By the time she reached the bed, Colm’s eyes were closed.
For a split second Cathleen thought he wasn’t breathing, but before she could panic, she heard a deep sigh and saw his chest rise and fall gently.
He had fallen asleep again. She pressed her head to his and inhaled deeply. She could smell the lavender from the handmade Assisi soap and the mint from the shampoo. She thought of dressing him while he slept and putting him in the bed. But she didn’t want to disturb him. Instead, she positioned herself on her bed—pushing her back up against the pillows and the wall—and held the boy. She could not explain what came over her, but she began to sing “Mo Chuisle” in her mother’s Gaelic and remembered the time she asked her mother what it meant. Her mother had responded in her quiet, lilting brogue, A chuisle mo chroí, pulse of me heart, dear, pulse of me heart. Cathleen sang it softly to the sleeping boy, mimicking her mother’s accent, just as she had when Colm was an infant—back before it all began, back before she had any idea, any real concept of how difficult and unpredictable life could really be as a mother.
As she sang, she tried to remember the last time she had done such a thing. Mothers can never know the last time they will rock their children to sleep, sing them a final lullaby, pick them up and carry them on their hips, or even bathe them, she thought. Babies grow into children without notice. They grow out of such habits without mention, without mourning their passing or loss. No one ever seems to remember the last times. It is a good thing a mother doesn’t remember, doesn’t know when she is holding her child that it will be the last time, she thought. She knew she wouldn’t know how to let him go.
Down the hall, in his own quiet room, Dr. Basu had also admired the view, showered, and freshened up. But instead of making him sleepy, the shower had woken him up, and he decided to explore the beautiful village. He knew he had promised to have dinner with Cathleen and Colm, so he only went out to the piazza, which was just a short walk from the hotel. Scores of tourists sat under umbrellas in the outdoor cafés while children ran and chased each other around the large fountain in the center. He gazed at the cloudless late-afternoon sky before stopping for a moment and closing his eyes. He tried to listen to everything, the murmur of conversations in various languages, mostly Italian, the water cascading out of the font, the soft patter of small children running past him, the whoosh made by the wings of birds flapping as they took off and landed on the fountain ridge. He kept his eyes closed, feeling the sun upon his face, and he tried to remember a time like this when all the world seemed at once perfect, beautiful, and alive. When he was finished, he turned away from the crowds and walked briskly up the steep hills that wrapped around the ancient buildings until he found himself back at the doorway of the pensione. After greeting the nun at the front desk, he made his way to the dining room, where he saw Brother Rocco and a nun eating. Dr. Basu tried to hide his disappointment that Cathleen and Colm were not there and that he would have to eat alone with the strangers.
“Hello. Just went for a quick walk. Did I miss dinner? Where are Colm and Cathleen?”
“We’ve been waiting here for a while and haven’t seen them. Perhaps they retired early. They must be exhausted. Here, sit with us, Dr. Basu. We promise to be good company,” the pilgrimage leader said as he lifted a glass of red wine up toward Dr. Basu as if to toast him.
“That’s kind of you,” Dr. Basu said. “But would you mind if I just went upstairs and checked on them first, just in case?” Dr. Basu knew how physically drained he felt after stepping off the plane, so he could only imagine how the boy was feeling in his weak condition now.
Dr. Basu left and ran up the wide marble steps, two at a time. When he reached Cathleen and Colm’s room he stopped. Through the door, he heard Cathleen’s voice, softly singing a foreign, ancient-sounding song.
He stood for a moment, trying hard not to breathe or make a sound. His head fell softly against the door to listen closely. With every note, he fell deeper and deeper into the past until Cathleen’s voice became his own Niranjana’s. It did not seem so long ago that he had heard his wife sing as he held his child in his arms, their chests touching, and feeling the rhythmic thump and pulse of each other’s hearts.
