Proof of Heaven (10 page)

“That's too bad, Cathleen.”

“You'd think, because of my faith, I should love everybody. I should love people no matter what they think or believe, even if they think differently. But it's hard sometimes to be in the same room with someone who doesn't think like you or feel like you or see the world the same way you do.
Even if they're family
. Sean just doesn't get it. He has issues with the church—some of the people running it—with God, with everybody. Besides, he's already been to Italy.”

“Really?”

“He went there right after he left college, after our mom died. I thought he was going to pursue his vocation at the North American College. That's what he told me anyway when I wrote out the check for his airfare.”

“Excuse me?”

“His vocation. When he was a freshman in college, he thought he was called by God to become a priest.”

“What did he do instead?”

“Drink . . . mostly . . . from what I gathered. And he's at it again. Seeing Colm collapse was hard on him, and of course, there was our fight. I said some hurtful things to him that day.”

“Now you can't blame something like that on yourself. He has to take some responsibility for how he behaves. Has he always been a drinker—even before Italy?”

“He definitely had his moments. I guess, thinking back, it really all started in high school—even before my mom died. He was always the starry-eyed type. You know—with his head in the clouds. Literally. He wanted to join the navy, become a Blue Angel. Then 9/11 hit, and something changed in him. I don't know what. I think it sort of sunk in that joining the military was more than flying fast planes and going to far-off places. I don't think he was afraid for himself; I just think he didn't want to hurt my mom or cause her worry.”

“Did you ever ask him why he made such a decision?”

“Oh, sure. We talked about it one day shortly after. I told him it was very brave of him—to give up his dreams for our mother. But he shrugged it off.”

“From what little I know of your brother that doesn't surprise me. But how does one go from wanting to join the military to being called by God—and then a firefighter? Seems like an unlikely progression.”

“When the military fell through, he decided on college—one that would make my mother happy, of course, and one the monsignor could help him get scholarships to—the Catholic University. We were all so proud of him, but he was so ashamed. He kept comparing himself to all of his friends, especially the ones who chose to sign up for the military right after graduation. I remember the first time I ever saw him drunk was after a buddy of his told him that he had enlisted.”

“So he went to this Catholic University and that's where he was called by God, as you say?”

“Yes, he even called our mom shortly before she died to tell her that he wanted to be a priest. Then after Mom passed away, he dropped out of school. Took off for Italy shortly after, and that was the end of the Sean I knew as a boy. When he came back home, he was so cynical. So mistrustful. So full of anger. He was drunk all the time, but I got him in treatment and he was OK for a while—long enough to get selected to go to the Fire Academy. But I can tell he's back at it.”

“Have you talked to him about it?”

“No. Every time we try, we end up fighting. He tells me I'm brainwashed, and I call him a drunk. It never ends well.”

“Well, are you brainwashed? You seem to have good reason to call him a drunk; does he have good reason to think you are brainwashed?”

“No. I'm not excluding any possibilities—that's all. Maybe Saints Francis and Clare in Assisi can heal Colm. Maybe you could. I don't care who does. I just want Colm to get better.”

“I know why you want Colm to be better. I understand that. You are his mother. But I must ask you, why does the monsignor care so much? Aren't you the least bit skeptical about why he seems so eager for you to drag Colm to Italy? I just don't follow. I don't know what he gets out of all this.”

“You sound like my brother now.”

“I am sorry, Cathleen. I don't mean to upset you. I am just having trouble understanding all this. These customs are, how shall I say,
new
to me. And I tend to side a bit with Sean, to be honest with you. Sean seems to be a grounded young man, his drinking notwithstanding. Most important, he seems to have your and Colm's best interests at heart. And don't you think he's just being cautious for your sake?”

“Are you saying now you don't want to help?”

“No, Cathleen. I want to help you. But I just need you to help me understand this. I have told you, Colm is ill. There is no cure for his disease, and no known cause or reason for his long collapses. I just don't want you setting yourself up for disappointment or worse. I don't want you giving up on medicine altogether because the monsignor convinces you that miracles are the answer to Colm's disease.”

