Tag Against Time (20 page)

He looked at the two pieces of wood tied together with a thin strip of leather. The eagle feathers on the thing looked decrepit. An old, beat up, canvas backpack and a pair of crude sandals lay next to the feathered stick. There was a hunk of black rock, which looked like an ancient knife, on the other side of the backpack. He studied each object on the shiny wooden desk. Nothing came to his mind, nothing.

The psychiatrist, Dr. Lance, sat behind the massive desk in a black leather chair. His middle-aged, pocked face was placid, if not bored. “You had the backpack on when they found you unconscious. Try to clear your mind totally and just focus on the items.”

My mind is already clear! Empty in fact
, he wanted to scream in frustration.
That's why I am here for you to help me remember something—anything
. Tears stung his eyes as he continued to stare at the three foreign objects on the desk. A gold clock on the wall ticked away the minutes.

“I know this is frightening. Your form of amnesia is unpredictable, but usually memory returns with time. One will see something, hear something, or even smell something that will stir a memory. Once that happens, other memories return also. It just takes time. It is best and safest to let time do its work and not push too hard. I thought these things might spark a memory.” Dr. Lance picked up the feathered stick. “Interesting piece, isn't it? The archaeologist at Walnut Canyon claims it is an Indian prayer stick. He said that it, the knife, and the sandals are hundreds of years old. I had quite a time getting them for you to see.” Dr. Lance stared at him. “The officials are eager to know where you got them.”

He sat there wishing he was back in the room with Gary. At least there, he felt safe. Even in pain, Gary was kind and considerate, never asking stupid questions that just made things worse. Mr. O'Farrell smuggled in pizzas, hamburgers, and doughnuts for them. He brought blue jeans and some shirts for him, saying, “Try these on for size. We don't want you to get arrested for indecent exposure once we get you out of this place.”

They were like—like family.
Family
, the word tore at him. Where was his real family? Why hadn't they come to claim him? Didn't they want him anymore? Had he done something hideous or illegal? Questions stabbed at his mind like an ice pick. The clocked ticked itself away.

Dr. Lance interrupted the clock. “Our time is up. You are lucky that Mr. O'Farrell is such a good lawyer. No one else in town could have gained custody of you for thirty days. It's fortunate that he is taking a few weeks off to get Gary back on his feet. So, I hope you will help them in any way you can.
Of course, you do feel all right about being with the O'Farrells?”

He nodded. He hadn't said more than three words in the hour
therapy session
, as they called it.

“Good. Authorities all over the country know about you.” Dr. Lance peered through his horn-rimmed classes. “However, with so many runaways these days, things are more difficult. Let's hope your parents show up before the thirty days are over.” He stood up and walked around the desk. “It was nice talking to you.”

Leaving the psychiatrist's office, he wondered what would happen to him if his parents didn't come before the thirty days?

“Ready there?” Mr. O'Farrell asked standing behind a wheelchair. Gary sat in the wheelchair, clutching a sack of clothes and a vase of wilting flowers.

He nodded, happy to be leaving the hospital with its unpleasant smells, constant noise, impersonal atmosphere, and crummy food. Anything had to be better than this.

“Glad that you agreed to tag along with us, son.” Mr. O' Farrell scratched his beard. “You know, I am partial to the name
Tag
, and the name fits you better than John Doe. What do you think?”

Tag
. The name sounded hollow, but better than John for some reason. “Yea, I guess so.”

“Grandpa, let's get out of here before they try and stop us,” Gary said. He still looked pale and tired, but was improving daily.

“Right on!” Mr. O'Farrell wheeled the chair out. “Come on, Tag. Let's make our escape.”

Tag watched the houses pass as they drove down the narrow
residential streets of Flagstaff. He watched every house, read every street sign, hoping to recognize something, desperately wanting to say, “Stop! There's my house!”

Everything looked strange and irrelevant. Even the cars looked as alien as spaceships to him. It was as if someone had just plopped him into a totally new world. Nothing looked or felt familiar in the least. Tag closed his eyes, welcoming the comfortable void behind them.

Mr. O'Farrell turned the blue Bronco into a driveway. Tag saw an old, stately, two-story house surrounded by an ornate, wrought iron fence. Huge trees provided shade all round the large, impeccable yard and house.

“I need to pick up a few things here since I'm going stay with you two at the trailer. Gary, stay in the car. There is no use in you wearing out those new crutches. Tag will help me carry back what I need.” Mr. O'Farrell got out of the Bronco and opened the back door for Tag.

The house smelled old, but not musty. “My father built this house. My late wife and I moved in after Father died. We raised Gary's father here.” The long entry hall ended in a fancy staircase. “After he and his wife were killed eighteen years ago, we brought Gary here and raised him, too. Now, with my wife gone, too, the house is just too big for me. It will be almost cozy to stay in Gary's trailer for a while,” Mr. Farrell said, climbing the steps two at a time. “It will be more convenient for him to get around in.”

Tag tried to keep up with him, while looking at the old pictures hanging on the wall. Seeing them, he felt even more abandoned and alone. “Are these all your family?”

“Yes. Quite an Irish brood, isn't it?” Mr. O'Farrell stopped at the top of the stairs. He pointed to an oil painting
of a man and woman. The woman's brown hair curled around her pleasant face. She sat in a chair and wore a long, blue, ruffled dress. Her hands lay on a Bible in her lap. The man, in an old-fashioned suit, stood at his wife's side. His copper hair had streaks of gray at the sides. His steel-blue eyes seemed to smile. “This is my father, Sean Michael O'Farrell. He came to Flagstaff in 1880, as a surveyor for the railroad.”

