Proof of Heaven (12 page)

Before leaving the room, she stood once more in front of the mirror and hardly recognized the woman staring back at her. Had it really been so long? Nearly seven years? She tried to remember the last time she had shared a meal with someone besides her son or brother. How had her busy life suddenly made her so alone? She shook off the thoughts and kissed Colm before she slipped out of the room.

When she stepped onto the roof, she was delighted. The view was similar to the one from her room, but what the doctor had done was truly amazing.

The table was set with a lit Chianti bottle dripping with candle wax. There were two wineglasses and a bottle of wine along with a loaf of bread and an assortment of cheese and fruit on a beautiful tray.

“What's all this?” Cathleen asked Dr. Basu, whose hair still glistened from his own shower. She could tell he had shaved again by the tiny nick near his unbuttoned white collar.

“The sisters helped me. I said we'd like to eat on the roof tonight. Apparently, we're not the first to have found it.”

As she came closer, she noticed layers of candle wax on the stone table. Many people, probably people just like her who had come seeking miracles, had probably sat at the table well into the evening eating, drinking, and sharing their life stories over candlelight.

“Is Colm still sleeping?” Dr. Basu asked as he pulled out a chair for Cathleen.

“I think he's out for the night. It's been an exhausting couple of days.”

“Yes. It has.”

The doctor poured her a glass of wine. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Please, call me Gaspar.”

“Thank you, Gaspar, for everything.” As she sipped her wine, Cathleen's cheeks grew pink, and her green eyes shone even more brightly than usual.

The doctor could barely contain his attraction to her. But being around beautiful women only made him nervous and prone to say ridiculous things, so he tried to keep quiet and listen to her.

As the night wore on they grew more comfortable with each other and talked about everything under the stars. Just after midnight they thought they heard the faint sounds of young men singing together as they passed by on the streets below.

“In the book I have been reading about St. Francis, it says that when he was a young man, he did just that, what those singers are doing now . . . he walked through the streets of Assisi carrying on,” Dr. Basu commented.

“Young people don't change much, do they?” Cathleen replied. “To be carefree. It's easy to be a rebel when you're young, when there's so much less to lose. I was a bit of a rebel myself for a brief time.”

“Really?” Dr. Basu could hardly believe the woman before him, who was so dedicated to her son and her brother, the same woman who knelt in prayer today, could have ever been what she called a
rebel
.

“Well, Gaspar, I did have a child out of wedlock when I was twenty-two. I used to be sure I had it all figured out. You know there was a time when I didn't go to church? When I drove my mother—and even the monsignor—crazy. Man, could my mom and I go at it. She had one hell of a temper, and so did I. But I loved her so much, and then, when she was gone I was so lonely, and things were so hard. Before I knew it, I was already deeply in love, and I didn't care much about anything else. I didn't care about all that my mother thought. I just crashed headlong into love,” Cathleen said.

“Do you mean with Colm's father?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what happened? Where is he?”

“I have no idea. Last I heard, L.A. I used to send him letters about what Colm was up to, but I never heard back from him. They were returned unopened. I took it as a sign that he just wanted to be left alone. Besides, I didn't want to make a fool of myself begging him to come back, so I just gave up looking after a while. It's like he just vanished though. Fell off the grid, so to speak. But that is very Pierce. He's the typical artist-vagabond type. Not the ‘friend me' or ‘text me' type, if you know what I mean. So he's not exactly the easiest person to track down. It wouldn't surprise me if he's still on the street strumming somewhere or performing in some hole-in-the-wall bar. He's a musician. He always said his only hope in life was to create something beautiful. I met him one day in a subway station, right around the time my mother got sick. He was busking for cash, and he started to sing to me—‘Mama, You Been on My Mind.' He had a way with women, but back then I didn't realize I wasn't the only one.” She trailed off.

“I am so sorry, Cathleen. That must have been very hard for you, for Colm,” Gaspar said, reaching across the table to touch her hand. It seemed unconscionable for a man to desert his woman and child—to have a choice in the matter.
To decide to leave them. To decide to live without them.
He could not rationalize the injustice of it all, of the world. A sudden rush of anger seized him, but he forced it back down. He understood now what made her so determined. What made her so careful. What kept her focused completely on her son and his survival.

“Well, you don't get to pick your fortune, do you? That's life, right. No choice but to roll with it,” Cathleen lied, pretending to be OK with it all, to be stronger than she really was. “How about you, Gaspar? What's your story? Did you ever think of getting married?”

