Proof of Angels (6 page)

G
ASPAR TURNED THE KEY
,
ENTERED
S
EAN
'
S APARTMENT
, and dropped his bag by the door. It had all gone wrong. Cathleen had asked him to do one thing: convince her brother to come home. And all Gaspar managed to do within a few hours of landing in Los Angeles was to get kicked out of Sean's hospital room. Her request was going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

Thirsty and hungry, Gaspar headed straight for the kitchenette that opened into the small living space. He opened the refrigerator and was instantly assaulted by the fetid smell of rotten meat.
Not one person
, Gaspar thought,
had the sense to come here and take care of Sean's place
.
Take out the trash, pick up the mail
. “What if he had a pet?” Gaspar wondered aloud how one could become so isolated, so removed from others that they didn't have anyone to sort their mail, clean their fridge, and take out the trash. From the looks of the fridge, Gaspar had to guess Sean had gone grocery shopping
the day before the fire. It was stocked with a week's worth of steaks, eggs, vegetables, club soda, and limes that had grown fuzz and collapsed inward. Gaspar quickly shut the door, and covered his face with a towel he grabbed from the counter while rummaging through cabinets and drawers looking for a garbage bag and some bleach to begin cleaning.

As Gaspar threw the contents of Sean's refrigerator in the trash, he grew annoyed. Something besides the smell gnawed at him. Gaspar threw a half-filled jar of tomato sauce so hard, he missed the trash can altogether and it smashed against the dishwasher door. Sauce spattered all over the cabinets, on the porcelain tile, and as far away as the door to the apartment. It wasn't until Gaspar heard the glass shatter, saw the cabinets appear as if they were bleeding, as if they, too, felt cut open, that he was even aware of his anger. He wasn't just angry at Sean's friends, or lack thereof, or at Sean, or God, or anyone else he could see fit to blame if he really wanted to. He was angry with himself. He should have known something was wrong. He should have tried harder to be a better friend. Gaspar grabbed a sponge, turned on the faucet, and let hot water pour over his hands. He stood for what seemed an infinite time, letting the water run, the steam rising up in front of his face, fogging his glasses. He wanted to feel the burn. Wanted to feel just a bit what Sean was feeling right now. But he couldn't take the pain. He shut off the faucet and pounded his fist on the countertop. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!” Gaspar yelled. It felt so good to let it out. He did it again and again.

After he calmed himself by shouting one expletive after another, which he'd never before uttered in his life, he collected
himself and tried to decide what he had to do next. “Where does one begin to clean up such a giant mess?” Gaspar asked himself aloud, reaching into the sink and wringing out the sponge, then giving it a hearty shake.
On one's knees
, Gaspar thought to himself
. On one's knees
.

While Gaspar scrubbed, his anger dissipated. There was something so therapeutic about the act of cleaning, wiping away remnants of the despoiled day. Even if hot water couldn't do it, he could erase it all just by sheer will. He could wipe away every sin, every transgression, every regret. His own. His friend's. And so Gaspar set out to scrub away Sean's past six rotten weeks, or at least the parts he was capable of expunging, on his knees, one scrubbed tile at a time.

After an hour of frenetic cleaning, Gaspar realized the apartment was filling with a pink glow. Putting down his cleaning supplies on the lone table in the living-dining-kitchen area of Sean's infinitesimally small apartment, Gaspar looked for the source of the light, crossed the room, and pulled back a set of linen curtains. As he did, Gaspar noticed for the first time just how close Sean was to the Pacific Ocean. He pulled the sliding glass door and walked outside. He stepped out on the balcony and inhaled deeply.

