Proof of Angels

by Mary Curran Hackett

  Sean turned his head as far as he could and looked up into Tom’s face.

  “Strike a chord, did I?” Tom said, looking down. “Well, I am here to tell you something. It doesn’t mean anything. Not a thing. You had some bad luck. But let me tell you, it could have been worse. A lot worse. You know how many people I’ve seen who can’t walk? Never will again? You know how many people who didn’t get a second chance? Don’t go making yourself crazy trying to attribute meaning to the meaningless. Shit happens.”

  Sean turned his head around quickly, and winced from the pain caused by the sudden movement.

  “I know. I know,” Sean added. He had been where Tom had been, too. He had, at many points in his own life, thought everything was devoid of meaning. He had periods when he felt nothing mattered and everything was a coincidence. That not one thing pointed to the next. But that was before Colm. That was before he had grown to love his nephew. He had seen what that love brought to his life. He could see how the boy’s life, and all of his deaths—all seven of them when he added up every one of Colm’s cardiac arrests—was another chance. Sean definitively knew that each and every one of those chances meant something. They meant something to Colm. They meant something to his sister, Cathleen, and to his friend Gaspar. But most of all they meant something to him. To erase their meaning and to simply dismiss one’s life as an aberration or a magical accident didn’t add up. It never would. But Sean didn’t want to have to tell Tom all of this. He didn’t want to fight something he knew he couldn’t explain to someone who hadn’t felt what he had felt. That love. That love. That love. My god, man, it means everything.

  “So here’s the deal,” Tom said, pushing Sean into a large occupational therapy room at the end of a long corridor. “This is why you’re here. This is why I am here. For one reason, and one reason only: To work. Work. Work. Work. That, my friend, is the meaning of life. Yours, mine, and everyone else’s. Work. Sleep. Repeat. Die. The end. Got it?”

  Sean gave a quick nod of acknowledgment and looked around the room that was filled with giant blue and green exercise balls, racks of weights, thick blue mats, parallel bars, and treadmills and elliptical machines, most of which were being employed by other patients in various states of recovery. There was an amputee, both legs cut below the knee, who was trying to walk on his newly fitted prosthetics with the assistance of his PT. Then there was a young woman who had lost an arm and was curling a large weight with her good arm. A paraplegic was on the ground doing triceps dips, lifting his torso up and down.

  “What’d I tell ya? Two legs. Two arms. A head that works, for the most part. So don’t go bitchin’ to me. Got it?” Tom said quite matter-of-factly, recognizing the scene Sean had just taken in.

  Sean nodded again.

  “Sean, you and I aren’t going to talk much about our feelings in here. Outside that door, in your hospital room, in your home, wherever else we may be you can talk a blue streak. You follow?”

  Sean nodded again.

  “So when we’re in here, we’re not going to talk much about what you can’t do anymore, because all I care about is what you can do, and I can get you wherever you want to go if you just shut up and work hard,” Tom said, pushing the wheelchair over to a large blue mat.

  Sean nodded and stared at Tom for a long time, and then said, “So what do I have to do to get out of this chair?”

  “First things first,” Tom said, pulling Sean up and placing him on the mat. “When rebuilding a burned-up, broken-down house, it is always best to start from the ground. When rebuilding a burned-up, broken-down body, same deal. Ground up.”

  “Let’s get on with it then,” Sean said, lying flat on his back with his arms and legs spread wide, like a child about to make a snow angel. “I’m all yours, Tom.”

  Chapter 12

  WHEN TOM RETURNED SEAN TO HIS ROOM, SEAN was exhausted. The muscles in his arms and quads burned from strain. Sean hadn’t felt that way since his early days in the fire academy. Though Tom’s workout wasn’t even a tenth of the academy’s rigor, Sean felt as though he had just run a marathon, even though he’d only managed to do a few bicep curls and a few leg lifts. All he wanted to do now was sleep.

  But just as Tom was about to lift Sean out of his chair and place him in his bed, Chief sauntered in the room, and Libby trailed close behind.