“Dr. Basu, I'm trying to trust both of you. Like Sean, I have to cover all my bets. Like I said, I have to do whatever it takes. And to answer your question about the monsignor, I don't think he has an agenda. He doesn't. He just wants to help me—and my son. I think he believes more than anyone I know in the power of prayer and God. In my eyes, he is the saint. He's just a selfless person who wants to help me and Colm.”

Dr. Basu closed his eyes and nodded. Cathleen thought he was agreeing with her—that indeed the monsignor was a saintly man who wanted only to help her and Colm. But Dr. Basu was not nodding in agreement with Cathleen. He was reassuring himself that yes, he had to go to Italy, now more than ever. Someone had to look out for them both. Someone had to protect them. Yes, from the sound of things, Dr. Basu could tell that Cathleen would need someone she could trust; and Colm would need a doctor, not a miracle, in Italy.

A
lthough Cathleen had never left the country before, she had never considered herself unprepared for the excitement and promise of travel. Over the years her brother had explained much of what he saw in Europe in exact detail. Besides, she was a design major. She had spent hours studying with professors, experts, and peers in the field of interior design, architecture, and fine art. She was well read and knew her fair share of history—American, world, church, and otherwise. She thought, like most New Yorkers did, that there were few surprises, barring her son's illness, left for her in the world. Her worldview was not unlike the famous Saul Steinberg iconic illustration that showed a map of the United States, which the artist drew from the perspective of an onlooker in an apartment facing the Hudson River—everything beyond it seemed small and insignificant compared to the colossal New York, the most important city in the world. The print hung over her makeshift bookshelf and the infinite stacks of books in her bedroom. As far as she was concerned life really didn't even exist much beyond her beloved city.

She was actually a bit disappointed when she landed in Rome. The airport, a drab, outdated building with low ceilings and grungy floors, reminded her more of Port Authority than of an international airport. Cathleen was the farthest from home she had ever been, and she wasn't sure it was the best place to be.

As soon as they gathered their luggage, she, Dr. Basu, and Colm climbed into a small minivan that the pilgrimage leader, Brother Rocco, had arranged for their trip to Assisi. When she handed her luggage over to the cabdriver, Massimo, he kept staring at her, and calling her
Bella, Bella, Bella,
in a rich Italian accent that sounded like someone was turning the dial up on the volume every time he ended a word with a vowel—which in Italian was every other word. Cathleen, exhausted from the long flight, could barely muster a
grazie
.

“Something better make this trip worthwhile,” she said.

During the past ten hours, she had had a hard time rationalizing the trip. Perhaps her brother had been right.
This was crazy.
The trip had already proved exhausting for her and Colm. He froze on the airplane. He was uncomfortable, and he complained that his pacemaker was kicking in too much and making his heart beat fast. Dr. Basu monitored him and confirmed what the boy had said—his heart was beating well over a hundred beats per minute, leaving him breathless and tired. He couldn't sleep, couldn't rest. He climbed, fidgeted, pulled, and prodded. Cathleen felt for him, but she was tired too. It was all she could do to keep awake, let alone keep Colm quiet and comfortable. She kept chanting to herself:
This is going to be worth it. It has to be.
Meanwhile, Colm wanted only one thing: to go home to his room, to his toys and his imaginary father. The farther he got from New York, the farther he felt from him and the prospect of ever finding him. He worried that while he and his mother were gone, his father might show up at their apartment, and he would miss him.

As the car weaved its way through the countryside, the hot afternoon sun poured through the back window. The boy, finally comfortable, snuggled up to his mother, and the two of them fell asleep. Dr. Basu was relieved to see them finally at rest and sat back himself to enjoy the view. Two hours later, Dr. Basu whispered to Cathleen and Colm, “You have to see this.”

Cathleen and Colm rubbed their eyes, uncertain of what they were looking at. They saw what appeared to be a shimmering, pink medieval castle nestled inside a long hillside. As they drove closer, cutting through the olive groves and vineyards that lined the Spoleto Valley, the magical kingdom revealed itself to be a small, intricate town hewn of a rough, rosy stone. The outlines of individual homes with shuttered windows and window boxes filled with cascading geraniums and honeysuckle appeared before them. A large fortress wall surrounded it all, and two colossal churches acted like bookends holding up the entire city. It all overlooked an endless stream of olive groves and grape vineyards that spread across the valley below.

