“I don’t want you on a plane for a while,” Dr. Banning says. “It puts a lot of stress on a body, that pressurization at thirty-five thousand feet. You’ve been through a trauma.”
“But I have to go to Texas on December twentieth. I’m going to see my mother.”
“You’re going to be here for a couple of days yet,” the doctor says.
“Edward,” Donna says, “don’t you think maybe you should just concentrate on getting better?”
I have to concede that Donna is a very logical woman and that she’s probably correct about this. And yet I am disappointed, because I was looking forward to going to Texas and seeing the Dallas Cowboys play in their new stadium.
“Does my mother know I’m in the hospital?” I ask.
Sheila Renfro holds out my bitchin’ iPhone. “She’s waiting for you to call,” she says.
— • —
I have an audience as I make the call to my mother, with Kyle holding the bitchin’ iPhone to my ear so I don’t have to lift my arms and aggravate my broken ribs. It’s not a fun phone call. Not too many phone calls are fun; I don’t like to talk on the phone. This one is especially difficult. I’m happy to hear my mother’s voice, but almost immediately she begins crying and telling me that her world would end if something bad happened to me, and that I must be more careful.
“Stop crying,” I say, and that makes her cry even more. I look helplessly at Donna, and she’s crying. I look at Sheila Renfro, and she’s not crying. She’s just watching me. Her look is intense, as if something bad will happen if she lets me out of her sight. I guess that’s reasonable, even if it’s not practical. Once I was out of her sight and out of her motel, something bad did happen to me.
I assure my mother that I will be careful and I apologize to her that I will be unable to make it to Texas for Christmas or to see the Dallas Cowboys.
“You just don’t worry about that,” she says. “When you’re well, you can come down. Or I’ll come see you.”
“My car is destroyed, Mother. How am I supposed to get back to Billings?”
“I will call Jay. He’ll make sure you have a car when the time comes.”
“Thank you, Mother. I will see you soon, I hope.” Hope is all I have in this instance. It’s not much.
“I love you, Son.”
I look around the room at everybody watching me. Only the doctor cleared out of the room. I don’t like to say things like “I love you” in front of an audience. Or at all.
“Yes, Mother, I know.”
“Good-bye,” she says.
“Good-bye.”
She hangs up. I’m glad that’s over with.
— • —
Everybody stays in the room with me. I ask Sheila Renfro to track down my watch, which is set to the precise second, because the analog clock on the wall is the very definition of unreliable, and it begins to irritate me. We watch an episode of a show called Everybody Loves Raymond, which turns out to be funny even with the wildly overblown title. I highly doubt that there is anyone in the world whom everybody loves. I think even the unassailably wonderful people in the world probably have someone who doesn’t like them. My father, for instance, often made jokes about Mother Teresa. (One I remember him telling: “Why did Mother Teresa stop eating buffalo wings? Because she kept dipping the chicken into the lepers’ backs instead of the blue cheese dressing.” To be honest, I’m not even sure what that means.) I am far from a perfect person—I am rude and self-absorbed, and Dr. Buckley would be happy to say so—but one thing I try not to do is make fun of people. When I was a boy, and even now, I was often made fun of, and it’s hurtful. I’ve learned to forgive my father for many of the things he did, and it’s not my place to stick up for Mother Teresa. Still, I think he was wrong to say those things. I don’t know if I believe in God. Believing in God requires faith, and faith is difficult for me. But just the same, I would be inclined to not make fun of Mother Teresa, because if there is a God—especially the Judeo-Christian God—Mother Teresa has a lot more standing than my father does.
Leaving God out of it, I think that if someone who dedicates her life to caring for the poor and the sick can be an object of derision (I love the word “derision”), what chance do the rest of us have?
At 6:31 p.m., after the program ends, Donna and Victor say they’re leaving, that they will be flying home to Boise with Kyle the next morning. Donna gives me another kiss, and this time Sheila Renfro looks angry, which flummoxes me. Victor again shakes my hand, gently, which I appreciate in my painful state.
