Chapter 14
“When are you going to tell your wife about us?”
Stan was lying on his back with his eyes closed, hands folded over his stomach, long legs stretched out on the plush leather sofa. He’d been so deep in thought that he didn’t hear the question at first. When the words gradually registered, he opened his eyes and glanced over at the woman who’d spoken.
She sat across from him in a comfy armchair, a yellow notepad resting on her lap. Her dark hair was secured into a bun, and she wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses that made her appear studious without detracting from her good looks.
Stan eyed her quizzically. “Us?”
Dr. Gilliard cleared her throat, uncrossing and recrossing her long, shapely legs.
Is it just me, Stan wondered, or are her skirts getting shorter?
Frowning at the thought, he shifted his gaze to the oriental rug that covered the polished wooden floor of the cozy office.
“Let me rephrase the question. When are you going to tell your wife that you’ve been seeing a therapist about your nightmares?”
Stan’s frown deepened, guilt gnawing at his insides as he turned his head to stare up at the ceiling. “I haven’t decided.”
“Well, how much longer do you think you can keep our sessions a secret from her?” the doctor pressed.
Stan sighed heavily. “I don’t know.”
When the nightmares first began, he’d had no intention of telling anyone. But late one night at the firehouse, he’d surfaced from a dream shouting for his parents, which had awakened the other firefighters on duty. He’d apologized for the commotion and assured them that he was okay, then jokingly told them to go back to sleep so they could resume dreaming about Playboy centerfolds. After the men’s drowsy laughter died down and they rolled over on their cots, Stan had gotten up and crept downstairs to the kitchen. He was soon joined by his concerned captain, Fisher Sullivan, who’d asked him about the nightmare.
Over steaming cups of strong black coffee, Stan had opened up to Sullivan, who’d encouraged him to make an appointment with the department psychologist. Stan had resisted the idea for another two months, hoping the nightmares would simply go away. But they hadn’t.
So there he was stretched out on the proverbial shrink’s couch, counting down the minutes until the hourlong session ended.
“I know how difficult it is for men to seek mental health counseling,” Dr. Gilliard spoke in that calm, soothing tone that lulled her patients into confiding their deepest, darkest secrets. “As you know, many of my clients are firefighters and cops. And all of them, without exception, have admitted to me that they think seeing a therapist is a sign of weakness, like it’s somehow unmanly to seek professional help. You had that misconception when you first started coming to me, remember? You were worried about what your comrades would think if they found out you were in therapy, and you were concerned that it would hurt your chances at being promoted to captain.”
“Yeah, I remember,” Stan grunted.
“It took two full sessions before you felt comfortable enough to open up to me about the nightmares you’d been having. But that was three months ago. I think we’ve made a lot of progress since then, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Sure.” Stan knew that the sooner Dr. Gilliard gave him a clean bill of health, the sooner he could appease his captain and end the counseling sessions.
It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the good doctor’s efforts to probe his psyche in order to diagnose what ailed him. He was appreciative, because he knew how important it was for him to talk to someone about the nightmares that plagued him. But after three months under Dr. Gilliard’s care, the bad dreams hadn’t gone away or lessened in frequency. So it was only natural that he’d begun to question whether he was wasting his time, and hers.
Dr. Gilliard flipped to a clean sheet on her notepad. Somehow she always managed to fill several pages during their sessions, although she seemed to do more talking than Stan. “I’d like to explore your reasons for not divulging to your wife that you’re in therapy. I know you’ve told me that you don’t want to worry or upset her, but I think it goes much deeper than that.”
Stan exhaled a deep, ragged breath. “Believe me, I’m not proud of keeping this from Prissy. I hate lying to her about anything.”
“Then why do it?” Dr. Gilliard paused for a moment. “It’s not as if you’re having an affair.”
Stan grimaced as Prissy’s angry words echoed through his mind. Who paged you...I know you’re lying to me…I don’t know what’s going on with you…
Until that night, it hadn’t occurred to him that she might think he was cheating on her. But even now that he knew of her suspicions, he still wasn’t ready to confide the truth to her. Because he honestly didn’t know which would be worse for her: believing that he was unfaithful, or facing the very real possibility that his days with her were numbered.
“Stan?” Dr. Gilliard prompted gently. “Why are you so reluctant to tell your wife about the nightmares?”
