Proof of Heaven (14 page)

Mama.

She turned away from the doctor and looked down at the boy.

“Mama?” Colm whispered again.

Cathleen ran toward him while Dr. Basu stood stunned. The medics stopped and looked at each other and then back at the boy. The remaining crowd burst into huge cheers and exaltation—thanking God in Italian, English, Polish, French, German—and languages Cathleen could not decipher. Mothers and their children hugged and kissed. People everywhere were embracing, crying, clapping, and screaming.

Incredibile!

Meraviglioso!

È un miracolo!

Brilliant!

Colm had risen again. Cathleen pulled him close to her, squeezing him mightily, kissing him on his forehead, cheeks, and hair. She wanted to consume him, wrap him tightly inside of her, where she could protect him for all time. She was delirious.

Dr. Basu was speechless. He pushed his hands through his hair and cupped his hands to block the sun as he looked at the sky, as if somewhere above him he would find the answers. He closed his eyes and listened again to the shouting and rapid conversation of the people surrounding him, so much louder and more magnified than it had been in Assisi. He squeezed his eyes tighter and listened to the rushing of the fountain, and it felt like it was running through him—like the river that carried his Dhruv and Niranjana. It flowed and surged, its waters breaking at every turn inside his body, rising up through him as if when he opened his mouth, water would pour forth. But instead the power and force of that water rose higher still and brimmed within him. An overwhelming wave crashed through him. He did not care who or what was responsible for it. All he felt was joy. A supreme joy, a joy only known to him once before. And for a brief moment, he did not let his mind do what it was apt to do, which was stop himself from feeling because it knew logically what that joy ultimately wrought when it was taken away—an eventual and inexplicable grief. For a moment, before he could fully comprehend the feeling and stop himself, he walked over and embraced the boy too.

Sean was sitting at the downstairs bar in Eamonn's in Brooklyn, watching the end of the Yankee game.

He was at Eamonn's after every shift lately. It sucked, he thought, to cross the river and head into Brooklyn when there were perfectly acceptable bars right next to his apartment—but none of his crew members would find him here. He could sit and drink alone to his heart's content and no one, especially his sponsor, would recognize him.

He hadn't talked to or seen his sister and nephew in weeks. They were in Italy now—with the faithful, reliable doctor. He was happy Colm had him. At least, he consoled himself, Colm had one solid, good man in his life. At least one guy the boy could count on.

He was about to order up another shot of whiskey when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. The number was unrecognizable. He thought of ignoring it for a brief second, before he thought, perhaps as impossible as it seemed, it might be his sister calling from Italy.

“Sean?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Dr. Basu.”

“Oh, crap,” Sean said, assuming the worst as soon as he heard Dr. Basu's, and not his sister's, voice.

“I will tell you this first. Colm is alive.”

“What's going on then?”

“We are, however, at a hospital in Italy.”

“You said Colm is fine.”

“No, I said he's alive. He collapsed today, but I am afraid he seems to be getting worse. Not better, as your sister had hoped.”

“How's my sister taking it?”

“She's tough. She's staying strong. She's relieved he's alive. But I think there are limits to the comfort I can provide for her.”

“Don't sell yourself short, Doc. She thinks the world of you.”

“Yes, but I think she needs you, too.”

“Did she say she ‘needs me' specifically?”

Gaspar paused to consider his answer. If he said yes, he knew it would be a lie. But he also knew it would be true. Cathleen would not admit it, but she missed her brother. She felt unmoored and alone. Gaspar knew she wouldn't say such a thing to him, because she didn't want to hurt his feelings.

“She needs you, Sean. She asked me to call you to see if you could help.”

“Should I come out there?”

