Proof of Heaven (6 page)

M
onsignor Francesco Benedicto had known the Magee family for nearly forty years. He had married Maureen and Michael over thirty-five years ago and had buried Michael a few years later. He had baptized Cathleen, Sean, and Colm. He was especially fond of Cathleen, who had been somewhat of a rebellious teen and young woman but had matured into a loving, capable mother. He saw her at Mass regularly now. And after her own mother's funeral and before her son was born, she had stopped by the rectory often seeking counsel. He understood that Cathleen saw him as a father figure—a man with answers—and he had tried, throughout the years, to do whatever he could to prove her right.

Now as the monsignor walked into the hospital room, he saw Cathleen with her head down on her arms folded on the bed. He thought of a small child saying her nighttime prayers,
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep
.

“Cathleen?”

Cathleen lifted her head and saw him. “Oh, Monsignor. Thank you so much for coming.”

“How is he?”

“He hasn't woken up yet. This is the longest he's ever been out. He was gone for ten minutes this time. And he usually comes back to me right away—well, at least after a few minutes. Some of the nurses and paramedics, and I can tell even Sean, think that this time is it. It was too long. He's never, ever been gone this long.”

“Oh, Cathleen. Do you want me to administer the holy oil—the sacrament of the sick?”

“Do you think he's gone? Do you think this is it?” Cathleen asked in disbelief.

“Oh, no. There is always room for miracles, for faith. Little Colm has proven God's benevolence time and time again. He can still come back bright as day. You must believe, Cathleen. He needs you to believe now more than ever.”

“Then why do you want to give him his last rites if you think there is still a chance for a miracle?” Cathleen was pleading with him.

“No. You misunderstand. Remember, the anointment is not just for last rites or for the dying—it's for the sick as well. Would you pray with me?”

“Yes, Father.”

Cathleen looked past the monsignor's shoulder at her brother leaning against the door frame with one foot in the room and the other out. Sean thought all of this was a bunch of hooey, but he knew his sister needed him to be strong for her. And so he stepped forward into the room and took Cathleen's hand. Dr. Basu stepped back and stood where Sean had been in the doorway and looked on. He had seen this ritual many times while working at Good Samaritan.

Cathleen and Sean made the sign of the cross together, and then the monsignor pulled out the oil from a little pouch he carried. After he placed the pouch and the Bible on the table beside Colm's bed, he dipped his fingers in the oil and then made a small cross on Colm's forehead. Cathleen and Sean could smell the sweet oil. The same kind they smelled on the day of Colm's baptism.

“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” the monsignor chanted.

“Amen,” Sean and Cathleen whispered, their eyes closed as they fought back tears.

Just as the monsignor reached for the boy's palms, to make the sign of the cross on them, and began saying, “May the Lord who frees you from sin, save you and
raise you up,
” Colm's eyes opened wide. He looked terrified and confused. Through the oxygen tube he tried to cry out: “Mama? Mama?” But nothing came out of his mouth.

“Colm!” Cathleen screamed and began to cry with relief.

Sean chimed in too. “Jesus H. Christ.”

“It's a miracle. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, thank you for the many blessings you have bestowed upon your child Cathleen and her son, Colm,” the monsignor prayed aloud, glaring at Sean for taking the Lord's name in vain.

Dr. Basu, incredulous himself, came to Colm's bedside.

Colm was trying to talk but couldn't with the tube down his throat. His eyes were moving back and forth, trying to take in his surroundings.

Dr. Basu stepped up to the bedside now. He had immediately pressed the nurse call button when he saw Colm's eyes open. Now he began to check the boy's vitals while directing the nurses to begin removing the breathing tube. As they worked on him, they could see he was alert and awake and in no way brain-dead as they had all feared.

Throughout it all, Cathleen spoke gently to Colm, moving around the bed to stay out of the way of the doctor and nurses, but never letting go of his hand.

“You gave us quite a scare this time, Colm,” she whispered softly to him. “You were gone for a long time. We thought you were on your way to heaven, sweetie. We were worried you might never come home.”

“That's silly, Mama. I'm never going to heaven,” Colm whispered scratchily.

