by Amy Harmon
“How can I possibly be dying when I feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before?”
I CREPT INTO Henry’s room at about dawn. I wanted to see him, just in case. Just in case the news was bad and I didn’t come back. I wanted to say goodbye, even if it was temporary, even if he couldn’t hear me. He looked big in the small bed, his long feet and knobby knees sticking out from beneath the covers. He needed a new bed. I made a note to tell Millie and then stopped myself. What had Millie said? She’d been taking care of herself before she met me, and she’d be taking care of herself, and Henry, after I was gone. They’d been taking care of each other.
I didn’t want to wake him, and I moved to go, my eyes skimming over his desk, over the book about giants that had once scared him. Moses had mentioned Millie’s dead mother and that book, and it had gnawed at me for a week as I tried to figure out how to approach the subject without upsetting anyone. I had shared Moses’s abilities with Millie in broad strokes, but knowing someone could see the dead and having someone see your dead were two different things. I knew that first hand. But it bothered me enough that I finally asked Henry about it.
“You wouldn’t have a book about giants, would you Henry?” I inquired hesitantly. It wasn’t very subtle, but apparently, Henry didn’t need subtlety. He’d known immediately what book I was referring to. He also knew where to find it. He had clattered down the stairs to the storage bins that were neatly stacked and labeled, and within a few minutes, returned with a handful of old treasures, including a book that was well-worn and obviously well-read. It was called When Giants Hide. Henry had shown me the pictures and made me find each giant before turning to the next page.
“My dad’s name is Andre,” he’d said abruptly.
“Yeah. I know.”
“Like Andre the Giant,” he added.
I nodded. One Andre was a giant, one Andre played for the Giants. Interesting. I hadn’t made the connection, but Henry obviously had.
“Andre the Giant was over seven feet tall and weighed five hundred pounds,” Henry continued as we turned the page, our eyes resting on a giant who blended into the trees, his hair a huge, leafy afro, his skin weathered and brown.
“He was a professional wrestler. I used to watch old highlight videos of him wrestling Hulk Hogan,” I said.
“Who won?” he asked, looking up from the book.
I laughed. “You know what? I don’t remember. I just remember thinking how big Andre was, and how much I wanted long hair and a big gold belt like Hulk Hogan.”
“This book used to scare me.”
“Not anymore?”
Henry shook his head. “No. But I still look for giants sometimes.”
“Giants . . . or just one giant?” I asked quietly. I thought maybe I’d figured out why Millie’s mother had shown Moses the book.
“Andre the Giant died,” he said soberly. “I’m not looking for him anymore.”
I had sensed Henry knew exactly who I was referring to, but I let the subject drop.
Now, looking down at the book on Henry’s desk, the doctor’s words rang in my head.
“You have a giant mass on your frontal lobe.”
A hiding giant no one had seen. Until now.
“Giants don’t make good friends.”
Henry was right. Giants were something to be afraid of.
“When Giants Hide,” I read the title again, and Henry tossed a little, murmuring in his sleep. I placed the book back down and noticed the old tape recorder Henry had unearthed along with the book. There was a shoebox of tapes too, some used, some new. Apparently, Henry had once used them to record his own sportscasts. He had a digital recorder now, but he’d been excited by the discovery of his old collection.
The tapes and the recorder gave me an idea, and I felt a little sliver of relief, a tiny lifeline. I would use the tapes to leave Millie a message. I lifted them carefully from the desk, treading quietly as I eased back out of the room with my hands now full. I would give it all back, I promised Henry silently.
(End of Cassette)
Moses
WE LEFT FOR Vegas early the next morning. Georgia stayed behind with Kathleen, but Millie refused to be left behind. She apologized for insisting yet insisted anyway. And Henry couldn’t stay home alone. So it was the three of us in the cab of my truck, heading to Vegas with our stomachs in knots and our thoughts turned inward. It could have been awkward, but it wasn’t. We’d passed awkward a long time ago and were well on our way to being friends.
Tag’s team left at about the same time, but we had no plans to meet up. It was divide and conquer. That was the plan, though the plan lacked specifics. My goal was just to get to Vegas and get into the fight. I’d worry about the rest later.