Gaspar could see that Sean had set out one chair, and beside it was a small table with a little potted plant that had wilted in the hot sun. A book,
The Perfect Day
, lay on the table next to the plant. From the look of the placement of the bookmark, it appeared that Sean was just beginning the book. Gaspar picked up the book and flipped through the pages that included several pictures of surfers in various positions on their boards, not unlike the cover of the book, which depicted
a surfer being dwarfed by a giant wave. It was difficult for Gaspar to picture Sean—his pale Irish skin, his immense legs, his bearlike physique, popping up on a surfboard, let alone living among tan Californians. Gaspar shook his head and put the book back down.

He stood for as long as his tired legs would allow him and looked out at the horizon. Eventually he succumbed to his exhaustion and sat down to try to see what Sean saw. He tried to envision Sean's life. It wasn't a stretch for his imagination. Gaspar had a pretty solid idea of what Sean's days were like.

He remembered all of his own early years in New York. Alone. Sitting. Waiting. Waiting for what, he was never sure. But there came a time when he had lost hope he'd ever find anyone else after losing his wife, Niranjana, to suicide after their only son, Dhruv, had succumbed to malaria. Yes, Gaspar Basu knew what it was like to resign oneself to a life alone. To resign oneself to sleepless nights looking at stars and ruminating on one's place in the cosmos, to days spent picking up and working extra shifts, to working oneself to the point of exhaustion, if only to fall asleep a little quicker, to feel just a little less—less tired, less scared, less lonely, less hopeless, less wanting.

But then one day all that changed. Cathleen Magee arrived with her sick boy and a fifteen-minute examination turned into a life. One appointment, one chance meeting held the possibility of turning one's entire world around.
How many times did it happen in a day, a week, a year, a century?
Gaspar marveled. Strangers meet. Smile. Laugh. Hold hands. Time and an accumulation of shared experiences turn into love and then marriage and then children. Just like the Big Bang. From
out of seemingly nothing comes an entirely new universe. Just like that. Over and over again. The multiverse theorists and quantum physicists had a point, Gaspar knew. The possibility of more than one universe made sense, just as humans had an infinite capacity to multiply, expand, illuminate, and even collapse, leaving behind dark matter and energy. It happened every day.

How quickly Gaspar's life had changed since that day in his office. He'd been so lonely just a few years ago and then, as if instantaneously, his life had become so abundant. So busy. So filled with people and their problems and their needs and their love. It made those years he'd spent alone, without a friend, let alone a family all his own, seem all the more distant, all the more lonely.

Yes, Gaspar knew exactly what Sean's days were like.

Was this
, Gaspar wondered,
how the universe really worked?
Did there need to be a balance in the universe of loneliness, too? Were only a certain number of people permitted to find joy at the same time?
It was ridiculous to wonder it, but he wondered all the same. He had been alone for so long, and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, he absorbed, like the process of osmosis, simply by proximity and a need for balance, the love of a family. Was his gain Sean's loss?

Until this moment, it had never occurred to Gaspar what price his new life came with. That for every love gained someone else has to learn to let go. Someone else had to say good-bye to the way of life they had always come to know. A father kisses his daughter good-bye on her wedding day. A mother watches her boy take her car keys; watches her very own heart disappear into grown-up oblivion. A friend watches as her
best friend marries or moves on. One's gain is another's heartbreak. Cathleen had been Sean's world; Colm, his universe. And then they all drove to Los Angeles, hoping for a miracle, hoping for some sign that the universe made sense after all, and right before them the universe shifted once again. And nothing made sense. And yet it all did.

But no matter what, sense or no sense, Sean was the one left sitting alone and waiting.

Gaspar stood up and walked around the apartment. There were several pictures on the wall. From what Gaspar could make out, they were photos that Sean had taken of the waves crashing at dawn and dusk, of sunburned surfers carrying their boards out to the shoreline, of palm trees seemingly black against a setting pink sun, of rows of silk floss and jacaranda trees in full bloom lining suburban streets, of skaters with odd haircuts and brightly colored and intricate tattoos, and of beauties spilling out of bathing suits and wearing large, expensive, bedazzling sunglasses. Sean had somehow saturated the colors, Gaspar guessed, so they appeared more vibrant than they would in real life. He accentuated the details and the contrast, so the pictures had an element of texture, too. It was as if Gaspar could feel the fabric on surfers' wet suits and the sand in their hair; touch the soft petals of the blooming jacarandas. Gaspar was incredulous. He'd never taken Sean for an artist. Not in a million years. There was nothing familiar about this new Sean.

