THE NEXT MORNING, Henry arrived at my hospital room first. I almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was gone, just like mine, and only a shadow of stubble remained.
“Henry! Is that you, man?”
“It’s me,” he whispered, nodding. He looked troubled. Obviously, Millie or Moses had explained a few things to him. I wished they hadn’t, but I guess there was no way around it. I had hoped they would let him believe I was only here because of the fight. I didn’t want him worrying about the rest of it.
“Where’s Millie?” I asked as the silence stretched between us.
“On the phone, in the hall.”
“And Moses?”
“He went to get some breakfast for us, in the cafeteria.”
I nodded, grateful. Moses was taking care of them. Good. Andy, Cory, Axel and Mikey had been looking out for them too, but they were on their way home now.
“What’d you do to your hair, Henry?” I asked when he refused to come closer than the foot of my bed.
Henry rubbed his smooth head with both hands, obviously aggravated. His face looked so different without all the hair, and for the first time I could see the resemblance between Millie and her brother. It was in the eyes. Millie’s eyes would look just like Henry’s if she could see. As it was, the shape, the pale color, the thick black lashes were the same, but Henry’s eyes were wide with questions.
Henry sat down at the end of my bed abruptly, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were glassy, and his lips trembled.
“Brian Piccolo was a running back for the Chicago Bears.”
I stared at him, puzzled. I had to think about that one for a minute. Then I understood.
“Yeah. He was.” He was. And Brian Piccolo died of cancer at age twenty-six. Same age as me. I had made Moses watch Brian’s Song with me, cried during the whole damn thing, even though I’d seen it a dozen times before, and then called him Billy Dee for a month afterwards. It was more fun than calling him Gale, after Gale Sayers, Piccolo’s best friend. Moses didn’t appreciate the nickname, but the dynamic between James Caan and Billy Dee Williams in the movie was pretty spot-on to Moses and me. I guess it was my own, Henry-esque way of communicating to Moses that I loved him without telling him. Apparently, I reminded Henry of Brian Piccolo too. I was honored. And I was terrified.
“Did you shave your head for me, Henry?”
Henry nodded and rubbed his head nervously once more. “Moses took me to a barber.”
“Did he really?” My heart ached at the thought of my friend. “Feels pretty good, doesn’t it?”
Henry nodded again. “Shaquille O’Neal, Michael Jordan, Brian Urlacher, Matt Hasselbeck, Mark Messier, Andre Agassi . . .”
“We’re twins,” I commented, interrupting his nervous recitation of bald athletes.
“I know,” Henry answered. “I want to look like you.”
The ache in my heart spread. Henry was irresistible sometimes.
“Can I rub your head?” I just wanted to get him to come closer. I needed to hold onto him for a minute.
Henry stood and moved until he was standing beside me. I tugged his hand and he sat next to me, his head bowed, eyes on the floor.
I placed my left hand on his head and rubbed in gentle circles, wanting to comfort him, hating that I was helpless to do so.
With a sudden sob, he fell against my chest, and I wrapped my arms around him, stroking his shorn head. He cried for a minute, soaking my hospital gown, clinging to me like he was afraid to lose his grip. Then he started to speak.
“David ‘Tag’ Taggert, light heavyweight contender with a professional record of twenty wins, two losses, twelve knock outs.” Henry sounded like a fight announcer who had been on the sauce, all hiccups and slurred words, his voice muffled against me, and I noticed he had added my recent wins to the bio.
“Not a bad record, huh?”
“You’re a fighter,” he cried.
“Yeah. I am,” I said.
“You love to fight,” he insisted.
“I do.”
“You’re a fighter!” Henry’s voice rose, and I realized what he was saying.
“This is a different kind of fight, Henry.” I kept stroking his head.
“Same.”
“Nah. Not the same at all.”
“You’re a fighter!”
“Henry—”
“Millie fights!” Henry insisted, interrupting me.
“She sure as hell does. Every damn day.”
“Mikey fights,” he lifted his head from my chest.
I could only nod.
“Moses fights,” he said.
My throat closed.
“Henry fights?” This time it was more a question than a statement.
“You do,” I whispered.
“My dad didn’t fight.” His eyes met mine, the pleading in them so heartfelt, so determined, so beloved, that I couldn’t answer. Son of a bitch. He was killing me.
“Tag Taggert is the best fighter in the universe,” he implored. “The best fighter in the universe.”
I don’t know how I ever thought Henry wasn’t a good communicator.
“I NEED YOU to pull over, Mo,” I insisted, my hand on the door handle. I was sitting in the back with Millie, and Henry was in the passenger seat beside Moses. We were on our way home from Las Vegas, and the trip couldn’t have been more miserable if they’d tied me to the roof like Aunt Edna in National Lampoon’s Vacation. I was trapped. I couldn’t disappear again. I was on anti-seizure medication, and I was informed that it was illegal to “operate a motor vehicle for three months in the state of Utah after suffering a seizure.” Some states, like Colorado, never allowed you to drive again. Legalize pot but don’t let someone like me ever drive again. Made no sense to me.
Mo’s eyes found mine in the rearview mirror. He had only spoken to me in grunts and single syllables since our heated conversation at the hospital, and I could feel his anger and frustration battling my own.
“Pull over,” I barked. He could pull over or he could clean up my puke in his back seat.
He ground to a halt, gravel and debris kicking up as his tires dug into the asphalt on the side of the road.
I pushed the door open, climbed out, took several steps, and threw up all over Mo’s rear right tire. He was going to be so pleased. I should have known better. Pain pills always made me sick. Now I was shuddering, braced against the truck, dizzy and weak, and it all just pissed me off. I was a badass. I had worked hard to become one. I was tough, I was powerful, and all I could do was sway and cling, begging the world to hold still so I wouldn’t fall down.
