Paolo’s intercom rang.
“Do you want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, I’ll have a tall cappuccino with two raw sugars. Sprinkle a little bit of cocoa on top.”
“Okay. Be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Bye.”
Paolo gazed out the windows of his office. Dark rain clouds appeared from the west. Paolo called Rio and left a message on her voice mail. A tear trickled down his chin.
“Paolo? Paolo?”
Paolo swiveled his chair around. Rebecca stood before him. She placed the coffee on his desk. “No luck?”
“Nope. I’ve lost the gift; I can’t remote view for shit. I’ve tried for the last four months—nothing but headaches. We’ll never find the bastard.” Paolo rubbed his head.
“I’m sorry, Paolo. Want some Advil?”
“Yep, please. I don’t understand why I can’t remote view anymore, Rebecca. I just can’t do it.”
“Maybe it’s not meant to be, Paolo.”
“What do you mean?”
Rebecca said nothing and walked out of his office.
Not meant to be. The words touched Paolo. His mind began to flash back over his life—Vittorio, his father, Antonio, Sister Mary, Pard, Sergio, Jayne, the birth of his children, his time with Sydney. He cried. Elbows on his knees, he wept into his hands. He reached deep within himself and cried out in his mind: I forgive you, Colin Payne. I forgive you.
A beam of sunlight broke through the clouds and shined on Paolo. He stood and walked out his office door.
“Rebecca, I’m going home, Thank you.” Paolo leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Goodbye, Rebecca. Say, have I ever told you…”
She smiled. “Goodbye, Paolo.”
CHAPTER 74
Sad for now—my friend you will always be
The writer said true love is to let go
And should you come back, my arms will be open
My heart at peace
And while you are away I will try to understand
For I know you love me and I love you
Every love song I hear is about you and me
Like the blood that flows through my veins, that sustains my life
Is the love I have for you
PAOLO CLOSED HIS now-full journal and made a note to himself to get another writing tablet. He walked to the fireplace, gathered the little white pieces of paper, and placed them in a shoebox on the dining room table. He still held onto the piece titled “Yellow Rose” and slipped it into his pocket.
He put on his navy blue jacket and went outside. He strolled through the Brewster Estate in the twilight of the evening. Photoelectric sensors turned on the 1850s-style streetlights and they began to glow. Paolo’s path illuminated by the light of the lamps, he walked by the pergola. A slight chill was in the air. Hands clasped behind his back, Paolo let his thoughts ramble. He talked to himself quietly. “We as a people failed to see life’s warning signs. The choice was made long ago, in ancient generations—we took the love of one another and tossed it into the wind, to be blown into the four corners of the world in a mist of confusion and chaos. All man’s choices were made with total disregard for love. All the people that will suffer because of our own stupidity….” He shook his head, rubbed his right temple, and tried to rid his thoughts of the past. The world was in chaos and he was at the forefront, but his mind couldn’t let go of Sydney. What was this thing called love? The question lingered in his mind like the smell of cigarette smoke on clothes. What went wrong? What didn’t I do? What was right? What was wrong? What has happened to humanity? His thoughts became disjointed. Why, why am I here? What is my purpose? I speak to thousands about the importance of love, but here I stand, walking alone in this cocoon of silence. A headache erupted as he walked and tears streamed down his face. His brain became numb to the outside world. A deer entered his peripheral vision and nuzzled in one of the many gardens, looking for food. The distant voices of his neighbors faded and the chilly night suddenly filled with silence.
Overwhelmed, Paolo sat on a park bench under a lantern. He gazed at the wispy clouds that raced before the full moon as it rose over East Rock Mountain. His body was highlighted by the blue-silver glimmer of the moonlight and the Big Dipper hanging in the western sky. His headache grew stronger and a searing pain traveled through his skull. Paolo tried to focus on the beauty of the night. He closed his eyes for a moment.
Paolo was awakened by the sound of the security golf cart. The flashing yellow strobe light penetrated his closed eyelids. He struggled to wake up.
“Paolo, Paolo, Mr. DeLaurentis, are you okay?”
