The Song of David

I KNEW I was a little claustrophobic. I was claustrophobic for the same reason I was afraid of the dark. I had always attributed it to the asthma I’d had as a kid. Waking up in the middle of the night gasping for air, the feeling of being closed in, of not being able to take a deep breath. Of knowing you had to breathe or you would die, and not being able to. Claustrophobia was just another word for helplessness. I hated feeling helpless.

They told me not to move and I didn’t, but I didn’t breathe either, and they aborted the first attempt until I got my shit together.

“Is there someone we could call, Mr. Taggert? Someone you would like to be here?”

I shook my head. No. I didn’t want a soul knowing I was here. They all thought I was okay. I had insisted I was okay. What was it Millie said about her blindness? The image in my head is the only one that matters? I was adopting that attitude. I was okay. And my opinion was the only one that mattered.

“Nah. It’s good. I’m fine. Let’s just do this.” I found myself winking at the pretty nurse, putting on a show the way I always did. Distracting myself. She winked back. I knew she liked me. I could always tell when a girl found me attractive. The way their lips pursed, the way their eyebrows raised, the way their eyes darted. All the little clues and signals that I’d never gotten from Millie. And yet Millie loved me. Millie loved me, and I loved her.

“Whenever you start feeling trapped or helpless, just close your eyes, and you have more space than you’ll ever need.”

That’s what Millie had told me. I tried to take her advice, closing my eyes and allowing the huge darkness to help me breathe. I had to be okay because if I wasn’t, Millie was going to get hurt. And I had tried so hard to take it slow, to not rush her, to not rush us. To be absolutely sure I knew what I was doing. I had been careful for the first time in my life. I had been so careful. So cautious. And I was still going to hurt her. I felt panic rise in my chest and heard a voice telling me to breathe, to calm down.

“You’re doing just fine, Mr. Taggert. You’re almost there. You’re almost done, Mr. Taggert.”

“God? Oh God,” I prayed. “I don’t want to be done. Please don’t let me be done. Please don’t let me be done.” I prayed like this all the time. It was my upbringing. Talking to God felt a little like having a conversation with myself, the inner me. I’d always believed God created that inner me, so talking to him was a bit like having a heart to heart with myself. No, I don’t have a God complex. I just think most people make too big a deal about God, fighting wars to defend him or staging protests to deny him. He just seems like a good guy to me. I like talking to him.

I don’t usually kneel when I pray, though I had when Moses almost died. I’d made all kinds of deals too. And I don’t make deals with God—I know myself too well. I just ask him for stuff and thank him for stuff—no strings, no promises in return—so that I don’t ring up a huge tab that I have to pay off at some point. I figure if He helps me, gives me what I need, it’s because He thought I deserved it or wanted to give it to me. So I don’t owe him anything. But I’d broken my rule for Moses. I guess that’s what you did for the people you loved. You broke your rules. Moses had done it with Georgia. He’d smashed all his stupid laws. And I had broken mine. Not just with Moses, but with Millie. I had finally settled on one woman, and I was breaking my rules again now, begging God to forgive the tab. I’d made a deal for Moses, and I hadn’t fulfilled my end of the bargain. Maybe God was calling it in.





“THERE’S A GIANT mass on your frontal lobe.”

The doc didn’t beat around the bush. He just pointed at pictures of my brain and spoke, very matter-of-factly. I could see the black mass he was outlining as clear as day. He turned to look at me.

“You haven’t had trouble with your handwriting, trouble with speech . . . maybe weakness in your right side. It’s off to the left side of your brain, which will always affect the opposite side of the body. You haven’t had any symptoms?”

I wanted to say no, but the symptoms had been there. I just always rationalized them away. “I’ve been seeing spots when I’m tired, and I have noticed more muscle fatigue on the right side. My left hand has always been my dominant hand, so maybe that’s why it didn’t affect me as much. I’ve been training hard. I thought it was dehydration. Thought it was stress.”

“You took a blow to the head in an altercation?”