Proof of Angels (5 page)

But he didn't. Gaspar said nothing and braced for what Sean felt compelled to tell him.

“Remember when I wouldn't go with Cathleen to Italy? Remember how hell-bent she was on all the religious mumbo jumbo, and I said I wouldn't go dragging Colm to the far reaches of the earth for some voodoolike healing ritual, Catholic or otherwise?”

“Yes. I do. That's why I went. I knew someone had to talk some sense into her,” Gaspar said and nodded.

“Truth is, Gaspar, I wanted to go. I really thought the trip was going to kill him, and I was worried. I was really worried. I wanted to be the one to protect him. I was glad you were there. I was glad of that. And I guess it all worked out in the end for you and Cathleen and all. But still, to this day, I've felt guilty for not going. I sometimes think he wouldn't have gotten so bad if I'd been there. I would have told her it was enough. That he'd had enough. She wouldn't have pushed him so hard. And then maybe I wouldn't have pushed him so hard. But the truth is, I didn't go because I was scared. I was ashamed. I didn't want to remember.”

“What happened in Italy, Sean? Your sister told me that a long time ago you moved there, right after your mother died. She said you were going to be a priest, but you came back . . . excuse me . . . a drunk.”

“She's right on all counts. But she doesn't know everything.”

“What happened, Sean?”

Sean looked out past Gaspar. He knew there was no going back now. He had to tell him. He needed to tell him.

“There was this girl . . .”

Gaspar's eyes widened and relief fell over his entire face, even his tense shoulders slackening. “Oh, that's all.”

Sean looked embarrassed. “Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“No! No. I am sorry. I just thought . . . with that buildup . . . that you were going to say you killed someone. That you were evil or a serial killer or something.”

“Too much
Dateline
, Doc. You and my sister watch too much television.”

Gaspar exhaled a laugh. “Enough. Tell me more about this. I want to know. Does Cathleen know?”

“No. It's not like I ever told her. She was going through her own thing back then. It was almost eleven years ago. She'd gotten pregnant. Colm's father had already taken off. It wasn't exactly the best time to tell her that I'd pretty much done the same thing. Not exactly. I mean Chiara wasn't pregnant or anything, but I messed things up. I didn't realize how badly until I saw what Cathleen was going through and how unfair Colm's dad had been to her by taking off. I was so hard on him, but then I—I wasn't any better. I thought I was different. I thought I was better somehow, that I had a legitimate reason for breaking someone's heart . . .”

“Sean, people leave and break up every day for lots of reasons. Things just don't work out. That's life. You can't carry that guilt around forever. What can I do to make you feel better about this?”

“Lots.”

“What?”

“There is a bag with my things right in that locker over in the corner. Could you pull out my wallet?”

Gaspar walked across the room, opened and then looked inside Sean's locker. For a second Gaspar had a flash of an altogether different scenario. He saw himself standing in a morgue and being handed a plastic bag:

                
One wallet

                
One set of keys

                
One watch

                
Two sticks of chewing gum

                
One ticket stub to a matinee movie

                
A sobriety chip

How different it all could have been
. Gaspar took the wallet over to Sean and asked, “Now what?”

“Open up the wallet, Doc. There should be a piece of paper in there.”

Gaspar pulled out a faded pink scrap. “It's just a receipt for a cup of coffee?” Gaspar asked, confused.

“Turn it over.”

Gaspar flipped the receipt over and saw a list of crossed-out, handwritten names:

God

Mom

Cathleen

Gaspar

And then two that weren't:

Colm

Ciara

“What's this about, Sean? It's a bunch of names.”

“Those are all the people I hurt . . . either when I was drinking or using or when I was trying to get clean and everything in between. I've tried to make amends. And I thought I got to a good place, at least a place where I wouldn't hurt anyone anymore.”

“You did, Sean. You did. You've done beautifully. You don't have anything to make up to anyone else. You must stop this . . . this guilt you carry, especially about Colm. You have nothing to feel ashamed of or guilty about. Everything worked out for the best. For Colm. For your sister. For me. For you. Please. Please stop this. But I must ask, is this name, Chiara, the woman you're talking about from Italy?”