Chapter 18
By her second day in Assisi, Cathleen had been lulled into a state of serenity she hadn’t experienced since she was a child. She could not remember a single time in her adult life when she had been able to relax—when she hadn’t had to worry about her mother, her brother, or her son. She often wondered what it would be like to be so carefree, so utterly adrift, to never ever have to think about what someone else needed. In the twelve hours she had spent in Assisi, most of it asleep, she had had a glimpse of what it must be like to completely let go of life’s cares.
She and Colm could have taken their time waking up with no schedule other than the loose itinerary of church sightseeing that Brother Rocco had given her upon their arrival, but she was too excited. She had left the shutters open the night before, but she still hadn’t woken even once during the night, so when the bright sun shone through at dawn, Cathleen was stunned. The light was nearly blinding. When she jumped out of bed, she tripped trying to get to the shutters to close them. But when she reached the window, she stopped. The entire valley glistened below the sun. She felt an overwhelming desire to leave the room and head toward that magnificent light. For the first time in more than six years, she felt full of hope and pregnant with possibility.
Colm had been woken by the light too, so Cathleen asked him if he was up for a walk with her to the piazza for a café Americano for her and a brioche—maybe even with chocolate—for him. Colm leaped up. Realizing he was still in a towel, he laughed. They quickly dressed, brushed their teeth together at the sink, and practically ran down the stairs. It had been years since she felt that free and spontaneous. She pretended to tackle him when they jumped out onto street, and she nuzzled his neck. Colm loved her in Assisi.
As they ran toward the piazza, Colm grabbed his mother’s hand to get her attention. Cathleen slowed, worried that something was wrong. But he said, “Look, Mama!” He pointed out a nun on a Vespa, her long gray habit flowing behind her as she passed.
“A nun on a motorcycle! Can they do that, Mama?”
“I guess so!” Cathleen said as she laughed. It seemed like such a funny, improbable thing. But then again, Cathleen was hoping that Italy was full of the impossible.
She was counting on it.
In the piazza, old women were coming from their morning Masses from all directions. Assisi was small, but it had fourteen churches in the village and surrounding areas, not to mention the tiny chapels and hidden altars throughout the city. Natives, tourists, and pilgrims already filled the café chairs. In one of the chairs, sipping a small cup of espresso, Dr. Basu sat all alone, admiring the ornate fountain, once an old well for drinking, now a birdbath.
Colm spotted him immediately and ran to him. Dr. Basu saw the boy coming. He kneeled down and opened his arms wide to accept him. As they embraced, the doctor stood and lifted Colm’s feet off the ground. For a second, and only a second, Dr. Basu forgot that Dhruv was gone. For one ephemeral moment, he remembered with his entire body what it was like to be something other than Dr. Basu. For a moment, he was Papa. And then Cathleen spoke, breaking the dream.
“Dr. Basu! What a wonderful surprise. You’re up early today.”
“Yes. I couldn’t sleep. It’s so bright here, no?”
“I’m so sorry about dinner last night. Did we miss anything? We didn’t mean to stand you up.”
“No problem. You needed your rest. Can I get you something?”
“Some brioches would be wonderful—and a coffee, please, for me and juice for Colm.”
“Whatever you wish,” Dr. Basu said, smiling and moving toward the counter.
Colm and Cathleen settled into their chairs. On the table was a small gift book about the life of St. Francis.
“Is he reading this, Mama?”
“Yes, I imagine he is. He’s probably trying to figure out why the heck we’ve come all this way.”
Colm stared pointedly at his mother. “Why have we, Mama? Exactly?”
“To fix you. You know that.”
“But how does coming here make me better? I thought Dr. Basu was doing that.”
Cathleen wondered how best to answer her boy. How could she explain such mysteries to a child who, she thought, understood so little of the world?
Dr. Basu came back with the coffee and brioches.
“Thank you!” both Cathleen and Colm said in unison.
“Doing some reading?” Cathleen asked, as she lifted up the book.
“I like to do my research, I suppose. I have not read of any miracles attributed to Francis yet. Where is it in the story that he heals the sick?”
“Have you reached the part of the book where Francis feels like he has been called by God—to go and rebuild his church?” Cathleen asked.
