Proof of Heaven (7 page)

C
athleen was grateful her brother was there with her in the apartment, even if he had drunk himself to sleep by sneaking swigs from her old, dusty bottle of whiskey that he snagged while she was in the kitchen fixing them something to eat. He didn't think she could see that he stashed the bottle between the pillows on the couch where he now lay. He didn't think she saw him pour the whiskey into the club soda she had poured for him. Any other night she would have said something—gotten into a serious fight with him—but she was tired, and she was relieved he was there. It was the noticing, she thought. The tiny moments that she noticed that no one else did that were constantly undoing her, them. Although she wished he was awake so she wouldn't feel so alone, she was happy to hear him breathe in the room. His presence was enough. It would have been unbearable to be there alone.

She walked by Colm's room and stood in the doorway looking at all the evidence that her little boy resided there. A tall robot built out of Legos lorded over an assortment of precisely lined up cars, a wrecking crane, a fire truck, and a rumpled, well-hugged bear. His hooded Yankees sweatshirt hung over the chair beside his bed, and the books she had read to him the night before were stacked on the floor beside the messily made bunk bed with fire truck sheets. She bent over to straighten the pile of books, thinking about which ones she should take to the hospital for him—
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Where the Wild Things Are, No Matter What
. He had outgrown
Oh My Baby, Little One,
but she still kept reading it to him and could, after five and a half years, recite the words by heart. She loved the illustrations of the mother bird and her son, and Colm loved looking for the hidden hearts on each page—inside the mother's collar, underneath the boy's cap, curled around a coffee cup. No, it didn't matter where the two birds—the mama and the baby bird—went, their love was
everywhere
. Yes, on every page, Cathleen thought, Colm was looking for a crisp, whole, beautifully shaped heart.

It was all she could do to stand up. The exhaustion and heartache seemed to settle in every joint, muscle, and bone. She was the oldest twenty-seven-year-old she knew. She moved around the room, absentmindedly straightening and picking up small toys off the floor and putting them in the appropriate sorted baskets on the shelves along the wall. When she was done, she looked back one last time at Colm's empty bed and tried not think
what if,
hit the light, and headed across the hall to the bathroom.

As she closed the bathroom door behind her, she caught herself in the mirror and winced at her reflection. She thought she looked awful—her hair was a mess, and her eyes, showing signs of wear and age, stared blankly back at her. She could barely stand the sight of herself; no wonder, she thought, no man could either. Cathleen had no idea how men perceived her. She only measured her beauty by the one man who had rejected it, rejected all of her.

She had grown accustomed to her single life, and she often told herself that she could live the rest of her life without a man. It had been nearly six years since she had been touched by someone other than her son or brother, but she didn't feel the absence of intimacy. Had she known then what she knew now, she would have tried harder to remember her whole life before, to hold on to it for all time. She only remembered how Pierce's lips felt on her cheek; she did not remember how he had looked when he kissed her good-bye. She had pretended to be asleep, and she did not know it would be the last time. If she had known, she would have made one last plea for herself, for their unborn son. When she woke later that morning, she found a note that he'd left on her mirror. There was no apology, no good-bye—just some lyrics of Bob Dylan and Joan Baez's “Mama, You Been on My Mind” scribbled on a piece of paper, asking her to look inside her mirror each morning, and to remember that even though he wouldn't be there, he would be able to see her so clearly, and he wondered if she, Cathleen, could see herself as clearly as he did, when he had her on
his mind.

Could he really see her? See her now? She hoped not. She hoped he would only remember her as she once was. She could barely see him now. The memory of him was fading for her every day. Something for which she was secretly grateful. He took up less mental space, less heartache with each passing moment. His absence left more room for Colm, she thought. She did not let herself waste too many moments thinking about what might have been. Instead, whenever she became nostalgic or began to miss him, she tried to think of what Monsignor had said to her when she went to him to tell him that she was seven months pregnant and that Pierce had left her.

“Sometimes we love the wrong people, Cathleen.”