“I
was
married,” he said as he put down his fork and took in a long breath. He wasn't sure he was up to saying it all out loud. He had never had to explain it to anyone, ever. When he left India, he left everything, even the story of it, all behind.

“She, my wife, Niranjana, passed.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“She took her own life.”

“Oh, my God!” Cathleen gasped. She was sorry to have brought up the painful memory, but before she could say anything else, the doctor began again. He was so matter-of-fact it knocked the breath out of Cathleen.

“She took her own life after our only son, Dhruv, died when he was five. Like many small children in India, he contracted malaria. It kills many children to this day, millions every year, mostly poor children in poor countries—like my Dhruv.

“I should have known something was wrong with him. I should have paid more attention. I dismissed him as a spoiled child, pampered by his mother, when he first became irritable and listless. Those are the first telltale signs of the disease. I wanted badly to believe that my family
was
untouchable and that I had some arrangement with the gods. Like most young people do. But when we got to the hospital, it was too late. He was so dehydrated and so ill that it took no time at all. See, Cathleen, there was a reason he wept and why he cried out in pain. And there was a way to fix him. I just didn't know it back then.

“I foolishly thought that knowledge would bring my wife peace. That she would understand we could try again, and that I would be careful to make sure that it wouldn't happen again. I assured her that her grief would be filled up by the joy of another child. But she didn't want another child. She only wanted Dhruv. I know part of her blamed herself for not being forceful enough with me. I remember the day . . . the day we took him in. She was so angry with me. She would not look at me. She muttered to herself over and over that she should have gone and done it on her own. That there was no use for men. That even as a medical student, I was of no use to her or her son. She cursed me and cursed the gods. I had never seen her so angry. After they covered Dhruv with the white cloth, she threw her body over him and when I went to . . .”

Gaspar stopped and inhaled deeply as if to suppress the tears, his own rage.

“I went to hug her and comfort her, but she said to never touch her again. I said she needed to be held, and that I did, too. But she walked out of the room, and I was alone with Dhruv. I-I-I,” Dr. Basu stuttered as if about to break into tears, but he managed to force them back again. “I could not hug him or touch him. I knew he was not there. The only life I had known and loved was gone. The only thing left was Niranjana's rage. It was everywhere; it filled up all of India.

“During the night, before the preparation of
pinda
for the god of death and our ceremonial cleansing, she woke early and went to the river where we'd put Dhruv's ashes. She walked in as if she could follow him to the next life. She never came up again. Many days later, in another village, some people found her body on the bank.”

He paused for a moment and tried to blink back the emotion and the memories that came with the story. He didn't want to look at Cathleen in case she judged him and blamed him too. He was still so ashamed. But he wanted to tell it all, finish it—for himself and for Cathleen.

“I left India soon after. I went to New York to finish medical school. I thought I would be able to do something with my life—save someone else's life, since I had been powerless to save or fix my own child's or my wife's.”

Cathleen sat breathless. She saw the moments when she first met him in a new light, how he was with Colm during their first visit, how he took to the boy, and how dedicated he was to her—how quickly he agreed to come on this trip.

Cathleen trembled. “Please. I . . . I shouldn't have said anything,” he apologized.

“You should have told me everything . . . a long time ago! Why didn't you tell me?” Cathleen pushed herself away from the table and stood at the edge of the roof overlooking the valley below.

“Because I am your son's doctor,” Gaspar said, coming up behind her. “It was not my place. A doctor is not supposed to unload his troubles on his patients.”

“But I thought you were more than that! I thought . . . I thought . . . we were . . .”

“What?”

“Friends?”

“Oh, yes. Friends.”

“No, I mean I thought you and I had come to some understanding; oh, I don't know what I thought.”

“I am sorry, Cathleen. I didn't think I was keeping anything from you. I have never told anyone, anyone back at home about Niranjana, about Dhruv. I've never been able to say the words out loud. It seemed too real. Too permanent.”

“I understand. I do, I know what you mean. But . . . but I just don't get this. This one thing: How do you go on? I don't understand.” Cathleen shook her head, and tears filled in the corners of her eyes and pooled, and finally the droplets gave way down her cheeks in rapid succession.

“I could ask the same of you. You are one of the strongest people I know.” Dr. Basu took her hand and held it in his own.

“How can you say that? You lost your son, and now you're helping me save mine. How can you do it?” Dr. Basu stepped toward Cathleen, and she could feel his breath on her face as she looked up at him.

“I only had to watch my son die once, Cathleen,” he whispered, and in that moment, she felt as if he understood her totally. She knew she should have been relieved, but instead she felt vulnerable at the depth of their connection. Nevertheless, she felt her body give way to his, and he imagined himself pulling her close to him. But before he could, she thought of Dhruv and pulled away forcefully.

