Proof of Angels (8 page)

“All right then, we'll come back tomorrow, and every day after that for a quick visit, and let you guys get acquainted,” Libby said brightly. “It was so nice for us both to meet you, Sean. Looking forward to working with you. Come on, Chief. Come here, boy.” Chief stood up and walked alongside Libby out of the room.

Gaspar caught James and Sean watching Libby, her long, muscular legs snugged tightly in faded jeans, leave the room with Chief.

“Thanks, Libby! Look forward to seeing you tomorrow!” James called after her.

As the door clicked behind her, James turned to Sean. “Whoooweee, I guess I'll be seeing you a lot this week.”

Sean cocked his head. He hadn't been listening. His eyes were still on the door.

“Well, well, well, look who's gotten a little puppy love for his trainer,” James said.

“What? Who me?” Sean said, trying to shake his head. “The trainer? No way.”

“Yeah, right,” James said, knocking his friend in the shoulder lightly.

“She's quite pretty, Sean,” Gaspar added. “Sure you want to book those flights to Italy?”

Sean's smile fell and his eyes darted across the room to Gaspar.

“Italy?” James looked back at Sean. “Whaddya mean, Italy?”

“It's nothing, James. Nothing at all. Gaspar here has a knack for running his yap when he shouldn't be.”

Sean didn't want to embarrass Gaspar, but he wanted to remind him in that moment that it was Gaspar who'd told the boy his father was in Los Angeles. It was Gaspar who'd told the boy his mother had known all along, and that she'd kept the secret from him for years. It was Gaspar's fault in the first place that the boy ran away, that he got it in his head to go to Los Angeles and find his father. If there was blame to go around, and there was plenty, Sean wanted to blame Gaspar in that moment, but knew he was equally to blame for keeping the secrets to begin with.
Can't shoot the messenger
, Sean thought and immediately recanted. “I'm sorry, Gaspar. That was a cheap shot. Even for me.”

“I'm sorry, Sean, I am. I just thought, she is pretty and you'll be spending time together. And maybe there will be lots more after her. Maybe, I was just thinking, you might reconsider . . .”

“I am sorry, I don't follow,” James interjected.

Exasperated and feeling as if it was pointless to keep it a secret from James, Sean explained his plan to his friend. “James, during the fire, I made a promise. I told myself if I got
out of that mess, I'd be a better man. I'd make up for all the stupid stuff I've done, and I'd find a girl from a long time ago and I'd tell her how sorry I was for messing stuff up between us. I'd make things right. I made that promise, James, and I am here today, I believe, because I made that promise, and nothing, let me repeat, nothing is going to stop me. You hear me, Gaspar? Not even a long-legged knockout.”

“So I can call dibs on Libby?” James said flatly, for Sean's benefit pretending to be unmoved by Sean's story.

Sean laughed. “You can call dibs. She's all yours. I've got my mind set.”

Once his dibs were secured, James circled back to Sean's story. “Sounds like a hell of a plan to me, Sean. She has to be some sort of special if you've been hanging on this long, holding out this long.”

“She is, James. She is,” Sean said.

“I am sorry, Sean. I was just joking and I thought . . .” Gaspar shook his head.

“I know, Gaspar. No harm done. But I don't want you talking me out of it. I thought we had come to a mutual understanding.”

“We had. I just hoped . . .”

“I know what you hope for, Gaspar. You want me to fall in love. You want me to get married and have babies, and make you feel a little bit better about the life you have now . . . ,” Sean said, once again realizing that what he was saying was hurtful, but unable to control himself.

Gaspar shook his head as if in protest. “I know you were like a father to him, Sean. I know that. I know that you felt as if you were his father. You know that you could still—”

Sean held up his hand and waved at Gaspar as if he was shooing a bird off his balcony on Ocean View. “I am sorry. I shot my mouth off again. I had no right.”

“You have every right, Sean.”

James stood between the two men and searched their eyes for some sort of explanation. “I'm sorry? What kid are we talking about? Whose kid?”

“His name is Colm Magee. My sister's son. Gaspar here was just saying that I loved the boy like my own son. He is right about that. His dad took off before he was born, around eleven years ago, and I got to raise him with my sister for a little while back in New York,” Sean said almost in a whisper and realized how empty and hollow it felt to say those words, to sum up seven years of his life in a few words. How impossible was it, so often in life, to sum up something so enormous?

“I got to love him as my own for a little while.”

“I was a father.”

“I loved a girl.”

“My mother died.”

“My father died.”

“I used to fight fires.”

Footnotes in a life, Sean thought. How many people use them to describe the infinitely huge moments that change them forever? So often those moments get nothing more than a passing mention.

“Cool,” James said in a matter-of-fact tone, and shrugged.

Sean sensed that James could feel the tension in the room and didn't want to add anything further.