He remembered something Cathleen had said to him many years earlier. “He has a way of changing, Gaspar, only you can't see it happening because it is so gradual. And just when
you get used to one version of him, he emerges as someone entirely new, like a phoenix rising from the ashes over and over. He was a wild kid who wanted to be a pilot back then but ended up this studious philosopher type, then a seminarian, then a drunk, then a firefighter, then a drunk again. It took him so long to find his place. I used to worry all the time that he wouldn't find his way, but now, I know he'll be okay. No matter what happens, I know he'll be okay.” Gaspar couldn't wait to tell Cathleen,
You won't believe this, hon. He takes pictures. He's quite good. He even surfs now. You don't have to worry. He'll find something new again . . .

Gaspar scanned the room and took it all in as if for the first time, as if he hadn't been there for an hour cleaning it. Two custom surfboards—one long, one short—hung on metal wall racks. Books filled a series of well-made, though worn, oak barrister bookcases. Gaspar saw no television or radio, and let out a small laugh at the realization: without Yankees games, neither the radio or TV would be of much use to Sean. Gaspar took a mental inventory. He knew his wife would ask, “What's his place like? Does he need anything? Has he got enough clean towels? Good pots and pans? What's his couch like?” Gaspar noted the midcentury maple table and its lacquered surface. It had all the markings of a secondhand-store purchase. Four faux-antiqued and French Provincial–painted chairs surrounded it. An overstuffed, eighties-era leather love seat was so worn that the deep espresso-colored leather faded into beige splotches where the cushions met and flattened in the middle. None of the furnishings seemed to match the other. The entire place was a hodgepodge of decorating styles
that would make the interior designer in his wife cringe. It was utilitarian at best, institutional at worst. But totally Sean. Gaspar knew that Sean simply never cared about
stuff
.

Gaspar walked into Sean's bedroom. His bed was made with military precision, the corners tucked tautly. The top sheet folded crisply over the navy blue blanket. A pile of surfing and oceanography books covered with cellophane dust jackets and Dewey decimal labels were stacked neatly on his bedside table. Gaspar turned and looked in the mirror above the dresser. Stuck up in the seam of wood trim was one photo. Gaspar inhaled, put his hand up, and touched it, closing his eyes and remembering the Santa Monica Pier. Three years earlier. The night before they took the boy, who hoped to see his father, to the hill with an observatory overlooking Los Angeles. Gaspar could see the moment on the pier in real time. Sean was smiling wildly, happier than he had been in years. Colm was alight with hope and anticipation for what was to come the next day. Sean was holding the boy after a ride with Gaspar on the Ferris wheel; Colm's head was resting in the crook of his uncle's neck. Gaspar snapped the photo just as Sean leaned in and rested his own head on the boy's. A perfect moment. Sean's
A Perfect Day
.

Gaspar took the picture down from the mirror and held it in his hands for several minutes before hanging it back up.

He knew he must help Sean. He owed him that much.

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
,
AS
G
ASPAR WALKED DOWN
the hallway to Sean's hospital room, he felt a sense of urgency he hadn't experienced since he'd been trying to find a cure for Colm five years earlier. He wanted to tell Sean everything all at once.
I spoke to Cathleen last night. She understands. She insists that I help you get to Italy
. Gaspar couldn't wait to tell him how Cathleen said she'd go with Sean to Italy herself if she could. He didn't doubt it.
Long story short
, Gaspar thought of saying and rehearsing the words,
We're going to get you better
. He spent the morning making phone calls. He had spoken to a burn rehab specialist, a physical therapist, and his neighborhood VNA back in New York. They were going to start working with Sean immediately. Sean had a solid six months of intensive therapy ahead of him, possibly a year. They couldn't get him to Italy any sooner than that. In the meantime, all Gaspar had to do
was find a private jet to airlift Sean back east. It would take him only a day or so to finalize the arrangements and then—poof—they'd all be together again.

