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.
Chapter 9
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, AS GASPAR 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 Ita
ly 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.”
Proof of Angels Page 6