His voice still cracking from sleep, Colm asked Cathleen, “Where are we? Is this heaven?” He thought quietly to himself, but only briefly,
Have I finally made it? Perhaps there is such a place.

Cathleen looked out the window and said, “No, Bud. But we're close. We're in Assisi.”

Massimo sped up the narrow road that led to the crest of Assisi, forcing Cathleen to grip the door handles as the car wound around steep cliffs. When they reached the tallest point of the hill, the paved road ended and they began to descend the narrow, cobblestone streets toward the town center. Pedestrians barely flinched as the large minivan whizzed past them. Cathleen began to feel sick to her stomach, but Colm's eyes were wide with excitement. It was the most fun he had had since he went on the rides at Coney Island with his uncle Sean and his mama the summer before they stopped taking him on field trips together. Suddenly Massimo hit the brakes. They all lunged forward. Massimo shouted,
“Eccoci qua!”

“Here we are,” Massimo said again in English.

“Where? Here? This is it?” All Cathleen saw were white doors in a tall four-story stone building. There were no signs above the door, only a small cornerstone engraving that said:
Casa Papa Gianpaolo.

“This is where we'll stay. It's the
pensione.
Some nuns—Franciscan sisters—run it, and the attached bookstore is for pilgrims and those who come to be healed,” the pilgrimage leader explained. “They have everything you'll need—beds, baths, and a chapel to pray in. You'll love it.”

Cathleen didn't want to seem ungrateful. She could never have made it here if she'd had to pay for it herself, but she was dying to lie on a comfortable bed, take a hot shower, and relax. When she heard the words
nuns
and
chapel,
she wanted to get back in the van. Though she knew in advance that this was part of the package, suddenly it all seemed too much, even for her. She couldn't imagine what Dr. Basu was thinking or what Colm must be feeling. Even though she was there to receive God's blessings and save her son, she really didn't want any part of the overzealous religious piety that went along with it. Her old internal battles, the ones of her youth, were starting to flare up; and she was beginning to doubt her decision with each passing moment.

At the door Brother Rocco and the nun embraced and spoke for several minutes in Italian as they walked together into a small room where the nun kept the keys to the rooms. While they were gone Cathleen, Dr. Basu, and Colm explored the small, unadorned chapel to the right of the entrance and the bookstore filled with books, postcards, and Franciscan ornaments and trinkets—tau crosses, rosary beads, golden crucifixes, and ceramic statues.
The complete Catholic kitsch works,
Cathleen thought. She was grateful Sean wasn't here to say something cutting.

While he waited Colm began to feel weaker than ever. He didn't want to admit to his mother how exhausted and hungry he was, how badly he wanted to get to his room.

A small nun handed Dr. Basu and Cathleen the keys to their rooms, then led them up the smooth, worn marble stairs. After four flights with two suitcases in tow, Cathleen was not expecting much of the room.

In the hallway, the nun reminded them that they were all welcome to join the rest of the sisters for dinner in the dining room if they weren't too tired. Dr. Basu agreed to meet them, and Cathleen looked at Colm to see if he was up for it.

“Are you hungry, Bud?”

“I'm starving,” he said weakly.

“We'll see you in a couple of hours then. I think we'll just take a little rest.”

After Dr. Basu disappeared, Cathleen found her room and opened the door slowly. And for the first time all day she was thrilled she had come. Before her was a large, open window that spanned half the width of the far wall. The shutters were wide open and before her was the entire valley—she could see the golden afternoon sky in all directions, and the small red-roofed villas, groves, and vineyards below. She could smell the honeysuckle that grew up the side of the building and wafted in with the warm breeze. But her moment of peace lasted just a second. Colm climbed up on the desk that was pushed up in front of window and leaned out.

“Hey, Mama, look how high up we are!”

“Colm! JesusMaryandJoseph!” Cathleen screamed.

Colm knew better. “Sorry, Mama. I didn't mean to scare you. It's just so cool here.”

“I didn't fly all the way to Italy to have you fly out of a window, Bud. Got it?”

“Yes, Mama.” Colm hopped off the desk and spread his body across the bed.