Cathleen thought of the possibility of Colm's death and absently said, “I don't know how you go on. I would have, I would have . . .” She bit her lip, ashamed by what she was about to say, as if accusing the doctor that he showed weakness, rather than strength, by his survival, his enduring of it all.

“It does make life difficult sometimes,” Dr. Basu said stoically, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning away from her.

Cathleen could not explain what came over her as she looked at him standing all alone, but she went to him anyway. Dr. Basu turned back to her, then held Cathleen's face in his hands as he looked into her eyes. He at once saw how heartbroken she was, thinking of Colm and wondering how she would manage in the same circumstance. Her compassion for him came from a pain all her own, and a fear of what would become of her if the unthinkable happened.

Cathleen asked herself if she would be like Niranjana or Gaspar. Would she give in to the heartache or would she endure? She had no way of knowing. But Dr. Basu knew instinctively that Cathleen was different from Niranjana.

“I am not a man of many beliefs and superstitions, Cathleen. I do not believe in much anymore. But I believe this: I don't know who or what is behind this world, but I know you, and the love you have for Colm will keep you strong forever. No matter what happens, you will endure. You will survive, and because of that strength and that love, Colm will too.”

Cathleen wept, and the doctor held her without saying a word. When she finally looked up at him, she saw him,
Gaspar Basu,
for the first time. He was the strongest man she had ever met, the man she had been looking for her entire life.

After some time, Cathleen and Dr. Basu stepped away from each other, bashfully adjusting their hair and straightening their clothing, as if waking from an afternoon tryst. They walked back inside together, barely touching as they slipped through the door. In the hallway they looked at each other briefly and parted, making their own way to their rooms. As Cathleen walked away from him, she felt the strings that now connected their hearts stretch and tighten. They made a song she had not felt, not heard in years. It was the song of love, and like it had the first time she heard it on the streets of New York, coming from a tall, handsome boy strumming and singing the lyrics to “Mama, You Been on My Mind,” she knew that morning would be too long to wait to see him again.

But Cathleen would not have to wait.

When she opened the door to her room, she cried out, “Colm!” Gaspar came running and before she knew it, he was standing next to her, staring, as she was, at Colm's empty bed.

G
aspar and Cathleen looked in the bathroom and the wardrobe. They ran down the hall, screaming Colm's name as they went by each door.

As they passed Brother Rocco's room, the older man came out, rubbing his eyes as he tried to wake up. “What is the matter?” he asked.

“Colm's gone. We can't find him,” Cathleen said breathlessly.

“Let me put on some clothes. I'll be right out to help you look for him,” he said, already in motion.

The three spread out throughout the
pensione,
knocking on doors and opening closets. The nuns came out of their rooms with their robes on, and Brother Rocco told them in Italian what had happened. The mother's
bambino
was lost. They ran back into their rooms to get dressed and began looking for Colm too.

By the time Cathleen reached the front door, she noticed it was open.

“Colm left!” she shouted up the stairs to Dr. Basu as she ran outside to look for her son.

She went up and down the dark street lit only by small lanterns above the door frames of the homes on the narrow pathway. As she walked toward the piazza, she became aware, for the first time, of the seemingly infinite directions, stairways, and alleys that broke off the main path.
He could be anywhere
.

She started with the piazza, running down toward the fountain. An orchestra that had set up, as they often did in the evenings, was breaking down. She ran up to the dispersing crowd and began asking if anyone had seen the boy.

“I have lost my son. My boy. Have you seen a little boy?”

The Italians shook their heads. Some had no idea what she was talking about; the ones who spoke English told her to relax. She was in Assisi; he could not have gone far. If a child was lost, he would surely find his way back home, they all agreed. And if not, Francis and Clare would watch over him.
He was in the safest place in the world.

Cathleen tried to take comfort in this, but she was panicking.
What if he was sick? What if he needed his mother and she wasn't there?
How could she have left him all alone?
How could she let herself go feel love for someone else, for being such a fool? Hadn't she learned anything? Hadn't love only gotten her into trouble.

All night Cathleen ran up and down the steps of Assisi. She passed Brother Rocco at one point and asked if he had seen anything.

“No, Cathleen. But pray to St. Anthony, the patron of lost things
: Something is lost and can't be found, dear St. Anthony come around.
I am sure he'll show up.”

Suddenly, the brother infuriated her.
This is no time for this crap,
she thought. She didn't need St. Anthony. She needed her son. And her son wasn't just
something
—he was
everything
.

