Proof of Angels

by Mary Curran Hackett

  “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.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER GASPAR LEFT, SEAN 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.

  Chapter 8

  GASPAR TURNED THE KEY, ENTERED SEAN’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, reachi
ng 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.