The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(39)
Moses
WE DIDN’T REVISIT it right away. Not with Dr. Andelin anyway. Tag and I were both put on isolation for three days due to the slug fest. Neither of us were allowed out of our rooms, and I was journaling with pictures once again, explaining “my thoughts and feelings” through my drawings. Dr. Andelin brought me a stack of sketch pads. Good ones. Not computer paper. And he brought grease pencils too. I don’t think he asked permission. I think he was thanking me. I liked the non-verbal appreciation far better than anything he could have said, especially since I hadn’t done it to make him happy. But I made sure to show my gratitude in my own way.
I drew and drew until my fingers cramped and my eyes wouldn’t focus. And when I was done I had sheets and sheets of still life drawings and portraits. Umbrellas and pebbles in a stream and Noah Andelin in his neat little beard, laughing and looking up from the page at a woman who was gone but not forgotten. When I presented the pictures to the doctor on his next visit, he took them reverently and spent our entire session thumbing through them, not talking at all. It was the best session yet.
On the third day of isolation, Tag sprinted into my room and shut the door.
I stared at him balefully. I was kind of under the impression the door was locked. I hadn’t even checked to see. I felt stupid for just sitting in a room for three days behind an unlocked door.
“They stroll the hall every few minutes. But that’s all. That was ridiculously easy. I should have come sooner,” he said, and sat down on my bed. “I’m David Taggert, by the way. But you can call me Tag.” He didn’t act like he wanted to engage in a brawl, which was a little disappointing.
If he didn’t want to fight, I wanted him to leave. I immediately went back to the picture I was working on. I felt Molly there, just beyond the water, her image flickering through the falls, and I sighed heavily. I was weary of Molly. I was even wearier of her brother. Both were incredibly stubborn and obnoxious.
“You’re a crazy son-of-a bitch,” he stated without preamble.
I didn’t even raise my head from the picture I was drawing with the nub of a grease pencil. I was trying to make my supplies last. I was going through them too fast.
“That’s what people say, don’t they? They say you’re crazy. But I don’t buy it, man. Not anymore. You’re not crazy. You’ve got skills. Mad skills.”
“Mad. Crazy. Don’t they mean the same thing?” I murmured. Madness and genius were closely related. I wondered what skills he was talking about. He hadn’t seen me paint.
“Nah, man,” he said. “They aren’t. Crazy people need to be in places like this. You don’t belong here.”
“I think I probably do.”
He laughed, clearly surprised. “You think you’re crazy?”
“I think I’m cracked.” That’s what Georgia said. But she hadn’t seemed to mind. Not until the cracks had gotten so wide she’d fallen in one and gotten hurt.
Tag tilted his head quizzically, but when I didn’t continue, he nodded. “Okay. Maybe we’re all cracked. Or bent. I sure as hell am.”
“Why?” I found myself asking. Molly was hovering again and I drew faster, helplessly filling the page with her face.
“My sister’s gone. And it’s my fault. And until I know what happened to her, I’m never gonna be able to get straight. I’ll be bent forever.” His voice was so soft I wasn’t sure he meant for me to hear the last part.
“Is this your sister?” I asked reluctantly. I held up my sketch pad.
Tag stared. Then he stood. Then he sat down again. And then he nodded.
“Yeah,” he choked. “That’s my sister.”
And he told me everything.
It turns out, David Taggert’s father was a Texas oil man who’d always wanted to be a rancher. When Tag started getting in trouble and getting drunk every weekend, Tag’s father had retired, sold some of his shares for millions and, among other things, purchased a fifty acre ranch in Sanpete County, Utah, where Tag’s mother was from, and moved the family there. He was sure if he could get Tag and his older sister, Molly, away from their old scene, he would be able to clean them up. Tag’s father thought it would be a good move for the whole family. Open space, lots of work to keep them busy, and good, wholesome people all around them. And there was plenty of money to grease the operation.
But the kids hadn’t thrived. They’d rebelled. Tag’s older sister, Molly, ran away and was never heard from again. The younger girls, twins, ended up following their mother back to Dallas when she filed for divorce. Turns out she liked Dallas better, too, and blamed her husband for her oldest daughter’s disappearance. Then it was just Tag and his old man. And lots of money, space, and cattle. Tag struggled to stay sober, but when he wasn’t drinking, he was drowning in guilt and eventually tried to kill himself. Several times. Which landed him in the psych ward with me.
“She took off. We don’t really know why. She was doing better than anyone. I think she took some of my shit. I wasn’t just drinking, you know. I had pills stashed everywhere. I don’t know why she took it. Maybe her problem was worse than I thought. Maybe she just wanted to take it so I couldn’t get it.”
I waited, letting him talk. I didn’t know how she died any more than he did. That wasn’t what the dead wanted to share. They wanted to show me their lives. Not their deaths. Not ever.