  Sean immediately perked up, and he could tell Tom took note. “Tom, this is Libby Cartwright and my companion dog, Chief,” Sean said brightly as Chief wagged his tail and propped his muzzle up on Sean’s leg.

  “Tom Smith, Libby. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Tom grabbed Libby’s hand and shook it much more firmly than he had Sean’s earlier. Sean noticed Tom looking at Libby with as much interest as James had a day earlier. Though, Sean noticed for the first time, Tom had a wedding ring on his left hand.

  “Libby, this is my physical therapist and he’ll be going home with me to help out for a few months until I am back on my feet.”

  “Perfect, then today we can let Chief get to know both of you,” Libby said. “Let’s get started.”

  Over the next two hours, Sean watched as Chief followed every one of Libby’s commands. Sean followed Libby, too. He followed her hand gestures, the movement of her arms, the way she bent and snuggled into the dog. Sean tried to mimic her movements exactly, in order to have the same effect on the dog when he tried.

  And Chief made it easy for Sean. Sean commanded, gently but authoritatively, and Chief complied with all of his requests. Just like that.

  “Ask and you shall receive,” Libby said. “It’s that simple.”

  “No one has ever listened to me like this dog listens to me. It’s amazing,” Sean said.

  “He’s a good dog, Sean. If you keep a steady and calm demeanor, reward him, and love him like a family member, he’ll treat you in kind.”

  “Makes sense,” Sean said, “though I’m sure it is easier said than done.”

  “For most of us bipeds, you’re right. But for our four-legged friends here, it is easy. They seem to just get it. No hidden agendas, no demands, no mood swings. They don’t want for much—just appreciation in the form of affection, and of course, food, water, and exercise.”

  “Doesn’t seem like a fair trade,” Sean added. “I ask him to work constantly for me, and I can’t do the same for him. I can never pay him back.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sean. Dogs are like guardian angels. A good one is always there when you need it, and will never ask you for anything in return.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you just say, Libby?” Sean said, turning his wheelchair abruptly around to face her.

  “I said a good dog is like having your own personal guardian angel,” Libby said, snuggling into Chief’s side.

  “I know. I just . . . It’s just odd that you said that . . .”

  “Hmmm? How come?” Libby cocked her head, not following Sean’s train of thought.

  Sean looked at Tom and remembered his comments earlier about life having no meaning. Sean could already hear the man laugh if he even mentioned his theory on second chances and the angel who had quite possibly granted him one.

  “Nah, it’s just that I’ve been thinking a lot about angels lately,” Sean said, petting the dog. “But in another way.”

  “What way?” Libby asked gently.

  Tom let out a laugh. “Oh man, here we go. Don’t even say it. I’ve seen this a million times before, too.”

  Libby snapped a harsh look at Tom. “Let him finish, Tom.”

  “No, Tom’s right. It’s stupid. It’s nothing,” Sean said sheepishly.

  Libby stared for a long time at Sean, searching for something in his eyes. Sean could tell she wanted to talk to him, to hear what he had to say, but he didn’t want to embarrass himself any further in front of Tom. Cynics don’t have much patience for the downtrodden in search of meaning. Cynics, Sean knew, see the hopeful as nothing more than incommodious houseflies that need to be swatted away, mere annoyances tha
t get in the way of living their lives of certitude. He’d been there himself.

  “It’s nothing, Libby. You’re right. Dogs are like angels. This one is for sure. It’s like he appeared from out of nowhere, and he’s, I don’t know, not to be melodramatic, but saving my life all over again in a way,” Sean said, rubbing the dog’s ear and smiling at him.

  “It’s not stupid, Sean. Whatever it is you wanted to tell me,” Libby added, looking at Tom, “you can tell me. I’ll understand.”

  “Understand what?” James said, entering the room with a bag full of takeout. “I bring you great thai-dings! Get it? Thai food! Iz the scha-nizel and za bomb. Oh, hey, Libby, what a surprise! Didn’t know you’d still be here . . . ,” he said, winking over at Sean.

