Saving the World
Page 23
Father Joe placed an arm around Bryant’s shoulder for comfort, but it felt more like a method of restraint.
Occasionally Meltzer would get up and pace, but otherwise there was little movement and less conversation.
Finally at 4:45 a.m., a large wooden side door opened and Dr. Scott Lipson came out wearing green scrubs and a paper mask dangling around his neck. His eyes were red from fatigue. He dragged a chair across the room and placed it directly in front of Bryant. His eyes never leaving Bryant’s.
Lipson sat down with a thud, his body finally getting some relief. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped between his legs. He was the premier neurologist in the state and possibly the country, so when he spoke the words carried weight.
“She fought hard,” he said.
Bryant’s heart dropped. Any glimmer of hope dissipated with those words.
“She ever regain consciousness?” Bryant asked.
Lipson shook his head. “The bullet entered through the temporal lobe where all her special neuroplastic abilities were stored. Once that was gone there was nothing left to replenish.”
Bryant gazed down at the floor and sank lower in the chair. He could feel his body trembling from his core.
“We stood around a while and held hands,” Lipson said. “We cried. We prayed. We did everything and then some.”
Bryant nodded. He understood how tough it was for Lipson to come out and talk with him personally about the last moments of Margo’s life.
“I was about to pronounce her dead when a brain wave spiked on the monitor.”
Bryant looked up, his hands shaking, his eye twitching.
“It happens sometimes,” Lipson shrugged. “In extreme cases the brain sends a final message to the body. It’s over. Goodbye.”
Bryant’s torso began to shudder so hard, Father Joe had to grasp him before he fell to the waiting room floor. His eyes were already blinking away the tears.
“I pronounced her dead at 4:29 a.m.,” Lipson continued. He sounded like he wanted to finish quickly before Bryant lost all control of his emotions. “At 4:31 another brain wave spiked on my monitor. I scrutinized my equipment, even calibrated them just to be sure, but once I examined her temporal lobe . . . it was tiny and very incremental, but . . . her neurons were regenerating. I don’t know what to say. In every sense of the word I was witness to a miracle. There is no other possible explanation.”
Bryant nearly jumped out of his chair. “She’s alive?”
Lipson grinned.
Epilogue
Six months later
Bryant and Margo sat in the very first pew while Father Joe began his sermon on miracles. The priest was in his Easter white vestments and beaming from the pulpit. Bryant had Margo’s fingers intertwined as they smiled broadly at Father Joe’s antics in front of the altar.
“Miracles,” Father Joe said, accenting his Irish brogue for effect. “Ah, they are so prevalent we can hardly notice them sometimes. Take the 1969 Mets for example. It’s commonplace to call them the Miracle Mets, but the accent goes on the word Mets, doesn’t it?”
Bryant rolled his eyes at that one.
“Good Friday was probably the most famous of miracles, but one of my favorites is when Jesus walked on water. Most people lose sight of the fact that Peter walked on water as well, until he took his eyes off Jesus to pay attention to the storm overhead. That’s when he began to sink. Of course Jesus saved him, but the real lesson here is to keep your eye on Jesus and you won’t sink.”
Bryant squeezed Margo’s hand and received a squeeze back. The bandages were gone and her hair was growing back, but they would never be sure how much brain damage she’d incurred from the gunshot wound. Her speech was improving and her long-term memory was returning as well. There was speculation she wouldn’t be able to use her clairvoyant talents any longer which made everyone happy. Finally the voices were gone.
“And so we must all keep our eyes on the Lord, or we will certainly sink,” Father Joe said into the microphone.
At that very moment Bryant thought of how embarrassed the priest would be if his parishioners knew that he wore nothing but his red underwear beneath his garments to prevent him from stuttering. An old OCD routine which he’d never been able to break. Bryant thought of bringing that up the next time Father Joe spoke about miracles. He smiled to himself.
Suddenly Margo gave him a hard elbow to the ribs.
It startled Bryant.
When he looked at her, she admonished him with the glare of a mother disciplining her child.
“I see,” Bryant whispered, rubbing his side.
“So do I,” Margo said, looking up at the ceiling. “So do I.”
The End
If you liked this book check out other books by Gary Ponzo.
Nick Bracco Thriller Series: Box Set (Books 1-3)
A Touch of Deceit (A Nick Bracco Thriller)
A Touch of Revenge (A Nick Bracco Thriller)
A Touch of Greed (A Nick Bracco Thriller)
A Touch of Malice (A Nick Bracco Thriller)
The Killing Sands
The Last Mountain Gorilla
The View from Above
Acknowledgements
I'm always grateful to the people who assist me in my endeavor to write the best story I can write. First, Jennifer, Jessica and Kyle, for always being there for me. To my beta readers: Andy Montgomery, Rick and Michelle Douthit, David Aldrich, Ron Francis, Wayne Heigel, Sharon Schech, and Susan Leitz.
To my wonderful editor Jan Green, and Jeroen ten berge for creating such a terrific cover. I also want to thank the many readers who take time out of their day to contact me with their kind words and encouragement.
Thank you all very much.
Please feel free to contact me at gary@garyponzo.com. I respond to all my readers personally.