Gaspar entered the room as the doctor on morning rounds was exiting.

“Morning, sir. How is the patient today?” Gaspar said brightly, hoping for some medical banter. But without his white coat and stethoscope, Gaspar just looked like another hospital guest.

“Looking better every day. Go see for yourself.” The young doctor rushed out, barely making eye contact.

Next patient
, Gaspar thought. He knew the drill. “Have a great day!” Gaspar shouted back down the hall. “Nice talking with you!”

Before Gaspar could wait for a response from the harried doctor, he heard Sean's voice.

“I thought I told you to go home,” Sean said.

“Good morning, Sean. It's a beautiful day,” Gaspar said, coming in quickly and pulling back the room's curtains.

“Guess so. It's not like I'll be out enjoying it,” Sean said, trying to adjust his torso with a small wriggle. Moving even an inch caused Sean to wince in pain.

“Well, that's what I came to talk about. I called your sister. I told her everything . . . and . . .”

“You what? I thought I said I didn't want your help. I thought I said I didn't want you talking to my sister,” Sean snapped.

“I know what you want, Sean. Listen to me. I am sorry about yesterday. I didn't understand . . . until I did. I understand now and I want to make it up to you.”

“No, you were right. I sounded like a fool. I think you were pretty clear.”

“I am sorry. And no, you didn't sound like a fool, Sean. Why is it so foolish to admit something? I was a fool to laugh, to dismiss you. Cathleen and I have made some arrangements this morning. She's hired a physical therapist and a visiting nurse. She's setting up a room at our apartment as we speak, and in six months, maybe a year . . . we'll get you to . . .”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I am not going back to New York. No, I am not going to have my pregnant sister take care of me like I am some baby. No, I am not going to give up the life I've worked hard to create out here.”

“What life, Sean? You're all alone and you have no job keeping you here. And as far as I'm concerned, there is no one who cares enough to even visit you, look in after you, take care of your apartment, get your mail.” Gaspar stopped talking, realizing how harsh it sounded.

“It's my life, dammit. My damned life,” Sean shouted.

“Sean, please. Let us help you.”

“Help me do what? Huh?”

“Get better. We can make sure you get the best care. We can make sure you're not alone . . .”

Sean averted his eyes and tried not to look at Gaspar. He seemed to be bracing himself. Sweat poured down over his eyebrows. He gritted his teeth.

“Sean? What's wrong?”

“It hurts.”

“What?”

“Everything. My back. My legs. All of it. The pain meds . . . they wear off and I can't take any more drugs. They have limits on them. But it just hurts so bad.”

“Sean, please. Please, we beg you. Your sister wants to help you. You know her. She loves you. Come home and let us help you.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I'll find my own help. I don't want to be a burden. You, Cathleen, the boys, you have your own lives now.”

“Sean, you're not a burden. You're family.”

“I got this. Okay? Drop it. I got this.”

“What if I got you help here? What if I got you out of here and got you a nurse and a physical therapist?” Gaspar said quickly, trying desperately to appease him.

Sean's eyes turned back toward Gaspar.

“You'd do that?”

“Of course I would. I want you to get better. If you want to get better, if you want to go see this woman, Chiara, and make it right, then you have to get better.”

“Chiara? So you're going to help me with that, too? You can get me to Italy?” Sean asked, confused. “But last night . . . last night . . . you basically said it was silly. You thought it was a dumb idea.”

