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.
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.
Before leaving the room, she stood once more in front of the mirror and hardly recognized the woman staring back at her. Had it really been so long? Nearly seven years? She tried to remember the last time she had shared a meal with someone besides her son or brother. How had her busy life suddenly made her so alone? She shook off the thoughts and kissed Colm before she slipped out of the room.
When she stepped onto the roof, she was delighted. The view was similar to the one from her room, but what the doctor had done was truly amazing.
The table was set with a lit Chianti bottle dripping with candle wax. There were two wineglasses and a bottle of wine along with a loaf of bread and an assortment of cheese and fruit on a beautiful tray.
“What’s all this?” Cathleen asked Dr. Basu, whose hair still glistened from his own shower. She could tell he had shaved again by the tiny nick near his unbuttoned white collar.
“The sisters helped me. I said we’d like to eat on the roof tonight. Apparently, we’re not the first to have found it.”
As she came closer, she noticed layers of candle wax on the stone table. Many people, probably people just like her who had come seeking miracles, had probably sat at the table well into the evening eating, drinking, and sharing their life stories over candlelight.
“Is Colm still sleeping?” Dr. Basu asked as he pulled out a chair for Cathleen.
“I think he’s out for the night. It’s been an exhausting couple of days.”
“Yes. It has.”
The doctor poured her a glass of wine. “Thank you, Doctor.”
“Please, call me Gaspar.”
“Thank you, Gaspar, for everything.” As she sipped her wine, Cathleen’s cheeks grew pink, and her green eyes shone even more brightly than usual.
The doctor could barely contain his attraction to her. But being around beautiful women only made him nervous and prone to say ridiculous things, so he tried to keep quiet and listen to her.
As the night wore on they grew more comfortable with each other and talked about everything under the stars. Just after midnight they thought they heard the faint sounds of young men singing together as they passed by on the streets below.
“In the book I have been reading about St. Francis, it says that when he was a young man, he did just that, what those singers are doing now . . . he walked through the streets of Assisi carrying on,” Dr. Basu commented.
“Young people don’t change much, do they?” Cathleen replied. “To be carefree. It’s easy to be a rebel when you’re young, when there’s so much less to lose. I was a bit of a rebel myself for a brief time.”
“Really?” Dr. Basu could hardly believe the woman before him, who was so dedicated to her son and her brother, the same woman who knelt in prayer today, could have ever been what she called a rebel.
“Well, Gaspar, I did have a child out of wedlock when I was twenty-two. I used to be sure I had it all figured out. You know there was a time when I didn’t go to church? When I drove my mother—and even the monsignor—crazy. Man, could my mom and I go at it. She had one hell of a temper, and so did I. But I loved her so much, and then, when she was gone I was so lonely, and things were so hard. Before I knew it, I was already deeply in love, and I didn’t care much about anything else. I didn’t care about all that my mother thought. I just crashed headlong into love,” Cathleen said.
“Do you mean with Colm’s father?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask what happened? Where is he?”
“I have no idea. Last I heard, L.A. I used to send him letters about what Colm was up to, but I never heard back from him. They were returned unopened. I took it as a sign that he just wanted to be left alone. Besides, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself begging him to come back, so I just gave up looking after a while. It’s like he just vanished though. Fell off the grid, so to speak. But that is very Pierce. He’s the typical artist-vagabond type. Not the ‘friend me’ or ‘text me’ type, if you know what I mean. So he’s not exactly the easiest person to track down. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s still on the street strumming somewhere or performing in some hole-in-the-wall bar. He’s a musician. He always said his only hope in life was to create something beautiful. I met him one day in a subway station, right around the time my mother got sick. He was busking for cash, and he started to sing to me—‘Mama, You Been on My Mind.’ He had a way with women, but back then I didn’t realize I wasn’t the only one.” She trailed off.
“I am so sorry, Cathleen. That must have been very hard for you, for Colm,” Gaspar said, reaching across the table to touch her hand. It seemed unconscionable for a man to desert his woman and child—to have a choice in the matter. To decide to leave them. To decide to live without them. He could not rationalize the injustice of it all, of the world. A sudden rush of anger seized him, but he forced it back down. He understood now what made her so determined. What made her so careful. What kept her focused completely on her son and his survival.
“Well, you don’t get to pick your fortune, do you? That’s life, right. No choice but to roll with it,” Cathleen lied, pretending to be OK with it all, to be stronger than she really was. “How about you, Gaspar? What’s your story? Did you ever think of getting married?”
“I was married,” he said as he put down his fork and took in a long breath. He wasn’t sure he was up to saying it all out loud. He had never had to explain it to anyone, ever. When he left India, he left everything, even the story of it, all behind.
“She, my wife, Niranjana, passed.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“She took her own life.”
“Oh, my God!” Cathleen gasped. She was sorry to have brought up the painful memory, but before she could say anything else, the doctor began again. He was so matter-of-fact it knocked the breath out of Cathleen.
“She took her own life after our only son, Dhruv, died when he was five. Like many small children in India, he contracted malaria. It kills many children to this day, millions every year, mostly poor children in poor countries—like my Dhruv.
“I should have known something was wrong with him. I should have paid more attention. I dismissed him as a spoiled child, pampered by his mother, when he first became irritable and listless. Those are the first telltale signs of the disease. I wanted badly to believe that my family was untouchable and that I had some arrangement with the gods. Like most young people do. But when we got to the hospital, it was too late. He was so dehydrated and so ill that it took no time at all. See, Cathleen, there was a reason he wept and why he cried out in pain. And there was a way to fix him. I just didn’t know it back then.
