“Does he have nightmares a lot?” I stirred the chili and then moved away from the stove to uncork the wine, a Shiraz I thought would go well with it.
“Yeah. ‘A lot’ is an understatement.”
I didn’t look at Maisie. I could hear her smoking behind me, the quick nervous puffing.
I sat down with her. “I have to ask. What happened to him? Is he sick?”
“Not sick. Not physically, anyway. I suppose he has what they call PTSD these days. You’ve heard of it? It stands for—”
I cut her off. “Post-traumatic stress disorder. I’ve heard of it.” I touched her hand lightly and then withdrew. “What was the trauma? Was he in the service? Can you tell me?”
She took a long drag and expelled the smoke almost angrily. “I wish I knew! I wish he knew!”
“I don’t understand.”