Proof of Angels

by Mary Curran Hackett

  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.”

  “Sean, Sean, Sean,” Gaspar repeated like a mantra and closed his eyes, imagining the horror. The could have been.

  “So I said a prayer. Promised myself a long time ago that if I ever found myself in a similar predicament I wouldn’t be a hypocrite and declare my devotion to our lord and savior and all that crap, but I did. I said a damned prayer. Promised God or whoever was listening, angels, saints, my dead mom and dad, whoever, I’d be a better man if I got out of there, and just like that, this angel appears from out of nowhere. She was so bright, and it felt so real, and I followed her and just as I got to the window, she disappeared. She got me out of there. I got to the window and I just jumped. A second after I did, the room flashed over and the entire floor gave way. The house exploded behind me. If it weren’t for that angel, I’d be, I’d be . . .”

  “Dead,” Gaspar finished, tight-lipped and with a nod.

  “Yes. I’d be dead. But I am not. And I can’t help but wonder why. And I can’t exactly go around telling people that an angel saved me. Or that I have some divine purpose now, some reason to be alive today. I can’t very well do that. Not now, not after all the bullshit I put my sister through telling her she was crazy all those years she went searching for miracles to save Colm . . .”

  “Sean, I understand. I do. But it could be a lot of things . . .”

  “Yes, that’s what I want to hear. I need to hear some common sense. I need some sort of scientific reason. Tell me one, Gaspar. Please, because I feel like I am losing my mind.”

  “Well, for one, you said the angel led you to a window. Are you sure the sun wasn’t coming through the window? That it wasn’t some sort of aberration? Some trick of your eyes? An optical illusion?”

  “No, I am sure it wasn’t. It was black as night. The window was covered in smoke. Next try . . .”

  “You said you were unconscious at some point? Did I hear that correctly? You lost your way? Your head injury could have caused you to hallucinate. You could have been dreaming or suffering from oxygen deprivation. It could have been a stroke of good luck—that you happened to see a person—but actually you were already on your way in the right direction for the window.”

  Sean smiled. He liked hearing Gaspar try to reason away the unfathomable. There was a secret thrill in it. And Gaspar was so good at making the irrational so banal. But there was a part of him he wasn’t going to reveal to Gaspar. I saw her before, Gaspar. I saw this angel of light before.

  “And then there is the most obvious reason for why you didn’t see an angel . . .”

  “Oh? What’s that?” Sean asked.

  “Well, if an angel was going to go through all the trouble to save you . . . why stop there? Why stop at the window? You were three stories up. Why didn’t she just carry you to the ground safely?”

  Sean let out a loud laugh and slapped his own leg. “Ouch!” he said, realizing again that his hands still hurt and so did his legs. “Yeah, it was just some sort of illusion. I know. Thanks, Doc. You’re right. It’s all a bunch of nonsense.”

  “Now, now, that’s not what I am saying. You asked me for logical reasons. I gave you some. But the illogical can’t be ignored either. It is illogical that you’re even here today talking to me. All of my textbooks, all of my experience in medicine tells me that you should be dead. So there is something there. There is space for the irrational. Always.”

  “So you think there’s a chance that all of this—me being here—isn’t just some fluke? That there is a reason bigger than me? That maybe I have a second chance for a reason?”

  “Maybe. As a man who is living his second chance, I have to say it’s not something to take lightly. And angel or no, the facts are irrefutable. You are here. For whatever reason, Sean, you have a second shot. And you have to remember, like you said, angels come in all sorts of shapes and forms. You have lots of angels looking out for you—here and now. And maybe you’re the angel with a message, a purpose that you need to fulfill here on earth.”

  “So you agree there was a reason—why I am here?”

  “Yes, my friend. I agree. But maybe yo
u need to look at it another way, too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Stop thinking in terms of chances—first, second, third—whatever. Think of it in terms of phases, chapters, if you will. You’re just turning a page, moving on to the next chapter. Nothing to be ashamed of in the previous ones. You’re just moving forward, like everyone else in the world. But now you’ve got the perspective you didn’t have before. Now you know how important it is to savor every moment.”

  “But don’t you have any regrets, Gaspar? Don’t you ever think there was a better way? Have you ever looked back and known you so fundamentally screwed up that you can’t possibly go on?”

  “Of course, I think everybody does. I have many. Too many.”