Monsignor's words struck her. Yes, she had loved Pierce. It
was
real. And the purpose of that love produced a child. But just because it was real, it didn't make it right. It didn't mean it would last forever. Her head knew that, but her heart felt an entirely different thing. She missed him. She imagined various scenarios in which he, with his guitar slung behind his back, would surprise her by arriving on the doorstep of their apartment or by meeting her at the same subway station where he first saw her all those years ago. She dreamed he would touch her cheek, smooth the hair on top of her head, and slide his hands over an escaped wisp and tuck it behind her ear as he gently kissed her. If she closed her eyes, she could feel it, almost believe he was real. He was there and he loved her. But when she opened her eyes, he was gone and it was her own hand tucking her hair. And it hurt all over again. She had to believe the pain of his leaving her, of his leaving their son, would subside someday. It just hadn't happened yet. Yes, it hurt considerably less than it did all those years ago, but at any moment the pain asserted itself—a note to the
parents
of Colm Magee, a homemade Father's Day card from the day-care center that went to no one, a Dylan song on the radio. Yes, whenever Cathleen felt the familiar sting, she reminded herself of the words the monsignor spoke often, “These things take time, dear. Let your heart heal. No reason to get back out there right away. You have Colm now to love—that's all you need now.”

She reminded herself of his wisdom as she brushed her teeth without looking up at herself again in the mirror. Then she turned out the lights and headed off to her bedroom. If life had taught Cathleen Magee anything, it was this: No matter what, the morning always came and whatever it brought her—a note on the mirror, a trip to the hospital—she would survive as long as her brother and son were by her side.

S
ean woke up abruptly feeling the violent, burning surge lurching up his esophagus. For a second he had forgotten where he was—on Cathleen's couch—so when he stood up and headed toward what he thought was his own bathroom, he tripped over the coffee table, causing his half-filled glass of club soda and whiskey to spill across the table and soak Cathleen's
Elle Décor
.

“Shitgoddammitall,” he said, stumbling over the table, ignoring the mess. He knew he had only seconds to get to the bathroom.

Once down the hall, he slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and began making a loud retching sound that echoed in the toilet.

Cathleen sprang out of bed immediately and screamed out, “You all right in there, Sean?”

“Yeah, fine. Nothing to worry about,” Sean whispered, staring into the bowl. Without looking, he reached behind himself, grabbed Cathleen's bath towel, and wiped what he thought was the usual clear liquid dripping out of his nose. When he pulled the towel away, he noticed a mixture of fluorescent-colored bile tinged with blood. He stared for a second and then stood up in front of the mirror. He looked for cuts on his lips, but then he realized the blood was coming from his stomach. The thought of this made him gag again, and when he looked at the vomit in the bowl, he saw the green and red swirl.

“Never, ever again,” he whispered to himself. “Never.”

“Seriously, Sean, are you OK? What's going on?”

“Nothing, don't worry about me. You've got enough to worry about. Nothing a solid Bloody Mary won't fix.” He laughed, trying to make an ill-timed joke.

“Geez, Sean.”

“I'm joking. Come on! It's nothing.”

“Well, hurry up in there. I want to get ready and get to the hospital before Colm wakes up,” Cathleen said, shaking her head and trying to hold back her usual tirade against his drinking.

“Give me a minute,” Sean said as he wiped down the bowl with the towel and then ran it through the cold water under the sink. The blood wouldn't give and soaked deeply into the fibers. There was no way to hide it from her, he thought. He looked at the window and back at his reflection and shook his head, saying to himself,
You're a first-class idiot.

Without waiting another second, he quickly opened the window and threw the blood-soaked towel out, promising himself he would swing around the alley and pick it up later. He was shocked at how adept he had become at hiding how excessive his drinking had become again. Even if he knew he wasn't fooling anyone, least of all his sister, it made him feel better to at least pretend he had it under control. This, he thought, was the worst part—the tiny deceits. The little lies he told to get through the day, to get out of the bathroom, because of the shame and embarrassment of it all.

After he shut the window and flushed again, he opened the door and stepped out. “It's all yours, madam.”

“You look like hell, Sean. When are you going to knock this off? I thought you were going to start going back to meetings?” Cathleen said to Sean, who pretended to look surprised that she could tell he had been drinking.

“Naw. That shit's for quitters. But when I do go back, you'll be the first to know . . . and the first to bitch about that, too.”

“I give up,” she said, exasperated, and threw up her arms.

“Love you too, Ms. Morning Sunshine.”

Cathleen hated to do it, but she cracked a smile. He always had a way of disarming her—by reminding her of who she really was—a royal pain in the ass to him.

Sean walked into Cathleen's bedroom and noticed her laptop open on the bed. She had been up late, he could tell, probably doing research again. If he had been awake, he thought, he could have stopped her from this, stopped her from driving herself mad with worry.