“I was wrong, Sean. I see that now. This is your life. Yours. Not anyone else's. Sometimes I forget that. Sometimes when I am doling out advice I forget that I am not the one who has to live with the consequences. Someone else does. As a doctor, I do it every day. I make informed decisions and I suggest things that make sense to me, on paper, but sometimes, some decisions can't be made by someone else, no matter how
much experience, no matter how much knowledge he or she has. I don't know what's in my patients' hearts. I had a plan for Colm. I was so sure my plan would be the plan to solve everything. But you remember, Colm had another plan. I didn't know, back then, what was in his heart any more than I know what's in your heart now. If there is one thing this life has taught me it's that our choices have to be our own, Sean. Whatever we choose for ourselves, the choices have to be entirely our own, otherwise we're living the consequences of another's decision, another's judgments, consequences that the one meting out the advice doesn't have to live with five months down the road, let alone five years. And it's usually advice the giver won't even remember giving. I don't want you living your life based on what I think you should do. I think the first step in getting you better will be you owning all of your decisions. From here on out, that's what you'll do. Ten years from now, it won't matter to me in the least if you do or don't find this woman. But it could mean all the difference in the world to you. So you make that choice. You.”

Sean sat for a second and said nothing. He wanted to think about what Gaspar had just said. He wanted to go back and think about how many decisions he'd made in his life based on the insights of others, based on what other people thought of him, expected from him. He thought about how many times he'd listened, and how many times he hadn't. He thought of his mother and his sister, who both gave him advice knowing they would be the ones living the consequences right along with him. He thought of his mother's voice, the joy in it, when he told her he wanted to be a priest and how that joy, that
pleasing her, meant more to him than anything else in the world. He thought of the fear and pain he felt when he didn't think he could do it, and the worry he felt that even though she was dead and long gone, she would somehow have disapproved of him anyway for leaving the seminary. Sean also thought of the priest in Florence who told him that he was sinning, and told Sean that he needed to repent, told Sean that he needed to let the girl he loved go. He wondered where that priest was. He wasn't living the consequences of that choice. Sean was. Sean thought about some of the advice he had given over the years, too. His fair share, he was sure. And he shuddered, remembering how he scolded little Colm, screamed at him for being selfish, for wanting to find his real dad, and how heartbroken and lost the boy was, sobbing into his shoulder,
Why doesn't he love me? Does he know how much I love him—want to know him?

“I know what you mean, Gaspar,” Sean admitted.

“I know you do. Now are you going to let me help you?”

“Sure,” Sean said in resignation.

“I have some calls to make. But I'll find you someone here. I won't be able to stay much longer than a week though. Your sister, you know she's due in a few weeks; I must be there. And my practice . . . I just can't leave it.”

“I know. I understand. It's okay. I'll be okay.”

“You're sure? Absolutely positive? I was at your place and it doesn't look like anyone has been by or taking care of stuff for you. Do you have someone paying your bills?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I'll take care of that before I go. I'll make all the arrangements.”

“You don't have to do that. I'll get somebody.”

“But I do. I worry that you're all . . . alone . . .”

“Gaspar, I have some buddies out here. They're not great housekeepers. They wouldn't think to check my apartment, but they do care, Gaspar. They do. People just have different ways of showing it. Some guys visit me every day. My buddy James, for instance, was the one who taught me to surf. He showed me around when I first moved in. He's a solid guy. You know he's the one who saved my life the day of the fire? I lost my heartbeat, and he brought me back.”

“Good friend to have around.”

“Ya think?” Sean winked.

“So, Sean, you are sure? You are sure you're not too lonely here?”

“I'm sure. I'll be okay. I will.”

“I hope so. Your sister will never forgive me if something happens to you.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I am sorry about being such an ass these past couple of days. I know it wasn't an easy trip. These meds are messing with my head. I don't feel like myself.”

“Please, don't apologize. I was the one who walked in here and pushed you too hard, too soon. I had no right.”

“You're all right, Gaspar. You're all right.”