“I better get on my way. I don't want to get stuck in traffic and miss my flight,” Gaspar added.

“James? Will you give us a second?” Sean asked politely.

“Yeah, sure. I'll be outside. Gaspar, I'll give you a ride. I don't have a shift. No sense in you taking a cab.”

“Thanks, that would be kind of you, James.”

“I'll be just outside,” James said, shutting the door.

Gaspar walked over to Sean, grabbed a chair, and pulled it close so Sean and he could be at eye level with each other. Despite all of their brief quarrels throughout the week, neither man wanted to be the first to say good-bye.

“I'm going to be fine, Gaspar. And so are you. You tell my sister that I am doing great. Tell her it's nothing but a couple of broken bones and nothing that time won't heal. You got that?”

“Of course, Sean.”

“I don't want her worrying or flying out here six weeks after she has those babies.”

“Agreed,” Gaspar said and nodded.

“I am glad they have you. You're a great dad and husband. Better than I could have hoped for Cathleen. Even in my wildest dreams.”

“She has wild dreams for you, too.”

“I know she does,” Sean said, looking out the window. “Believe me, I know she does.”

“James is a good man. You're in good hands.”

“He's all right. And that dog, right? That dog. I can't believe he did that for me.”

“It's quite extraordinary,” Gaspar said and nodded. And after a long pause, he added, “You've got some great angels looking out for you. Seen and unseen. And I think
my work here is done.” He held up his hands in mock self-righteousness.

“Go on. Get out of here,” Sean said, pointing to the door and laughing.

“Oh, Sean . . . I know I mentioned it earlier, but a man named Tom will be visiting. I've hired him to care for you, until you can manage on your own. He'll be taking you home from the hospital.”

“So I don't get a say in who will be taking care of me?”

“Guess you are, as you say,
shit out of luck
,” Gaspar said with a wink, and as he stood up, “He'll take good care of you, Sean. I have no doubt. Like I said, you're in many capable hands.”

“When do you think you'll come back out?” Sean said.

“When I can get away, I'll come. Perhaps after Cathleen has the babies and things settle down. Then again, when you're ready for me. And when it's time, I'll be ready to take you to Italy myself, if that is still what you want to do.”

“Thanks, buddy.”

Gaspar nodded, stood up, and walked over to Sean. “I would hug you, if I could . . .”

“Please don't,” Sean said as he patted Gaspar on the arm. Gaspar took his other hand and held Sean's hand to his own arm for a few seconds. “I'm glad you're here. I just want you to know how glad I am that you're okay. I don't think I could have lost another . . .”

“Gaspar, it's all right. We're all right. We're all going to be all right.”

If I got rid of my demons, I'd lose my angels.

—Tennessee Williams

T
HE DAY AFTER
G
ASPAR RETURNED TO HIS FAMILY IN
New York, Tom Smith appeared in Sean's doorway. He was pushing a wheelchair, and a large medical bag was slung over his shoulder. Sean took one look at the man and knew exactly why Gaspar had hired him. The man was a giant, larger than Sean himself.

Standing nearly seven feet tall, Tom's biceps and pectorals bulged out of his form-fitting golf shirt, which was tucked neatly into the equally tight jeans that accentuated his trim waist and long muscular legs. Tom was the type of man, Sean surmised instantly, who woke up at 5
A
.
M
., downed six raw eggs in three rapid gulps, then ran a half marathon before heading to Muscle Beach for two hours.

“Crap,” Sean mumbled as Tom entered the room.

“Now is that any way to greet a person?” Tom said, pushing the wheelchair alongside Sean's bed and setting down his bag.

“Sorry, it's just that I have a feeling you're one of those go-get-'em-tiger types,” Sean said.

“You've guessed correctly. Tom Smith's the name.” Tom held out his hand to shake Sean's.

Sean raised his gloved hand and waved Tom's hand away.

“So that's how it's gonna be,” Tom said with a smile.

“No, it's just that I can't shake your hand. They are burned. They hurt.”

“I know, Sean. Your brother-in-law, Dr. Basu, filled me in. I wouldn't have squeezed it hard. You can trust me.”

Sean put his hand out again, and was surprised by how gently Tom wrapped his gargantuan hand around his and shook it.

“There. That wasn't too terrible,” Tom said, still shaking it. “Wanna go for a walk and get acquainted?”

“Not especially. I just woke up,” Sean said, pulling his hand away.

“Perfect! So we agree that you're awake! Let's go!” Tom said cheerfully, ignoring Sean's complaint.

Tom reached behind Sean's back and gently lifted him to a sitting position. Then gingerly taking Sean's legs, Tom swung them sideways off the side of the bed. Before Sean could figure out what was happening, Tom had put his arms under Sean's legs and around his back, lifted him up, and placed him in the wheelchair.

“Now that wasn't so bad, was it?” Tom said, barely breaking a sweat.