“Yes, but there is no building yet. Right now in the story, he seems to be preoccupied with irritating his poor father, embarrassing him, and publicly denouncing him,” Dr. Basu responded.
“Yes, he and his father had some problems,” Cathleen admitted.
Cathleen continued the story for Colm and Dr. Basu.
“Francis sells all that he has. He even steals some of his father’s things to sell and begins to beg for money so that he can buy enough stones to build the church of San Damiano. He did it right here on these streets, where we are sitting right now. This city, this piazza, is exactly, stones and all, like it was when St. Francis was alive eight hundred years ago. But eventually Francis figured out it wasn’t San Damiano that he had to rebuild—it was the entire church—the world really. He spent the rest of his life teaching people how to pray, and be peaceful, kind, and good to everyone, especially the lepers, and others who were too poor or ill to care for themselves.”
“He’s sounds cool,” Colm said, licking the chocolate from his fingers.
“He was—that’s why you have his middle name, too,” Cathleen said as Dr. Basu and Colm smiled at each other.
“I get it,” Colm said.
Dr. Basu listened as Cathleen talked to the boy. She was a wonderful mother, he thought. She would have traveled to the far ends of the earth to save her boy. She protected him fearlessly, mightily, but she was, above all, his teacher and his friend.
“But what happened at the church? Why do people think miracles happen there?” Colm asked.
“We’re going there today, I think. First we’ll go see St. Clare, Francis’s friend, for ourselves.”
“She’s still alive?” Dr. Basu asked in disbelief. “I’d like to see that,” he said drily, knowing full well of its improbability.
“Her remains are under her cathedral—Santa Chiara. You can see her body, clothes, and even her hair.”
“Ewww.” Colm made a long, tortured face, though he was morbidly curious like most young boys.
“When she became a follower of Francis, she cut all of her hair off, as a sign of devotion, a sacrifice, a tonsure, they call it.”
“Really?” Dr. Basu said. “Fascinating.”
“That’s what the sisters, the abbesses, did back then,” Cathleen added.
“Colm, did you know that in India, women and men cut their hair as a sacrifice to the gods too?” Dr. Basu asked.
Colm shook his head. He did not.
“See, Dr. Basu, we are more alike than you think,” Cathleen said with a wink. “St. Clare took care of many sick people and performed several miracles herself at San Damiano. Now people from all over the world like to go to the room in the friary where she lived. It’s there that priests try to heal people. They use a special oil and prayer. Brother Rocco will bless you there today.”
“If Clare and Francis were so good to the poor and sick people, why did they have to perform miracles, too? Wasn’t it good enough for people that they were nice? That they took care of them when no one else would? Isn’t that special enough?” Colm asked his mother.
Dr. Basu’s eyes widened and he said, “Dove, you are a wise little boy.”
Chapter 19
In the church of Santa Chiara, Cathleen, Dr. Basu, and Colm meandered through the building and walked down the stairs to the museum portion. Quite unexpectedly, they walked right up to a nondescript wall and peeked behind it, thinking they were about to see some more of Clare’s clothing or her hair, when suddenly they found themselves staring at the corpse of St. Clare, which was sealed behind glass. Cathleen rushed to grab Colm and turn him away. She didn’t plan on actually taking him to see the body of Clare. But Colm fought her off. He wanted to see for himself what all this saint stuff was about.
“Is she really in there? Is that really her?” Colm asked.
“Yes, let’s go. We don’t have to look at this. Come on. It’s silly.”
“But I want to. I want to know if that is really her. Is that what people look like when they are dead?”
“It’s what is left of her, Colm—her clothes, her bones. That clay mask over her face preserves her. But it’s not real. She was thought to be incorruptible. That means her body never decayed, or broke down, Colm. But it has since. When a body dies, it is supposed to return to the earth. But a lot of saints’ bodies don’t decay. And a lot of saints are exposed like this so people can see them. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that St. Clare’s soul is up in heaven with the other angels,” Cathleen explained.
Colm cocked his head. He was doubtful. “This is sort of gross, Mama.”
