the miracle maker

He was the miracle maker, the next best thing to god and he smiled, turned from the window, his back to the clouds massing on the horizon, to the prelude to rain spattering against the glass. But the smile faded as he glanced at his watch, impatience percolating in his stomach. He had been kept waiting for three minutes and waiting was unacceptable.
He tapped a leather-sole against the polished floor, his gaze coming to rest on the source of his frustration. The telephone. He stared at it as if his look was enough to bring life to it, make it ring. And he knew it would. Any minute now. But that knowledge did nothing to quiet the frustration that soon would become anger.
Five minutes.
His foot moved faster, black Gucci against black marble, the tap, tap, tap reverberating around the stark white walls, his fingers drumming in time on the mahogany desktop. Lightening lit the room for a moment, thunder grumbling after it as if feeling his tension.
Six minutes.
The phone rang.
The miracle maker snatched up the receiver, saying nothing to the caller and gazed through the office door, across the hall and into the open doorway of the waiting room opposite. A middle age couple sat inside, frozen, clutching each other’s hands. From here it was hard to tell if they were even breathing, the occasional blink the only clue that they were indeed alive.
He marveled at the many ways there was for a human being to cope with despair. Some screamed, cried, abused. Some bargained, begged, fell to their knees. Some said nothing, turned and walked away and others like the couple he now watched, froze, lost in a world he hoped he never had to visit.
But now he was going to change all that. He was the miracle maker, the next best thing to God and with four words he was going to transform these people, bring them back to life so to speak.
He dropped the receiver into its cradle and for a moment he didn’t move, gathered his thoughts. Then he crossed the hall, the couple’s heads turning in unison to face him as he stopped in the open doorway. But they said nothing, the question they feared to voice, clear in their eyes.
He answered it. ”It’s on its way,” he said, and watched as the couple thawed, their hands rising up to their faces, covering the tears that welled in their eyes. Then their legs pushed them from their chairs and towards him, arms outstretched, hugging him, shaking his hand. Their mouths smiled and their eyes dared to hope and now they would speak. Now the questions they were scared to voice would be asked.
They didn’t ask the other questions though, the ones that they didn’t want the answers to, but then none of them ever did. They just wanted their loved ones to live and this was the only way. They didn’t care who died or how. They didn’t care who profited from their desperation. They didn’t care and they didn’t ask.
His tasked performed perfectly; he would accept it no other way, the miracle maker returned to his office. He smiled, the tension he felt earlier just a ghost and looked down at the six o’clock people on the pavement four floors below. A young woman struggling with a small child and too many shopping bags. A suited man, a newspaper clutched in one hand, a briefcase in the other. The husbands, wives, lovers heading for home, all of them unaware of what had just taken place, oblivious to the miracle that he had again made happen.
They came at a price though, the miracles.