Dr. Basu took out a penlight and looked in Colm's eyes. Though Colm's throat hurt, he continued to try to talk to reassure his mother that he had no intention of going anywhere.

“See,” the monsignor said confidently, “God provides. Nothing to worry about.”

Dr. Basu glared at the priest. He wanted nothing to do with this superstitious talk. There was clearly a medical reason for Colm's collapses, for his revival, and none of it had to do with God, he thought.

“Oh, thank you, Monsignor. Thank you.” Cathleen hugged the priest and shook his shoulders. “I am so glad you came.”

“It wasn't me. It was the Lord,” the monsignor admitted while raising his face toward the heavens.

The monsignor believed without question that the hand of God played a role in every miraculous intervention, but there had been brief moments in his life when even he had had his doubts. When he saw people like Cathleen, and Cathleen's mother before her, suffer, he wondered where God was in all of it. He struggled with the question of suffering, as many priests did. He had been trained well in the seminary not to try to explain the age-old dilemma—doing so only brought with it more questions and doubts. He simply believed that God had a purpose for all that he did and that God alone knew what was right. When Cathleen had challenged him that day long ago, instead of being angry with her, the monsignor had said a prayer for her
.
He prayed that she, and others like her, would come back to God. Then with the death of Cathleen's mother, he thought God had answered his prayer. He thought Cathleen had come home to God when he saw her praying so solemnly at her mother's funeral. He had no way of knowing then how far away she really was. How she would leave her mother's apartment, because she was unable to stay there all alone—without her mother—with only the memories of her death. The unbearable loss. No, Monsignor wouldn't see Cathleen for months after that day. He had no way of knowing she would move into her boyfriend's apartment shortly after the funeral, and within months become pregnant with her sickly son, Colm.

The resurrection of Colm brought a newfound hope to the monsignor. Through him, he thought, the Lord God had come and laid his hands on the child and brought him back to life. The monsignor could hardly contain himself and shouted out in exaltation to the boy: “Colm, you're a modern-day Lazarus! Once dead and now alive!”

Dr. Basu reprimanded the priest. “Please, sir, not now. I don't think we quite know what is going on here. I don't think we should jump to conclusions.”

“Oh, come on, my good man. This is a miracle, plain and simple. There is no scientific way to prove it otherwise.”

Dr. Basu was angry, though his reserved demeanor did not show it. The priest was speaking out of turn. He had no idea what was at stake—he was giving this poor mother hope—hope he had no right to give. He looked at Sean, who knew what the doctor knew.

“May I have a moment alone with you, Cathleen and Sean?”

Dr. Basu followed Cathleen out of the room and explained to Cathleen what he had told Sean earlier about Colm's condition. As Dr. Basu gently spoke the words he had just said to Sean—
degenerative, terminal, multiple system atrophy, prognosis, pain management—
Cathleen tried to block it all out. She refused to hear it. She shook her head in disbelief, over and over, all the while looking at her son through the glass.

“Why should I believe you? Or those doctors at the clinic? Those tests were taken a year ago. What's any of this have to do with my son now, today? You've seen him. There is nothing else wrong with him. I don't . . . I won't . . . I can't . . .”

She would not believe that her son could be dying.
Hadn't he just come back? I just saw him resurrected
.
It was a sign from God.

Logically, Cathleen knew resurrection was impossible. But after all the doctors, after thinking her son was really gone,
this time actually brain-dead,
she was beyond logic, beyond knowing what the natural and medical world could do for her son. If she had to wager which one would save her son—God or doctors, she was going to go with God today. She had seen it for herself five times and she wondered, who was she to doubt it?

Sean couldn't believe what he was hearing. His sister—his intelligent, bullheaded, predictable sister—was starting to lose her grasp on reality.

“Sis, you gotta listen to the doctor. He knows what he's talkin' about.”

“No! Colm is special. I've been waiting for the medical world to figure this out for years, and I've had it! There is no answer for me or Colm in this hospital or in any hospital. It's somewhere else, Sean. I have to believe that. I can't lose him. Don't you get it? I'm not going to lose anyone else. I won't.”

