Fireproof (23 page)

CATHERINE STABBED AT the lettuce on her plate and chased a cherry tomato around the edge. There was a fresh carnation on the table, the same table she'd first shared with Gavin, and that realization only intensified her isolation amid the other chattering diners.

“Hello, Catherine.”

She looked up to see a silver-haired nurse in a colorful top. Her tray was full, and she seemed to be seeking a place to sit. Although Catherine wasn't in a social mood, she knew she could trust this woman. Anna had always avoided the hospital rumormongering, sticking to her job and its details.

“Oh, hi, Anna. How are you?”

“I'm doing well. And you?”

Catherine pasted a smile over her true emotions. “I'm okay, I guess. Do you wanna sit down?”

“I'd love to, if I'm not disturbing you.”

“Not at all.”

Anna settled across the table. “So,” she said cheerily, “what's been going on in your life? We haven't talked in a while.”

“Well, it's . . . It's been one of those years.”

“Oh? Good or bad?”

“You know, I hate to say it . . . but mostly bad.”

Anna's eyes filled with concern.

Catherine went back to poking at her plate. “You know, when you get to a fork in the road, and you know that either way you go is gonna change your life.”

“Life does give you some of those. Excuse me just a minute.” Anna bowed her head in prayer. A moment later, she looked back up. “So, have you decided which path to take?”

“Umm, I think so. It's just hard not to second-guess yourself.”

“Pardon me. I don't mean to pry, but does this concern relationships?”

Catherine smiled, almost glad to get on a subject she enjoyed. “It does.”

“Well, having lived as long as I have, I'd say relationships pretty much determine your quality of life. Did you know that recent studies show married people are more successful in their careers? They also live longer and claim to lead happier lives.”

“So then, ending a relationship that's been a burden would be a good thing, right?”

“I suppose that depends on the nature of the relationship. Some are worth fighting for, even if they seem difficult. Others may seem interesting but are
not
healthy. You know, forty percent of marriages these days end in divorce, but sixty percent of second marriages have the same fate.”

“Sixty?”

“It's even worse for third marriages.”

Catherine wasn't sure she liked this turn in the conversation. She and Gavin had a spark, a sense of chemistry and intrigue, and she had no intention of letting a middle-aged lady—even a nice one like Anna—tear that hope away from her.

“Well,” she said, “my husband and I aren't getting along anymore.”

“Oh?”

“It's been seven years, and I'd say the last four or five have been headed downhill. I don't even know why we're still putting each other through this. I think we'd both be happier with someone else.”

“You know, it often seems that way, doesn't it? Catherine, you're so young. I would encourage you to make your choices carefully.”

“I'm trying to.” She closed her eyes, then leaned forward and gave her lunch guest an honest confession. “I'm also tired of feeling empty. Anna, it's
so
nice to have someone treat you like they really care about you.”

“Forgive me, but you're talking about a certain young doctor, aren't you?”

“I suppose it's no secret, as much as he and I talk.”

“I couldn't help but notice how you act around each other, but I also wonder how your husband would feel.”

Catherine stiffened, sitting straighter in her seat.“My husband has had his chance. Dr. Keller is a good man, and he treats me better than my husband has in years. He listens to me and makes me feel important. I haven't felt that way in a very long time.”

“It's always good to have that. But, sweetheart, if this doctor is trying to woo you while you're still married, what makes you think he won't do that with someone else?”

She cleared her throat. “I don't think I wanna talk about this, Anna. We're getting a little personal.”

“Oh, Catherine, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep my bounds.”

“I need to go. It was good to see you, Anna.”

She snatched up her tray and, fighting her fitted tan skirt every step of the way, marched to the trash can where she dumped her stuff. Anna meant well, but she wasn't the one stuck in a miserable marriage.

Catherine quivered with sudden indignation.

This was
her
life. And no one else was going to tell her how to live it.