“Hey, Cate, mind if I check my e-mail?” Sean shouted through the door.

“Go ahead. Computer is open. Just wake it up,” she said, turning on the shower.

He walked over and sat on her bed and clicked. He had no intention of checking his e-mail. He was curious about what his sister was up to—what she found out. Sean pulled down her history and could tell by the amount of sites she visited that she spent the better part of the night stressing herself out by looking at medical journals dedicated to dysautonomia, pacemakers, MSA, heart defects, and brain ailments.

He started clicking through all of her sites and stopped suddenly when he saw a Favorites tab open, which contained a link to a website named “Miracles Happen.” On the site was a forum for all sorts of people who had died and come back to life—and all who attributed their revival not to science but to miracles. And several people claimed that while they were dead, they had been to heaven and had seen proof of an afterlife. Physicians from the University of Pennsylvania Near-Death Study program, the president of the International Association of Near-Death Studies, and previous near-death survivors were all quoted or cited. Priests, reverends, pastors, rabbis, theologians—all came together on the issue to talk about the veracity of God, and how near-death experiences always served as proof of God's miraculous interventions, proof of his existence. Scientists and researchers who explained how the body works, some explaining that near-death experiences were nothing more than the final stages of brain failure—the cells, slowly dying, creating a dreamlike twilight just before it all ends—were discounted and refuted as quacks. Science couldn't possibly hold all the answers. Miracles did and do happen.

Sean looked up from the screen, shook his head, and said, “Please, tell me she is not buying this bull.” Everyone, it seemed to Sean, had a story, had a way to rationalize, explain, and defend the afterlife—and not one of them had a clue, a real clue, what they were talking about.

In the bathroom, Cathleen stepped into the shower and marveled at how things had started to turn around. Despite the horrific diagnosis Dr. Basu delivered yesterday, she couldn't explain it, but it felt, dare she say, “good” to know that this wasn't all in her head—or in her son's. That there was now a name for what was happening to Colm—and that there was a real enemy, something, anything, to actually fight against. More than that, after reading information on all the sites, she was convinced that all these doctors, scientists, and theorists were just wrong about her son's prognosis. There was always a cure. There had to be. And yes, there were limits to what science could do, but not to what the heart could do—not to what God could do.

Buoyed by the stories of miracles on the newly discovered Miracles Happen website, she felt more certain than ever that God was on her side for once, and that perhaps the monsignor and the website were right—miracles
do
happen. She was even a little surprised by Sean's ability to step up yesterday. He actually stuck around all day at the hospital and stayed with her last night. He called in sick to work too. He had never done that for her before. She had always been the one caring
for him
.

When they were teenagers living with their mom, he was always so distracted by his studies that she stepped in and took care of the details he let slip. He seemed to be so driven, drunk then only on the possibility of flight. He had had a singular purpose, and so while he was off studying or volunteering, she did his laundry, signed his forms, arranged for his tuxedos for the proms. When he was applying to college, she set up a calendar with due dates and wrote the checks for his SATs and college applications, things her mother, who never went to college, had no idea how to do.

But then when things didn't go as planned, and even later still, after he became a firefighter, she still kept helping him,
enabling
him, one of his old AA sponsors once accused her. She opened his bank account and had the rent pulled automatically to make sure they never lost the rent-controlled apartment his mother left him after she died. She ran interference with certain friends, asking them to call her if they ever saw Sean at certain bars. Sean didn't think his sister knew that he spent a good amount of his paycheck at Eamonn's across the river, but she was always one step ahead of him. She kept the account numbers and passwords for herself, and when she or his friends hadn't heard from him for too long, she could log into his account to see where he had been the night before. She never went looking for him or embarrassed him by dragging him off a barstool, but she was always vigilant.

For the first time in years, she felt relieved that she didn't have to handle something—anything at all—on her own. She exhaled and felt good, surprisingly rested and fresh, despite the lack of sleep. She felt like she was finally turning a corner, and beyond it were some answers, some ways to fix Colm. She turned off the shower and reached for her towel. Her hand slipped out from behind the curtain and slapped the cold metal bar as she fumbled for it, and then she pulled back the curtain and looked around.

“Where in the hell . . . Hey, Sean! Would you grab me a towel from the hall closet? I don't know what happened to mine.”

Startled, Sean slammed the laptop shut and ran to the hall to grab his sister a towel, and he slipped it through the door.

