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One More Miracle
by
Besterette

Besterette@aol.com

 

I'm not a religious man. I haven't been to church since, well, Mom used to take Stevie and me, so I was what, eight or nine. And in the military, on the force, you see things... that make it hard to have faith. But I believe in miracles. I have to.

I always liked the explanation that Jaguar was just the symbol I chose for my subconscious mind to communicate with me, on levels that I'm too Western and repressed to acknowledge openly. That was a good explanation. At first. Until I started finding myself in that dream-jungle while I was awake, and not in a trance or a meditation or trying to listen to my inner child whine about the time Dad gave me a baseball glove when I really wanted roller skates for my birthday. Until I started seeing the cat in broad daylight. And it sure as hell doesn't explain the wolf.

The jungle is real. Somewhere, somehow, on another plane of existence, as Naomi would say, but it is real. Because Sandburg's been there too. He saw it. That day at the fountain, when he was gone, dead, and I couldn't let him be, I was lost, refusing to believe, desperate for a way to make it not happen, and then suddenly I was the cat, and he was the wolf, and he came back.

He came back.

And in the hospital, he knew about it. Remembered it. So yeah, I believe in miracles.

I have to. My truck was touched by an angel, if Gabe was telling the truth about who and what he was. Divine Intervention would explain my 'sweetheart's' continued existence as a functioning vehicle. And all that guff about ears that can hear a thousand miles but cannot hear the whisper of a heart or whatever. New age crystal rainbow touchy feely crap.

Except Sandburg and I were too angry at each other to hear what the other one was really saying, not reading between the lines, when usually we were so good at that it was like we were reading each others' minds. We were on the edge that night, the edge of something that felt entirely too much like the moment Carolyn and I realized that whatever we had between us couldn't be called a marriage anymore. I didn't want to see that happen to my friendship with Blair, and I guess he sees me as more than cheap rent and a live-in labrat because he didn't either.

That friendship with Blair Sandburg, I guess you could count that as a miracle too. I mean, look at us. Direct opposites. I'm an ex-Ranger, he's a neo-hippie. Cop. Academic. Donut eater and health food nut. Sentinel and Guide.

I let him in. Grudgingly at first. Because I didn't know what the hell was happening to me and he did, and I clung to that like a drowning man to a life preserver. But bit by bit, I went from tolerating his intrusion into my life, to liking having him around. Not just to help me with the sensory stuff. Someone to talk to. Someone to grouse at about hair in the shower drain and have him fire right back that I'm jealous that he has more to lose. Someone who was there. All the time. When I needed him.

I'm a loner. Not a team player, I've been in the leadership role too often to be comfortable taking orders, unless the man over me has earned my respect, like Simon. I'm not outgoing. Hell, I'm just plain not good at other people. Never have been. Sandburg... one day I woke up and it just feels like he's part of me. He makes friends easily, and does the socializing and making up to people I didn't even realize that I've offended. And the table leg thing. Every single woman he sees... figuring that the nine times he gets shot down are worth the tenth phone number. Me, I have trouble talking to people I already know. He hasn't really pushed me out there since the whole Laura McCarthy mess, accepting that I'd rather just let things happen, if they're going to. But I've been dreading the day he'll decide to sit me down and have a talk about the birds and the bees and the responsibility of being an endangered species all by myself.

No. If it happens, it happens, but right now the future of sentinelkind is not a priority. Steven has the same genes. Or maybe one of Rucker and Andi's kids. I'm looking forward to playing Good Old Uncle Jim to the collection of curly headed hyperactive anklebiters Sandburg's going to sire... we were talking about that once, family, me having a brother and him an only child, he said he wanted a big family when he settled down. And I could see myself spoiling the hell out of his kids. Me. Once voted Future Old Curmudgeon. I just hope I get the chance....

So yeah, if I believe in miracles, then the last four years have been a series of little miracles. That's a pretty good description of my life. Little miracles, all the times things could have gone horribly wrong and didn't.

Oh, now doesn't that sound like a fear-based paranoid reaction? But it's true. Life evolved on Earth. Burton wrote that book. We both were born, and lived to grow up. He started to study anthropology here in Cascade. I survived Peru, even the papers called that a miracle, more like dumb luck, we were doing a staggered drop and I called Captain's prerogative and was the first dirtside, had to watch the chopper go down as it swung around to make another pass. I came back to Cascade and became a cop. My senses went wonky. He knew the nurse where I went for help. Despite a flake-act designed to get on my fraying nerves, I listened to him. He started to ride along, survived Kincaid and Lash and Golden, all kind of crap.

Little miracles. Every day.

Is one more miracle too much to ask?

Just one more miracle?

"Detective Ellison?"

The doctor standing in the waiting room doorway. I look up.

"He's out of surgery. The bullet missed the vital organs, he'll need a bit of physical therapy but should make a complete recovery. You can see him."

One more miracle.

~ End ~


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Page last updated 8/15/03.