Proof of Angels Read Online Free Page B

place,” Gaspar said, uncharacteristically direct and without a hint of flourish.
    â€œAll right. All right. Layin’ it on thick. Quit it. I’ll be there. Send me the invite to the baptism. Tell Cathleen to quit her worrying. She’s got enough on her plate. Tell her this is how normal siblings behave. They go their separate ways. Live their lives. Call on Christmas. The end.”
    â€œYes, but you don’t . . . call . . . ever . . . and you don’t return our calls . . .”
    â€œI will. I’ll be better. I’m just so busy,” Sean lied.
    â€œHave you met someone? Someone who is keeping you busy? Is that it? Come on, tell . . .”
    â€œOkay, great catching up with you, Gaspar. Catch ya later!” Sean hung up and never did attend the baptism. A shift came up. He took it.
    Now they didn’t even know about the fire or his fall. Sean thought it best if he didn’t put Gaspar or Cathleen down as his emergency contact. Not only did he not actually believe he’d ever be injured or killed, he also didn’t want them to come running to his side if he ever should find himself in a difficult predicament—say the drunken bender he was once notorious for back in New York. That was the last thing he needed: to fall off the wagon and wake up one day to find his indignant sister at his bedside in some California hospital. So James, his surfing buddy and fellow firefighter, was put down as Sean’s only emergency contact. That’s how he wanted it. Sean believed, however erroneously, that being independent and strong meant being alone.
    Sean tried adjusting his position in the bed, but there was no way to get comfortable. He resigned himself to the pain for a second, but then pushed the little red button that was attached to his self-administered morphine drip and let the preset dosage flow. It was weaker than yesterday. They were tapering him. He could tell. But it was enough, for now. It was so easy, he thought. It was so easy to slip back into old habits. And so hard to break them once they got started. Impossible even. He knew there was no ending it. Once he got out of the hospital he knew he’d be hunting down the stuff, alcohol, oxycodone, whatever, just to feel this way all the time. It terrifiedhim. And yet . . . and yet, he pushed the button again. Nothing came out. He knew it wouldn’t. But still, he wanted it. It was a good reminder to him. How easily one could, quite literally, push one’s own self-destruct button.
    After a few moments, when he felt the morphine do its work, he leaned his head forward, and with the pen pursed tightly between his lips, tapped the phone number and TALK button before letting the pen fall on his chest and lifting the phone to his unmelted ear.

Chapter 4
    I N ANOTHER G OOD S AMARITAN H OSPITAL ACROSS THE country, Dr. Gaspar Basu was standing in his scrubs in the middle of a dimly lit hallway just outside the door of a patient’s room. He was poring over an ultrasound of a congestive heart failure patient when he felt his phone vibrate in his chest pocket.
    He pulled it out and recognized Sean’s number. He lifted up his wrist and checked the time. It was only 7:00 in the morning in New York City. Gasper inhaled and held his breath and braced himself for horrible news.
    â€œSean? Are you all right?”
    â€œWhy do you always expect the worst? Is that any way to answer a phone?”
    â€œYou’re right. I am sorry. It’s just that you only call once in a blue—”
    â€œIs this a bad time?” Sean cut him off, not needing to be reminded that he was a terrible friend every time he called.
    â€œI’m on my presurgical rounds. I head into the OR in an hour. Just trying to check in on my patients. But I have a few minutes,” Gaspar said, closing the laptop and walking down the corridor to find a spot to sit.
    â€œSo, how are things? Cathleen’s due any day now?