After Cathleen unpacked, she drew Colm a bath. She turned the water on as hot as she could get it without burning him. He took off his clothes, not quite embarrassed yet of his nakedness in front of her. She knew the time would come when he would not want her nearby, but until then she relished washing his long hair, running her fingers through it and lathering the soap. Colm loved feeling his mother's nails gently scratch and massage his head, so he closed his eyes and held his head back, leaning into her. After he washed himself, she asked him to stand up so she could rinse him. She marveled at how he had the same long, angular body as his father. He was cut exactly in his image. His hands, his feet, the curve of his back—she recognized it all. She stood up over the boy and poured the water over his head and body.

While she looked for a towel he stood in the bathtub shaking. He was trembling uncontrollably, his body already cold. She took the large white towel she had found in the wardrobe and wrapped him up tightly. He would be seven that December, just three months away. But she could still—like she had done when he was a baby, a toddler, a preschooler—swaddle him like a newborn and carry him over to the bed.

By the time she reached the bed, Colm's eyes were closed.

For a split second Cathleen thought he wasn't breathing, but before she could panic, she heard a deep sigh and saw his chest rise and fall gently.

He had fallen asleep again. She pressed her head to his and inhaled deeply. She could smell the lavender from the handmade Assisi soap and the mint from the shampoo. She thought of dressing him while he slept and putting him in the bed. But she didn't want to disturb him. Instead, she positioned herself on her bed—pushing her back up against the pillows and the wall—and held the boy. She could not explain what came over her, but she began to sing “Mo Chuisle” in her mother's Gaelic and remembered the time she asked her mother what it meant. Her mother had responded in her quiet, lilting brogue
,
A chuisle mo chroí, pulse of me heart, dear, pulse of me heart
. Cathleen sang it softly to the sleeping boy, mimicking her mother's accent, just as she had when Colm was an infant—back before it all began, back before she had any idea, any real concept of how difficult and unpredictable life could really be as a mother.

As she sang, she tried to remember the last time she had done such a thing. Mothers can never know the last time they will rock their children to sleep, sing them a final lullaby, pick them up and carry them on their hips, or even bathe them, she thought. Babies grow into children without notice. They grow out of such habits without mention, without mourning their passing or loss. No one ever seems to remember the last times.
It is a good thing a mother doesn't remember, doesn't know when she is holding her child that it will be the last time,
she thought. She knew she wouldn't know how to let him go.

Down the hall, in his own quiet room, Dr. Basu had also admired the view, showered, and freshened up. But instead of making him sleepy, the shower had woken him up, and he decided to explore the beautiful village. He knew he had promised to have dinner with Cathleen and Colm, so he only went out to the piazza, which was just a short walk from the hotel. Scores of tourists sat under umbrellas in the outdoor cafés while children ran and chased each other around the large fountain in the center. He gazed at the cloudless late-afternoon sky before stopping for a moment and closing his eyes. He tried to listen to everything, the murmur of conversations in various languages, mostly Italian, the water cascading out of the font, the soft patter of small children running past him, the
whoosh
made by the wings of birds flapping as they took off and landed on the fountain ridge. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the sun upon his face, and he tried to remember a time like this when all the world seemed at once perfect, beautiful, and alive. When he was finished, he turned away from the crowds and walked briskly up the steep hills that wrapped around the ancient buildings until he found himself back at the doorway of the
pensione
. After greeting the nun at the front desk, he made his way to the dining room, where he saw Brother Rocco and a nun eating. Dr. Basu tried to hide his disappointment that Cathleen and Colm were not there and that he would have to eat alone with the strangers.

“Hello. Just went for a quick walk. Did I miss dinner? Where are Colm and Cathleen?”

“We've been waiting here for a while and haven't seen them. Perhaps they retired early. They must be exhausted. Here, sit with us, Dr. Basu. We promise to be good company,” the pilgrimage leader said as he lifted a glass of red wine up toward Dr. Basu as if to toast him.

“That's kind of you,” Dr. Basu said. “But would you mind if I just went upstairs and checked on them first, just in case?” Dr. Basu knew how physically drained he felt after stepping off the plane, so he could only imagine how the boy was feeling in his weak condition now.

Dr. Basu left and ran up the wide marble steps, two at a time. When he reached Cathleen and Colm's room he stopped. Through the door, he heard Cathleen's voice, softly singing a foreign, ancient-sounding song.