Fireproof (3 page)

Caleb relaxed and went back to eating as the voice droned on through the speakers. He knew matters would be safe in the hands of his Station Six counterpart, Captain Loudenbarger.

“Thank You, God,”Wayne exclaimed. “I never mind putting out fires, but not while I'm eatin' chicken wings.”

“Don't say that unless you mean it.” Simmons pointed at him with a pair of barbecue tongs.

“What're you talkin' about?”

“Don't be thanking God if you don't mean it.”

Terrell rolled his eyes. “Aww, c'mon, man. How could anybody really mean that?”

“Excuse me?” Simmons was all business.

Caleb said, “Better watch out, Terrell. You're about to get a sermon.”

“All that God stuff? Man, you might as well believe in Spider-Man.”

“Hey, I went to school with a kid named Peter Parker,”Wayne cut in.

“You don't think God is real?” Simmons pressed.

“Oh, absolutely . . . ,”Terrell said. “
Not
.”

“That was his real name, too,”Wayne prattled on to no one in particular. “We used to call him Spidey.”

Simmons kept his focus on Terrell. “Why do you think there is no God?”

“Why do you think there
is
a God?”

“Don't go there, Terrell.” Caleb had been through this discussion before.

“He wasn't no Spider-Man,”Wayne continued. “Kinda walked like a chicken.”

Simmons refused to be derailed by the driver's nonsense.“Okay, Terrell,” he said, gesturing with a half-eaten wing. “So outta all the knowledge there is to know out there, how much do you think you know?”

“Outta
all
the knowledge?”

“All of it. How much do you think you know?”

Wayne's monologue continued unimpeded. “We used to say, ‘Hey, Peter—climb that wall for us, dude.' He hated that.”

“Aww, I don't know. I'd say I know two to three percent. And nobody could know more than five.”

Simmons turned his gaze toward Terrell. “So, Terrell, outta the ninety-five percent you don't know, you're positive there is no way God exists?”

“How do
you
know He exists?”

“I talked to Him this morning.”

“See, you can't even say that, man.”

“I'm pretty sure,”Wayne mumbled between bites of chicken, “that Peter wore Spider-Man underpants to school. Just to make himself feel special.”

This was too much. The others turned toward him in unified disbelief.

“What?”Wayne said.

“What're you talking about?” Caleb demanded.

“I'm saying that Peter Parker is
real
.”

“And so is God,” Simmons added.

“No,” Terrell said. “He ain't.”

“I'm telling you, He is.”

“Man, you done lost your mind.”

“All right, all right.”Caleb wiped his hands with a napkin.“Eric, you've got cleanup duty. Wayne, I need you to finish the fire report.”

“I'm all over it.”

Caleb stood to leave, with Wayne and Simmons right behind him. He noticed his rookie lingering at the table while Terrell finished a last chicken wing. He knew it was best to let Eric and Terrell work out their differences, but he felt the need to listen in—just in case a referee became necessary.

“Hey, man.” Eric's tone was almost bashful. “I, uh . . . I blew it today.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I shouldn't have left you like that, Terrell. It won't happen again.”

“Better not, rookie.”

“It won't.”

“I know it won't.” Terrell pushed away from the table. “'Cause I might not come back for you next time.”

Caleb turned away, letting the dining room door close behind him. Those words had triggered anew his sense of discontentment.

His wife of seven years, Catherine, his dream girl—she'd been giving every indication that their relationship was over. Which meant he was failing as a husband. It was a feeling that didn't set well with him, and he'd tried to shove it down beneath his officer duties. Last night, though, they'd argued and Catherine had issued a warning similar to Terrell's:
“You spend all your time rescuing
other people, but when are you here for me? Never, Caleb. We hardly
even talk. Well, don't expect me to come running after you. I can't do
it anymore.”

With that memory rumbling through his head, Caleb headed up to his office. Seven years was a good run. They'd given it a shot. At this point, he just wasn't sure he had the energy to keep trying.

Or the heart.

He sat at his desk and pulled out the station logbook. Enough of that. He had work to get done, always more work.

