Charlie Intermission VIII
It hadn’t been instantaneous. Though he’d returned to his body, it took time for the confused priest to muster the energy to wake.
Charlie had startled the nurse who was coming to check on him after the hospital had received new documents from the dedicated Mr. Morning.
She frantically left to go retrieve someone to help.
The hospital suite was warm, comfortable, and full of flowers.
Lilies and roses, baby’s breath and tulips, big and small vases with little cards full of handwritten notes.
A teddy bear with cream coloring and a little cross necklace, a brand new leather Bible, a warm quilt that was a sunshine yellow.
Little gifts and proof that Lucky had been there just like he’d said.
Over and over again, every day for weeks, with new proclamations of his affection that seemed to have grown in size with his emotions.
The roses were vibrant and as red as Lucky’s skin. The note was hard to read from where his heavy body lay immobile and sore, but it wasn’t handwritten like the rest. He hadn’t been given much time to look at it, though, because the suite was soon flooded with bodies in scrubs and white lab coats.
The moment the intubation tube had been removed from Charlie’s throat, he managed to let out a single, desperate word.
“Lucky.”
But his guardian devil didn’t appear in an instant like he’d promised, and panic started to fill Charlie’s numb body.
Somewhere in the room, a kind soul responded, “Not luck, Mr. Wickham. A miracle.”