“You just lifted nearly two hundred and eighty-five pounds by yourself. You realize that?” Sean said, amazed. He hadn't been handled like that since he was a small boy.

“Two sixty-five actually. You're down twenty pounds according to your chart. We'll get you back up to your fighting weight in no time though.”

“Is that why Gaspar hired you? Because you won't throw your back out while you're hauling me around for the next few months?”

“Oh, I am sure that had a lot to do with it, but mostly I think it was my good looks and charming personality,” Tom said. “And the fact that I come as a two-for-one deal. I'm both an RN and a PT.”

“Fantastic,” Sean said sarcastically.

“So I hear you jumped out of a building and lived to tell the tale. How are you feeling today?”

“Like I did yesterday and the day before that . . . like crap.”

Sean didn't want to say another word. He didn't want to tell the same version of the same story over and over again to whoever stepped into his room.

“I'm gonna be straight with you, Sean,” Tom said. “I don't stand for wallowing in self-pity. Don't stand for it at all. I just want to get that out right now—right here.”

“How compassionate of you, Tom,” Sean shot back.

“I know what you're looking for, Sean. I've been where you are. I got hurt, too, years ago. In Iraq. I didn't think I'd ever walk again. But I did the work. I get it. You're sitting in a chair, and you're bummed because you can't move and get around and do your job, or do your girlfriend, or whatever else it is that you do. You're probably even feeling a little guilty about being alive. I bet you've been spending hours down in that lonely room of yours, just thinking that it must mean something that you've been given a second chance.”

Sean turned his head as far as he could and looked up into Tom's face.

“Strike a chord, did I?” Tom said, looking down. “Well, I am here to tell you something. It doesn't mean anything. Not a thing. You had some bad luck. But let me tell you, it could have been worse. A lot worse. You know how many people I've seen who can't walk? Never will again? You know how many people who didn't get a second chance? Don't go making yourself crazy trying to attribute meaning to the meaningless. Shit happens.”

Sean turned his head around quickly, and winced from the pain caused by the sudden movement.

“I know. I know,” Sean added. He had been where Tom had been, too. He had, at many points in his own life, thought everything was devoid of meaning. He had periods when he felt nothing mattered and everything was a coincidence. That not one thing pointed to the next. But that was before Colm. That was before he had grown to love his nephew. He had seen what that love brought to his life. He could see how the boy's life, and all of his deaths—all seven of them when he added up every one of Colm's cardiac arrests—was another chance. Sean definitively knew that each and every one of those chances meant something. They meant something to Colm. They meant something to his sister, Cathleen, and to his friend Gaspar. But most of all they meant something to him. To erase their meaning and to simply dismiss one's life as an aberration or a magical accident didn't add up. It never would. But Sean didn't want to have to tell Tom all of this. He didn't want to fight something he knew he couldn't explain to someone who
hadn't felt what he had felt.
That love. That love. That love. My god, man, it means everything
.

“So here's the deal,” Tom said, pushing Sean into a large occupational therapy room at the end of a long corridor. “This is why you're here. This is why I am here. For one reason, and one reason only: To work. Work. Work. Work. That, my friend, is the meaning of life. Yours, mine, and everyone else's. Work. Sleep. Repeat. Die. The end. Got it?”

Sean gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and looked around the room that was filled with giant blue and green exercise balls, racks of weights, thick blue mats, parallel bars, and treadmills and elliptical machines, most of which were being employed by other patients in various states of recovery. There was an amputee, both legs cut below the knee, who was trying to walk on his newly fitted prosthetics with the assistance of his PT. Then there was a young woman who had lost an arm and was curling a large weight with her good arm. A paraplegic was on the ground doing triceps dips, lifting his torso up and down.

“What'd I tell ya? Two legs. Two arms. A head that works, for the most part. So don't go bitchin' to me. Got it?” Tom said quite matter-of-factly, recognizing the scene Sean had just taken in.

Sean nodded again.

“Sean, you and I aren't going to talk much about our feelings in here. Outside that door, in your hospital room, in your home, wherever else we may be you can talk a blue streak. You follow?”

Sean nodded again.

“So when we're in here, we're not going to talk much about what you can't do anymore, because all I care about is what you
can
do, and I can get you wherever you want to go if you just shut up and work hard,” Tom said, pushing the wheelchair over to a large blue mat.

Sean nodded and stared at Tom for a long time, and then said, “So what do I have to do to get out of this chair?”

“First things first,” Tom said, pulling Sean up and placing him on the mat. “When rebuilding a burned-up, broken-down house, it is always best to start from the ground. When rebuilding a burned-up, broken-down body, same deal. Ground up.”

“Let's get on with it then,” Sean said, lying flat on his back with his arms and legs spread wide, like a child about to make a snow angel. “I'm all yours, Tom.”