We were north of Cedar City, south of a town called Beaver, which left nothing but open space and endless room for contemplation. The fields dotted with purple flowers on either side of the highway rolled serenely as the mountains looked on like indulgent parents. It was all so tranquil and benign it made me furious. It was such a lie. All of it.
“Do you need to pee, Tag?” Henry called from the interior of the truck. “Does he need to pee, Amelie? Can I pee too?”
Millie climbed out and gingerly felt along the side of the truck, her hands out-stretched until her fingers brushed my back. I heard Henry ask Moses if he could get out too, and Moses asked him to wait for just a minute. I appreciated that. I loved Henry, but I didn’t want an audience. The fact that Millie couldn’t see me was comforting. She was comforting.
She handed me a bottle of water without comment, and I took it gratefully, swishing my mouth and spitting a few times. I felt better and took a few careful breaths, filling my lungs to see if the nausea was gone.
“Better?” she asked softly.
“Yeah.”
“You can lean on me, you know. Rest your head in my lap. It will make the rest of the ride easier if you sleep.”
I had held myself stiffly the first few hours of the trip, keeping distance between us. She hadn’t touched me, and I hadn’t reached for her. There was so much to say, and so far, no chance to say it. Guilt and confusion and sorrow had been warring in me, especially in the last few days. I had had a plan—a shitty, terrible one—but still a plan. But it had been shot to hell, and now I couldn’t see my way forward.
I realized I’d said the last words out loud and turned to look at Millie, whose up-turned face was suddenly close enough to kiss. We hadn’t been this close since the night before my craniotomy, the night when we’d made love. I was such an asshole. I’d made love to Millie and then I’d run. Guilt sliced through me. Guilt and remorse and desire, and the nausea returned.
“I can’t see my way forward,” I repeated, giving her my back, willing the churning in my gut and the swaying in my head to ease.
“I can’t either,” Millie said softly. “But it hasn’t stopped me yet.”
I couldn’t reply. I couldn’t do anything but breathe and brace myself until my stomach settled. Eventually, Millie and I climbed back in the backseat, Henry took his turn outside the truck, and we resumed our journey.
Millie reached for my hand, and when she found it, she tugged, urging me toward her. I was a big man, and it was a bit of a press, but she cradled my head in her lap and pulled my coat up over my shoulders. I pressed my fists against my eyes like a child, holding back the helpless tears that wanted to fall. I kept them there until I fell asleep to Millie’s hands stroking and soothing, forgiving me, even though I didn’t deserve it.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
I DIDN’T KNOW what to do with my passengers. I didn’t dare take them back to Salt Lake. Tag’s apartment and the apartment above it were under contract—he had a buyer all lined up before he left for Vegas. Plus, he shouldn’t be alone. He wasn’t well, and I didn’t trust him not to do something ridiculous. Again. I could take Millie and Henry home to Salt Lake and insist Tag come home to Levan with me, but I knew Millie wouldn’t want that. I didn’t think she and Tag had had a chance to air things out. And they needed to. Tag needed to make it right, if that was even possible. I’d watched them in the rearview mirror, Tag finally giving in and letting Millie hold onto him for the last stretch of the trip. She would forgive him, if she hadn’t already, but I didn’t know if he would let her. The whole thing was seriously messed up. All of it, and I felt the anguish boil up in me again. I had no idea what to do.
Tag had an appointment with his oncologist in Salt Lake in one week. I’d made him call Dr. Shumway in my presence, and he put the doctor on speaker. Dr. Shumway had been briefed by the Vegas medical team on Tag’s fight, on the hemorrhage and swelling that had caused the seizure, and on Tag’s present condition, which was surprisingly good, considering. Apparently, after a craniotomy, it’s typical to wait at least a month to let the patient heal before embarking on a course of treatment, in other words, radiation and chemotherapy. It had been three weeks, so Tag’s treatment hadn’t been delayed by his decision to bolt, but Dr. Shumway informed Tag that it was unlikely, with the injury he’d “suffered”—Dr. Shumway was remarkably diplomatic—that treatment for the cancer would begin next week.
Tag would need more time to heal now, and the knowledge made me angry all over again. I wanted the cancer on blast. I didn’t want Tag waiting any longer. He didn’t seem upset by the delay whatsoever. Just subdued. Troubled. Unsure of himself. He watched Millie with such hunger and regret that it was hard to stay angry with him. But I managed.
“You’re all coming home with me. At least for the next few days,” I insisted, arriving at the only solution I could come up with. We were nearing the Levan/Mills exit, an exit that boasted a few abandoned vehicles, several stray cows, and a man-made reservoir that wasn’t much to look at. The freeway bypassed Levan completely, and the one exit, several miles from the town, was the only way to access it without backtracking from Nephi. Funny, Levan was just a blip on the map, a speck, but Georgia and Kathleen were there, and suddenly I was incredibly homesick for the town I once hated.
I caught Tag’s gaze in my rear-view mirror, and he stared back at me steadily. He’d lifted his head from Millie’s lap and straightened to a sitting position.
“You’re all coming home with me,” I repeated firmly.
He broke eye contact and turned to Millie, but she was already nodding.
“Okay,” she said easily, and I released the breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Henry was the only one smiling. “Did you know the average jockey weighs between 108 and 118 pounds?” he asked. Apparently, he was looking forward to riding again. “But a jockey has to be strong,” he added. “Because the average racehorse weighs twelve hundred pounds and can run forty miles per hour.”
I pressed the pedal down, flying toward home, leaving the average racehorse in the dust.