“Yes,” he said groggily. Paolo realized he was slurring his words. Did I have a stroke? He struggled to sit up. The security guard rushed over to him.
“What time is it?” Paolo managed to say.
“Almost two a.m.” replied Bryan, the guard. He was a fifth-year architecture student who had worked for BOET before going back to college. Paolo’s face was ashen under the glow of the streetlight. Bryan reached for his cell phone and dialed 911.
Paolo tried to focus on Bryan’s face. He clutched his head and said, “I don’t…” Paolo tried to stand, but collapsed and hit his head on the cold iron rail of the park bench. Within fifteen minutes, an ambulance arrived and loaded the unconscious Paolo. Sirens wailed as Paolo was taken to Yale New Haven Hospital.
The ambulance took a circuitous route—Whitney to Chapel to Park to Howard and finally to the emergency entrance at Davenport. Paolo’s face was easily recognizable, and the EMT notified the emergency room a VIP was inbound. At the same time, Bryan notified his BOET counterpart.
A protective order was issued from the White House. Strict orders were given to the New Haven police department to protect Paolo DeLaurentis until the Secret Service arrived. The phone calls were made: Jim Collon left his house in Seymour, Colonel DeLaurentis was transported to New Haven via F16 fighter jet, Rio was on her way.
A recent issue of Time magazine lay atop the nurse’s station. On the cover was Paolo’s picture. The caption read, “The Messenger from God?”
CHAPTER 75
PAOLO AWOKE TWO days later, his children at his bedside. He heard the audible beeping of the heart monitor, and a hissing sound accompanied a squeezing pressure on his left arm. To his relief, his head no longer hurt. He opened his eyes and focused on the cork bulletin board that hung on the blue wall in front of him. His eyes vacant, he tried to understand where he was.
“Rio, I think Dad is awake.”
Rio leaned over. “Dad? Dad, are you okay? Giacomo, go get a nurse.” Giacomo leaned over and pushed the call button.
Paolo replied sleepily, “I think so, did I have a stroke?”
Giacomo answered, “No, Dad, you didn’t have a stroke. We can talk about it later.” He touched Paolo’s arm.
“My mouth is dry. Can I get something to drink?”
“Sure, Dad,” Rio reached for the blue plastic pitcher of water and poured him a glass.
Paolo tried to sit up. Giacomo gently placed his hand on Paolo’s shoulder. “Don’t try to get up, Dad.”
“Yeah Dad, wait till the nurse comes.” Rio gently lifted the back of her father’s head. She placed the cup on his lips. Paolo sipped some water.
“How long have I been here?” Paolo asked.
“Almost two days,” Rio replied with sadness in her eyes.
Paolo understood by the look in their eyes that his prognosis was not a good one.
“How bad, Colonel?”
“Not good, Dad. It looks like you have cancer.”
“Brain?” Paolo asked sullenly.
“Yes,” Rio said. She turned and tried to hold back the deep sigh within her.
Both his children had tears in their eyes. Paolo said, “Everything will be alright, we can fight this. Come closer.” Paolo took each of his grown children’s hands and kissed them. He said, “I guess I s
hould’ve kept on sleeping. This brain cancer thing can ruin your whole day,” he laughed, putting on his best face. Rio broke down and sobbed. Giacomo enfolded her in his arms and cried, too.
“Excuse me, you two, but I’m the one dying here,” Paolo said sardonically.
They turned and looked at their father. He smiled at them. “A long time ago, a man told me that tomorrow waits for no man—even in death, there is always a tomorrow. You will always have a tomorrow. I’ll be a memory in your hearts, life will continue, and it’s up to you to seize the day, to grasp life, and most of all, to love. It’s so important to love.” An inner strength overcame Paolo. He continued, “Physical death is every person’s outcome. Apparently my physical death will arrive early. For me, my life will continue within the minds and hearts of those I loved and those who have loved me. Colonel?”
“Yes, Dad?” Giacomo took his forefingers and wiped the tears from his eyes.
“Help me sit up?”
“You shouldn’t sit up, Dad,” Rio said.
