Craig Lancaster - 600 Hours of Edward

When I wake up—at 7:40 a.m., the thirtieth time out of 296 days this year (because it’s a leap year)—it’s because the wind is whipping against the house, rattling windows. My data entered, I strain across the bed and pull aside the curtain on the bedroom window.

The lone white ash tree in the backyard, clinging to its last maroon leaves, is being bent by the high wind. I glance up at the sky, which is a foreboding gray.

I have two thoughts about this: First, I think that Montana in fall is about to deliver confirmation of just how off base a forecast can be. Second, I am glad that I have no plans to paint the garage today.

As the first droplets of rain crash into the window, it occurs to me that I ought to hurry and fetch the newspaper, or else the remainder of my data will be ruined.

At the kitchen table for breakfast, I’m choking down my eighty milligrams of fluoxetine. Here is something I did not tell Dr. Buckley yesterday: When the dreams started, I thought perhaps that I should go off my medication, just to see if that would toggle the dreams away and bring back my peaceful sleep. I can only imagine what Dr. Buckley’s reaction to that would have been. She would have asked me to think about all the trouble I had before we got my dosage right, about all the moments when I felt like an unwilling passenger in a car driven by a madman—only I was the madman.

She would have been right, too. The fluoxetine, in large measure, keeps day-to-day life from being more of a mess than it sometimes is. I get credit for some of that, and Dr. Buckley would not hesitate to give it to me. Using some of the coping strategies she has given me—closing my eyes, counting backward, visualizing the path out of danger—I have often averted situations that, before Dr. Buckley, would have escalated into horrible confrontations that my father would have had to defuse. I think it’s those coping skills plus the medication that have done it for me. I wouldn’t want to try life without either one.

Had I gone off my medication, Dr. Buckley’s reaction would have been predictable. My father’s would have been apocalyptic. (I love the word “apocalyptic.”) If I think my father and his lawyer are acting badly now, I should try them after I’ve ditched my medication.

I have trouble enough. I down the last pill and get on with it.

Inbox (1).

I have been waiting for this.

I click the link.

Dear Edward,

Awesome! Seven p.m. it is at the wine bar. Your totally cracking me up with this Dragnet stuff. You have to tell me all about it.

I will see you Friday.

The wind and rain are complications I do not need today, but they will have to be dealt with. If I am to go on an Internet date, I will need new clothes. The ones I have are fine for painting the garage, or puttering around the yard, or seeing Dr. Buckley, but they are not acceptable Internet date clothes by a long shot. Today has to be the day for that. It is Wednesday. My date is Friday. Were I to wait a day to buy the clothes, I would not have time to return them if something were to go wrong, like a button falling off or a shoe not fitting or something else that I cannot anticipate. Logic demands that I try clothes on today, buy them today, try them on again tomorrow, and then hope for the best on Friday. I cannot do more than that.

And so it is that I will drive to Rimrock Mall, in the wind and the rain, and then deal with the crowds at the mall. These are not things I enjoy. Worse still, I have to make many left turns to get to Rimrock Mall. Given where this house is and where the mall is, I have no alternative.

Here are a few things you should know about Rimrock Mall so you’ll understand why I am dreading today’s visit there.

Rimrock Mall is the biggest mall in Montana. Because Billings is such a geographic oddity—at 100,000-plus people, it is the largest city in a 500-mile radius—it isn’t just Billings people who come to the mall. I read somewhere, maybe in the Billings Herald-Gleaner , that half of Northern Wyoming does its monthly shopping in Billings, and it stands to reason that a good number of those people end up at Rimrock Mall.

If you walk through the Rimrock Mall parking lot on a weekend—I would rather not, but I am setting up a hypothetical statement—you will see license plates from all over Montana and Wyoming and even other places. Montana makes it easy to pick out where license plates are from: The first number is the county code, and the counties are numbered by the population size of the counties when the system went into effect. Yellowstone County plates have the number three on them, because it was the third-largest county, population-wise, back when the system started. It should be number one now, but that would make the people in Butte-Silver Bow County angry, so it stays at number three.

Anyway, when I am driving in Billings and someone in front of me makes a wrong or erratic turn, I get angry if I see a three on his license plate, as he is from here and should know better. If I see a twenty-seven—that’s Richland County, an agrarian (I love the word “agrarian”) outpost in far Eastern Montana—I don’t get so mad. That’s someone who perhaps doesn’t spend much time in Billings, and I have to be a good person and remember that Billings can be confusing to outsiders.

I am dreading today’s visit to Rimrock Mall.

At 9:00 a.m., I am sweeping the kitchen floor. The big department stores in Rimrock Mall won’t be open for another hour, and I’d just as soon spend part of the day on housework and let everybody get to work before I venture out in the rain.

I’m bent over, straining to get the broom under the cabinets, when the phone rings. It startles me every time, because no call is ever expected. I have the phone for emergencies and so my parents can reach me. I have a pretty good idea which one this is, although I won’t know for sure until I pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Edward.” It’s my father.

“Yes.”

“Quite a stunt you pulled, calling me like that last night and yelling at me.”

“Quite a stunt you pulled, Father.”

He sighs heavily into the phone. “You may be right about that, Edward.” And then, in an instant, he’s no longer making a concession to me. “Of course, you forced my hand with that business at the hospital.”

“That’s over. It’s a nonissue.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had any dealings with that woman or her boy?”

I do not like deception or equivocation, but clearly this is a question that demands the sort of answer former President Bill Clinton might offer.

“I don’t see them.”

“That’s good. You understand my concern here, right?”

“No.”

“You’re a hard case, Edward.”

“I am what you made me, Father.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t think you can talk about fair.”

My father now sounds exasperated. “You know what the funny part is, Edward? I called to apologize.”

“I can think of something funnier.”

“What’s that?”

“You never managed to do it.”

My father has hung up on me.

My heart is beating fast.

I’ve never stood up to him before, not like this.

I’ve either won a round or ensured that Father’s lawyer is going to accumulate more billable hours.

The only bright spot of being at Rimrock Mall is that I know exactly where I am headed. That knowledge makes it easier to start the slog that begins at the front door near the food court and extends deep into the place. I am not here for pizza or for greasy Asian noodles. I make a left turn at the Starbucks kiosk and walk a diagonal line to the far wall, and then I walk toward Dillard’s at the south end of the mall. I’m dodging baby carriages and listless teens who ought to be in school and slow-moving old people who come here to walk.