CHAPTER 4

T
he crew at Station One went without another call for the afternoon. Caleb was following his friend Lieutenant Simmons into the living area to catch the latest election results on TV, when a hand grabbed hold of his arm.

“Hey, Captain?”Wayne said. “When're you gettin' your boat?”

Caleb shrugged free. “I'm still saving for the one I want.”

“Well, you just let me know. I'm right here and waiting.”

“And why's that?”

“Isn't it obvious? It's about time I showed you my skills on the water. Maybe you haven't heard yet, but this boy can ski barefooted on one leg.”

“Well, uh . . . That gives me something to look forward to.”

“Oh yeah.”

Caleb blinked in amazement. Did Wayne have no limit of self-confidence? He turned away and joined Simmons in front of the muted TV, where images flashed of the day's news.

“Hey, look,” Simmons said. “Isn't that your wife?”

Caleb nodded.

Simmons picked up the remote and ratcheted the volume.

Catherine's voice purred through the speakers as she responded to a Channel 10 reporter: “Yes, we're grateful for the cancer center housed in our new medical tower, and we believe it will greatly impact the lives of our patients.”

Shots of hospital equipment rolled as the reporter spoke. “Catherine Holt, public relations manager of Phoebe Putney Memorial Hospital, went on to say that they will continue to provide world-class medicine for southwest Georgia. For WALB News, I'm Rebecca Mills.”

Simmons nodded. “Your wife, she's a good woman.”

“Pretty, too,”Wayne said. “You're a lucky man.”

Yeah? Well, you don't live with her
, Caleb thought.

“How long've you two been together?”

“It's been what, Caleb? Seven years?” Simmons said.

“Something like that.”

“Betcha still remember the first day you met.”Wayne toggled an eyebrow. “A man doesn't forget that kinda thing.”

“That was a long time ago,” Caleb said. “C'mon, guys, we got stuff to do.”

“Like what?”Wayne tapped his watch.“Man, it's already dinner-time.”

“Then stop jabbering and go throw in some pizzas for us.”

“It's not my—”

“You want kitchen cleanup?”

“Pizzas,”Wayne said. “Coming right up, sir.”

AT PHOEBE PUTNEY, Catherine Holt was feeling proud of her accomplishments. Dressed in a professional skirt that flattered her slim figure, her clicking heels echoed along the tiles as she strode down the hall. She was at the top of her game, overseeing public relations at a thriving medical center and gaining the notice of her peers.

She passed a tall, clean-cut doctor in the corridor. Dr. Keller, was it? He was the facility's newest man of mystery, unassuming, yet boyishly handsome.

She approached the nurses' station with a padded day planner in hand, purse dangling from the crook of her elbow. Her identity badge—with her new position in red print—clung to the lapel of her buttoned suit jacket.

“Hey, Tasha,” Catherine said.

Tasha looked up from her desk. She had a stethoscope around her neck and wore a brightly colored smock. “Hey, Cat. Just saw you on TV. Lookin' good.”

“Oh, I missed it. I was giving a tour of the new cancer wing.” She set purse and planner on the counter, then glanced at her watch. “Hey, has Robin left yet?”

“No, she's here.” Tasha called to the back room. “Robin? Cat's here.”

Robin Cates, a young nurse with a long, blonde ponytail, walked out in a blue tunic. She removed her glasses. “Hey.” She gave Catherine a hug.

“How are you?”

“I'm good. How're you?”

“Good.” Catherine shook out her hair and leaned an arm on the counter. “Are we still on for tomorrow?”

“Four o'clock. You still want those scented candles?”

“Absolutely, bring 'em on. I wanna try them all.”

“Good.”

“And I'm gonna see my parents later. I thought they might like some, too.”

“Ohhh.” Robin lowered her voice. “Tell me, how are they?”

“You know, it's been a year since Mom's stroke. I've been trying to get her a new hospital bed and wheelchair, but their insurance doesn't cover it, and . . . I don't know. It's just so frustrating for my dad. He wants to help her, but he can't afford it. His own health issues have already cut into their retirement.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right.” Catherine closed her planner and gathered up her keys. “Anyway, I need to run. But I'll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Right. I'll see you.”