The three of them are heading for the door when I say, “Can everybody else wait in the hall while I talk to Kyle?”
— • —
Kyle knows where I stand. I want him to tell his mother and father what he told me.
“But what if she hates me?” he says.
I’m pulled between the competing thoughts of how silly it is that Kyle would fear such a thing and a gentler realization that Dr. Buckley would be apt to make. She told me once that some people hold great shame for things that aren’t their fault, awful things that were done to them by people who were stronger or more powerful than they were. Shame isn’t something I’ve known in my life. Frustration, anger, wanting to be dead—I have known all of those things. But shame is difficult for me to understand. Dr. Buckley said it’s a horribly destructive force, perhaps the most destructive force she has ever encountered.
I do not want Kyle to know what that’s like.
“Donna will not hate you,” I tell him. “She will know exactly what to do. Your mother is wise, and she loves you, and she can help you.”
He doesn’t want to cry, but one tear does spill down his cheek. He wipes it away.
“I just don’t want to go back to that school. I hate it. I just want to forget it.”
In ways that I don’t think I could explain to Kyle—and even if I could, I don’t have the time, because Donna and Victor are waiting outside the door—he and I are more alike than I ever noticed before. The kids who picked on me when I was in school made it miserable for me a lot of the time. I never tracked how often I disliked school, but it would be fair to say that the truly surprising days were the ones that I enjoyed. I liked the work; if I could have been alone at school, just me and my teachers, I might have had a fun time. I don’t want that for Kyle. I don’t want him to have to feel that way about school.
“Tell your mother,” I say.
“Edward, can I ask you a question?”
“Yes.”
Kyle isn’t looking at me. “Did we have fun?”
“Kyle, you’re my first and best friend. We always have fun.”
“After you’re better, will you come see me again?”
“I promise I will.”
He covers the distance between us and hugs me, and it hurts terribly, so much that, at first, I think I’m going to pass out. But I don’t pass out, and I hug him back, and it hurts again, and I don’t care.
Finally he lets me go.
“Good-bye, Edward,” he says, opening the door.
“Good-bye, Kyle,” I say. “Tell your mother.”
He’s gone now, but I can hear Donna say, “Tell me what?”
I’m sneakily clever sometimes.
Sheila Renfro comes into my hospital room and closes the door behind her.
“Don’t get comfortable, silly,” she says. “You have to get up and walk. Doctor’s orders.”
— • —
It’s amazing to me that it’s nearly 2012 and the only cure for broken ribs is to let time heal them.
I don’t find that approach altogether appealing when I’m made to get out of bed and walk. There is no other way to say it: it hurts like a motherfucker. That’s not a precise statement. Of course there are other ways to say it, but why would I say it any differently? My way is direct and emphatic (I love the word “emphatic”).
I swing my legs off the left side of the bed, a maneuver that hurts no matter how delicatel
y I try to perform it. As my torso torques (that rhymes, sort of), I try to scoot my back along the bed so I don’t have to aggravate my ribs. I manage this somewhat successfully, but then my feet are on the floor, I’m on my back, and my butt is sliding toward the edge of the bed. This isn’t good.
Sheila Renfro and a nurse, whose name is Sally, reach for me.
“Give us your hands,” Sally says.
I lift my arms, and my ribs scream. Not literally, of course. Ribs don’t have mouths or voices.
They grip my hands and drop their rear ends like anchors.
“On three,” Sally says. She counts it off: “One…two…three.”
Sheila Renfro and Sally pull hard on my arms, and I try to shove myself up with my feet. The pain is the worst it has been, and I scream.
Sally, I guess, has seen a lot of people scream. She seems unconcerned. Sheila Renfro cups her palm on my face and tells me, “You did good, Edward.”
— • —
Sheila and I make two laps around the hospital hallway. I tell her that I have to pee, and she says, “Go ahead. They put a catheter in you. What do you think this is?” She taps a bag that hangs from the monitor I’m pushing. It has yellow liquid in it.