There wasn’t a cassette player in my truck. They didn’t make them that way anymore. But Millie brought the tape player and the box of tapes, and she sat with them in her lap as if she couldn’t bear to part with them. They were a lifeline. A Tagline. Since the day before, when Tag revealed the results of his MRI, Millie hadn’t shared the contents of the remaining tapes with me or Georgia, and I hadn’t asked to listen. I didn’t want to listen. The conversation had grown too personal, the love story too ripe, the feelings too raw, and the story was for Millie’s ears alone. I wasn’t sure if she had continued listening after we parted, but I was guessing from the way she held them, she’d done little else.
About halfway into our trip, she pulled out a cassette and put in some earphones. I was impressed that the tape recorder even worked with earphones. She turned away slightly, drawing her knees to her chest, and lost herself in Tag’s voice.
It wasn’t until a half hour later that she started to cry. She’d been so resilient. So composed. But now—now she wasn’t. Something on the cassette had set her off. Tears dripped down her face, and her lids were tightly closed, clearly an attempt to hold them in.
I needed Georgia. I didn’t know what to do. And Henry sure as hell didn’t know what to do. He caught sight of his sister’s tears and immediately started fidgeting and pulling at his seatbelt, reaching for Millie and then turning away from her.
“Lou Gehrig, Jimmie Foxx, Hank Greenberg, Eddie Murray, Buck Leonard . . .” Henry started muttering and rocking, “Mark McGwire, Harmon Killebrew, Roger Connor, Jeff Bagwell . . .”
“Millie!” I raised my voice in an effort to be heard over the earphones that covered her ears.
Millie yanked the earbuds from her ears and immediately tuned into Henry.
She slid the cassette player to the floor and climbed over the seat without hesitation. She swiped at her wet face with one hand as she pulled Henry into her arms.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I’m okay.”
“Cap Anson, Bill Terry, Johnny Mize,” Henry mumbled.
“Baseball players?” I asked, recognizing a few.
“First basemen,” Millie supplied. Her lips were tight, and I could see she was still trying to force back the grief that had gotten to her in the first place. Henry’s forehead rested on her shoulder, his eyes hidden from her tear-stained face, giving her a moment to pull it together.
“Andre Anderson,” Henry added, but didn’t continue listing names.
It took me a minute to put it all together. Baseball. First basemen. Andre Anderson. Henry and Millie’s dad.
“Rookie of the Year, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger.” Henry pulled out of Millie’s arms and touched her cheek. I was getting dizzy watching the road and watching my rear view mirror and the drama in the backseat.
“Rookie of the Year, Gold Glove, Silver Slugger, lousy father,” Millie said firmly. “I am not crying over dad, Henry.”
“Tag Taggert, light heavyweight contender, nineteen wins, two losses, eleven knockouts, lousy boyfriend?” Henry asked.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I did neither. But my throat ached from the effort of doing nothing. Millie laughed, but a quick glance in my rearview confirmed that tears streamed down her cheeks once more. It was t
ragically funny.
“No, Henry. It’s not the same. It’s not the same at all. Tag didn’t leave us. This isn’t about us, Henry. This is about Tag.”
I felt a rush of awe for Millie Anderson. People didn’t impress me very easily. I could count on one hand the people who had exceeded my expectations, but Millie had just joined the ranks.
“He’s still gone,” Henry insisted, making me flinch. Millie said nothing. I just continued to drive.
Moses
THE ARENA WAS bright flashes and swinging strobe lights, and the seats I’d garnered were just to the right of the announcer’s table on the left side of the octagon. I had it on good authority that we would be able to see Tag’s corner and he should be able to see us if I could get his attention. I would have to sell one of my lungs to recoup the cost of the tickets, but we were in. Axel, Mikey, and the rest of the guys had managed to come up with seats as well, but they were somewhere else in the arena, and I hadn’t spotted them yet.