“Yes, it is,” she agreed. “Now let’s get out of here.”
“Why do they hold on to the bodies if they believe the soul is up in heaven?”
Dr. Basu stood quietly, waiting to hear Cathleen’s answer.
Cathleen knew the answer, of course, and she could imagine what her brother would have said on the matter. She had heard it all before. Follow the money, Sis. There is a whole reason behind the hubbub in Rome, in all of Europe, and it all has the faint whiff of cash. I saw it for myself. She knew that in the Middle Ages, relics were a huge commodity. With relics came visitors, and with visitors came money, lots of it. Thanks to those relics, Assisi still stood magnificent, well cared for, and visited by millions eight centuries after Francis and Clare had lived.
“I don’t know, Bud,” she lied. “I guess people still want to hold on to the dead. Want to see the miracles for themselves, just like we do.”
Colm stared at the dead body of Clare for a long time. He wondered what he would look like when he was dead, when he was on the other side where it was all black and lonely. He hoped no one would take his body and put it in a glass room for people to look at. He didn’t want to scare anyone. He especially didn’t want to scare his mother anymore. He hoped his mother could get her wish, that he would live forever—never die, decay, end up like Clare. He knew what was waiting for him on the other side of that glass. He wanted to stay here on Earth, with his mother, his uncle Sean, and now his friend Dr. Basu, and someday with his father.
Dr. Basu and Cathleen began to move on, looking at pictures of little children tucked into the grates along the wall by parents who also left with prayers and petitions to save their lives. Cathleen wondered how many Clare had helped to save and how many mothers went home to bury their children.
When Cathleen looked up, Colm wasn’t with her, but she found him still staring at the dead Clare.
“You all right, Bud? You feeling OK?”
“Mama?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t put me behind glass.”
“What?”
“When I die. Don’t put me all alone in a glass room. I don’t want people to see me dead.”
“Colm, stop it. You’re not going to die.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t!”
“Colm, oh baby, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have brought you down here.”
“That’s
why we’re here, right? Because you think I’m going to die? What if it doesn’t work, Mama? What if-what if-what if-I end up . . . like her?” Colm pointed at the corpse, and Cathleen gasped. She reached for him and pulled him close, burying his face in her stomach. He knew so much more than she ever imagined he did. He was so wise, and it was pointless for her to hide any longer how scared she was—to pretend she didn’t know how terrified he must be.
He sobbed, and Cathleen was ashamed of herself. In her attempts to heal him, to help him grow old and be with her for all time, she had forgotten he was just a little boy.
Dr. Basu watched as Colm cried in his mother’s arms. He wanted to reach out, to envelop them both and promise them that he could make it all better, but he could not. He knew well that he, of all people, did not have the power to heal Colm completely. He went toward the stairs that led to the chapel where they were all supposed to meet Brother Rocco.
Brother Rocco had been waiting upstairs in a side chapel of the upper church, pacing in front of the famous San Damiano Cross.
When Cathleen reached the nave, a nun ran over to her shouting in Italian and waving her arms wildly. Cathleen was shocked, and Colm shrank against his mother as the nun closed in, making a fist and speaking rapidly.
Brother Rocco suddenly left the visitors and rushed over to Cathleen, shouting, “A shawl! A shawl, Cathleen! You need to cover your shoulders!”
“I’m so sorry!” She took the sweater that she had wrapped around her waist and slipped it over her arms.
“Of all the things to get worked up about,” Cathleen said exasperatedly. “Isn’t Jesus up on that cross naked? And we women have to cover our shoulders?” she asked the nun, pointing to the cross. The nun had no idea what Cathleen had said in English and walked away from her making the sign of the cross as if praying for Cathleen’s immortal soul.
Colm laughed at what his mother had said. He laughed even though his face was still wet and red. He had never seen his mother reprimanded like that before or his mother say anything so funny about Jesus—about anything holy. For a second, he forgot about the dead body in the room underneath them and about why they were there.
Proof of Heaven Page 11