Tag studied the man in the picture and then glanced over at Mr. O'Farrell. He was watching him. Tag felt uncomfortable under his intense gaze. It wasn't the first time he had caught Mr. O'Farrell scrutinizing him. Why did he get the feeling Mr. O'Farrell was playing a game of cat and mouse?

He stared back at Mr. O'Farrell. “You look more like your father than your mother.”

“So they say, but I inherited my mother's overly active curiosity. Let's get going, before Gary starts laying on the horn.”

Gary's trailer at Walnut Canyon was one of the government-owned trailers parked near the rim of the canyon under the ponderosa pines. The immaculate trailer had a bedroom at each end. Gary's room had a single bed and wall-to-wall books. The other bedroom had bunk beds and more books.

After getting settled down in his bed, Gary said, “Thanks Grandpa. Now stop fussing over me and let me sleep.”

“Tag, are you up to some exploring?” Mr. O'Farrell said, after unpacking his suitcase.

The sky over Walnut Canyon swirled with cotton candy clouds. The air was warm with a slight breeze that carried the scent of sage, pine, and autumn.

“There are over one hundred and twenty cliff ruins built in the canyon walls.” Mr. O'Farrell and Tag stood at one of the overlooks of the canyon, happy to have it to themselves. “My father said that Walnut Canyon and its ruins spoke to him like no other place on earth, except for Ireland, of course.”

Tag leaned against the iron railing. The canyon looked unimpressive, just another rocky canyon. He felt Mr. O'Farrell staring at him again in that intense way. A chill spread across his shoulder blades. “How do you get down to the ruins?”

“You walk down on a paved trail. It's a good little climb. We'll do it tomorrow. Now, we best get back to check on our patient. Knowing Gary, he's probably up cleaning his revolver or mopping the floor.”

They walked back through the pines in silence. Tag glanced at Mr. O'Farrell. He seemed at home in the outdoors with his jeans, cowboy boots, and denim shirt. It was hard to visualize him stuck in an office or debating in a courtroom. Who was Mr. Michael T. O'Farrell? Tag remembered him saying they had met before, or did he just dream that? The first days at the hospital were like a nightmare now.

If he knows who I am, why doesn't he just tell me? Am I so terrible or was my life so horrible that he is afraid to tell me?
Tag's scalp tightened. Maybe it was better not to know.

“Questions, questions with no easy answers,” Tag heard someone whisper. He looked around. Mr. O'Farrell hummed loudly as he marched along. No one else was in sight.

Who had he heard? Dr. Lance hadn't said anything about hearing voices being a part of amnesia. Was he going crazy too?

The next few days passed uneventfully. Tag helped Mr. O'Farrell
care for Gary, which was easy since he still slept a lot. The small trailer needed little upkeep. Most of the time, Mr. O'Farrell and Tag spent talking or reading. Mr. O'Farrell told Tag about his childhood in the rough western town of Flagstaff. For some reason, Tag found himself enjoying hearing about the wild and funny adventures Mr. O'Farrell recounted so dramatically. Michael T. had not been an angelic child.

Mr. O'Farrell proved to be a good listener, also, letting Tag vent his frustrations, worries, and fears, when needed. “We're here to help you, son,” Mr. O'Farrell said, squeezing Tag's shoulder. “I'll do my best to keep you here with us as long as necessary.”

Tag spent hours reading newspapers and magazines searching for something to jar a memory. Daily headlines reported on the escalating war in Vietnam. Students all over the country protested U. S. involvement, while each day President Nixon sent more young men to die. Young men left the country, moved to Canada to avoid being drafted. Women burned their bras for female rights. Musicians with strange names; The Beatles, The Monkeys, The Rolling Stones, and Herman and the Hermits battled for fame and fortune in the recording industry. Every picture, every article, every song on the radio drew blanks. It was all new to Tag. He remembered
nothing
.

Mr. O'Farrell and Tag went exploring around the area for short periods of time. They hiked down into the canyon and the ruins. Tag found the mud-and-rock homes interesting enough, but kept catching Mr. O'Farrell watching him as if something strange or amazing could happen any instant. It gave him the creeps.

By the fifth day, Tag needed some time alone. “Is it okay if I go sit on the rim of the canyon for a while?” He finished drying the last cereal bowl and put it in the cupboard.

“Sure. Stay as long as you want. My secretary is bringing out some legal briefs that I need to go over.” Mr. O'Farrell let the dishwater out of the sink. “Just don't go too far. I'd hate to have to roust Gary out of bed to search for you.”

The morning breeze had an early September nip to it. Tag sat under a tree on the edge of the canyon, watching two birds diving and dancing in the air above. Loneliness and depression filled every inch of his body.
Even those birds know who they are and where they belong. Why don't I?

“Mind if I share the tree's shade?”

The voice startled Tag. He turned with a jerk. A stocky, young man stood behind him. His long blue-black hair blew around his lean, brownish-red face. He looked somewhere between sixteen and twenty years old. His dark almond-shaped eyes seemed to peer right through Tag, sending a chill up his back. Tag hesitated.

The young man moved beside Tag. “It's a beautiful canyon.”

Tag couldn't take his eyes off the newcomer. He wore strange leather pants and a top that looked handmade. His bare feet were in beaded moccasins. He looked something like the hippie types in the magazines.

If he is, he is an Indian hippie
. The strangest feeling pricked at Tag's neck. He looked away from the young man. “It's just a canyon.”

“Look closer. It is a canyon wrapped in time and mystery.” He put his broad hand out to shake. “I'm Walker Talayesva.”