“What could happen? I’m already going to die.” He laughed. “Come on, help your old man sit up.”
“Okay.” Rio leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek.
“How long do I have?”
The brother and sister looked at each other.
“Well?”
“Maybe six months with treatment,” Giacomo said. Rio turned her head and wept.
“Rio?”
“Yeah.”
“Turn around, my principessa.” She turned, tissue in hand, and wiped her eyes.
“Listen, this is not the end of the world. I will always be with you and your brother. I’ll never leave your hearts.”
“I know, Dad, but it hurts.”
“It’s okay, Rio.” Paolo pushed himself up. Propped on a pillow, he slid over. “Come here, sit down next to your father.” Rio placed her head on his chest and silently cried. Paolo stroked her long brown hair. “It will be okay, Rio.” After a few minutes, Paolo said, “Okay, you two, a few things. First, I don’t want to die here. Second, I still want to go to Ottati. Third, and most important, I love you guys so much—never ever forget that, okay?” They nodded their heads. “One final comment, I understand this is sad for both of you and to be honest I’m not too happy about it either, but this is life. I want my last days, no matter how few they are, to be filled with life and happiness. Can we agree on that?”
“I’ll try, Dad.”
“Thanks, Rio. And you, Giacomo?”
“I’ll try my best, Pops.”
“Pops—that’s what I used to call my dad.” A broad smile crossed Paolo’s face.
The door to his hospital room opened. “Mr. DeLaurentis?”
“Yep, that’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Dr. Carr.”
“Hello, Dr. Carr, nice to meet you.” The two shook hands. “Tell me, Doc, is it as bad as my children say?”
“I’m afraid so. The tumor is embedded deep in your temporal lobe. Because of the depth, we were not able to perform a biopsy. Our experience has been that this type of tumor is always fatal. Outside of your headaches and the seizure two nights ago, have you had any other problems?”
“Such as what?”
“Memory issues, emotional problems?”
“My memory, hmm…for the last several months, my mind has been like a movie, replaying my life over and over. Emotionally? Well…” his voice trailed off.
“Your children told me about your loss, I’m very sorry. Have you had any problems distinguishing sounds? Have you experienced slurred speech?”
“No.”
“I take it your children told you the tumor is inoperable.”
“Yes.”
“We feel confident that radiation and chemotherapy will shrink the tumor, but that will not completely eradicate the cancer cells.”
“So, what you’re telling me is I’m going to die soon.”
“More than likely. I’m sorry.”
“How long do I have without the treatment?”
“Hard to say…maybe a month or two.”
“With the treatment?”
“Six to nine months.”
“Well, as my daughter would say, that sucks.” The doctor made no response. “Okay, this is what we’re going to do.” Dr. Carr’s eyebrows rose. “First and foremost, I have to be in Italy in six weeks. This is not negotiable. How long is the treatment?”
“With radiation and chemo, four weeks. But I have to tell you, Mr. DeLaurentis, this treatment will take a toll on your body.”
“I’m sure it will. So technically I can still go to Italy?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Very well. When do we start?”
“Tomorrow.”
Paolo looked at his children. “Guys, do you have any questions?” They shook their heads no. “Okay, thank you, doctor. I appreciate your honesty and candidness. Now, smile, enjoy your life. You’re a good man. And the next time you see me, call me Paolo.”
“Yes, Paolo.” The doctor left the room.
“Dad, why do you have to go to Italy?”
“I want to see Ottati one last time. I want to sit in the Piazza Umberto overlooking the Valle del Calore, the lush greens below, and feel the fresh mountain breeze of fall. I want to see the bright orange-colored roofs, the ancient stairways. Maybe have a warm chestnut or a fig and listen to the voices of the children playing. And celebrate my birthday. That’s all I desire—to see the beautiful vistas of my grandfather’s home, my home, one last time.”
Rio and Giacomo both replied. “Okay, Dad. We’re coming with you.”
“Absolutely, Rio.”