“She is. And I made a promise to myself that if I got out of that house, if I got out of that fire, I'd man up and I'd finally go back and make it right. Fix what I broke.”

“And in the meantime fix you, too?”

“That's the plan.”

“But how? I don't understand. What could you have done? You were just a kid back then.”

“I was. But I was old enough to know better. To do better. I didn't.”

“Sean, you can't beat yourself up over these things. We've been through this. You have to let some things go. To move on, you just have to let stuff go. These AA meetings, these twelve
steps and whatnot, I know you think they work. I know you think by turning yourself over to a higher power, by repenting and feeling guilty and ashamed, you're somehow healing yourself. There are other ways. Alcoholism is a disease, Sean. It's not something you can pray away or repent for, no more than I can pray away and repent for my high cholesterol. I eat right and take a pill. I don't pray and regret all the years I ate too many sweets. It doesn't make me weak because I take a pill. No more than you would be weak if you just tell people you have an illness. Addiction is an illness. You're not at fault. You must stop this self-flagellation. You must. For yourself, for your sister, for me. You must.”

“I can't, Gaspar. I can't. Not about this. Not about Colm. Never. I could have been better to him. And I can't forget about her. I just can't. I tried. For years I tried.”

“I know, but you're an adult now. Sometimes it's best to just move on.”

“But don't you think it means something? Don't you think it's some sort of sign?”

“I don't follow.”

“I mean—of all the people to think of—just as my life was about to go up in smoke, I thought of her. I thought of
her
. It was her name I thought to speak. I promised myself if I got out of that mess, I'd be a better man. And, Gaspar, I think she holds the key.”

“That's a dangerous assertion, Sean. She doesn't know she holds so much power. It's not fair to her. That's a lot of pressure. She's probably moved on. Have you thought of that?”

“It doesn't matter. I have to tell her I am sorry. I have to do this. I do.”

“Sean, how do you know this isn't one of those lies you tell yourself? You said you've been lying to yourself for so long, how do you know if this isn't one of them?”

“It's not. You know, there was a point when I was trapped, I couldn't see my way out and I had this sense that if I could just get back to the spot where I started from—find that place, that center—I'd find my way home. And Chiara is that place. I realize that now. If I can just go back and make it right . . .”

“Then what? Live happily ever after? Sean, this is too much. You know who you sound like right now?”

“Don't even say it. Don't even bring his name into this.” Sean spat the words out angrily.

“But I will. Because you were the one to bring him up first, and you know it's true. You sound just like Colm. Remember? If he just got to L.A., if he just found his father, if he just got to see him once . . . then everything would be perfect for him. His dad would be there waiting for him and tell him he loved him and would be part of his life . . .”

“That's not fair.”

“What's not fair? You were the one who kept telling Colm what a mistake it was. You were the one warning your sister that she was setting the boy up for heartbreak . . . and what happened? You remember his face? Do you remember how heartbroken he was when he saw where he was? When he realized his father wasn't there and wasn't coming for him? When he finally realized his father wasn't the man he had built him up to be in his imagination? Do you remember what it did to him? Do you? Because I do. I do. I'll never forget it for as long as I live. No matter how long I live and how much I do in life, I will never ever be able to erase that pain he felt.”

Sean's face grew red. Tears collected in the cracks around his eyes. “Shut up. Shut up. You hear me, Gaspar? Don't say another word. Shut up.”

Gaspar stepped away from the bed and tried to give Sean space to collect himself. Looking out the window, Gaspar shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. Neither man said anything for a few minutes, until Gaspar broke the silence. “I'm sorry, Sean. I am. I didn't mean to upset you. It's just that, as your friend, as your brother-in-law, I don't think I can help you do this. You're injured and you're ill. You need to focus on getting better. If you must, pick up the phone and call the woman. Send her an e-mail. Make your peace. But I know what you're asking me to do. I already know what you want. You're asking me to get you out of this hospital and take you to Italy. You're basically asking me to help you bring back the dead. Make what died in the past alive in you again, and we both know that is never going to happen. Stop this, Sean. Stop it now. Just come home to New York. Come home to us. Let Cathleen and me take care of you.”