  “So how do you do it?”

  “How do I do what exactly?”

  “How do you get up? Start over? Go on? Live out your second chance, chapter, or whatever you want to call it, knowing the people you loved once don’t get to, or knowing that they might be out there living their life without you, without a second thought about you?”

  “Some days I try to be a little nicer, a little more patient. Sometimes, I try to smile a bit more. I try to make up for all the years I wasn’t so nice, so patient, so pleasant to Niranjana and to Dhruv. I can’t go back and be kind to them. But I can be kind to others. I can’t bring my dead wife back. I can’t undo a lot of things, Sean. You’re right. And you know that, too. You do. That’s not our job. So I try to be a bit better, every day. That’s all we can do.”

  “I regret so much though. I’ve screwed up so many times. I don’t know where to even begin making up for it.”

  “Sean, stop. Just stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Thinking about the past, Sean. Stop. I know it’s easier said than done. But a wise boy once told me that thinking about the past can make you angry or sad, and thinking about the future can only make you anxious. But there is a space in between the past and the future. It’s the present. It’s right now. So rest there, Sean. Rest there. You have nothing to regret in this moment. No mistakes have been made. Nothing is about to happen. If you just stay here.” Gaspar put his hand on Sean’s heart and tapped it. “Right here. Stay right here.”

  Chapter 10

  GASPAR STAYED IN LOS ANGELES WITH SEAN FOR A full week as promised. It took the better part of every day for him to make all the necessary arrangements for Sean to return to his apartment and have around-the-clock care.

  Sean amazed Gaspar with his progress. In just a remarkable seven days, a mere seven weeks from jumping out of the building, Sean was able to sit up. His head was removed from the stabilizer and his neck was fitted for a brace. The bandages on his hands were removed and protective gloves slid on; he could finally use his hands to hold his own drink.

  Though several doctors had explained to Sean about the injuries he’d incurred, Sean admitted to Gaspar that he didn’t quite grasp what they were telling him. So Gaspar called for Sean’s CT scans and X-rays, and the two sat together looking at the glow of Sean’s insides. Gaspar used a pen as a pointer to show Sean that he had two clean breaks in each of his femurs. Almost identical. He showed Sean the before photos—the two femurs, snapped and jagged black lines through white bones. Sean winced in pain just looking at the films, though the initial excruciatingly acute pain of the break had long since faded to a throbbing, constant one.

  Then Gaspar held up the post-op films. Each of Sean’s legs now had four screws drilled into it: two at each side of his hips and two in each of his knees to support the rods placed to help the bones heal. Gaspar explained how the screws would eventually have to be removed. Sean shook his head in disbelief.

  “So another surgery?”

  “Sort of. You’ll be awake. They may give you a twilight drug. Numb the area. No big deal.”

  “How come you doctors are always telling us patients that it’s no big deal? Have you ever had titanium rods stuck in your body and up your ass?”

  Gaspar laughed and said, “Point taken. Speaking of asses . . .” Gaspar pulled up another set of films.

  He showed Sean how his bones had been fused above the coccyx and sacrum between the lumbar and thoracic area of the spine.

  “And this,” Gaspar said, brushing a long stroke of his pen against the film, “this is a Zielke rod placed in the L1–L3. These are pedicle screws in the L3 and L4. You’re lucky your spine was not severed, Sean. It’s a miracle. If it had been, you would never be able to walk again. You’ll regain most motor functions eventually. Bending may be an issue, since the lumbar area is where you need the most flexibility,” Gaspar warned Sean, “but for the most part, with physical therapy, you will eventually walk and regain enough to do most of your activities.”

  Sean looked at the pieces of himself, broken inside, now held together with rods and screws and pins that looked like a series of chains. “For once my body looks like how I feel inside. Shattered,” Sean remarked quite melodramatically.

  “Or,” Gaspar paused, “stronger than ever. Now that you’re reinforced.”

  “Ever the optimist, Doc.”

  “No, a realist. You’re on your way to getting better inside and out.”

  “But I won’t be able to fight fires? Surf? Do any of the things I love? Any of the things that make me who I am? How is that good news?”

  “Maybe it’s time, once again, my friend, to redefine who you are. Or better yet, stop defining yourself by what you do for a living or how you have fun, but rather by what you believe.”

