Proof of Heaven by Mary Curran Hackett Page A

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.”
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œNaw. 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.”
    â€œI give up,” she said, exasperated, and threw up her arms.
    â€œLove 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.
    â€œHey, Cate, mind if I check my e-mail?” Sean shouted through the door.
    â€œGo 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,