By the time the sun began to rise over the valley, Cathleen had been all over the city. She thought of all of the sights they had visited—the chapels and churches. Surely Colm would not return to any of them.

She looked up over the hillside at the Rocca Maggiore standing guard over Assisi. Colm loved to explore.
Could he have gone to this mysterious fortress?
As she walked toward it, she climbed up to a green space that spread out before a gargantuan church. At the crest of the lawn, she saw the defeated knight—a large steel sculpture of St. Francis, which she had read in her book was meant to capture an image of Francis just before he met the leper on the road and realized his life's purpose was to serve the poor.
He was a broken knight who was so tired of fighting too,
she thought.

There on the steps of the massive medieval church, in front a large crowd of men in habits from the Order of Friars Minor Conventual, she saw him. Colm was speaking. She could see his arms rise above his head, demonstrating something and using his entire body to explain it.

She could see that the friars were looking at one another, some nodding their heads and all listening to the boy with rapt attention. Cathleen ran down the long pathway and cut through the crowd of men, trying to get to the boy. When she reached him, she forgot her relief at finding him and yelled.

“Colm! You scared me half to death. Where have you been?”

“Here,” Colm said, pointing to the church behind him and then back at the men.

“I spent the entire night looking for you, Colm. Why did you leave?”

“I went looking for
you
.”

“I was just outside the door of our room on the roof.”

“I didn't know there was a roof. I didn't know where you were.”

“What in God's name are you doing here?” As she said that, she realized she should have considered her audience and quickly apologized to the men.

They all smiled and assured her they had heard far worse.

“What is he talking about? Why is he here?”

“He was telling us about what it is like to die,” a friar said in English with a faint Italian accent.

Cathleen looked at Colm. She was stunned. “Is that true, Colm?”

“Yes.”

“Why, Colm? I'm confused. How did you get here all on your own?”

“I thought I heard singing, and I followed the sounds.”

Another friar spoke up to assure Cathleen. “We were singing our midnight prayers just as Francis did when he was alive. The child must have followed us here. We were already finished and heading back when we noticed him. He stopped us, and we began to talk of many things. We didn't realize how much time had gone by.”

“You mean to tell me you sat up talking to a boy all night, and it never occurred to you he needed to be home with his mother?”

“He assured us that you would be fine with it because he was at church.”

Colm smiled, and all the men laughed. Cathleen blushed hot with anger.

“ColmFrancisMagee you are in deep, deep . . .” she said through clenched teeth. She looked at the friars. “What have you been talking about all this time?”

“Lots of stuff, Mama. Stuff you probably wouldn't understand.”

Cathleen looked at the men and back at her son. “Oh, no? What wouldn't I understand?”

“Lots.” Colm walked down the steps ahead of his mother.

“Now where do you think you're going, young man?”

“I'm finished here. I thought you came to take me back.”

Cathleen nodded. “Yes, right. We're going back right now.”

Colm stopped in front of all the friars and said, “Thank you.”

An older friar bent down, his habit floating over his spread legs and brushing the ground, and he whispered something only Colm could hear into his ear.

Colm smiled at the reassurance that he would someday meet his father. The friar was sure of it. As Colm walked away, the old friar winked, and all the other men waved good-bye and told him how wonderful it was to meet him, that they were all sure that Colm was a special boy.

Cathleen pulled Colm up the hill and toward the
pensione
while Colm waved and smiled back at all the men.

When Cathleen was out of the men's earshot, she started to yell. “Don't you ever, ever do that again! Honestly, Colm. I don't know what you were thinking. Why did you do that?”

“I just wanted to know.”

“Know what? What do you want to know, Colm?”

“Everything.”

Cathleen and Colm walked back toward the
pensione
in silence. When they crested the top of the hill, they saw Dr. Basu walking toward them.

“There you two are!” Dr. Basu threw his hands up as if to say hallelujah.

Cathleen walked toward him and said angrily, “He's all yours, Gaspar. I'm exhausted.”

Colm could not believe what he was hearing. He looked at the doctor, dumbfounded. His mother had
never ever
walked away from him. Ever.

“Yes, perhaps the boy is hungry. Colm, would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes, I am hungry.”

“Very well. Let's get you something to eat. Cathleen, you go and get some rest. I will have a nice chat with the boy. You go back to the room. I'll bring him back soon.”