“So . . . ?” Gaspar asked, changing the subject, and blushing from Sean's compliment. “Let's talk about something else. I'm here to stay for a while.”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“Why don't you tell me what happened the day of the fire? I still don't feel like I got the whole story.”

“No? I thought we covered it.”

“Not really. We got at each other's throats so quickly when I first arrived that you never told me the entire story. You never told me how exactly you got out of that fire. You said a house exploded in flames. How did you jump from a house and live?”

“It's a miracle, isn't it? That's what everyone keeps telling me.”

“A miracle? That doesn't sound like the Sean I know. Now you sound like your sister, Cathleen.”

Sean laughed. “Seriously, it was the craziest thing. You're going to think I am nuts . . . but . . . nah . . . forget it . . . forget I ever said anything.”

“No, what? Tell me. I won't laugh this time. Promise.” Gaspar crossed his heart, like Colm used to when he was a little boy.

Cross my heart, Uncle Sean!
Sean could almost see him there standing in the room beside Gaspar and making the motions across his heart.

“Do you believe in . . . Aw, shit. Forget it.” Sean meant to shake his head, but couldn't.

“What? After everything we've been through, everything we've talked about over the years, you can't ask me something . . . just shoot.”

“I already know the answer, Gaspar. I know that you're going to think I am nuts.”

“What? Just ask already.”

“Do you believe in angels, Doc?”

“As in the beings with wings? Or like Clarence in
It's a Wonderful Life
?”

“I guess they can come in all shapes, all forms. Some have wings. Some are invisible. Some look like us. Some come to us as light. They're supposed to be messengers, God's messengers. They're supposed to send us messages, signs. I think the Hindus believe in them. I know the Catholics do. Muslims and Jews do, too, I think. But, do you, Gaspar Basu, believe in them?”

“Why are you asking?”

“I just want to know. Your answer will determine whether I tell you my crazy story or not.”

“I can see where this is going, Sean. So yes, for the purposes of you telling me your crazy story, I believe.”

“Nope. That's not a real answer.”

“Sean, it doesn't matter what I believe. We've been through this. You have to trust your own experiences. Everybody has their own, his or her own truth. If they say they've seen angels, heaven, their dead son or daughter, their grandmother or best friend, then who am I or anyone else to judge them? They know what they saw, what they felt. Remember your sister? How she was so sure, so absolutely sure she could see your mother? Remember when we were in the hospital in L.A., how she claimed your mother told her Colm would be okay, would live a long life? There was no arguing with Cathleen, no telling her otherwise. We were there, too. We didn't see anything. But for her it was real. And then there was Colm, back when he was really sick . . . no matter what Cathleen said to him, assured him, no matter what priests told him, he was adamant, he couldn't see heaven. He hadn't seen it for himself . . .”

Sean cut Gaspar off. “I get it, I get it . . .”

“So you know what I am getting at. Just tell me. Help me understand what happened. What you're going through.”

“I swear to God, I am not making this up, Gaspar. I wasn't on any drugs. I wasn't hallucinating.”

“I believe you.”

“I was sent up into this tinderbox. No one knew about all the combustibles in the basement, all we knew about was the balloon framing, which basically meant that fire could get trapped in the walls. I went up two flights to check to see if there was any damage up there or fire. We all thought the fire was out. On the surface, everything looked good. But still, in structures like those, it is procedure to knock out some walls and make sure no fire is behind them. No one actually thought the fire was up there. But there was an explosion in the basement just as I threw my ax right into a wall. The room filled with fire. The explosion threw me clear across the room. I hit my head. I was out for some time, while the room burned and filled with smoke. When I woke up, I had no idea where I was. I thought I was trapped. There was so much black smoke, I couldn't see in front of me. The floor was burning right below me. I knew the room was close to the flashover stage. Once that happens—the room is about 1200 degrees. There's no surviving that. I would have been a Sean barbecued sandwich—for a limited time for ninety-nine cents, come and get it! There was a point when I just knew I was a goner.”