“No. Colm will be released here soon, I am sure of it. He seems to be in good spirits, but his speech is slightly changed. He's acquired a stutter and a slur. A result of being out so long today. You know Colm though, down one minute, up and ready to go the next. We're hoping to take an early flight back tomorrow if all goes well. Cathleen's worried about carrying Colm and the bags and waiting for a cab. Is there a way you can meet us at the airport at eleven? Can I count on you to be . . .” Dr. Basu hesitated again. He didn't feel comfortable talking about Sean's drinking. He felt like he was betraying Cathleen by doing so. She had spoken to him several times about her brother's problems in confidence. But he could tell that Sean sounded like he was in a bar, and it was safe to draw such a conclusion.

“You don't even have to ask. I'll be there—and I'll be sober. I won't take a drop.”

Sean slammed a fifty-dollar bill on the bar and staggered toward the door. Under the night sky, he walked until he could feel the ground beneath him. He ended up at the Promenade and looked out over the East River at the transformed New York skyline. He thought of how much it had changed, not just in his own time, but long before it. His own life and Cathleen's were in constant upheaval. Nothing lasted forever—for anyone, anywhere, at anytime.

Staring at the Brooklyn Bridge, he thought of Walt Whitman, his sister's favorite poet, and how she once told him Whitman rode the ferry back and forth between his job in Manhattan and his home in Brooklyn thousands of times before Roebling built the bridge that united the two boroughs. “Imagine,” she had said to him, “having had it so difficult for so long, and then somebody comes and builds a bridge and suddenly makes it easy for you and everyone who comes after you to cross over.” He thought of how soon after the horrible day in September long ago, after he had changed his mind about the Blue Angels, that she took him to this very spot on the Promenade and made him look at the bridge and the skyline beyond it. She wanted his teenage self to take a good, long, hard look. She wanted to assure him, that though all his plans had changed, some things, like love, didn't change, and that he should
never ever
forget that. She promised she would
never ever
forget what he did for his mother, and the pain he spared them all. But that was before she had her heart broken by Pierce, before Colm came along, before life changed her like the skyline by putting a huge, gaping hole in the middle of her.

As he looked out past the horizon at the small outline of the Statue of Liberty, he remembered their mother reciting
Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free
whenever she spotted the statue. She always followed up with the story of how she met their da her first day
off the boat
in New York—even though she flew into JFK. He laughed at his mother's unique perception of reality, her ability to tell a big-fish story better than anyone he knew. He remembered her giant, hot temper, the one that still coursed through his and his sister's veins and the accuracy of the name she acquired by marrying their father—
Magee
—the fiery one. He thought how real and human she was, but how unreal and improbable at the same time. Her benevolence, her selflessness, her absolute self-sacrifice for her children made no sense at all to him.
What did she ever get out of it? But d-e-a-d.

Dead.

As he headed for the bridge that sprang up like a cathedral in the night sky, he decided he would never cross it again—at least to go to Eamonn's. With each step forward, he knew there was no going back to all the “could haves” and “would have beens.” There was no time to self-destruct anymore. No time to wallow in his lost dreams. The bridge had been there before him the entire time. Someone before him had made it easy for him to cross. All he had to do was make the trip. His sister and nephew would be on their way home, and he needed to be sober. He needed to be ready. They would need him. They all had a hell of a road ahead of them.

Colm lay motionless on his hospital bed and watched as his mother and Dr. Basu slept upright in the chairs that were pushed up against the wall beside the window that looked out over the busy street below. The day had been long, his mother said; they were supposed to nap and get some rest. He thought she was mad at him and that the nap was his punishment for what he had just told her. Dr. Basu had promised him the day before that she would understand. But Colm wasn't so sure she did. He could tell he had broken her heart, and that there was no going back, no undoing what was already said. His mama was right. Words were something you couldn't put back up on the shelf after playing with them. You couldn't wipe them off the countertop after you let them spill. You couldn't put a Band-Aid on what they cut. The cells wouldn't reconstruct themselves, like Dr. Basu had taught him. No. New cells wouldn't build themselves out of one another after the words had sliced, caused another to bleed. He wanted to cry. He wanted his uncle. He wanted his father. He knew his father would understand and would know what it felt like to have broken his mama's heart. He was sure his father was right there with him, looking at what he was looking at right now . . .