The stress and heartache of losing Sydney took its toll on Paolo’s body. Diagnosed with brain cancer, Paolo resigned himself to the fact he was dying. Memories of the past faded in the face of life with all the daunting tasks that beseeched him. One would think you could easily escape into the fantasy of the mind, ignoring all reality. In this earthly existence, the reality of life can come crashing down, slapping you in the face with a wrecking ball.
While undergoing radiation treatments, encased in the desolate room behind the closed, vault-like door, under the cold machine aiming its lethal rays at the alien mass within his brain, Paolo’s one desire was Sydney. What was in his being that made him love this woman to the point of self-sacrifice? The thought was always the memory of her. The remembrance of her and him kept Paolo alive until the time was right.
Paolo’s gurney was nestled in a corner of a hallway. Like a stray dog held in captivity at a kennel, Paolo waited patiently for the orderly to take him back to his room. The queasiness in his stomach started to brew. He closed his eyes in hope the sickness would go away, and Sydney was by his side, then just as quickly, she was gone. Paolo hallucinated almost daily—his mind played tricks on him, caused by the desire within him for her. The hallucinations gave him no repose, no peace.
They say hell is the total, complete absence of God. Hell is the absence of love, the desire to be with God and not being able to quench the desire. Hell was the never-ending epiphany that God does truly exist. Was he in hell? Did the epiphany of love escape him?
During the third week of his treatment, when Paolo was lucid enough, Marge, his nurse, would write down his words of love and forgiveness. He made an agreement with her that she would write everything that he blabbered from his mouth.
“As I lay here at what appears to be death’s door, I can only think of you. My life seems so insignificant when I see all the suffering around me. How blessed I am with the knowledge that I have loved you, and you have loved me. You were with me yesterday as I lay in the hallway on my gurney. Soon I shall probably be lying on the same gurney with a sheet over my head and I hope I will be with you once again in heaven. I pray I’ll be in the hands of God resting in peace with you by my side. I find that as the days go on, my hallucinations increase, and for whatever reason, you are always present before me. They do bring me comfort, even though I
know you’re not really here, for how could you be? I love you and will love you for all eternity.
“Time passes slowly. All I have now are my memories. I have some visitors; they usually come after Marge leaves for the day. Family, mostly. Steve, Tony, and Warren come by almost every night. I managed to keep my illness quiet, for I want no fanfare. It hurts me when my mother and brothers and sisters come to visit, which is on a daily basis. My mother’s suffering with the knowledge that her child will die breaks my heart. It’s a terrible, terrible tragedy for a parent to watch their child die, no matter how old the child. Giacomo and Rio are here constantly. I tell the kids that even though my life is ending, I’ll live for eternity in heaven and will always be with them in their hearts and minds.
“At times, I’m afraid, yet an inner peace envelops me in the knowledge that love exists. Strangely, I sometimes look forward to my passing. The pain will finally end and I will be with you. Thank you for the kiss you just gave me, your lips, the softness of your lips. How the mind can play tricks. I guess you’re not here. Marge always ruins these hallucinations. Sorry, Marge, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. How I wish you were here, Syd. I love you,” he said as he drifted off to sleep.
Paolo became quite the personality at the hospital. The staff was well aware of who he was. Paolo was a major benefactor and his stay was kept quiet. The fourth and final week of treatment came. His face was gaunt and gray, he had lost over thirty pounds, and he appeared to be on death’s doorstep. Paolo no longer resembled the photo in Time magazine.
The nurses would tell their co-workers about the patient in Room 542. Paolo’s words touched the hearts of those who heard him. Afterwards, they became richer. Many took the love within them and gave it to their loved ones. Some went so far as to share their love with strangers. How they wished to be loved the way Paolo loved Sydney.
Paolo would often go into discourses about love. One time, during one of his discussions with Marge, a group of twenty people gathered in his room. Nurses, doctors, aides—even the orderly who took Paolo to his radiation treatments—lined the doorway. Some would say the hallucinations got the better of him, but others felt as if God talked through Paolo to them. At times—more often than not—the listeners left his room emotionally touched.
Messenger From God (The Last Eulogy Series Book 1) Page 32