Proof of Angels (19 page)

A
N HOUR AFTER LEAVING THE
D
UOMO
, S
EAN STOOD
outside the Montanari family apartment afraid to knock. Despite what the driver had warned him not to do, he stood planning what his explanation might be to Chiara's father and just how he might elicit her whereabouts from the protective man. He had not seen him since the last Sunday dinner he had been invited to. Just days before he left Chiara and Florence for good.

Sean had held his arm up in preparation for a knock when the door opened in front of him. A skinny teenage girl with heavy eye makeup stood before him. She was small in stature like Chiara and had Chiara's hair color and amber-colored eyes, but she was more angular and dark.

“Lucia?” Sean asked in disbelief.

“
Si?
” The girl looked at the man, confused for a moment, and finished pulling on her jacket and grabbed her bag off the chair by the door, giving him a suspicious once-over.

“It's me. Sean Magee? You were a little girl, no more than three or four, when I saw you last. I dated your sister, Chiara. A long time ago. Do you remember me?” Sean asked.

“Sean? Magee?” Lucia's eyes squinted suspiciously. “You're real?” she said in perfect English, like her sister.

“Of course.”

“You're alive?” she said, poking Sean.

“Yes, of course, why . . .” And then Sean remembered. It had never occurred to him, it never crossed his mind for a second that Chiara would have thought he died or that that would even have been a possibility.

“She said you disappeared. Poof. Gone. One day here, the next day gone. I don't remember much of it, but I remember being sad for her, because she would spend hours curled up on her bed holding your picture,” Lucia said, not holding back in the least.

“God, I am so sorry,” Sean said to her, realizing that his leaving affected more than just Chiara.

“She got over you. So don't get too sorry. And you don't have to pretend
sorry
for me,” Lucia snapped back again. “You grown-ups are so full of shit.”

Teenagers scared Sean. They said exactly what they thought. Social media had made it even worse. It made him uncomfortable. They all felt entitled to share their opinions and highlight perceived grown-up hypocrisy. Half-truths and hypocrisy were the bane of every teen's existence and had been since the beginning of time, long before they could tweet it or post it. He remembered his own teen years well. He remembered when his idea of truth was more prized than
another's pain, sacrifice, or closely guarded secret. Teens felt for lies and deceits like Sean felt for fire behind thick walls and they rejoiced in finding and revealing them. More than anything, they enjoyed crashing through them with axes of perceived truth.

“I'm not pretending,” Sean said.

“Really? Then why are you here? Do you just happen to be in the neighborhood? Since when did New York City move next door?” Lucia asked, using her thumb to point to her neighbor's door.

“Los Angeles actually. I came from Los Angeles,” Sean corrected her.

“Well, you're out of luck. You came a long way for nothing. My sister, Chiara, she's not here,” Lucia said.

Sean's shoulders dropped and he turned.

Lucia looked at Sean's ear as he turned and then noticed his scarred hands and his cane. “Did you fight in the war?” she asked, staring.

“What? No. Why? What war?”

“Any. All of America's wars. You're a soldier? You're injured,” she said, pointing to Sean's ear and then his hands.

“No,” Sean explained. “I am a firefighter. Well, I used to be.”

“Ah, ah,” Lucia said, softening at the sight of Sean's melted ear and what looked to her like a lame attempt to cover it with long hair that had been brushed forward to hide the burns.

Sean, feeling her stare, put his hands up to push his hair forward and realized it only brought more attention to his burned hands. He felt his face flush with embarrassment and turned again to leave.

“Hey! Hey! Where are you going?”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. I probably look and sound very foolish to you.”

“No, I'm sorry. I was rude. It's just that . . . I wasn't expecting you . . . or your . . . well . . . how you look now.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Sean, do you want to come with me? I am going to see her. We have lunch plans.”

“Wait. I thought you said she wasn't here. She is still here—in Florence?” Sean asked hopefully.

“
Si, si
. She is not home right now. She works at the Art Institute. She is a curator. She lives here,” Lucia said, pointing back into the apartment. “Our father died right after our mother did. Cancer and a stroke. They were old when they had Chiara and practically ancient when they had me and Franco. So she got stuck taking care of us. She knew it would end up like this.”