Cathleen wrapped her hair, put on her robe, stepped out past him, and slid into her room.

As she was about to shut the door, Sean yelled back at her, “Wait a minute, Sis.”

“What?”

“Don't get mad, but I was snooping around on your computer.”

“I'm not mad. I don't have anything to hide. And I'm the last person who should be mad at you for snooping.”

“I saw you were probably up half the night—and I saw that crazy site—the one you tabbed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miracles Happen.”

“So?”

“I just don't want you setting yourself up . . . for some . . . I don't know . . . some heartbreak.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Sean. I was just doing some research, that's all.”

“I know you though. I know what you're thinking. You're the person who thought praying would cure Mom's cancer. You're the one who thought praying was going to make that jackass father of Colm's show up at the hospital and actually give a damn about you two. You're the one who thought all I needed to do was accept that there's a Higher Power, and I'd quit the sauce. It just doesn't work that way. You can't go hide out in church. You can't go buying that crap the monsignor is selling—wholesale. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He just doesn't. That's all I am saying. For whatever it's worth, I hope you listen to me for once.”

“Wow, you don't know anything about me. You don't know anything about Monsignor. What do you know about faith or miracles or anything? Huh? You can't get through a day, let alone a Mass, without taking a drink.”

“Hey, it's not my fault they serve the sauce there. What am I supposed to do—
not
drink it?”

Cathleen cracked a smile; he was quick, that was for sure, she thought. But she remembered again what she was angry with him about. “Sean, you have no right to judge me. You're one to talk. You don't know anything that you haven't gotten from a bottle!”

“Well, I may drink my stupid, but you get your stupid someplace else altogether. Your son is sick. Sick! And you're praying for miracles instead of listening to the doctors. Instead of getting ready . . . preparing yourself for the wor—”

“Shut up! Shut up! Don't even say it.”

Sean looked at her and felt like getting sick again. He didn't know when to stop, when to shut up.

“I'm sorry, Sis.”

“You're not sorry. You're not sorry for anything. You're just a . . . a . . . I don't know what! You can't just give me this. This one wish. This
one
thing. You can't get better for five minutes to help me—to be there for me. For Colm. It's always gotta be about you.”

Sean didn't want to go down this road. Every fight they ever had always led to her begging him to stop drinking, to get his act together, to go back to meetings, to sort his life out for her sake, for Colm's, for his own.

Cathleen saw in Sean's downcast eyes that she had gone too far again, and she stopped and tried to calmly speak and bring the conversation back to who it was really about—Colm.

“Sean. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I know you love Colm—me. I'm just tired. And I just don't know how or why Colm comes back, whether it's because of a miracle or science, or a doctor or a priest, or God or Colm himself. Listen to me, Sean, I only care that he
does
come back, and that someday, somehow, he'll never, ever die on me again. For now, I'll just say my prayers because they make me feel good and get me through the day, and if I just keep at it, maybe they'll work and Colm can stay with me forever.”

Sean listened to her and understood his sister in a way he never had. For the past six years, all he saw was her genuflecting and cross signing and praying. She looked downright robotic to him, as if nothing was going on in that once vibrant mind of hers, and now he saw her in a new light.

“OK, enough of this shit. Sorry, Cate. I get it.”

“Let's get dressed and get out of here. Dr. Basu's taking Colm into surgery in a couple of hours, and I want to be there before he wakes up.”

“OK. You go get ready then.”

“Hey, Sean?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you mind making me some coffee while I finish up? I'd really like to get going.”

“I'll take care of it, Sis. You just do what you need to do.”

While getting dressed Cathleen's mind raged. Throughout her life the battle between what her mind was capable of knowing and what her heart was capable of feeling waged on. She admired people who knew for sure whether they did or didn't believe in God or in heaven. She was drawn to Monsignor because he had such confidence in his own opinions. But she couldn't align herself with any one category. She heard equally the voices of faith and reason. Dr. Basu, who believed just as steadily that science and the natural world held the answers, echoed in her head as loudly as the monsignor. For her, belief was something she had to take like some people took sobriety, one day at a time. She knew she could be so easily swayed by one way or the other. The only constant in Cathleen's life was her ability to love—the father she couldn't remember, the mother who she never fully understood until she gave birth herself, the son she feared would leave her, the man who took her heart, the brother who challenged her but who knew her better than anyone. Her love was so different for each person, but miraculously her heart had room enough for all of them. Even when her faith and reason failed her, love did not.