Proof of Heaven (11 page)

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.

B
y 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.”

I
n 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.

The guide apologized in Italian and glared at Cathleen. “I have brought you here first, because I thought it best for all of us to say a prayer—to get us in the right frame of mind. I wanted you to see the beauty of this special cross that hangs above us here. I wanted you to see what Francis and Clare saw. I want you all to pray for Colm. God will hear you. God is here with us today. Prepare your hearts for Colm to be healed.”

Cathleen composed herself, remembering why she had traveled all this way. As she entered the pew, faith filled her, chasing out any doubts brought on by the long journey. And she quickly pulled down the kneeler and began to pray. Colm sat down right next to Dr. Basu, inviting the doctor to wrap his arm around Colm's shoulders. They stayed together quietly, watching his mother pray to the God Colm and Dr. Basu didn't believe was listening.

Later that afternoon, after lunch and
reposo,
Cathleen, Dr. Basu, and Colm followed their guide down a long hill and staircase leading to the Friary of San Damiano. It was exhausting for Cathleen and Dr. Basu; they couldn't imagine what it was doing to Colm.

They noticed Colm trailing farther and farther behind them. Dr. Basu turned back, taking the long steps—two at a time in certain places—reaching the boy and lifting him up on his shoulders. Colm hung over the doctor's head, and Dr. Basu grabbled the boy's ankles to support him and hold him as they descended the long staircase. Cathleen turned and saw what the doctor had done.

“Thank you, Dr. Basu. Do you think he's going to be OK?”

“He's very tired, Cathleen. Do you think this is really necessary?” Dr. Basu asked in a concerned voice.

Colm groaned a little. He was so tired, he could barely muster the energy to say thank you or even complain.

“We'll be there shortly, Cathleen,” the guide assured. “I promise you, it will be worth it.”

When they arrived at the friary, the guide spent a long time explaining the history and significance of the place as well as all the miracles attributed to it. Meanwhile, pilgrims and visitors filed past into the friary where the sisters of St. Clare had once lived.

Dr. Basu could feel the boy's weight much more on his shoulders. He was tired, but he could tell the boy was growing heavier with exhaustion, so he didn't want to put him down.

The doctor finally spoke up. “Do you think we could go in now, perhaps take the boy out of the sun?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I got so wrapped up! I'm sorry.”

Dr. Basu took the boy off his shoulders, and they entered the friary. They were all relieved to be in the shade of the cool building. It was dark, and Colm grew frightened and clung to Dr. Basu's leg. Dr. Basu reached down for him again and hoisted him up on his hip. The boy rested his head on the doctor's shoulder, as a baby would, and the doctor could feel the warmth of his cheek and hot breath on his own neck.

The guide led the way up the narrow staircase, and Cathleen followed close behind. The doctor and Colm fell behind considerably, as other visitors who were much faster passed them in their haste to get out of the dark, tight passageway. By the time Dr. Basu and Colm arrived upstairs, Cathleen and the guide were already waiting in the upper room where, the guide explained, Clare herself had died.

The room was filled with other pilgrims and their accompanying guides; some were priests and some, like Cathleen and Colm's guide, were Franciscan brothers dressed in their gray, black, or brown habits. Brother Rocco signaled to Colm, Cathleen, and Dr. Basu to move toward the middle of the room and announced: “Here is a good place. I feel positive energy from St. Clare. We will do it here.”

Cathleen stood upright; she was so excited. This was it. This could be it for them. If this worked, Colm could be healed and everything in her life, in his, would be different, she thought.

The guide pulled out a vial of oil he had in his pocket. He spoke to Colm directly.

“Are you ready? Have you opened yourself to the healing power of Christ?”

Colm looked at the doctor and his mother. Although he knew this couldn't possibly work, he wanted something to happen. He did not want to end up like Clare.

His mother urged him on. “Go on, Colm. Say yes.”

“Yes, I guess.”

“Good, my boy.”

Brother Rocco rubbed the oil on his thumb and asked them to bow their heads, then kneeled down in front of the boy and made the sign of the cross with the oil on the boy's forehead and chest. He chanted:

Here in this most sacred space may you know the healing power of the crucified Jesus through the intercession of the Lady Clare.

Then Brother Rocco said, “Now all of you join me in saying the Lord's Prayer.”

The four joined hands. Dr. Basu did not know the words, so he stood silently as the other three prayed the Our Father. When they were finished, the guide spoke a long prayer that he said St. Clare wrote about gazing upon, considering, and imitating God. Finally the friar said,

In the Book of Life, your name shall be called glorious

Among all people.

Now go in peace, knowing you are loved and healed.

When he stopped speaking, they broke the circle with their hands. “Now what?” Colm asked, looking up at his mother.

“Now we wait,” Cathleen said, patting him on the back.

“Wait for what?” Colm asked.

“To see if the miracle takes,” she said.

“What? Like medicine?” Dr. Basu asked.

“Yes, something like that,” Cathleen whispered so Brother Rocco wouldn't hear.

The walk back to the
pensione
was brutal for Colm. Dr. Basu carried him back up the staircase and through the hilly streets. Cathleen couldn't take her eyes off Dr. Basu holding her son, who had fallen asleep again and was nestled close to Dr. Basu's chest. Watching him carry her son, her heart filled with gratitude. When they reached the room, he set the boy down on the bed and helped his mother tuck him in.

“Thank you,” Cathleen whispered. “Thank you so much, for everything.”

“I hope, for your sake and for the boy's, Cathleen, that it works.”

“So do I.”

“Do you have a moment, Cathleen? I'd like to show you something.”

“Where? I can't leave Colm.”

“It's just outside your door, just a few steps down the hall. There is a terrace atop the adjacent roof, and it overlooks the valley as far as the eye can see. I went out there last night. The view is magnificent. You can see every star in the sky.”

“I'd like to come, but I'm so tired and I need a shower. Plus—I am just not sure about leaving Colm here alone in the room by himself.”

“I'll tell you what, you take a shower, rest a bit, and I will go get us a meal. We can eat on the terrace, and I promise you, Cathleen, Colm will be safe. We're just a few feet away. And there is no one here but you, me, Brother Rocco, and some nuns. Please. You must take care of yourself—and eat something, relax.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Can I meet you there in an hour?”

“Absolutely. I'll be there.”

Dr. Basu left the room exhilarated. He loved being with Cathleen even if it was under such bizarre circumstances. He wanted to make this evening something extraordinary.

Cathleen had no designs, no expectations for her evening on the roof, but she still primped and wondered how she might look to the handsome doctor. She spent a long time in the shower letting the water pour over her and scrubbing with the Assisi lavender bar. For the first time in years, her mind was completely at peace. Not a thought or a word passed through her otherwise anxious mind. When she was through with the shower, she stood naked in front of the mirror and examined her body, as she carefully brushed through her wet hair and let it flow loosely over her shoulders. She had not looked at herself in years, and she was not disappointed by what she saw. She had remained the same as always—slight yet curvy in all the right places as Pierce once told her. She saw her own face and noticed that it looked rested and reddened by the sun. For the first time in years, she was comfortable in her own skin. She put on a long white sundress and covered her shoulders with a pink sweater. She smiled to herself as she did it, thinking of the crazy nun in Santa Chiara.