Stan stared at the ceiling for several moments before answering, “When Prissy was ten years old, her father was killed in a machinery accident at the textile factory where he worked. The family was devastated, especially Prissy’s mother. She fell into such a deep depression that Prissy and her older brother more or less became the adults, having to look after her and themselves. Being forced to grow up so fast changed them in ways they never could have imagined.
“About six months after Prissy and I got married, I told her that I wanted to become a firefighter because of what had happened to my parents. We’d talked about it when we were dating, but she’d always thought—maybe hoped—that I wasn’t serious. She wasn’t crazy about the idea. Given the dangerous nature of firefighting, she was understandably worried for my safety.”
“Because of what happened to her father,” Dr. Gilliard surmised.
Stan nodded, his mind traveling back to the early years of his marriage. He’d often come home from the firehouse to find his young wife waiting at the front door with Montana perched on her hip and Manning huddled at her side, his small hand tightly clutching hers. Prissy’s eyes would be filled with anxiety because she’d heard about the blaze that Stan and his unit had put down during their shift. She’d ask him a bunch of questions about the fire until, sensing her distress, Manning or Montana—or both—would start crying. As Prissy tended to Manny, Stan would take Monty from her arms and gently rock the baby to sleep, giving his wife a chance to calm her overwrought nerves.
“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, nothing is going 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 then you had 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 in those dreams.”
“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.
Observing his satisfied grin, Dr. Gilliard noted wryly, “So I take it you’ve got no complaints in that department?”
“No, ma’am,” he drawled. “No complaints whatsoever.”
“I see.” The doctor smiled brightly. “Well, that’s good to hear.”
“Indeed.”
Just then Stan’s watch beeped. As he silenced the alarm, Dr. Gilliard raised a brow at him.
“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “I promised Manning that I’d take him to a matinee this afternoon before his brothers get home from school, so I’ll have to cut out fifteen minutes early today.”
“Is this the same Manning who’s supposed to be on punishment for getting suspended from school?”
“Yeah.” Stan sat up and swung his booted feet to the floor. “I took his brothers to the movies on Tuesday, so I kinda owe the kid.”
“Lucky him.”
Ignoring the note of disapproval in Dr. Gilliard’s voice, Stan asked, “Have you found a new receptionist yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve interviewed a few candidates and hope to make a decision soon. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’re stuck scheduling appointments through me.”
Stan nodded, not entirely comfortable with the arrangement. “That reminds me. When you paged me the other day—”
“I’m so sorry about that,” Dr. Gilliard interrupted with an embarrassed grimace. “I actually thought I was paging someone else, but I must have dialed the wrong number. I apologize if I caused you any trouble.”
Talk about an understatement, Stan mused grimly. Aloud he merely said, “No harm done.”
“Great.” Dr. Gilliard watched as he rose from the sofa and crossed to the coat rack to retrieve his battered leather jacket. “By the way, I really like that sweater you’re wearing. That shade of green looks amazing on you.”
“Thanks,” Stan said, glancing down at himself. “Prissy bought this for me.”
“Really?” Dr. Gilliard smiled. “So she has good taste in clothes and men.”
Stan chuckled, watching as the doctor stood and came toward him. “Thanks for the talk,” he told her.
“You don’t have to thank me, Stan. I always enjoy our sessions. Besides,” she added with a wink, “your insurance company compensates me just fine.”
He laughed. “I’m sure they do. See you next month.”
“Actually,” Dr. Gilliard blurted as he opened the door to leave, “I’ll see you at the fireman’s ball on Saturday night.”
He turned back to her. “You’ll be there?”
“Of course.” She smiled teasingly. “I consider it my professional duty to observe how my patients behave in social settings.”
Stan grinned. “In that case, I’ll try to be on my best behavior.”
Dr. Gilliard laughed, casually laying a hand on his arm.
“All kidding aside,” Stan said ruefully, “since Prissy doesn’t know that I’ve been coming to you, I hope you’ll understand that I can’t introduce you to her.”
“Of course I understand,” Dr. Gilliard assured him. “Doctor–patient confidentiality is very important to me, Stan.”
He flashed her a grateful smile, then turned and walked out, never suspecting that she hurried to the window to watch him saunter to his truck. Never suspecting that long after he’d driven out of sight, she stood there plotting ways to lure him away from his wife.