“Okay, bye.”

Catherine turned to leave and bumped into Dr. Gavin Keller, whose eyes were fixed on the clipboard in his hand.

“Whoa. Hey, Catherine.”

She felt flustered. “I'm so sorry, Dr. Keller.”

“Call me Gavin, please.”

“Gavin.” Catherine liked the sound of that. He was one of the staff's newest additions, and she'd heard that he sought the slower pace and better opportunities that had eluded him in Orlando. “I'm sorry for almost running you over.”

“Anytime,” he said. “It's good to see you.”

Anytime?
What was that supposed to mean?

“You too,” she said. “Take care.”

As she headed down the hall, she was keenly aware of Gavin's appreciative gaze, and even from the nurses' desk his smooth baritone reached her.

“Sweet girl,” he was saying. Then: “Tasha, would you file this for me?”

“Sure, Doctor.”

Catherine paused and glanced back over her shoulder.

Tasha's face marked Gavin's departure with skepticism, followed by a none-too-subtle whisper to her coworker: “If I didn't know better, Deidra, I'd say the doctor has a thing for Cat.”

Short and wide Diedra pursed her lips in agreement.

The two nurses exchanged a look and said in unison: “Mmm-hmmm.”

Catherine hurried on, her cheeks flushed and her heart racing.

CATHERINE EASED HER Toyota Camry into her parents' driveway. Though they'd scaled down, by necessity, this lower-income house was nice enough—a single-level dwelling, guarded by shade trees and a row of bushes.

She knocked, but her dad's hearing had suffered of late, and she suspected he couldn't hear her. The door was unlocked, so she let herself in. Poking her head into the sitting room, she found Mr. Campbell helping his wife from the couch into a stock wheelchair.

She tried not to well up with tears. Even now, in his midsixties, her father had the strong yet caring arms of a fireman. She was reminded of being a young girl, pretending to sleep so that he would carry her from the sofa to her bed.

“Hello?” She gave a soft knock.

“Ohh. Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hey, Daddy. How are you?”

“Great.” The retired Captain Campbell gave her a hug. “Good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“How's my favorite son-in-law doing? We haven't talked in a while.”

Catherine acted like she hadn't heard that and bent to embrace her mother, letting their cheeks gently touch. “Hey, Mama. How are you, huh?”

Joy Campbell nodded. Although her gray hair was brushed, her eyes wide and alert, there was something sorrowful behind those pupils. The stroke that had put her in this chair had also stolen her ability to communicate by any means other than the small chalkboard in her lap.

“She's doing great today,”Mr. Campbell said. “She had a good lunch, she took a nap, and we were thinking about watchin' a little TV before heading off to bed tonight. She still loves to catch those game shows.”

“
Wheel of Fortune
. I bet she still guesses 'em quick as ever.”

“She certainly does.”

Catherine slid fingers through her mother's hair, over her ears. “Any word yet on getting her that custom bed and wheelchair?” She took her mom's hand.

“No,” Mr. Campbell said. “They think as long as her current chair is working that she doesn't need anything else. But she can't sit in this one very long without it hurting her back. I have to wash her sores twice a day.”

“We'll get you one,Mama.”Catherine squeezed her hand gently. “And a better bed, too.”

Mrs. Campbell gave a brave, close-lipped smile.

Mr. Campbell walked to the doorway. “Can I get you something to drink, dear?”

“Sure, Dad. Do you have any sweet tea?”

“With lemon?”

“You know me,” she said, thinking how nice it was to be known and understood. These days, there wasn't much of that in her own home. Twice as big, with only two occupants, the Holt residence still felt claustrophobic.

She turned longingly to her mother. “Mama, I wish we could talk.”

Mrs. Campbell's eyes reflected the same desire.

“It's been
so
long since I've heard your voice. I miss you.”

Mrs. Campbell bent to her chalkboard and wrote: I M_SS YO_ T_ _.

Catherine filled in the empty spaces and squeezed her mom's hand. They sat together, eyes locked, sharing love much louder than words.