The Song of David

I could just imagine the stunned reactions of the nurses and doctors when they got Tag in there and started pulling up his medical history and running him through the MRI. He’d pulled his shaggy hair into a tail at the back of his head for the fight, completely covering up the shaved lines crisscrossing his skull, evidence of the craniotomy, but those things don’t stay hidden. His hair was coming loose from the band and falling around his face when I held him in my arms in the octagon. I’d seen the evidence, and so would they.

When the fat desk clerk had finally come back to her post, she was shaking her head, and she kept looking at us like we’d escaped from a freak show. I’d been looked at that way a time or two, so I just stared back with all the insolence I felt, and Millie was obviously unaware that she was the focus of such suspicious attention. Henry was a jittery, trivia-spouting mess, but Millie just held his hand, stroked his hair, and commented on his inane trivia as if he was the smartest kid in the universe. Before long, he was eating peanut M&Ms and guzzling Sprite from the vending machines with relative calm, whispering a stat to himself every once in a while.

“He’s out of surgery. We were able to stop the bleed,” the doctor said solemnly. He looked from me to Millie. His eyes widened and he looked back at me again, obviously realizing that he could only make eye contact with one of us. To his credit, he went right on talking, hardly pausing.

“He’s unconscious, and we’d like to keep him that way at this point, but we think when the swelling eases in the next twelve hours or so, he’ll come around. We need to watch him over the next few days, but he should be fine. Brain activity looks good, vitals are good. I have consulted with Dr. Stein and Dr. Shumway at LDS hospital. Dr. Shumway performed the craniotomy on your friend, and I can’t tell you much more, but Mr. Taggert’s got some big decisions to make. I think having you here, having people call him on what he did, and on what he needs to do, is important. What he did tonight was incredibly foolish. He’s lucky to be alive.”





Moses




TAG WOKE UP just as the doctor predicted, but they didn’t let us see him until they moved him out of the ICU, which didn’t happen for a full twenty-four hours after he regained consciousness. We’d gone back and forth from the hospital to a nearby hotel, running on terror and little sleep, until, two days after we’d begun our vigil, we went back to the hotel to shower and change, and Henry climbed into bed and refused to get out again. Millie didn’t dare leave Henry alone at the hotel for hours on end, so she stayed behind and I went back to the hospital.

I was surprised to find Tag sitting up in his bed, his eyes heavily circled, his jaw rough with several days’ worth of beard, his shaggy hair hanging lank around his face. The bald patches and staple marks were extremely visible now, and he scratched at his skull as if the bare skin were driving him crazy.

“It’s been almost three weeks. It’s mostly healed, and it itches,” he complained with a smile, as if it were just road rash—nothing serious.

“I think I’ve convinced one of the nurses to help me shave it all off. We’ll be twins, Mo,” he said, referring to the fact that my hair had never been much longer than stubble.

I couldn’t respond. I didn’t do small talk and bullshit as well as Tag did. In fact, I didn’t really do it at all. I just stared at my friend and shoved my hands in my pockets to repress my urge to paint . . . or kill him.

“I think Millie will dig a smooth head—” He stopped abruptly and rubbed at his jaw, clearly agitated. “Is she here, Mo? With you?”

“She’s at the hotel with Henry. He was exhausted, and she didn’t dare leave him alone.”

Tag nodded and closed his eyes, as if he too were exhausted. “Good. That’s good.”

A nurse bustled in, saw me, and hesitated slightly. I almost laughed. She probably wanted Tag all to herself while she fussed over him. Typical female. He probably had the entire nursing staff at his beck and call. He’d be the most well-cared for patient in the history of the hospital.

I watched as she carefully covered him with a sheet and gently started removing his hair with an electric razor, one long clump at a time, until he sat before me, smooth-headed and scarred, looking so different and defeated, so changed, that I unclenched my hands, releasing some of my rage.

The nurse exclaimed that he “must feel so much better now,” and whisked away the shorn hair and the sheet that covered him. Then she helped him maneuver out of his hospital gown—avoiding his IV and the various monitors—and assisted him in donning a new one. I caught Tag’s eye as she carefully tied the strings at his back. I raised an eyebrow, and he gave me a smirk that let me know that he hadn’t changed all that much.

Still, when she left the room, he closed his eyes briefly, resting momentarily, and I felt the fear swell in my chest once more.

“You look like shit, Tag,” I said.

“So do you, Mo,” he shot back, not even opening his eyes.

“It’s your fault,” I said.

He sighed and then murmured, “I know.”

I didn’t comment, thinking he needed to sleep. But after several long breaths he opened his eyes again and met my gaze.

“I’m sorry, Moses.”

“You shouldn’t have left like that. You’ve put us all through hell.” I guess we were going to go there, after all.