“My pee?”
“Well,” she says. “It’s not mine.” And then she laughs.
Sheila Renfro is pretty funny sometimes.
“What are you going to do when you get out of here?” she asks me.
“I don’t know. Drive back to Billings, I guess.”
“It’s a long way when you’re feeling bad. It’s a long way under any circumstance.”
“Yes. The distance is unchanged by my physical condition.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Dr. Banning told me he didn’t want me to fly.”
“You could come stay at my motel for a while.”
“You’d let me?”
“Of course. You’re going to pay, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
Sheila Renfro laughs. “I was just kidding. You don’t have to pay. You can be my guest.”
Sheila Renfro is pretty funny sometimes.
“I could pay, you know,” I say. “I’m fucking loaded.”
She puts a hand on the small of my back. It feels warm, and for just a moment, I forget the pain.
“I know you are, Edward,” she says. “Don’t cuss around me.”
— • —
Sheila Renfro says she’s going to stay with me in the hospital. She doesn’t put it in the form of a request. It’s a declaration.
I tell her I don’t know if they’ll let her, that hospitals have rules about such things. When Sally comes into the room to give me my Percocet, which is a kind of painkiller, I ask her if Sheila Renfro can stay in my room.
Sally says, “Absolutely, we can set up a reclining chair for her in here, if you’re OK with that.”
Sheila Renfro says, “He is.” And she’s right, although I don’t think Sally was asking her for the answer.
I eat a little bit of orange-flavored gelatin for my dinner, but, to be honest, I’m not very hungry. I ask Sally, when she comes by to change the bag I’m peeing into, if it’s Jell-O brand gelatin, but she says she doesn’t know, that those details are handled down in the kitchen. I suppose it doesn’t matter.
There isn’t much on TV, which surprises me. Unlike Sheila Renfro’s motel, St. Joseph Hospital has an array (I love the word “array”) of cable television channels. Maybe Sheila Renfro is correct and people shouldn’t watch so much TV, if tonight’s selection is any indication of the baseline level of quality offered on cable these days. Even if she is correct, what am I going to do? I have broken ribs. My options are limited.
“Do you want to watch Adam-12 on my bitchin’ iPhone?” I ask Sheila Renfro.
“That will be fine,” she says. “Don’t cuss around me. I keep telling you.”
I queue up the twenty-third episode of the first season, “Log 12: He Was Trying to Kill Me.” This episode originally aired on March 15, 1969. As the video comes up, I think of how much things have changed for me in just a few years. In my years of watching my favorite TV show, Dragnet, I never would have let so many days go between viewings, but here I am, watching Adam-12 for the first time since the day I left Billings. If I’d known then what would happen to me on this trip—which was impossible, of course—would I have come? I don’t know. I’m asking myself unanswerable questions lately, and that’s not like me. Maybe I’m changing, or maybe I’m just off my game because I’m hurt and discombobulated. If I’m changing—and changing this profoundly—I have a big adjustment to make. If I’ll be back to my old self eventually, I wonder if I will recognize the signs.
I’m watching Officer Pete Malloy and Officer Jim Reed, but I’m not paying attention; I’m more looking through them, beyond the bitchin’ iPhone in my hands. Beyond this room and even beyond this day. I’m trying to see what’s coming, but that is a silly pursuit. We never know. I don’t, anyway. It’s all a surprise, and I’m having to learn to live with surprises even though I prefer certainty. Certainty allows you to plan your life, and there are few things I like better than planning. Surprises make you adjust along the way, and I’m not very good at that.
Sheila Renfro has pulled her chair up tight against my bed, and her head is tilted to the right and resting on my pillow, next to my own head. I can smell her, and it pleases me.
I’m glad she stayed.
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 17, 2011
From the logbook of Edward Stanton, as recorded by Sheila Renfro:
Time Edward woke up today: Repeatedly. It’s like he discovers all over again just how hurt he is every time he wakes up, and that’s heartbreaking. I wish there was something more they could do for him, but the prescription is rest and exercise.