  Sean shot a look at James that might as well have screamed: I call bullshit.

  “What’s going on in here? A party without me? This room is packed, man,” James said. “How did you manage to swing getting so popular, Sean? Must be those good looks,” he said, pinching Sean’s cheek, but carefully avoiding the area where the skin graft met his jawline.

  Libby laughed at James, who filled the room with a raucous energy.

  Tom bristled when he saw Libby smile at James, no doubt wondering what a woman would find so attractive in a pudgy, nonsense-speaking clown.

  “Tom, this is my best friend, James. James, this is Tom, the physical-therapist-slash-babysitter-slash-nursemaid-slash-token-life-coach-slash-existentialist that Gaspar hired for me. He’ll be tagging along with us for the next few months till I get up and running.”

  “Terrific!” James said, reaching out his hand and vigorously shaking Tom’s and still talking to Sean. “This is just awesome, man. Awesome. We’ve got Tom, Libby, and Chief now. Sean, you’re going to be back in the swells and off to Italy to find your lady pal in no time.”

  “Lady pal?” Libby said, looking at Sean and then following with a closed-mouth coy smile.

  “Yes, I had hoped, that, well, I was hoping, to um . . . ,” Sean stammered, uneasy in front of Tom.

  “He’s got a chick back in It’ly that he wants to get better for and make nice with. Thinks he’s got a second chance at life and he’s gonna go over there if he can make it with some Italian broad,” James explained to Libby.

  Sean looked over at Tom, who was shaking his head like a disappointed father after a son misses a field goal in the final championship game. Not my son.

  “Aw, shut up, James. Between you and Gaspar, a man’s got no hope of keeping a secret,” Sean said.

  “How romantic, Sean,” Libby said, swooning a bit. “Do tell more,” she said, pulling up a chair and resting her arm on Chief’s back to stroke it while Sean stroked Chief’s nose.

  “Yes, please do share!” Tom said, clapping his hands in mock excitement.

  “Hey, don’t be an ass,” Libby said, cutting Tom off. “Just ’cause you’re some jaded married guy, don’t go being a killjoy. Come on, Sean, I want details. Love me some good romance, so go on . . .”

  Tom’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not a jaded married guy. You don’t even know me.”

  “Well, don’t go crapping on someone’s dream because you think you got it all figured out,” Libby said, switching quickly from enthralled romantic to combat mode. Sean realized that she went from Jo March to GI Joe in less time than it took James to chug a Coke.

  “Hey, you’ve known me for like two seconds,” Tom said to Libby.

  “That’s all it takes,” Libby shot back. “Sometimes, all it takes is two seconds to know someone is a pompous know-it-all.”

  “Now, now, now, boys and girls,” James chimed in. “Sounds like everyone’s blood sugar is a bit low and we could all use some nourishment. I’ve never found a problem that couldn’t be solved with some food. Let’s eat!” James said, pulling out boxes of pad thai and stacking them on Sean’s bedside cart.

  “Why on earth did you get so much food, James?” Sean said, watching James pull box after box out of the bag.

  “I don’t know, I was hoping that maybe Libby would still be here and we could all nosh together,” James said.

  “I thought you said you were surprised that I was still here?” Libby said, catching James in a lie.

  “Well, you’re here now, so might as well eat with us! And you, too, Captain Buzzkill,” James said, turning toward Tom and handing him a box of noodles.

  “I don’t eat carbs,” Tom said, crossing his arms.

  “Of course you don’t,” Sean said glibly.

  Tom, as if challenged to a duel, grabbed a box and a plastic fork from James.

  They all laughed and even Tom’s stone face cracked into a self-conscious smile.

  After Sean was released from the hospital, just a few days later, a similar version of the same scene repeated itself. The four commiserated with each other over lunches and shared time spent surrounding Sean in his chair—in his apartment, out on his balcony, down on the beach, and out at street-side cafés. As the weeks went by, Sean learned of Tom’s marital problems and how his wife was growing tired of Tom’s inflexibility, his constant workouts, and his day job that always took precedence over her and their two little girls. “She acts like I have a choice? How do you think the groceries and mortgage get paid for? A man has to work,” he’d say, shaking his head as if he was at home finishing an argument with his wife.