“So she's not . . .”

“No, no, no. No husband. No boyfriend. She's what you call in America a single white female.”

“We don't actually call anyone that. One movie did, a long time ago.” Sean felt suddenly light and jocular, brimming with the hope that he might actually find Chiara today. He pulled himself together to ask Lucia when her father passed away.

“About three years ago. My sister was in Rome living with a boyfriend. She came back to take care of us and the boyfriend wouldn't follow.”

“That's too bad,” Sean said, feigning sympathy.

“He was an asshole. Don't feel too badly,” Lucia deadpanned.

“So you're going to see her, right now?” Sean asked, trying to clarify whether the invitation still stood.

“You know Chiara will fall over dead when she sees you. You know she still keeps your picture in her jewelry box. I see it every time I steal her earrings. You used to be hot,” Lucia quipped, coming out of the door and closing it, then slipping in her keys to turn the series of locks.

“And I'm not anymore?” Sean said, looking worried.

“No one your age is hot. You and my sister are old.”

“The thirties are not old,” Sean corrected her.

“It's twice as old as me. So you're super old. Do you think sixty-year-olds are hot?”

“Point taken,” Sean said, hobbling behind the girl, who walked quickly ahead of him.

“You coming?” she asked, turning around.

“You're gonna have to be patient, Lucia. I'm an old man,” Sean said, limping behind her.

Lucia stopped and grabbed his arm and guided him down the steps, saying, “Oh, I love an adventure. Life is so boring.”

“It's really not,” Sean said.

“When you're a kid, it is. It's so boring, I want to do outrageous things,” Lucia admitted with a shout and swung her arms out wide, almost knocking Sean over.

“You and every other kid. Just don't be an idiot. You'd be amazed by how much of your life is determined by the stupid things you do to break up the boredom. In fact, most of life is determined by the stupid things you do. The split-second,
rash decisions are the ones that make all the difference between whether you end up on either Savile or death row.”

“You sound like Chiara.”

“She's smart. Always was.”

“She thinks she knows everything,” Lucia said, rolling her eyes.

“She's
old
, so she knows more than you. A wise man once told me the key to life and love is this . . . ,” Sean said, turning to the girl.

“What?” Lucia said as she pushed through the apartment building door and spilled out into the street.

“
Listen
. Listen to your sister. I wouldn't have gotten in half as much trouble in life if I had listened to mine,” Sean said, coming up behind her.

“Yeah, but I bet you were never bored,” Lucia said smartly.

“Point taken,” Sean said for the second time since they met.

“Are you nervous, Sean? Because you look nervous,” Lucia said bluntly, tearing through his truth with her teen ax.

“Yes, Lucia, I am,” he said, inhaling. “I'm nervous and excited. You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment. What it took for me to get here. To this day,” Sean admitted.

“Well, don't be disappointed. She's changed a lot since then.”

“We all have. I have, too,” Sean said.

“She's tough. She used to laugh so much. She doesn't anymore,” Lucia said while fumbling with her iPod and inserting her earphones as she walked.

“Life is tough, Lucia. From the sound of it, it's been especially rough for her,” Sean said, pulling one of the earphones out as he spoke to her.

Lucia nodded, looked up at the sky, flipped her long hair to reinsert the earphone in defiance, and said, “You know, Sean, she'll kill me for this, but here's what I am going to do. You and I both want something. So I'll make you a deal. You want to see my sister and I could use a break from my sister. She's both
boring and old
.” Lucia feigned a yawn and then laughed. “So you go to lunch with her. She'll make you eat lettuce and won't let you order a cappuccino. But she'll be at this café on this street around the corner from the Art Institute,” Lucia said, writing down the address and name of the café on a piece of paper she had pulled from a notebook in her purse. “And in exchange for this address, you will tell her I went to the library to study,” Lucia said, stuffing the address in Sean's jacket pocket and patting his heart.

“Are you going to get me in trouble, Lucia?”

“Probably. But better you than me,” Lucia said, swinging the bag over her shoulder and taking off down the street.

“Jesus,” Sean said, shaking his head. “Kids today.”

