. For a long time afterward, he couldn’t get the shockingly grisly images out of his mind, no matter how hard he’d tried.
To this day, Prissy was the only one he’d ever told about the autopsy photos.And now Dr. Gilliard.
“Much of the fodder for our dreams comes from past or present experiences,” the doctor calmly explained. “I believe that the nightmares you’ve been having are a symptom of posttraumatic stress disorder. They began when your parents died, then they stopped after a while.”
“Yeah,” Stan muttered, “but I never saw myself dying inthosedreams.”
“You weren’t a firefighter back then. Now that you risk your life on a regular basis, it’s only natural that you’ve become more conscious of your own mortality.”
Stan was silent. He wished like hell that he could accept the doctor’s reasoned explanation, but the nightmares were too intense—too ominous—to be dismissed.
“How are things at work?” Dr. Gilliard probed. “Have the dreams begun to affect your performance on the job?”
“You mean,have I found myself hesitating before rushing into a burning building? Or have I been making mental mistakes that could endanger the safety of my crew?” Stan shook his head grimly. “No, thank God.”
“That’s good.” Pause. “What about your performance…in other areas?”
“Other areas?”
“Yes.” Dr. Gilliard met Stan’s inquisitive gaze. “People who suffer from traumatic nightmares experience a host of physiological symptoms. Since you haven’t been sleeping well for months, it wouldn’t be abnormal for you to experience, for example, a decreased sex drive.”
“Is that right?” Stan couldn’t stop a slow, wolfish grin from spreading across his face at the memory of the erotic interlude he and Prissy had shared in the Jacuzzi two nights ago.