“Just go. It was a mistake to call you. I was an idiot to tell you anything. Please just go. Take my keys. You can stay at my place tonight, but then just go back to my sister and the boys. They could use you more than I could at this point.”

“Sean . . . I didn't mean to upset you. Please . . .”

“Thanks for making the trip. Take care. And if you can do one thing for me, please don't shoot your mouth off to my sister about any of this,” Sean said, swallowing hard and then closing his eyes.

A
FTER
G
ASPAR LEFT
, S
EAN FELL INTO A FITFUL SLEEP
. He had hoped to dream of Chiara. He'd been having dreams of her almost nightly since the fire, but he never saw her face. He could make out scenes of the two of them together in Italy. He saw her small hands in his. Her fingertips covered in pastels were swallowed completely by his large hands. He could see their feet together, walking in unison across the Ponte Vecchio, where throngs of tourists were pushing past them.

As they walked through Florence, he saw the ancient, smooth cobblestones, the black soot and dirt along the foundations of ancient buildings, but he could not for the life of him look down and see her face. He felt her hand slip out of his. Pulled away from her by the crowd, he lost sight of her for a second. Then as the crowd parted, he could see the back of her head. Waves of burgundy curls bounced as she ran from him. He chased her for miles, in and out of alleys and streets.
He found her and then lost her again in the piazza outside the Duomo. Its facade of elaborate polychrome marble panels, arranged in squares with shades of rose and forest green and white, reflected the afternoon light and blinded him momentarily. He held up his arms to block the light as he scanned the piazza looking for her. His eyes darted between the Baptistery of St. John and the giant cathedral with its iconic and gigantic octagonal brick dome. Between the two buildings he saw the Nigerian merchants wrapping their illegal knock-off Louis Vuitton and Gucci bags into large blankets and running with their bundles from the
polizia
, whose sirens Sean could hear approaching from close behind. For a moment he thought he saw her enter the stairway that led to the tower overlook, which was located inside the museum gift shop. He looked up and could see the top of the Duomo, and he remembered the day that the two of them stood on the viewing tower looking down over the rolling hills, the red-roofed homes, and Santa Croce in the distance. Her body was warm. Her arms were wrapped tightly around him.

It could always be like this, Sean. It could
.

It was stolen time. He wasn't supposed to be there with her. He was never supposed to be there. His seminarian collar was shoved in his pants pocket. A jacket covered his black-collared shirt. But he was with her. He climbed up the dark, cavernous steps, feeling the cool stone walls as he made his ascent. The steps became narrower as he neared the top. His large body squeezed through the passages. It seemed to take an hour to get to the top and he struggled to catch his breath. Finally, he reached the summit. He could see Santa Croce to the southeast—its distinct terra-cotta roof and white
facciata
that
looked like a child's game board from so far away. He turned. There she was. He could see all of her. Her large amber-colored eyes staring right at him, her thin lips pursed into a pout, the kind a spoiled child would make after being denied a treat, the type that was impossible to sustain. He smiled at her and her pout gave way to a laugh. Her nose crinkled with the facility of a bunched-up sleeve of a linen shirt. The dimple in her right cheek appeared with the grin. Sean reached for her, but she ran by him and disappeared back down the stairs. He couldn't keep up with her anymore. All he wanted was for her to turn her face toward him. One more time. All he wanted was to see her face. Hold it in his hands. Look into her eyes a bit longer and feel what it was like to be looked at by someone who loved him completely. He shouted her name, and she disappeared. He lost her somehow to the sea. It confused him for a moment, but he got his bearings.
California
. Somehow he was no longer in Florence.