A
S
S
EAN SAT WAITING FOR
C
HIARA TO ARRIVE
,
HE
tried his best to do what the cabdriver had instructed. He tried not to think of all the things he would say to her. He would try not to come to her with excuses. He tapped his foot and adjusted his legs under the table several times. He looked at every woman who passed by on the street and thought each one might be her. A chubby woman with blond hair:
Maybe she gained weight and started to dye her hair?
A tall, gamine woman wearing bright red lipstick:
Maybe she had a growth spurt?
Then he panicked and thought she wasn't coming at all. He thought that Lucia had never been going to meet her sister. That it was all a big joke on his account.
Ha-ha, you dumb American. You freaky stalker, you. Like I'd ever give you my sister's whereabouts? Scram, loser
. After fifteen minutes of destructive self-talk, Sean grabbed his cane and tried to stand. Pushing himself up, he bent down over his cane and hoisted himself into a standing, though bent position.
When he finally stood up straight, Chiara Montanari was there before him.

Her amber eyes grew as large as quarters and her mouth quivered when she locked her eyes with his. She was trying to form words, Sean could tell. He wanted to say his name, finish her thought for her:
Yes, it's me. Sean Magee
. But he remembered to shut up.

“Sean? Sean Magee?” Chiara finally whispered. Nearly inaudibly, as if she'd just remembered the precise location of a lost set of keys.
I just set them down over there. Yes, that's where I left them
.

Sean matched her whisper. “Yes.”

“But, but, I, I . . . why? Wait. What is going on? Where is Lucia? Why are you here? Why are you in Florence?”

Sean pointed to the chair. “Would you like to sit and talk?” he said.

“I am supposed to meet my sister,” Chiara said, still not fully comprehending what she was seeing before her.

“She's not coming, Chiara,” Sean said, his heart fluttering as he spoke her name. “I went to your apartment. She told me you would be here. I came looking for you. She went to the library to study.”

“You came from where exactly?” Chiara asked, stepping back.

“Los Angeles,” Sean said.

Chiara's head cocked to the left and then the right. “I don't understand.”

“Please sit down, Chiara. Let me explain.”

Sean pulled out a chair for Chiara and she fell into it. As if someone had taken a feather and tapped her. She was ready
to be blown over at any moment. She stared for a long time at him as if running through an inventory.

Sean hobbled a bit and sat back down in his chair, wincing as he did.

“Your legs? Your hands? Your ear? Burns?” Chiara could only put together singular words, not quite full sentences as the shock of seeing him overtook her.

“Yes,” Sean said, self-consciously moving the hair over his ear and neck and then dropping his hands to his lap. “I was in a fire.”

“Is that why? Is that why you didn't . . .” Chiara's mouth opened in horror and she covered it. Tears were welling up. “My God, I am so sorry. All this time, I, I, I . . .” Chiara's head shook.

“No, no, no, please, Chiara. Don't apologize. No. You're so, so good. So kind. Don't go thinking that I am a good person. That the reason I left you was that I was injured . . . this happened later, much later, recently actually,” Sean explained.

“So you . . . you just left then,” Chiara's head dropped. Sean noticed small gray roots protruding from the burgundy waves that had, for the most part, remained unchanged. Everything about her looked the same, except for her eyes, which were darker and more deeply set. Her cheekbones were more pronounced. Age had made her even more striking.

“Yes,” Sean said. “Yes.”

Chiara's head popped up quickly and she clasped her hands together on the table. “So let me guess. You are here to explain,” Chiara said in an exasperated tone.

Sean nodded.

“And I bet you're here to tell me how sorry you are,” Chiara said.

Sean nodded and tried to open his mouth to speak, but Chiara cut him off.

“Save your breath, Sean. I don't need to hear your excuses, your reasons, your apologies. We were kids,” Chiara said dismissively. “Foolish, foolish children,” she said, raising her hand for a waiter. “I hardly ever think about you anymore. I mean, it hurt at first. But everyone hurts for a while after a breakup. It was just part of growing up. It's all ancient history. Honestly, I have had boyfriends who I wouldn't give a second glance to if they walked by me on the street,” Chiara said coolly.