High temperature for Friday, December 16, 2011, Day 350: 44 in Billings. Also, Edward wants me to point out that although he appreciates Kyle’s attempt to keep track of things yesterday, it’s important that the temperatures be correct. I was able to find yesterday’s paper down in the dining area, and it said that it was a high of 33 in Billings on Thursday, December 15. Edward was relieved that I was able to find this out. He is peculiar, but I like that about him.
Low temperature for Friday, December 16, 2011: 23. And the low was 18 on Thursday.
Precipitation for Friday, December 16, 2011: 0.00 inches. Same as Thursday.
Precipitation for 2011: 19.41 inches
New entries:
Exercise for Friday, December 16, 2011: We did three sets of two laps around this floor of the hospital. As Edward says, it’s hard to prove these things empirically, but he seemed to get better each time. The only bad part is that it hurts him so bad when we have to pull him out of the bed. It’s heartbreaking.
Miles driven Friday, December 16, 2011: No mileage for Edward, I’m afraid. I was able to do some research and piece together how many miles he drove Thursday before the crash. It’s 86.8 miles from Cheyenne Wells to Limon, where he got on Interstate 70. I came upon the wreck a little more than seven miles after that. It’s not precise, but it’s close enough. As far as gas usage goes, I have no idea. It doesn’t matter.
Total miles driven: We’re missing a chunk, including how far he and Kyle went Thursday while they were out looking at oil pumps, but let’s just say, roughly, 1,838.7. That includes the 93.8 we know about from Thursday, plus another 20. It’s close enough.
Gas usage for Friday, December 16, 2011: None. I’m with Kyle here. Who cares?
Addendum: I guess I get to decide what goes here.
Look, it’s hard to see Edward hurting like this. I don’t know him very well, but I’ve come to care about him, and I hate that I can’t help him more.
Over the past day or so, I’ve been thinking about bad things and why they happen. When I was trying to catch up to Edward on that horrible night, I drove right past where my mommy and daddy died, and I didn’t even think about it. That’s the fi
rst time. I was fixated on someone else. That’s the first time, too.
Very strange.
Edward is a gentle and good man, and yes, he’s peculiar, but I’m peculiar, too. I think that’s why we’re friends.
Yesterday was a hard day. Today will be hard, too. I guess all we can hope for is that it’s less hard.
Often, hope is all you have.
Unfortunately, Edward doesn’t like to put his effort into hope. He’s going to need to now.
I feel better today than I did yesterday, although it still hurts like a motherfucker when Sally and Sheila Renfro pull me to my feet for my first walk around the hallways. Sally tells me that three trips around the hallways yesterday was a good number but that she wants to see at least five today. I tell her I will do my best. She also says the catheter is coming out today and I’ll have to get up to go pee from now on. Based on recent history since I went on my diabetic medicine, that means I’ll be out of bed repeatedly today—and that, of course, means that Sheila Renfro and a nurse will be pulling me to my feet.
This sucks.
When Sheila Renfro and I get back to the room after the first set of laps, Dr. Ira Banning is waiting for us.
“Good news, Edward,” he says. “I think you can go home tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Yep, you bet. The scans look good. You’ll need to be careful for a while—with those ribs, for sure, but especially with your head. No boxing matches or football games, OK? I want your word.”
I think Dr. Banning is having some fun with me.
“I promise. Can I still watch the Dallas Cowboys, if I promise not to play?” I’m having fun with Dr. Banning now.
“Hey, Edward, I can’t stop you, buddy. Wouldn’t you rather watch Tim Tebow?”
Everybody in this town is brainwashed about Tim Tebow. I laugh, and laughing hurts. So I stop laughing and let myself fall into the chair that Sheila Renfro slept in. Sally told me she wants me to spend some time out of bed today, that the only way my ribs are going to heal is if I make them do what they’re designed to do.
I wait till my breath slows down. “That’s a good one, Dr. Banning.”
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