THE DOZEN RED roses were wilting in their vase, where the ill-fated computer used to sit. Caleb couldn't bring himself to throw them out, even now, after eight days had gone by. To do so would feel like an act of defeat, tossing the last vestiges of hope he had for this marriage.

Another weekend came and went, during which he and Catherine moved past each other like water around rocks in a stream.

She refused to budge . . . and so he drove off to work for another twenty-four-hour shift, with barely a glance from his wife to acknowledge his departure.

He stood waiting in the mornings . . . and she hurried right on by, heading for the hospital and that smug Dr. Keller.

The routine of their lives became a numbing salve during these final days between Mr. and Mrs. Caleb Holt. Soon, he knew, she would go back to being Catherine Campbell, taking once again her father's last name. For Caleb, it would be tearing away a part of him—like an arm, or a rib.

Over the next week he spent a number of afternoons alone at their dining table, and he found himself thinking of her here at the same table, with her dinner plate, making one of her lists of things to do.

Always something to do. Always on the move.

He admired that about her, actually—the way she had put herself through college and refused to be sidetracked. Once she set her mind to something, she was a hard person to dissuade.

Just his luck.

And so, the numbness kept seeping deeper into his skin, down into the chambers of his heart and soul, but Caleb knew—he knew with every molecule of his being—that nothing could deaden the pain that was to come.

One afternoon he crawled up onto the aerial ladder truck, away from the other men. He understood why animals sometimes crawled away to die on their own. He didn't want to be seen in this condition.

He twisted the ring on his finger and ran back through his early days with Catherine. He had done everything to win her heart, then backed off once she'd surrendered to him. In the old story-books, though, wasn't that how it happened? The knight fought for the fair maiden. He won her favor. And the credits rolled as the lights came up.

Real life was so much more complicated.

With feet dangling over the truck's edge, he leaned his head back and prayed for the strength to keep fighting:
Lord, I'm trying to be patient here. I'm waiting on You. It just seems like nothing I do is working.

He'd done everything in his father's notebook—the kind words, the flowers, taking out the garbage, sweeping floors, and mowing the lawn. But it went beyond all that. He wanted to come up with his own gestures, ones not included in the book. Catherine didn't fit any particular mold. He wanted to love
her
, in ways
she
would understand.

In so doing, he would pray for her heart to melt again. Or, he would turn wrinkled and gray in the process.

Either way, if he was going to die, why not do so for the woman he loved?

CHAPTER 33

E
ric, name at least three types of Class B fires.”

“Gasoline. Oil. And, uh . . . mineral spirits.”

“Good,”Caleb said.“And what's the correct form of suppression?”

“Umm . . .”

Terrell sneered. “C'mon, rook. You oughta know this in your sleep.”

Eric's mouth wrinkled at first as he searched his brain for an answer, then the light came on in his eyes. “Oxygen exclusion,” he said.

“Bingo.”

“Give the boy a gold star,” Terrell said.

“Your turn, Terrell.”

“I'm ready, Cap'n. I done studied
my
stuff.”

“Now you sound like Wayne.”

“I heard that.” The driver swaggered into the firehouse dining room, bearing bags of foot-long Subway sandwiches that a friend had dropped off. He handed Lieutenant Simmons the change and a receipt, then divvied the bags around the table, checking the name on each one. “Talkin' behind my back again, huh?”

“Nothing we wouldn't say to your face.”

Terrell nudged Caleb's arm in agreement. “That's right. Man,
some
one's gotta cut down that ego of his. You know whatchu need,Wayne?”

“A raise?”

“Don't even ask,” Caleb said.

“You need a wife.”

“What?”Wayne plopped into his chair. “So I can be miserable like you?”

Terrell kicked at him.“Man, that ain't even funny. Ask the captain or the lieutenant here. They can tell you, it ain't no cakewalk.”

“It's a lotta hard work,” Simmons said. “But I think that goes both ways.”

