Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

I could tell from the look on my mother’s face that she wasn’t sure whether she had anything left to say.

“I miss him,” I said.

“He was one of a kind, that’s for sure.”

“Do you miss him?”

My mother drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. After that, she licked her lips a couple of times.

“No. I’m sorry, Edward, but no, I don’t.”

I didn’t even know what to say or think about that.

From the logbook of Edward Stanton:

Time I woke up today: 8:48 a.m. My face was in a puddle of my own drool.

High temperature for Tuesday, December 20, 2011, Day 354: 42, according to the Billings Herald-Gleaner website. I don’t have a paper yet. That’s a 7-degree improvement from the high a day before. These are just highly unusual December temperatures.

Low temperature for Tuesday, December 20, 2011: 28, a 10-degree improvement. Remarkable.

Precipitation for Tuesday, December 20, 2011: 0.00 inches

Precipitation for 2011: 19.48 inches

New entries:

Exercise for Tuesday, December 20, 2011: I took an even longer walk with Sheila Renfro, before my mother showed up and short-circuited my stay in Cheyenne Wells.

I told my mother yesterday that I wasn’t mad at her. That was a lie. I’m pissed off.

Also, I wonder if Sheila Renfro will walk without me. I hope so. I’m going to try to walk here, without Sheila Renfro.

Miles driven Tuesday, December 20, 2011: I refuse to recognize any miles driven by my mother or by me yesterday. I shouldn’t have been in that car.

Total miles driven: Holding steady at 1,844.9, because of the technicality I just outlined.

Gas usage Tuesday, December 20, 2011: I also refuse to recognize any gas I put in my new Cadillac DTS, although I will be unable to persuade my bank to disregard the money I spent on it. That sucks.

Addendum: OK, I still intend to embark on my new program to get my life into shape. That’s just good common sense. But I’m pissed off that I’m here right now, and I’m pissed off at my mother for butting into my business the way she did. Sovereignty. That’s a word. I love that word. It means that I have the right to make the decisions that affect the course of my life. My mother infringed (I also love the word “infringed”) on my sovereignty by doing what she did. What’s more, she doesn’t even recognize that she did anything wrong. She doesn’t think it’s a big deal! That makes things even worse.

Something else that pisses me off is the way my mother talked about my father, saying she doesn’t miss him. How can she not? He was her husband. This is difficult for me, because I believe that a person has a right to feel the way he or she wants to, but my mother is acting irrationally on several levels.

I am so pissed off at my mother right now. I want to call her and tell her off, and maybe I will, but even as I wig out, I can hear Dr. Buckley talking in my head about this. She told me once that it’s never a bad move to wait until anger passes before having a confrontation. She said that doesn’t mean you overlook a transgression, but rather that you allow yourself to be in the proper frame of mind to achieve the best possible solution from a necessary confrontation. If I call my mother right now, I am going to yell at her and probably make her cry (I’ve done it before). That might make me feel good for a little while, but it won’t solve the problem between us. I will wait for my anger to recede. In fact, I think I will call Dr. Bryan Thomsen and see if he can fit me into his schedule today. It’s not ideal, as today is Wednesday and not Tuesday, but my need for the help outweighs my need to stick to my schedule.

Can Dr. Bryan Thomsen help me? I have my doubts. But doubt is in the realm of conjecture. I need facts. I need them as badly as I ever have.

Also, I don’t think I should keep referring to Sheila Renfro in these notes. It didn’t happen ideally, but I’m gone from there. It’s over. It’s just too painful to think about her.

(Who am I kidding? I can’t not think about her. But I can try not to write about her, which makes the thinking much more intense and painful.)

My morning is being dominated by phone calls. That’s not how I’d prefer to spend my morning, but life doesn’t always unfold for us the way we would like. Obviously.

It starts with good news: Dr. Bryan Thomsen can see me at 1:00 p.m. today, which is three hours and twenty-two minutes from right now. He says he’s eager to hear about my trip, and, as it turns out, I have plenty to tell him.

I am in no mood for inefficiency today, and I make this clear to Dr. Bryan Thomsen. “Will you be ready promptly at one p.m.?” I ask him.

“Yes, indeed. One p.m. I’ve written it on my schedule right here.”

“I know you’ve written it down. You always write it down. What I’m asking is if you’re going to be ready at the appointed time.”

“Yes.”

“Because you’ve missed it before.”

“I have? I guess I don’t recall that.”

“Seven times,” I say. “I am supposed to see you at ten a.m., and yet we started our session on those seven occasions at 10:01 twice, 10:03, 10:04 three times and, perhaps most egregiously, 10:11.” (I love the word “egregiously.”)

“Well, I’m terribly sorry about that, Edward. You’re clearly on a mission today.”

“I’m just trying to sort out the shithouse, Dr. Bryan Thomsen.”

“I will be ready at one p.m. I give you my solemn word. I’m looking forward to talking about this issue—”

“Maybe next time. I’m controlling the agenda today. See you at one p.m.”

I hang up.

I’ve just crossed Dr. Bryan Thomsen off my to-do list when the phone rings.

I pick it up. “Yes.”

“Is that any way to answer the phone?”

It’s my mother. I wonder if she’s calling to take another chunk of my sovereignty.

“It’s the way I’m doing it today, Mother. What do you want?”

“Be nice.”

“I’m busy, Mother. What do you want?”

“I just talked to Jay, and he thinks he has a lead on a job for you. Can you swing by his office this afternoon?”

“No.”

“It will only take a few minutes.”

“No. I’m busy. Tell him I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“He’s really sticking his neck out for you.”

“Tell him I appreciate it. Tell him I will come by tomorrow.”

“Why are you being so huffy?”

“I told you. I’m busy. Is there anything else?”

“Well, then, perhaps you’re too busy to come by for lunch.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Mother.”

I return to my list. Time is wasting.

By 11:48 a.m., my list is whittled to a single item: go get my mail from the post office. I can do that one after my appointment with Dr. Bryan Thomsen.

Gifts for my mother and Kyle will be here in two days. Kyle’s gift was easy—it’s a Tim Tebow jersey, which I promised him. My mother’s gift is something that seems pedestrian (I love the word “pedestrian”), but I read several online gift guides, and apparently this thing is the hot gift for this year—it’s a single-cup coffee brewer called a Keurig. It seems to be an ingenious product. You put something called a K-Cup—this can be virtually any flavor of coffee or tea—into this compartment, close it, and hit a button on the machine. Sharp needles puncture the K-Cup, and hot water is sent coursing through it and into your cup.

I hope my mother likes it. Just in case, I’ll keep the receipt and tell her how she can ship it back if it doesn’t meet with her approval. Some people take gift-giving personally and become despondent if a gift isn’t enjoyed. I’ve never been that way. It’s just a silly inanimate object. Why should I let it bother me, when so many other things make me legitimately upset?