A giant ocean opened up for him at the edge of the piazza. Sean grabbed his board, waiting for him in the sand below, and before he knew it he was back on the water. Sitting on his board, he looked back toward shore and watched as the sun rose behind the mash-up of old-Bohemian homes and ultramodern mansions and storefronts that lined the Venice Beach seashore. Sean could see the window to the one-bedroom apartment that he rented just a block behind Ocean Front Walk on Venice Beach. He looked past the initial row of jam-packed properties, glass-enclosed apartments, and storefronts. He tried to find her face among the people walking up and down the walk. He turned and noticed throngs of other morning surfers out, too, vying for position alongside
him. Sitting like Sean with their legs wide over their boards, their torsos bobbing up and down in rhythm together, they appeared to Sean to be in some sort of worshipper trance.
A new type of morning mass
. For a moment, Sean forgot Chiara. He forgot what he was chasing.

Sean saw a wave far out on the horizon before anyone else.
Jackpot!
he said to himself. He swung his body around and paddled hard. His broad shoulders were wider than the board, and he knew he could make time faster than men half his size. His forearms bulged under his wet suit as he pushed, hard, away from the group of other surfers. After just a few more hearty strokes, he looked back and noticed that no one else was going for the wave. He was the only one.
Impossible
. He shook his head and laughed at the others who just sat and waited. As he reached the swell, he popped up in one fluid motion. His arms extended out as he balanced on the board. He swung the board to the left and directed it into an oncoming wave. He disappeared under the crest. He held his fingertips out and felt the water swallow him.

Sean could hear his friend James talking to him. He couldn't see him, but Sean could hear his voice:
There is a moment in every swell, man, and in every wave caught, a moment when the water could take you, man. Or it can spit you out and send you flying across its surface. That's what you want. You want to get spit out. It defies logic. But you do. It beats the alternative: being swallowed and digested. Believe me. But the moment is so fleeting that most people miss it. They miss the subtlety of it. Every good surfer knows what to do when that moment comes. And once that moment passes, there is no going back. What is done is done. Sink or soar. The moment when
the wave meets the board, wraps itself around it, and invites it to come in. One hesitation—even the smallest gesture at all of unwillingness—will let the wave know that you're not ready. It's all or nothing with the wave
.
She wants you all in, man. So you need to find that perfect moment between the rise and the fall. Right there; that's where you'll find it
.

Sean felt the moment. It swelled. Expanded. Not just the wave, but time. Sean could see the tip of his board, and could feel the speed and force building below him. He could feel her—this wave—pushing him toward the light and making her way toward the shore as he glided through.

Sean could feel its perfection.
What a ride
. And it was glorious. The morning sun from the east illuminated the white foam crashing outside the crest so it appeared as if a halo of sacred water surrounded him. His hands felt the coolness as the wall of water enveloped him. He was whole and perfect. Alive. For the first time, he thought, if only for a second, he wasn't missing his moment.

The moment was his.
This is life. This is life. This is all I need
. “Yes!” he shouted.

“Yes!”

But Sean looked back and the water was turning colors behind him. It was no longer blue. Behind him a swirl of orange and red was chasing him. He looked down and saw the flesh on his hands burning, turning black before his eyes, the flesh melting and dripping off the bone. He was touching fire. He heard cries outside the flames. Everyone on shore and in the water was screaming at him to get out.

Just get out
.

Sean's legs buckled. The pain was extraordinary. He felt
it all the way up his spine, where it settled in the base of his neck. He fell off his board and continued to fall and fall and fall. There seemed to be no end to it.

Until there was.

Sean jolted awake in the dark room. He looked at his hands, wrapped, secure, and burned; and, he was sure, still disfigured underneath the bandages. He felt the throbbing ache in his head and looked around at the four walls surrounding him, closing in on him with each passing second. He pushed his morphine button. Though he knew only one dose was allowed and nothing more would come out even if he tried, he pushed it again. Like the addict he was and would forever be, even if he never had another drop to drink or popped another pill, he would always be chased by it. He knew this. And he, too, would always be chasing it. The moment.
The aw, man. The yes, yes, it-could-always-be-like-this moment
. He pushed the button again and again and again and again and again—hoping to chase that ephemeral and intangible moment before the sobering burn set in.