The Song of David(72)

“Hey, Silly Millie!” I called after her.

She stopped and turned around.

“Yeah, big guy?”

“What song you dancin’ to?”

“It’s a new one. Maybe you’ve heard it. It’s called ‘Nothing Rhymes with David.’”

I threw back my head, laughing at her quick wit and bellowing the song I’d composed the night before as she continued on her way. “I love the way you smell so fruity, I love the way you shake your booty!”

“That’s the song!” she called out and wiggled a little more as she waved and continued down the sidewalk. My phone vibrated in my back pocket, and I answered it, still laughing at my girl.

“Mr. Taggert, this is Doctor Stein at LDS hospital. I had a chance to look over your MRI test results with radiology.”

“Don’t tell me. My brain is abnormally small,” I teased, my mind not really on the conversation at all, but on Millie’s retreating form. She made it hard for me to concentrate on anything else.

The doctor didn’t laugh. That should have been my first clue. That and the fact that I’d left the hospital less than eight hours before and he was calling me himself. But in that moment, the moment before the news left the doctor’s lips and my eyes left Millie, I was completely, perfectly happy. Life isn’t perfect, people aren’t perfect, but there are moments that are. And that was one of them. That moment was a bright red balloon filled with anticipation of what life would bring, of Millie and me and a million tomorrows. And then it ended. It popped with a loud crack, and the rubbery remnants of my perfect moment lay at my feet.

“I would like you to come back in. I want to run another test, focusing on the area of concern. There are some abnormalities, a shadow that needs some further investigation. This is not my area of expertise, so I’ve consulted a specialist, and he is actually available this afternoon. Could you come in an hour?”





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.