Proof of Heaven

by Mary Curran Hackett

  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.

  Chapter 10

  Later 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.

  Chapter 11

  Cathleen was grateful her brother was there with her in the apartment, even if he had drunk himself to sleep by sneaking swigs from her old, dusty bottle of whiskey that he snagged while she was in the kitchen fixing them something to eat. He didn’t think she could see that he stashed the bottle between the pillows on the couch where he now lay. He didn’t think she saw him pour the whiskey into the club soda she had poured for him. Any other night she would have said something—gotten into a serious fight with him—but she was tired, and she was relieved he was there. It was the noticing, she thought. The tiny moments that she noticed that no one else did that were constantly undoing her, them. Although she wished he was awake so she wouldn’t feel so alone, she was happy to hear him breathe in the room. His presence was enough. It would have been unbearable to be there alone.

  She walked by Colm’s room and stood in the doorway looking at all the evidence that her little boy resided there. A tall robot built out of Legos lorded over an assortment of precisely lined up cars, a wrecking crane, a fire truck, and a rumpled, well-hugged bear. His hooded Yankees sweatshirt hung over the chair beside his bed, and the books she had read to him the night before were stacked on the floor beside the messily made bunk bed with fire truck sheets. She bent over to straighten the pile of books, thinking about which ones she should take to the hospital for him—If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Where the Wild Things Are, No Matter What. He had outgrown Oh My Baby, Little One, but she still kept reading it to him and could, after five and a half years, recite the words by heart. She loved the illustrations of the mother bird and her son, and Colm loved looking for the hidden hearts on each page—inside the mother’s collar, underneath the boy’s cap, curled around a coffee cup. No, it didn’t matter where the two birds—the mama and the baby bird—went, their love was everywhere. Yes, on every page, Cathleen thought, Colm was looking for a crisp, whole, beautifully shaped heart.

  It was all she could do to stand up. The exhaustion and heartache seemed to settle in every joint, muscle, and bone. She was the oldest twenty-seven-year-old she knew. She moved around the room, absentmindedly straightening and picking up small toys off the floor and putting them in the appropriate sorted baskets on the shelves along the wall. When she was done, she looked back one last time at Colm’s empty bed and tried not think what if, hit the light, and headed across the hall to the bathroom.

  As she closed the bathroom door behind her, she caught herself in the mirror and winced at her reflection. She thought she looked awful—her hair was a mess, and her eyes, showing signs of wear and age, stared blankly back at her. She could barely stand the sight of herself; no wonder, she thought, no man could either. Cathleen had no idea how men perceived her. She only measured her beauty by the one man who had rejected it, rejected all of her.

  She had grown accustomed to her single life, and she often told herself that she could live the rest of her life without a man. It had been nearly six years since she had been touched by someone other than her son or brother, but she didn’t feel the absence of intimacy. Had she known then what she knew now, she would have tried harder to remember her whole life before, to hold on to it for all time. She only remembered how Pierce’s lips felt on her cheek; she did not remember how he had looked when he kissed her good-bye. She had pretended to be asleep, and she did not kno
w it would be the last time. If she had known, she would have made one last plea for herself, for their unborn son. When she woke later that morning, she found a note that he’d left on her mirror. There was no apology, no good-bye—just some lyrics of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez’s “Mama, You Been on My Mind” scribbled on a piece of paper, asking her to look inside her mirror each morning, and to remember that even though he wouldn’t be there, he would be able to see her so clearly, and he wondered if she, Cathleen, could see herself as clearly as he did, when he had her on his mind.

  Could he really see her? See her now? She hoped not. She hoped he would only remember her as she once was. She could barely see him now. The memory of him was fading for her every day. Something for which she was secretly grateful. He took up less mental space, less heartache with each passing moment. His absence left more room for Colm, she thought. She did not let herself waste too many moments thinking about what might have been. Instead, whenever she became nostalgic or began to miss him, she tried to think of what Monsignor had said to her when she went to him to tell him that she was seven months pregnant and that Pierce had left her.

  “Sometimes we love the wrong people, Cathleen.”

  Monsignor’s words struck her. Yes, she had loved Pierce. It was real. And the purpose of that love produced a child. But just because it was real, it didn’t make it right. It didn’t mean it would last forever. Her head knew that, but her heart felt an entirely different thing. She missed him. She imagined various scenarios in which he, with his guitar slung behind his back, would surprise her by arriving on the doorstep of their apartment or by meeting her at the same subway station where he first saw her all those years ago. She dreamed he would touch her cheek, smooth the hair on top of her head, and slide his hands over an escaped wisp and tuck it behind her ear as he gently kissed her. If she closed her eyes, she could feel it, almost believe he was real. He was there and he loved her. But when she opened her eyes, he was gone and it was her own hand tucking her hair. And it hurt all over again. She had to believe the pain of his leaving her, of his leaving their son, would subside someday. It just hadn’t happened yet. Yes, it hurt considerably less than it did all those years ago, but at any moment the pain asserted itself—a note to the parents of Colm Magee, a homemade Father’s Day card from the day-care center that went to no one, a Dylan song on the radio. Yes, whenever Cathleen felt the familiar sting, she reminded herself of the words the monsignor spoke often, “These things take time, dear. Let your heart heal. No reason to get back out there right away. You have Colm now to love—that’s all you need now.”