  They also learned about how Libby grew up wealthy in San Francisco, the daughter of a famed computer chip inventor, but somehow she got hooked on heroin while at boarding school over a decade ago. “I wasn’t looking to become an addict,” she insisted. “My mother and father adored me and wanted me to have the best of everything—clothes, cars, education. I had it all. I thought I would try it just once. And my god, it was like nothing I had ever experienced. And just like that, I couldn’t stop. It was impossible to stop once I started. No matter how many promises I made to myself, I just couldn’t. And my poor parents, no amount of begging, loving, or praying on their part could change me either. It was basic chemistry,” she told the men one day while they sat sipping lemonade and eating giant burritos James had brought over. “My brain craved what the drug provided.”

  “So how did you get clean?” James asked gently. “How’d you end up down here and training dogs?”

  “I ran away from boarding school and came down here. I got caught up with pretty bad people on the streets. I ended up in a hospital. I don’t even know how I got there. To this day, I don’t know who found me, who took me in. I just sort of appeared at L.A. County. A nurse told me a man brought me and left. Like some ghost.”

  “Or angel,” Sean said with a smile.

  “Oh, no, here we go,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, give it a rest over there, St. John the Divine.”

  “I went to rehab after that. And while I was there, I enrolled in a therapy dog program. I was given a special dog, Mirabelle, a black Lab,” Libby said, unable to control her smile when she spoke the dog’s name. “She made me so happy. All I thought about was her. I knew this was all I ever wanted to do. So I learned how to train other dogs and help people who could use the companionship like I could.”

  “Well, you’re great at it,” Sean said, patting her arm in his best impression of a bona fide AA sponsor “You know it’s incredibly brave, what you just did. Telling us all that.”

  Libby wiped away a tear before it fell over her cheek. “Thanks, Sean. Spoken like a friend of Bill Wilson,” she added.

  “Who’s Bill Wilson?” Tom asked, afraid he was missing some important aspect of the story.

  “He founded AA with the idea that individuals need others going through similar hardships to encourage each other. Basically, these groups are considered a necessity for recovery. Some members even refer to themselves as friends of Bill. It’s like a secret message letting someone know that they’re talking to a safe person. A person who understands. Everyone needs a person to understand, right, Sean?” Libby finished her explanation with a quest
ion.

  Sean nodded but kept his eyes on James, who couldn’t keep his eyes off Libby when she spoke.

  Suddenly, and seemingly without thinking, James grabbed Libby’s hand. “Man, you’re tough as nails. People don’t beat that stuff. But you did, and now you’re doing something great for other people.”

  Libby put her own hand over James’s. “Thank you, James,” she said, looking him square in the eyes and feeling in that instant that James could see the good in her. It was the same look Mirabelle had given her. Mirabelle only saw the good, too. It was what Libby had been trying to see in herself every day in the mirror. But it escaped her. Every time she looked she saw only her mistakes. She saw only the pain she’d caused. She saw only who she used to be. But here was James, practically a stranger, who seemed to see her so clearly. Better than she could see herself. Libby’s heart skipped a beat and she blushed. James saw this and squeezed her hand even harder.

  “I mean it, Libby. You’re a good egg.” James’s already ruddy cheeks flushed a hot pink. He was embarrassed by what he’d just said. He was mortified that he couldn’t think of anything better to say than You’re a good egg. He wanted to say: You’re beautiful. You’re kind. I love that you love dogs. I think you’re cool. I dig your short hair. You have the best smile I’ve ever seen. But he couldn’t. Words had failed him over and over. But he was never one who could escape the moment. The irrepressible moment when one knows what one must do—even if he can’t articulate it. And with that, James, forgetting he was in the company of two grown men who might judge him, stood up, grabbed Libby in his arms, and hugged her. “I am so, so glad you’re still here. I am so glad you’re here.”