Cathleen broke away from the doctor and Sean, going back to Colm, where she found him sitting up and listening to the monsignor telling Colm he should say prayers of thanksgiving—for the miracle of his revival. And that starting today, he should pray without ceasing for a cure.

“I am sure you will eventually be healed. I trust in God. And so should you,” the monsignor said as he patted Colm's hand.

Colm looked past the monsignor at his uncle, who was now standing behind his mother in the doorway and shaking his head. Colm never loved his uncle more. At least someone in the room was on his side, Colm thought. Colm wanted to scream:
Just get me out of here, please. I want to go home.
He felt like crying. Why did his mother have to invite the priest, who didn't know how to give a short homily, to
his
hospital room?

Cathleen looked at the monsignor talking, and even she recoiled a little at his fervor. Then she looked at Colm, still so pale and small in the bed. Suddenly her own passion faded. Part of her still wanted to put her whole heart in God's hands—but she hesitated and waffled again.
What if I am wrong? What if the monsignor is too? What if Sean and Dr. Basu are right?

“Monsignor, thank you so much for coming. I really appreciate it, but I think Colm needs his rest now. The doctor just told me he wants to put a pacemaker in Colm tomorrow and get him on medicine. We have a long day and night ahead of us. I really appreciate your coming all the way over here, especially on a Sunday. It's just, well . . . I think Colm needs his rest.”

“Yes, certainly. God's work is done here for the day anyway! You know where to reach me if you need anything, kids!” the monsignor said brightly as he walked over to Colm's bed and kissed his forehead. “God blesses the little children. Mark my words, this boy's a living miracle,” he whispered quietly to himself.

Cathleen heard the monsignor and smiled at the thought of it.

Yes, perhaps there were some miracles, after all.

After the monsignor left the room, Colm looked at his smiling mother. She was happy, he thought. He didn't want to ruin her smile with his own news. He knew it would break
her
heart.

Meanwhile, Monsignor took the long way to the rectory. He meandered through the park and marveled at all the living miracles running past him, flying above him in the trees, growing out of the ground. Everywhere he looked he saw the hand of God at work. He had really only had one singular prayer his entire life: that the entire world could see what he saw—God in everything on earth and in heaven—from the largest, strongest, most beautiful cathedrals to the smallest and frailest children. “Miracles did and
do
happen,” he said aloud. Yes, yes they do. He was sure, just positive, that all he had to do was pray—and his poor Cathleen, who had her fill of life's pain and loss, would have her one wish, this one miracle.

L
ater that same evening after Colm was stable and settled into a room upstairs in the hospital, Dr. Basu urged Sean to take Cathleen home. She was visibly exhausted and needed a good night's rest. “Tomorrow Colm will be operated on. It will be a long day,” he reminded them. He assured Cathleen he would take excellent care of the boy and would not leave his side. Cathleen could not believe his dedication.

“What about your other patients, your own family? Don't you have to go home?” Cathleen asked.

“Well, I am on call. And, to be frank, I do not have a family. Don't you worry about me. I don't have anything else I'd rather do. Nothing whatsoever.”

“Thank you, Doctor. We will see you in the morning then.” Cathleen whispered softly into the sleeping child's ear, “Sweet dreams, my little one,” and kissed Colm good-bye.

After Cathleen and Sean left, Dr. Basu walked past the sleeping boy to stand at the window. Immediately, he found the North Star;
the polestar—constant, never changing,
he thought. He had named Dhruv for it. He didn't believe Dhruv was up there looking down on him though. Dr. Basu had long since put such fanciful notions to bed. But he looked nevertheless, thinking that this time, there would be a way—there had to be a way—to save this child.

Colm woke up and saw the doctor. “Dr. Basu? Is that you?”

“Yes, Dove. How are you feeling?”

“Why do you call me Dove?”

“That is what your name means. In India, some people think a name determines one's future.”

“But my name is not Dove. It's Colm.”

“There is a funny thing about people in India. We give everyone we love a special name, sometimes lots of names. That is why I call you Dove or Little Dove.”

“Do you like me, Dr. Basu?”

“I like all people.”

“Am I like all people then?”

“Yes, but you're special.”

“So does that mean you still like me?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I knew you did. I could tell you were different the moment I saw you.”