  In Sean’s first day out of bed, he was moved into a mechanical recumbent wheelchair. Gaspar and James walked alongside him as he practiced using the buttons and steering himself. Pleased to finally be out of his room, Sean took a long ride through the corridors of the hospital. They passed by nurses’ stations, waiting rooms, and patients’ rooms, some where patients were crying out in pain and some where only the sounds of a game show wheel spinning could be heard.

  Sean hated it.

  “I gotta get out of here, guys. It’s killing me,” Sean said.

  “One more week,” James assured him, “and then you’re sprung.”

  “I’ve made all the arrangements,” Gaspar added. “A gentleman nurse by the name of Tom, and with great luck he is also a physical therapist, will meet you and James the day after I leave. He’s agreed to care for you during the day and help with your rehabilitation. I’ll have a night nurse as well. James will fill in here and there. Isn’t that right, James?” Gaspar nodded in James’s direction.

  “Yes, sir,” James said, giving him a false, friendly salute.

  The two men had spent a lot of time over the past week sitting in Sean’s room, eating, loafing, and at times watching reruns of Jeopardy! and racing to answer each statement with a question.

  “What is the Emancipation Proclamation?”

  “Who is Al Pacino?”

  Sean enjoyed watching the two competing with each other more than the program itself. It was the most entertainment he’d had in weeks. Even more so, he enjoyed seeing James, a firefighter and surfer, who replaced each period at the end of a sentence with man, and had a degree from a local junior college, trounce Gaspar, world-renowned cardiologist, each night.

  “Lucky guess,” Gaspar would say each and every time James would come in a second before him. Though Gaspar feigned exasperation, Sean could tell that Gaspar enjoyed the company of James as much as he did. James was not only smart, and obviously a devoted friend, but he worked hard. He pulled two doubles in the week Gaspar was there. He stopped in during his shifts when he could, after his shifts, and before them. He always came in with something that was the “bomb.”

  This veggie burger, Gaspar, it’s da bomb, man.

  This hummus. The. Bomb. Bam.

  Hands down. Oh my god, this coffee. Da bomb! Which James followed up with an explosive gesture and crashing sound effects.

  “No wonder,” Gaspar said, leaning over Sean one afternoon, just before biting
into a sandwich, “James didn’t think to go to your apartment, the boy is always eating and or exploding.”

  On the last morning of Gaspar’s stay, he arrived at Sean’s room early to sit and go over the expected recovery plans. But just as he was about to get up and say good-bye to Sean, James peered into the room and said he had a surprise for Sean.

  “Close your eyes, man.”

  “If it’s a stripper, you’re tipping,” Sean quipped back.

  “It’s nothing like that. What did I tell you? Those joints are for losers. I don’t need to pay for my lady friends,” he said with a knowing smile. His bright green eyes squinted, and his lips closed as he stuck his double chin out, stretching the hanging skin and what looked like remnants of baby fat, and said, “Take a load of this face. Is this the face that needs to pay for chicks?”

  “What is it then?” Sean said, covering his eyes with his gloved hands.

  “Keep ’em closed. I’ll tell ya when to open,” James said, shouting through the doorway of Sean’s hospital room.

  Sean heard two sets of adult footsteps. One set was James, he was certain. But the other, by their pacing, was a woman’s. Alongside her, Sean could hear a soft padding sound, followed by tiny clacks, like fingernails tapping the floor.

  “Keep ’em closed! No peeking!” James erupted when he saw Sean tilt his head back to sneak a look through the tiny slits of his closed eyes.

  For a second Sean thought it was his sister, Cathleen, with one of the boys. But then he felt a soft push on his upper thigh. The only part not covered in a cast.

  “Can I open them?” Sean asked.

  “You can open them!” James said cheerfully. “Go on, man!”

  Sean opened his eyes and saw the yellow-haired paw that tapped at and then rested on his upper thigh. Sean’s eyes followed the length of the paw and saw that it was connected to the outstretched leg of a yellow Labrador. Its large brown eyes were slanted in such a way that he appeared as if he were about to cry. Each eye was surrounded by flecks of baby-fine and soft white hair that gathered and met in a peak above his large pink-spotted black snout. His ears flopped down next to his head and swung a bit as he cocked his head as if to say “Hello” when he pulled back his paw. He had a bright blue vest wrapped around his abdomen and a red collar that was inscribed with the name “Chief.”