“Oh, oh, I, I, well yes. We were just kids.” Sean tried, faintly, agreeing with her.
A boyfriend she wouldn't give a second glance to
.

“Two cappuccinos, please,” Chiara said to the waiter in English as he passed, never losing eye contact with Sean.

Sean smiled.

“What? Why are you smiling at me like that?”

“Lucia said you wouldn't let me have a cappuccino.”

“I don't let
her
have them. Caffeine makes the girl act like a madwoman. She has enough nervous energy as it is. Someone has to be the grown-up,” Chiara said, rolling her eyes. And Sean felt like the comment was aimed more at him than it was at Lucia.

“Chiara, I need to tell you—”

“Please, Sean. Please. Let's make this pleasant. Let's pretend you and I are old friends and we just bumped into each other. Let's pretend things didn't end the way they did. Okay?
You've been through a lot. I've been through a lot. Come on. Don't be melodramatic.”

“But we were more than friends,” Sean said, leaning toward her. “Right?”

Chiara shrugged. It was the same shrug from eleven years ago. The same one she had when he would come to her place drunk, slurring his words in front of all of her friends. “You're fucking embarrassed by me, Chiara. Admit it. I am just your drunk American boyfriend.” She shrugged then, fighting back the tears, the hurt.

Sean's stomach lurched. It was all an act. He could tell. She was fighting it all back. Just like she had back when they were a couple of kids.

“I was terrible to you, Chiara,” Sean said abruptly. “I said terrible things to you when I was drunk, and I treated you unfairly. I made you promises. I told you that I wanted to marry you. I promised to take you to America. To put you through art school. I promised you—”

The waiter dropped two cappuccinos in front of them and stood for a moment staring at Sean and the heavy layer of smooth flesh stretched taut between his ear and neck.

“Grazie,”
Chiara said, taking the coffee and sipping it.

Sean became entranced while watching her drink and remembered their early days—sitting beside her in café after café, talking and talking and talking. There was no end to what they could discuss.

“I don't drink anymore,” Sean said, trying to explain.

Chiara nodded and said, “Good for you, Sean.”

“I'm an alcoholic,” Sean said, realizing that he had in fact practiced saying that line, that exact line, every day for years.

Chiara nodded and took another sip as if to say,
And what does that have to do with me?

“I said and did a lot of horrible things, Chiara, to you and to a lot of people I love, because I drank,” Sean continued.

Chiara's eyes narrowed. Wrinkles creased around her eyes and she furrowed her brow.

Sean could see a hint of anger rising in her, but thought perhaps he was misreading her emotions and continued. “I drank because I thought it would lighten me up. I thought it would make it easier for me to talk to you, keep up with you and your friends . . .”

Chiara put her hands up to stop him. “So it was my fault? My fault you drank? That you're an alcoholic? You came all the way to Florence to blame me for your stupidity? To blame
m
e for your decisions, for
you leaving me
?” Chiara asked incredulously.

“No, no! I got it all wrong. It came out all wrong,” Sean said, wishing after all that he had actually practiced what he was going to say.

“Then what? What are you trying to say? Go on!” Chiara, waving him on, demanded. “Go on!”

“I drank before you. I drank in high school. I drank whenever I felt like I needed to feel that feeling, you know, when everything just falls into place. I was always looking for that peaceful moment when I could just feel okay in my own head. In my own skin. I always felt broken. Weak. I don't know,
less than
. I thought it was because I didn't have a dad. Then I thought it was nine/eleven. Then I thought it was my mom dying. And then I thought it was because I was just so damn useless. No good at anything. And I wanted to be. I wanted
to be great. I wanted to do something with my life. Have a purpose. And then I found you, Chiara. And you actually liked me. You loved me.
Me?
I didn't understand it. I hit the self-destruct button, you could say. I did. I destroyed what we had because I was an idiot. I thought I wasn't good enough for you. But I was. I could have been. By the time I figured that out, I'd already messed up your life, my life, and so many other people's, too. It took me a long time, Chiara, to get sober. To see things clearly. And that's why I am here. I am here to make amends. I am here to tell you I am sorry, truly sorry for hurting you. I know I did. I was weak and foolish.”