“I foolishly thought that knowledge would bring my wife peace. That she would understand we could try again, and that I would be careful to make sure that it wouldn’t happen again. I assured her that her grief would be filled up by the joy of another child. But she didn’t want another child. She only wanted Dhruv. I know part of her blamed herself for not being forceful enough with me. I remember the day . . . the day we took him in. She was so angry with me. She would not look at me. She muttered to herself over and over that she should have gone and done it on her own. That there was no use for men. That even as a medical student, I was of no use to her or her son. She cursed me and cursed the gods. I had never seen her so angry. After they covered Dhruv with the white cloth, she threw her body over him and when I went to . . .”
Gaspar stopped and inhaled deeply as if to suppress the tears, his own rage.
“I went to hug her and comfort her, but she said to never touch her again. I said she needed to be held, and that I did, too. But she walked out of the room, and I was alone with Dhruv. I-I-I,” Dr. Basu stuttered as if about to break into tears, but he managed to force them back again. “I could not hug him or touch him. I knew he was not there. The only life I had known and loved was gone. The only thing left was Niranjana’s rage. It was everywhere; it filled up all of India.
“During the night, before the preparation of pinda for the god of death and our ceremonial cleansing, she woke early and went to the river where we’d put Dhruv’s ashes. She walked in as if she could follow him to the next life. She never came up again. Many days later, in another village, some people found her body on the bank.”
He paused for a moment and tried to blink back the emotion and the memories that came with the story. He didn’t want to look at Cathleen in case she judged him and blamed him too. He was still so ashamed. But he wanted to tell it all, finish it—for himself and for Cathleen.
“I left India soon after. I went to New York to finish medical school. I thought I would be able to do something with my life—save someone else’s life, since I had been powerless to save or fix my own child’s or my wife’s.”
Cathleen sat breathless. She saw the moments when she first met him in a new light, how he was with Colm during their first visit, how he took to the boy, and how dedicated he was to her—how quickly he agreed to come on this trip.
Cathleen trembled. “Please. I . . . I shouldn’t have said anything,” he apologized.
“You should have told me everything . . . a long time ago! Why didn’t you tell me?” Cathleen pushed herself away from the table and stood at the edge of the roof overlooking the valley below.
“Because I am your son’s doctor,” Gaspar said, coming up behind her. “It was not my place. A doctor is not supposed to unload his troubles on his patients.”
“But I thought you were more than that! I thought . . . I thought . . . we were . . .”
“What?”
“Friends?”
“Oh, yes. Friends.”
“No, I mean I thought you and I had come to some understanding; oh, I don’t know what I thought.”
“I am sorry, Cathleen. I didn’t think I was keeping anything from you. I have never told anyone, anyone back at home about Niranjana, about Dhruv. I’ve never been able to say the words out loud. It seemed too real. Too permanent.”
“I understand. I do, I know what you mean. But . . . but I just don’t get this. This one thing: How do you go on? I don’t understand.” Cathleen shook her head, and tears filled in the corners of her eyes and pooled, and finally the droplets gave way down her cheeks in rapid succession.
“I could ask the same of you. You are one of the strongest people I know.” Dr. Basu took her hand and held it in his own.
“How can you say that? You lost your son, and now you’re helping me save mine. How can you do it?” Dr. Basu stepped toward Cathleen, and she could feel his breath on her face as she looked up at him.
“I only had to watch my son die once, Cathleen,” he whispered, and in that moment, she felt as if he understood her totally. She knew she should have been relieved, but instead she felt vulnerable at the depth of their connection. Nevertheless, she felt her body give way to his, and he imagined himself pulling her close to him. But before he could, she thought of Dhruv and pulled away forcefully.
Cathleen thought of the possibility of Colm’s death and absently said, “I don’t know how you go on. I would have, I would have . . .” She bit her lip, ashamed by what she was about to say, as if accusing the doctor that he showed weakness, rather than strength, by his survival, his enduring of it all.
“It does make life difficult sometimes,” Dr. Basu said stoically, stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning away from her.
Cathleen could not explain what came over her as she looked at him standing all alone, but she went to him anyway. Dr. Basu turned back to her, then held Cathleen’s face in his hands as he looked into her eyes. He at once saw how heartbroken she was, thinking of Colm and wondering how she would manage in the same circumstance. Her compassion for him came from a pain all her own, and a fear of what would become of her if the unthinkable happened.
Cathleen asked herself if she would be like Niranjana or Gaspar. Would she give in to the heartache or would she endure? She had no way of knowing. But Dr. Basu knew instinctively that Cathleen was different from Niranjana.
“I am not a man of many beliefs and superstitions, Cathleen. I do not believe in much anymore. But I believe this: I don’t know who or what is behind this world, but I know you, and the love you have for Colm will keep you strong forever. No matter what happens, you will endure. You will survive, and because of that strength and that love, Colm will too.”
Cathleen wept, and the doctor held her without saying a word. When she finally looked up at him, she saw him, Gaspar Basu, for the first time. He was the strongest man she had ever met, the man she had been looking for her entire life.
After some time, Cathleen and Dr. Basu stepped away from each other, bashfully adjusting their hair and straightening their clothing, as if waking from an afternoon tryst. They walked back inside together, barely touching as they slipped through the door. In the hallway they looked at each other briefly and parted, making their own way to their rooms. As Cathleen walked away from him, she felt the strings that now connected their hearts stretch and tighten. They made a song she had not felt, not heard in years. It was the song of love, and like it had the first time she heard it on the streets of New York, coming from a tall, handsome boy strumming and singing the lyrics to “Mama, You Been on My Mind,” she knew that morning would be too long to wait to see him again.
But Cathleen would not have to wait.
When she opened the door to her room, she cried out, “Colm!” Gaspar came running and before she knew it, he was standing next to her, staring, as she was, at Colm’s empty bed.