Guardian

by A L Crouch

  “You know,” he continued, “he never let go of the shooter, even when he lay there, gasping for breath, he refused to let go. He saved a lot of lives, you should be very proud. I’ll leave you alone.”

  I barely heard the officer leave as I approached Donovan on the bed. All I could hear above the soft, steady beeping of the heart monitor was my own shaky breath. He looked so helpless and weak. I wasn’t used to seeing him so . . . human.

  I stared down at him a minute and then reached out with a trembling hand and grasped his. Gasping, I bowed my head, letting the tears flow. For the first time, his hand was ice cold. I looked up and wiped the tears from my cheeks. His perfect face was littered with small cuts and a large bruise had formed above his right eye. Bending over, I kissed the bruise there and took a deep breath.

  “I don’t believe you are here,” I sobbed and squeezed his hand to me. “I don’t understand how any of this is possible, but you taught me something, you know. You taught me to see the beauty in the impossible . . . and right now, I see that you are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen.”

  I took a deep breath, collected myself.

  “Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe God wanted me to have this chance to see you, like this. To know that you were real.” I cried silently and stared into the face that had seen me through my worst nightmares.

  The heart rate monitor’s rhythm slowed and I gasped, looking up and seeing on the monitor that Donovan’s heartbeat was slowing. There was something familiar about the steady, rhythmic sound and I put my hand to my mouth as I realized why.

  Leaning over, I gently placed my head on Donovan’s chest. There, beating against my ear was the slow and steady strumming that was distinctly Donovan. The strumming slowed and began to fade as I listened and I sobbed uncontrollably against his chest.

  “Please no,” I whispered. “Please don’t take him. Please don’t. Not him too. Please God . . . let him live. You sent him to save me, to help me find myself again, and you. Now I’m begging you God, bring him back to me. I know it can happen. I believe it will happen because YOU are the beauty among the devastation and you make beauty out of loss. You led me here for a reason. Bring him back to me . . . please, bring him back.”

  When I was cried out, I lay there, barely breathing as I listened to the strumming of Donovan’s heartbeat against my ear. As I memorized every tone and fluctuation, it faded slowly and then stopped. I lay there unmoving, unable to cry or react, entombed in disbelief. A string of nurses and uniforms entered the room quietly. They stared at me a moment.

  “He’s gone,” one of them whispered to me.

  “No!” I screamed. “He’s not gone. Give him a minute.”

  “Miss, I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

  “No!” I cried again. “He’s not gone, he’s not . . . just wait . . .”

  The uniformed officer entered the room and looked down on me from where I lay, head resting on Donovan’s chest.

  He sighed. “It’s obvious that you loved him very much, he was a great man . . . but it’s his time. You have to let him go.”

  I looked up at the officer wearily, fresh tears welling into my eyes.

  “He’s not gone . . . it’s not his time yet. Donovan said to me once that there is nothing that is lost that cannot be restored. All things are possible. This is my miracle, I know it. My mind is open and I can see now. He’s not gone,” I whispered.

  While I talked to the officer, another soldier grasped me around the waist and lifted me away from Donovan. I kicked and fought to get free of him as I cried out.

  “He’s not gone! Just wait! Just wait . . .”

  The soldier shushed me sympathetically and carried me away and I went limp in his arms. Before he could get me out of the door, a beeping sounded in the room. Everyone breathe in the room held as we listened.

  Another beep, followed by another. The soldier lowered me to the ground and stared in amazement at the heart rate monitor as it began to beep in a steady, constant rhythm. I ran to Donovan and laid my head in his chest. Beneath my ear, the strong and steady strumming soothed me once again and I sobbed tears of joy onto his chest.

  When a warm hand reached for mine, my head shot up and I stared down into the intensity of Donovan’s cool, blue eyes. He glared at me in disbelief, his breaths labored but strong.

  “Alexandra? Is that really you? How did you . . .” His velvet voice was a hoarse whisper. “Am I still dreaming?”

  I kissed his warm hand.

  “Someone told me where to find you,” I said with a weary smile. “It’s not a dream, it’s impossible. I don’t know how . . . how we could spend a lifetime together while you lay suspended between life and death for only a few days. How? I can’t believe it.”

  Donovan nodded knowingly at me and smiled.

  “I can,” he whispered. “A lifetime wasn’t enough. Maybe our purpose is to spend another lifetime together.”

  Donovan sat up slowly, wincing as he did and looked into my eyes as the people around us looked on in disbelief, not knowing how to react. He wiped the tears from my cheeks and ran a finger over the features of my face, as if checking to make sure I was real.

  “I thought you were a dying man’s dream . . . your whole life, our life together. You saved me, Alexandra.”

  I smiled, the joy in my heart overwhelming me and reminding me of that peaceful, incandescent place.

  “I guess that makes us even,” I whispered and Donovan collected me carefully into his arms.

  I closed my eyes as he drew me close and kissed me, and the entire world melted away into a warm, luminous glow.

  Epilogue

  “Come on Mommy, the paint is going to dry.”

  I laughed as my daughter and I raced down the driveway, purple hands waving in the spring breeze. I delighted in following her golden tresses down the gravel drive. When we reached the mailbox we paused and stared at it for a minute, scrutinizing.

  “I think they should go here,” I suggested and the tiny five ear old nodded in approval, her bright blue eyes focused on the exact spot.

  “Okay,” I laughed, “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . three!”

  My daughter’s small hand left a tiny, purple print right next to the small, faded print that I had left more than twenty years ago. I chose to place my purple-covered hand right atop of the larger fading print, and I held it there for a few seconds. When I removed it I marveled at the fact the handprints were the exact same size.

  “I think it looks perfect,” my daughter giggled.

  “You know what Willow? I think you are absolutely right.”

  The little girl smiled and grabbed my purple hand with hers. I laughed and we walked back up the driveway, purple hands joined.

  “Mommy, tell me the story about the angels again.”

  “Again? You always want to hear that story,” I chuckled as the house came into view.

  I looked up at Donovan who sat watching us from the porch swing. He smiled lovingly at his two girls and laughed.

  “It is an incredible story, isn’t it? I tell you what, since you did such a great job of helping me decorate the mailbox, I’ll tell you the story at bedtime. Right now we have a code purple to take care of,” I said and then swung my baby girl by our joined purple hands.

  “Hurry up now you two! I need some help with these cookies!” Gram yelled from the front door.

  We looked at each other excitedly before my daughter, with a joyous laugh, took off running. I stopped a moment and looked at my family gathered on the front porch. Then with a laugh of utter happiness and contentment, I ran home.

 

 

 
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