The Song of David

“I’m here, baby.” Tag stood and reached for her hand, guiding her forward and onto his lap. He took her coffee and stole a sip as she dropped a kiss on his whiskery head. Her left arm was wrapped around his neck, and I noticed the ring on her finger. My heart swelled in my chest, and for a moment there was only the sweet, even if I wasn’t surprised. It reminded me of the images I’d been shown the day before.

“I saw your mom again, Millie,” I said gently. Tag turned to stare at me, his eyes blazing in his tired face. Millie turned too, as if opening her mind to the impossibility.

“I saw her yesterday, just for a minute. I think she wants you to wear her veil.”





MILLIE CALLED ME. Her voice was scared and apologetic, and it was so reminiscent of the call she’d made six weeks before, looking for Tag, that I was immediately taken back, immediately seized by fear and dread.

I’d just seen them at their wedding a week ago, and I’d been so hopeful. I’d been so sure that they were going to beat the odds. Not just the cancer, but the odds. They were crazy about each other, and their beauty and devotion was tangible, a rosy-hued pulse that I had itched to paint. They were moving fast, which was Tag’s style, but it wasn’t rushed. It was right. The impromptu wedding and celebration at Tag’s bar made me wish I could marry Georgia all over again, and we’d gotten a sitter and danced together for the first time since our own wedding.

“Moses?”

“What’s wrong, Millie?”

“We were supposed to start chemotherapy tomorrow. But Tag has been running a fever all day. He’s sick, Moses, really sick, and I want him to go to the hospital. He says we should just wait until tomorrow, since we have an appointment anyway. But I don’t want to wait. I could call Axel or Mikey. But he’s their boss. And they tend to do what he says, even if he’s being an idiot.”

“I’m on my way.”

Tag didn’t argue very much, actually. By the time I arrived an hour and a half later, he was too sick to put up much of a fight, although he winked at me and insisted on sitting in the back seat with Millie so he could hold her hand. They hadn’t gotten much of a honeymoon, though Millie said she didn’t care. She was more interested in having her husband. Honeymoons could wait, chemotherapy could not. Henry didn’t want to go back to the hospital again. I didn’t blame him—I didn’t want to go back either—so he stayed with Robin, who wasn’t hiding her fear very well. None of us were.

“I’ll be back, Henry,” Tag promised. “Record the fights for me, okay? I ordered them on pay-per-view. I want the run-down when I get home,” he warned.

Tag’s white count was elevated, but his platelets were still high enough for the first round of chemotherapy to be administered, according to the doctor. They admitted him for observation, but couldn’t find any infection or any reason for the fever, and finally concluded, twenty-four hours later, that the fever was just his body’s attempt to fight the cancer on its own.

With the fever under control and no reason to hold off any longer, they administered the first round of chemotherapy there in the hospital. Tag was resting comfortably, Millie by his side—he even had them convinced that he could go home as soon as he was done.

Then the shaking began. Tag shook so hard the bed shook with him, and he went from resting comfortably to courting death in a very short time. I ran for a nurse who could do nothing for him, and she paged the doctor. The shaking continued. It was like the seizure all over again, but Tag was perfectly aware and racked with pain that seemed never-ending.

“Don’t let them s-s-sa-save me-e, Millie. I d-d-don’t want to be p-plugged in t-t-to anyth-thing someone will e-e-eventually have, have, have t-t-to unplug. I d-don’t want that.” Tag stuttered, grinding his jaw with the effort to form the words. “P-p-promise m-me you’ll l-le-let m-me g-g-go.”

“Okay, David. Okay, I promise. I promise,” Millie crooned, but her eyes were wide open, as if she were straining to see him, as if she were focusing all of her energy on him, as if she refused to have any barrier between them, even her closed eyes. He had turned onto his side, and his forehead was pressed against her chest. She struggled to hold onto him, the rigors shaking her off and making her teeth vibrate with his. But she didn’t let go. He asked for something to bite down on at one point, after his mouth started to bleed from him biting his tongue. But he managed to keep his head pressed into her chest while his body bucked on the narrow bed.

“We see this sometimes,” the doctor said helplessly, when he finally responded. “The chemotherapy is attacking the cancer. There’s a battle going on right now, and his body is just reacting to it.”