Waiting for the Moon

didn't know, couldn't remember the word to describe

his eyes, but she knew it didn't matter. She was looking

at an angel, fallen from the heavens. Or God Himself.

Yes, she thought sleepily. She'd been saved by God

Himself.

It was her last, pleasant thought as she slipped back into the darkness.

She had opened her eyes.

Even now, hours later, Ian clung to that glorious heartbeat of time, living and reliving it, shaping and reshaping it in his mind until it was bigger, better. She hadn't said anything, but that meant nothing. Less than nothing.

She had opened her eyes. It was a miracle. Grinning, he raced down the overgrown granite path from the house and surged into the dark night Overhead, the moon was a brilliant opalescent ball, wreathed in a glowing halo of light.

It was silent except for the methodic crunching of his heels on the timeworn stone. The sea was a distant thrum of waves on rock. He pushed his hands deeper in his pockets and laughed aloud. Christ, he felt good.

Over and over, he saw the image of Selena when she'd finally wakened. Finally, he'd seen the dark, mysterious brown of her eyes.

Just thinking about it sent exhilaration, blistering and liquid, coursing through his blood. He realized in that instant that he hadn't believed she'd wake up, not really. He thought she'd lie there in that too narrow bed and simply fade away.

For years, he'd pictured the Almighty as a cruel joke-ster, sitting on His gilded throne, playing with humans

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as if they were meaningless pieces on a great chessboard. That image, he could understand, could hate with equanimity; it allowed him to sit in the dark and nurse his animosity, allowed him to hide his curse from himself and an uncaring world.

But no more. God had finally answered one of Ian's prayers.

He turned in to his mother's sanctuary, the small garden she tended so zealously. Elegant wrought-iron fencing closed him in, created a small envelope in the darkness that was subtler, soothing. Every flower his mother planted was white, designed to catch the light of the moon. A great arching gazebo, grayed by time, stood in the center of the garden, its posts swaddled in thick brown wisteria vines. Inside the gazebo sat a forlorn granite bench, its lion's-claw feet set amidst a blanket of silvery new narcissus blossoms.

He closed the gate behind him and went to the bench, taking a seat on the cold, hard stone. Closing his eyes, he let the moonlight wash his face. Usually he stayed away from the yard when the moon was full; it somehow increased his psychic powers. Sometimes, on nights like tonight, he could "read" people's thoughts from far away, could know things about them by simply bringing their faces to his mind. But tonight he didn't care. He felt too good, too hopeful, to be afraid of anything?including his curse.

I can heal her, save her.

Touch her.

Mesmerizing possibilities drifted through his mind, images beckoned and challenged him. A dream took shape, bursting full force in his mind. She would be his greatest challenge yet. He would set the medical world on its ear with his brilliance. When he was finished with her, she'd be as healthy as she'd ever been, and doctors would come from miles around to see her, touch her, study her. And they would know that Ian Carrick was still the best physician in the world.

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He closed his eyes and imagined his glory in full, vibrant color. He saw the amphitheater at Harvard full of his colleagues, sitting forward on their seats, watching with greedy eyes as he led Selena onstage. His miraculous creation, smiling, walking, talking, after a vicious brain injury. He could almost hear the thunderous applause, almost see the standing ovation.

Soon, he thought. Wake up tomorrow and we can begin-----

Ah, he'd give his soul to see her wake up again, smiling and full of life. To hear the sound of her voice and the content of her thoughts.

He looked up at the sky and laughed heartily. Is that what You want? My soul?

"Fine," he said softly, "take it." Useless, unnecessary thing anyway.

What did he need with a soul, when the world lay open to him again, glittering, forgiving, accepting?

His for the asking.

Chapter Four