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.”