“You are special indeed, Little Dove.”

“My mama says I am special.”

“She is right.”

“Dr. Basu, can I tell you something? It is something I haven't told anyone—ever.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“You won't tell Mama or Uncle Sean, and especially not the monsignor?”

“Of course, not ever.”

“When I am gone, I know everyone thinks I am dead. I know my heart stops beating and part of my brain stops working. I have heard people say that. And today, I heard everyone say that my brain died . . . that I was
gone
.”

“Yes. You know a lot for a young boy.”

“If I am dead, shouldn't I be in heaven? Shouldn't I see the angels Mama told me about? Shouldn't I see my Irish nana? And my grandfather, the giant fireman?”

“Some people believe there is a heaven, Colm. Yes. Some people, after they die for a bit and come back to life, think they have been to heaven.”

“I don't believe them, Dr. Basu.”

“No? Why not?”

“I know what happens when we die.”

“You do?” Dr. Basu was fascinated.

“I don't see anything when I die. There is nothing, but a black, black world. There is no God, no heaven, no angels, no people. There is nothing. Do you think it's because I am a bad boy that I can't make it to heaven? Do you think God has forgotten about me?”

“No. You are a good and brave boy.”

“Then why don't I see God when I am dead? Doesn't he love me? Doesn't
God
even want me?”

“What is this
even
stuff? Everyone wants you. Everyone loves you.”

“Not my real dad.”

“Oh. I see,” Dr. Basu said, exhaling.
What a terrible burden for a child to carry,
he thought.

“I am not good enough for him either.”

“Now, listen here, Dove. I do not know the answers to such questions about God. They are big questions for a boy—for a man. But I know you are wanted and you are loved. I also may not be able to explain God, but I can explain this: if you are alive right now, that means that most likely you were not
really
dead. I know there has been a lot of talk about you being dead, and I know that must sound very scary to you, but I want to explain something. May I?”

“Yes.”

“When a certain part of your brain is resting—the part that sends the messages to the rest of your body to work—it doesn't send your heart the messages it needs to beat. Without that certain part of your brain your heart doesn't work. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, I heard you tell my mama the other day.”

“Yes, you are a good listener. When your heart can't pump, it can't get blood to the rest of your brain. If your brain doesn't get blood, it doesn't work very well either—so that is why you can't see
anything
. It's very difficult to understand, I am sure. Do you follow me?”

“Yes, I do.”

“For some reason, Colm, your brain stays asleep for a long time. A very long time. It's unique and special, like you. But I am sure there is a reason, and I intend to find out why. I am sorry I can't answer your questions about God. I can't explain why you don't see him, but as a man of science, a doctor, Colm, I can tell you this: if you're really not dead, then perhaps that is one reason why you can't see God.”

“Do you believe in God and angels and stuff like that, Dr. Basu?”

“I used to. When I was a child, I prayed to many gods. But when I became a man, I came to believe in other things.”

“I don't believe in God, Dr. Basu. If I tell my mama, she'll be mad.”

“No, she won't be mad. She loves you no matter what. You would be surprised how strong a mother's love is. It's stronger than anything in the world—even doubt.”

“You won't tell her though, right?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Thank you, Dr. Basu.”

“You're very welcome,
son
.” Dr. Basu didn't even notice he used the term.

But Colm heard the word and treasured it. He held it close to his heart. “Son,” Colm repeated softly so the doctor couldn't hear, and then louder he said to Dr. Basu, “Thank you for fixing my heart, too,” Colm said.

“I will try my best, Little Dove. Does it hurt you? Are you in any pain tonight?”

“My heart hurts me all the time. The pain never goes away.”

“I see. Can you point to it?”

Colm pointed to the center of his chest.

“OK. I am going to try to make you better.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“You're welcome. Now get some rest.”

Dr. Basu pushed himself away from the boy's bed and began to make his way out of the room.

“Don't go, Dr. Basu. Will you stay with me?”

“Yes.”

Colm closed his eyes and began to fall asleep. As he drifted off, his face relaxed, and Dr. Basu noticed a broad smile come across the boy's face.
If I didn't know better,
the doctor thought to himself,
the angels in heaven are making the boy laugh.