Henry’s face was blank, but his eyes swung wildly, soaking in the celebrity sightings, the electric energy, the announcers, the ring girls, the music. Millie had her game face on, and she held Henry’s hand tightly so he could guide her through the crowd, but I was afraid the two of them were going to be swept away, so I reached down and held her other hand, the three of us linked like a line of kindergarteners in a crosswalk.
The crush of people made me nervous, and I could see. I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for Millie, bumping through the crowd in total darkness, senses on overload, unable to get her bearings. She gripped my hand and flashed me a smile as we wound our way to our seats. Tag’s fight wasn’t the main event, but he was the last fight before the final, and there were two fights lined up before his.
He still wasn’t answering his phone. In fact, calling his number resulted in a message that the user’s mailbox was full. We had tracked him down the best we could, and now we had to wait.
Millie had been subdued on the trip to Vegas, her face shadowed and shuttered, looking after Henry and making quiet conversation with me, and beyond the tears that had leaked out when she had listened to one of Tag’s tapes, she’d kept her emotions close to her chest. Me? I was angry. If Tag didn’t get his ass kicked in his fight, I was going to kick it afterwards. The anger kept me from being afraid. I had enough self-awareness to know that. But I didn’t understand what Tag was thinking. Not really. I didn’t understand just cutting us off and leaving. I’d seen a documentary once about how old Native Americans left their tribes when they were ready to die. But Tag was twenty-six. And he wasn’t Native American. And I refused to believe he was dying. The rage built in my chest again, and I mentally changed the subject.
Henry was tuned into the announcer’s table, more interested in the commentators than the fights themselves, and his interest drew my own. They were talking about Tag, and I felt Millie stiffen next to me.
“For our viewers who are just tuning in, Tag Taggert was not scheduled to fight tonight. But when Jordan Jones pulled out at the last minute due to a shoulder injury, fight commissioner Cliff Cordova called Tag Taggert, definitely a rising star in ultimate fighting, and asked him if he wanted to step in. Tag defeated Bruno Santos by technical knock-out in the fifth round only a month ago, which is the second time he has completely obliterated his underdog status and beaten a highly-favored opponent.
And now, David Taggert is entering the arena wearing his signature Tag Team gear. But he’s completely alone. He has two arena security guards with him. That’s it. No corner help, no coaches, no team whatsoever. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before. For a guy who has been building the Tag Team brand so aggressively, that’s a little odd.”
“Tag! Tag!” Henry was screaming and jumping up and down, trying to draw Tag’s attention, and Millie was shaking so hard I gritted my own teeth to help her stop. Tag saw Henry, saw me, and then he saw Millie. His jaw clenched, his eyes widened, and he slowed, almost stopping, before he seemed to remember where he was. He actually stepped toward us, and Henry yelled his name once more and waved theatrically. Tag’s eyes shot to mine again and he pointed at me and then pointed at Millie, as if to say “take care of her.” I could only stare back.
Then, after a nudge from security, he continued on to the edge of the octagon, pulled off the Tag Team warm-ups, stepped out of his shoes, stuck a mouth guard over his teeth, and waited for the official to call him forward. He didn’t look toward us again, and I recognized the set of his shoulders and the jut of his chin. I’d seen this Tag more times than I could count. It was game time, and sadly, this wasn’t a game.
“What’s happening, Moses?” Millie asked, the fear in her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd around us. I leaned down and put my head next to hers. I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to shout.
“He’s going to do it. He’s going to fight.”
“I hate that I can’t see him.” Her face was white and her mouth trembled. I marveled for the millionth time at her courage. How would it feel to go through life in perpetual darkness, putting yourself out there and hoping the world could see you, even if you couldn’t see it? I saw more than I wanted to see, and for much of my life I’d hated it. I’d hated what I could see. But it was better than seeing nothing at all.
“He saw you, Millie. He knows you’re here. He knows we’re here.”
“How does he look?”
“He looks ready.” It was the only thing I could say.
“Why is he doing this?” The question was almost a sob, and I took her hand again. I didn’t have an answer.