It was all she could do to keep from crying and running down the street as fast she could. Why was he always running off? Why was he so desperate to get away from her? But then she realized he wasn't running from her—he was looking for her. She felt ashamed. How could Colm ever think that she had run off, abandoned him? Didn't he know how much she loved him? She was angry with herself for letting her guard down and leaving him alone. Angry for letting the doctor's ideas make her forget her own. She wanted to scream and hurl something at someone.

As she walked away, she heard soft giggles between Colm and Gaspar. Colm shared his secrets with men—men like her brother, like Gaspar, like the friars. He gave all his love to great, wonderful, and mysterious men, even the father he never stopped asking her about. And here she was right in front of him the entire time. But her love, she thought, would never be enough. She thought of Francis, as she often did these days, and she said aloud the word
asshole.
For all of his love of God and humanity, he didn't have the decency to love and be kind to the people who loved him most in the entire world—even his own mother.
What bullshit,
she said.

When she reached her room, she went to the window and watched Gaspar and Colm walk hand in hand away from her toward the piazza. She closed the shutters, continuing to argue with herself and St. Francis and everyone else she had ever been mad at—her brother, mother, dead father, Pierce, and all the doctors, everyone she could think of who had ever let her down. Then she caught her reflection again in the mirror and realized she had let others down too.
Hadn't her mother asked her to take care of Sean and be kind to him? Hadn't Colm begged her not to go to Italy? Hadn't she left Colm in the room alone?
She felt ashamed and forgave them all, especially Colm. How could she stay angry with him, she wondered as she collapsed on the edge of her bed in exhaustion. Cathleen was done with fighting; she was broken and defeated. Her armor, like Francis the knight, became too heavy to bear and so she slept.

She was tired.

Meanwhile, Dr. Basu took the boy back to the piazza and sat him down on a chair in front of the fountain.

“I will go in and get you some milk and a croissant. Can I trust that you will be here when I return?” Dr. Basu asked somewhat jokingly, knowing the boy had intended no harm.

“Yes, Dr. Basu. I am not going anywhere. I promise.”

“Good. I'll be right back.”

While Dr. Basu waited in line to place his order, he examined the boy from afar. Colm's legs were dangling from the chair. He was still so slight. He looked nearly starved.

“Are you feeling well?” Dr. Basu asked when he returned and placed the food on the table.

“Yes.”

“You're not tired? Not even a bit?”

“I am always tired, Doctor.”

“I see.”

“I am mostly afraid. Is Mama mad at me?”

“No. She is not mad. She was just worried about you.”

“I was worried about
her,
” Colm said.

“Oh? Why?”

“I thought she had left me like my father did. And now she is mad at me. She doesn't want me anymore.”

“That's nonsense. Your mother loves you. She's just tired and needs a break. Every mother cracks a bit now and then. Even the best ones.”

“But I thought she was abandoning me like my father did.”

“How do you know that? How do you know such big words?”

“I just do.”

“Did someone tell you such things?”

“No. But I figured it out. My father is a
deadbeat
.”

“Where have you heard these words—
abandoned, deadbeat
? Does your mother say such things?”

“No, my uncle Sean does.”

“When did he say them?”

“I heard him once say to my mama that if God was real, then he was the first deadbeat dad because he let some other man raise his son and then took all the credit.”

Dr. Basu tried not to smile. He could only imagine Sean saying such a thing.

“Colm, I want to tell you two things. First, your mother would never abandon you as you say. She loves you and would never willingly leave you. And second, it is not the child's job to worry. You should never, ever worry about your mother. She can take care of herself.”

“I hope so.”

“What do you mean, you hope so?”

“I mean, someday, she is going to have to be able to take care of herself. I can't do it forever.”

“Oh, and it is you who cares for your mother?”

“Yes. I look out for her.”

“I see. I bet you are very good at it.”

“I am. But, between you and me, I am a little worried about her,” Colm said quietly, leaning toward the doctor like he was telling him something top secret.

“Ah, is that so?” Dr. Basu leaned forward and whispered, “But remember I told you it is not your job to worry about her.”

“Yes, but Dr. Basu, you know what I mean. You have to know why I'm worried. You know. You and I both know,” Colm said, pointing at the doctor and then back at himself.

“Oh. What do I know?”

“That I am going to die soon. Someday, I am going to die and be gone forever. I won't wake up, and it will be hard for her.”

“But you may be healed. You may get better.”

“The miracle didn't take.”

“No? How do you know?”

“I know because there are no such things as miracles, Dr. Basu. There are no miracles because there is no God.”

“Yes, you have told me this before. Perhaps it's time you tell your mother these things. Maybe it is time we just go home and put all of this silliness behind us. Is that what you want?”