Caleb had nothing to add that wouldn't feel like sandpaper being rubbed on his burn wounds. He quietly lowered his head, said a prayer for his meal, then peeled back the paper on his sandwich and took a bite.

As the others dug into their lunches,Wayne used the opportunity to sound off yet again. “I'm not knockin' any of you, but believe me—
I'll
be the one who wears the pants in my house. Oh yeah. When the time comes, all I gotta do is
snap
”—he demonstrated twice, quickly—“and she'll come running.”

“Hmm.” Terrell cupped a hand to his ear. “I hear footsteps, all right . . . But they're running
away
.”

Caleb decided this had gone far enough. They had mandatory testing coming up in a few days, and he would lead by example. Not to mention if he wanted to be a battalion chief in the future, wearing three trumpets on his collar, he needed to stay on the cutting edge of technology and techniques.

“Okay, okay. While we eat, let's do some more studying and—”

A sudden flare of heat set Caleb's tongue ablaze. Taste buds sent urgent signals to his brain, while his vision wavered and his throat clenched down on the words he'd been trying to speak.

“You okay?”

Caleb blinked and looked up. Across the table, Wayne's eyes were wide and innocent. Everyone else seemed intent on their own food.

“Sure hope I got your order right, Captain.”

“Mine's good,” Eric said.

Beads of sweat popped out along Caleb's hairline. He swiped a hand across his head and gripped his glass of water. No, that would be like pouring water on an electrical fire, simply feeding the flames. This was habanero sauce, and the damage was already done. He knew the taste—oh yeah, he'd tried it years ago and sworn to never do that again.

“Cold drinks, anyone?”

“No, thanks,” Caleb said through gritted teeth. “I'm good, Wayne.”

“Really? You sound kinda . . . choked up.”

“Think I just swallowed wrong.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah, I'm good. I think it's just this sauce. It's kinda bland, actually.”

“Bland?”Wayne looked confused.

“Yeah. I mean, it tastes just like tomato juice.”

“Tomato ju—”

“Wayne,”Terrell barked.“Man,would you let us eat in peace?”

Head down, Caleb took another bite. He imagined the enemy of his soul, the one Simmons had warned about, trying to humiliate him. He refused to show any sign of surrender or defeat, and he certainly didn't want Wayne to get any satisfaction out of this. Ignoring the heat, he pressed on.

He was only halfway through when, thankfully, the station alarm sounded.

THE ALARM LED them to an industrial building near the Cooper Tire plant. After a thorough inspection, they found nothing and headed back to Station One. Caleb and Terrell were stepping out of their turnout gear, ready to head in and get some more exam preparation under their belts, when the bells clanged again.

Caleb hesitated. Was this—?

Yep, this call was also theirs.

He stretched his suspenders back over his shoulders and grabbed his brush coat.

Upon arrival at the dispatched location, they were greeted by the battalion chief and his field testers, stern-looking men with clipboards and stopwatches. Captain Holt and his team had been clocked on the earlier run, and now that they'd shown themselves fast and fit, they would face nine PAT—physical ability test—components.

Caleb welcomed the challenge. He liked to prove to his guys that seniority was no excuse for complacency. He would never ask them to do something he was unwilling to do or incapable of doing himself.

Hydrant opening in seventeen turns?
Check.

Victim rescue, with a 165-pound dummy bag?
Check.

Stair climbs in full equipment with a standpipe rack?
Check.

For Eric, the young rookie, it was all on the line. Still in a probationary period, his future hinged on his ability to successfully complete all nine components. Even one miscue could derail his career.

Eric moved through the equipment tests with relative ease, stretching hose lines, performing solo ladder carries, and fumbling through each twist of the huge wrench used for opening hydrant caps. Wayne and Simmons chuckled at his efforts, but clapped him on the back when he managed to meet the standards.

Later, he demonstrated his skills with a ceiling pole. Often-times a fire's pressure could be released by using this tool or an ax to tear a hole in the ceiling, thus venting the heat.

Overall, Caleb thought, the rookie was doing well.