The announcer began his build-up, introducing Tag first, and Henry mouthed his sequence almost word for word, the wins and losses, the nicknames and finally David “Tag” Taggert, as the crowd roared and my conscience screamed. Tag was such an idiot. It was David and Goliath, and I could only look on helplessly as Terry “Shotgun” Shaw was announced and the referee called the two fighters to the center of the octagon. Henry knew Shotgun’s stats as well.
Millie’s attention was once again riveted on the television play-by-play, the two co-hosts chatting excitedly, giving her information that she couldn’t see. I listened to them launch into an introduction of the upcoming fight as the referee stood in the center of the octagon and talked to the two fighters who stood chest to chest, eye to eye, trying to take each other apart before the buzzer sounded. Tag had told me once that those few seconds of intimidation were invaluable.
“Shotgun’s camp wasn’t very happy about the match-up. They don’t think Taggert has earned the right to be in the octagon with Shotgun. They really wanted the fight with Jones, but Jordan Jones was out, and after Taggert’s big win against Santos last month, he was the obvious choice in my opinion. He’s a rising star, popular with the fans, popular with other fighters, just an all-around great ambassador for the sport. He’s a solid striker, solid grappler, and his wrestling skills have improved immensely. He was a bull-rider in high school, so he’s definitely an adrenaline junky, though he claims a few broken bones was all it took to convince him to leave the bulls alone. But more than anything else, the man just enjoys the sport. He loves getting in the octagon, battling it out, and he claims that’s the reason he’s any good. He loves to fight, and he has a hell of a chin.”
The buzzer sounded and the announcers grew silent for all of five seconds. Tag and Shotgun circled each other, and the broadcasters couldn’t help themselves. They had to jump back into the fray.
“That’s right, Joe. In his recent fight against Bruno Santos, there were a few times where everyone thought he was going down. Bruno landed some brutal shots, and Taggert just kept coming. He just kind of wore Bruno out, and in the end, caught Santos just right and sent him to the canvas, absolutely stunning the fight world. Santos was the clear favorite, just like Shotgun is the favorite here today. But don’t count Tag Taggert out. Don’t count him out, because he just might surprise you.”
My heart bounced like a ball in
my chest and the sweat trickled down my back. Tag attempted a take down and caught a flurry of fists instead.
“Oh, Shotgun lands a solid combination to Taggert’s body! And out comes the smile from Tag Taggert! He is grinning from ear to ear.
“Is it part of his game plan? Smile through the pain?”
“You know, it might be, but I’ve watched several of his fights, and I honestly think he just loves the battle. He starts smiling when the fists start flying, and he doesn’t stop.”
I had to tune the announcers out. They were making me nervous. But they were right. The harder Shotgun came at him, the bigger Tag’s smile grew. With his dimples flashing, the women in the crowd were all solidly in his corner after the second round. I’d seen it before. Tag smiling as blood dripped out his nose and from his mouth. The man was a lunatic.
But he didn’t look sick, and he didn’t act sick, and I felt a sliver of relief that Tag wasn’t trying to die. Not yet. Shotgun’s fist glanced off Tag’s forehead at the end of the first round and for a minute, Tag’s legs stiffened. Shotgun saw that Tag was temporarily rocked and flew at him, fists flying, only to have his confidence and momentum used against him. Tag lunged into a perfect double leg, wrapping his arms around Shotgun’s knees, and toppled Shotgun cleanly to his back.
The crowd went crazy, the announcers went wild, and Millie strained to hear their commentary, her hand in mine, her other hand resting on Henry.
“Tag took him down,” I yelled downward, giving her the play-by-play I knew she needed, but my eyes stayed locked on Tag’s back as he struggled to grind his way past Shotgun’s guard.
“Ground and pound!” Henry shrieked.
But the round ended, and Tag was forced to let Shotgun up. Tag stood easily and walked to his empty corner, but he didn’t sit on the stool that was placed there for him, nor did he lean against the ropes, giving the crowd his back. Instead, he grabbed a towel, shot his mouth with water, spit it out again, took another drink and found Millie in the crowd. He stood, fingers clinging to the cage that surrounded the octagon, and he didn’t look at me or anyone else. He kept his eyes on her long enough that the announcers were turning their heads, trying to see who or what held his attention.