An hour earlier, Dr. Basu had left the room to call his uncle and to make sure he could meet them all at the airport the following day. Without Dr. Basu there, his mother looked worried and frantic. She kept moving between bed and the window, pacing back and forth, while waiting for the doctor to return. Colm was frightened. His mother never showed her signs of worry like this. She never seemed out of control.

“M-m-m-m-m-ammmma, are you m-m-m-m-mad at m-m-me? That the mmmmiracle didn't take? That we came all this way for nothing?” Colm struggled to say each word, but stuttered especially on all the
m
words.

Cathleen winced. This was all new today. His difficulty speaking, his struggle to express himself.

“No, honey, I'm not mad at you,” she assured him.

“You look up . . . s-s-set,” Colm said.

Cathleen stopped and sat beside Colm and took his hand. Together they looked out the window. “It's a beautiful day, isn't it? Let's just sit here and look at the sky. It's my favorite part of the movie
.
”

“Huh?” Colm asked, confused. “What m-m-m-m-movie?”

“Silly me. That just came out.” Cathleen's cheeks flushed as she remembered a secret game from a time that didn't seem to have ever existed.

“What does that m-m-mean?”

Cathleen paused and thought for a second. It hadn't occurred to her how rarely she actually spoke of Colm's father. It wasn't intentional. It was just that it hurt to remember, to say all the things out loud. She thought, however, it would do no harm to tell him just one story—one memory.

“A long time ago, your father and I would pull the kitchen chairs together and face them toward the window at night. We'd get a bowl of popcorn, and just stare out at the sky. Whenever we saw something beautiful like a star or a sunset or heard people laughing down in the alley below, we'd stop and say, ‘This is my favorite part of the movie.' ” A lump grew in her throat as she said it out loud again. Saying the memory did make it real again.

Colm had never heard his mother speak of his father in this way. She had never even mentioned his name without his asking. Colm couldn't imagine them sitting together in the same room, let alone their kitchen, the very kitchen in which he and his mother ate without him every night.

“That's a nice story, M-m-mama.”

“It is. It's one of my favorites.”

“Thank you for telling me. For bringing me here. For trying so . . . hard.”

“Colm, I'd do anything for you. Anything. I'd go anywhere. Anywhere.”

“M-m-mama?”

“Yes?”

“If I tell you something, you promise you won't be m-m-m-m-mad? You promise you'll forgive m-m-m-me?”

“What is it?”

“I don't believe in God. In m-m-miracles. I know now that I am going to die. I am. And God can't stop it from happening. You can't stop it by praying for m-m-miracles or taking me on p-p-p-pilgrimages.”

Cathleen felt like a blunt force hit her chest. Her shoulders slouched inward as she pulled her cardigan across her chest.
This is what it feels like when hope leaves,
she thought.
It doesn't slip out the door before you wake, leaving a letter on the mirror. It kicks the goddamn door down.
She exhaled and pushed herself off the bed, then looked out the window and hardened herself. She didn't want him to see her cry.

She inhaled deeply and spoke slowly. Deliberately. “Colm, I am not mad at you. I love you. I do. I am sorry you don't believe in God. But I do. I do.” She repeated it over and over and nodded with the rhythm of her speech to convince herself—to grab and drag the hope back in, kicking and screaming. “I have to believe that there is still hope. Some way to fix you. Maybe God sent us Dr. Basu? We tried a miracle, which I haven't completely given up on, and now we will turn back to medicine. Maybe God sent us a man as intelligent and careful as Dr. Basu to save you.”

“Mama, Dr. Basu knows it too. He knows there is no God. There's no reason to hope for anything at all.”

“Stop this, Colm. Stop. You're going to be fine. Just great. Dr. Basu wouldn't be here if he didn't think so.”

“He wouldn't be here if he
did,
” Colm said sharply.

“Oh, Colm. Colm. Colm.” She had no words left. And so she said his name. To say it as if it were a prayer in and of itself.