Chiara stared at him for a long time and said nothing. “So you alcoholics, you keep these lists? You make lists of people whose names you need to cross off when you make amends to them? Is that it? It makes you better? It heals you? I bet my name is on a list.”

Blood rushed to Sean's face. He burned hot in embarrassment.

Chiara's mouth spread wide in a smile. “Ah, that's it,” she said, pointing at him. “I am a name on a list somewhere in your pocket,” she said, smiling.

“My wallet actually,” Sean admitted.

“Well, that's a shitty thing, Sean. A very shitty thing.” Chiara's face fell.

“What? To say I'm sorry? To try to make amends? Make up for what I did?” Sean asked, surprised, not at all expecting this response. Not once when he imagined saying he was sorry to her did he expect her to utter those words. No one ever had.

“No.
Sorry
is not shitty.
Making things right
is not bad. It is
why
you do it that is shitty. You think this will heal
you
. This isn't about me. It is about
you
. Once again.
You
. This is about what
you
want. What will make
you
feel better. It has nothing to do with the other person. What the other person wants or needs. Once again it is about
you—you
, no doubt fulfilling some promise to yourself or God,
you
taking the ‘steps'
you
need to stay sober,
you
getting what you want once again,” Chiara said sharply.

Sean inhaled and realized how right Libby had been.
Be gentle
. He realized how right Chiara was, too.

“You're right. I'm sorry,” Sean said. “I never saw it that way. I never realized how selfish I was being.”

“Okay. Go on.”

Sean's eyes lit up when she opened the door for him to keep talking. “I want to fix this. For you.”

“You can't fix it, Sean. You can't go back in time and fix what you broke. Hearts don't just get whole again after you say
I'm sorry
. They stay broken. They get thick and hard from the scars.” Chiara's voice trembled and then softened. “I . . . I . . . I . . . loved you,” she whispered into her chest and then wiped a tear from her cheek quickly, as if hoping Sean wouldn't see.

“Chiara, I was an idiot, but you're all I've ever
thought about . . . when I was in the fire and I thought I might die, it was your name, Chiara, yours that I spoke. I thought of you! You,” Sean said finally, lifting his burned hands to the table and reaching for hers.

“Well, isn't that rich. I am supposed to feel better because you didn't think of me for over a decade, but only thought of me when you might die? What about all that time in between, Sean? Did you ever think of me? Ever? Just once? Because I thought of you. I didn't understand it. I couldn't understand it. I thought we were happy. I thought . . . we . . . I thought we'd grow old together. You made me believe that.”

“I'm sorry, Chiara. I was stupid and young.”

“I was young, too! You weren't the only one!” Chiara snapped. “Men are so selfish. So selfish. All you think of is
you
. As if this just happened to
you
. You've been tormenting yourself for years, but it's really been about
you
. Not me.
You
. Because, if you thought for one second about someone besides yourself, you would have written me a letter. Called me. Reached out and told me it wasn't my fault. Because that's what I thought: You left because of me. Because of something I said. Something I did. I kept playing it over and over in my head.”

“What? What did you play over and over?” Sean asked.

“The last time we saw each other. You had spent the night. I made you coffee. We read the paper. I told you I was going to paint at a vineyard nearby with my class and you were going to go to mass. That was the last time we spoke. The last time we talked. The last time we touched. I tried to remember if you kissed me good-bye. If you knew it then, that moment. I wondered for years if you knew you were going to leave me that morning. And I was so angry for so long because I couldn't remember . . . I couldn't remember if you kissed me. I wanted to. I wanted to think of you as Judas, kissing me and betraying me all in the same day. It would have been easier for me to hate you. But I couldn't remember. And it killed me. I just wanted one last memory. One last kiss to hold on to and remember and you stole that from me, too. I looked for you. I went to church. I went to the library. I went to all of our
places. I couldn't find you. You didn't answer my calls. You didn't check your e-mails. I went to the police. And after a couple of days they said your passport had been stamped and you had left the country. And I knew right then and there: you'd left me. And so of course I thought it was something I'd said or done. What else could it have been? What?”