January 8, 2011 by Mark Lidstone

Georgia

“It’s done”. Immediately my throat eased up. I could swallow again and the copper taste had left. I had expected him to disappear in a puff of smoke or something dramatic, but he just sat there, stirring his scotch with his finger.

“What happens now?” I asked, “Am I supposed to sign something”. He grinned at me.

“No. You couldn’t back out now if you tried. Now you just continue to live your pathetic life. Once you’re done, I’ll be there to collect what’s mine.” I got up to leave. “One more thing”, he put the cigarette back in his mouth. It relit itself. Smoke began pouring out of the tip again. “When the doctor diagnosed Georgia, were you there?”

“No, I was out of town on business”.

“You’re out of town a lot, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. My job requires it”.

“So she told you herself how she got infected..”

“What are you getting at?” I was losing my patience.

“Nothing. Enjoy the remainder of your life. Your wife will be back on her feet in no time”

That was three months ago. I never really knew what he meant until a few weeks after Georgia was cured.  The doctors described the recovery as a miracle from God. They had no idea.