Total miles driven: Edward wants me to point out that he’s reviewed the past entries and that we’re way off on the mileage, so we’ll correct it here. He says that he and Kyle drove 27.4 miles while looking at oil pumps, so the grand total is 1,846.1 miles, not 1,838.7. Edward also wants me to point out that we don’t know exactly how far he had traveled on Interstate 70 before the wreck, so even this number is suspect. He says we’ll try to find the wreck site on the way home. I don’t understand what the big deal is, but he says that’s what we’re going to do. So there.
Gas usage Saturday, December 17, 2011: None.
Addendum: Edward is trying to lean over and see what I’m writing, but every time he does, his ribs hurt. That’s why I am sitting on his left. I’m not dumb.
He needs to get over the fact that he peed the bed. Yeah, under normal circumstances, a 42-year-old man should not wet the bed, but he should know by now that these are not normal circumstances.
I’m antsy to get back to the motel. I don’t make much money there, but even so, a three-day shutdown is going to affect my bottom line in a bad way. Edward pointed out to me again last night that he’s “fucking loaded,” and I really wish he’d stop saying that. He said he will compensate me for my losses. That made me really mad. He doesn’t get it sometimes.
EDWARD, I KNOW YOU’LL BE READING THIS EVENTUALLY SO STOP LEANING IN AND HURTING YOURSELF!!!!
Dr. Banning said it probably won’t be till noon or later that Edward will be discharged. I’m going to leave for a little while and get ready to go.
I’m really nervous about this. EDWARD, JUST WAIT!!!!!!
OK, I’m going to go now.
I can’t believe I peed in the overnight nurse’s shoes.
I know she was mad about it, too. She tried not to let me see that she was. She said, “It’s OK, Edward. This isn’t even close to the worst thing that’s ever happened here,” but after she left my room to go get new shoes and socks and the outfit that the nurses call “scrubs,” I could hear her tell her supervisor at the desk what happened, and she sounded really disgusted by it.
Sheila Renfro tells me that I need to forgive myself for doing what I did. It would be different, she says, if I’d intended to do it, but it most definitely wasn’t my intent. (“You didn’t mean to do it, did you?” she asked after asserting that I did not, as if she needed verification. That flummoxed me.) She says that accidents happen, especially in a health care environment. She actually said that: “Especially in a health care environment.” I think I’m starting to rub off on Sheila Renfro a little bit.
She’s probably correct. It’s just really embarrassing, and I’m not someone who deals well with embarrassment. I’m not sure I’d want to know someone who deals well with embarrassment. That would suggest a person who regularly messes up on a grand scale. I think those people are best avoided.
I’m also embarrassed about something else—the Dallas Cowboys played last night, and I completely forgot about it. If you had told me before this trip that I would forget about a Dallas Cowboys game, I would have politely but firmly disagreed with you. But now there’s proof. The one plus, I guess, is that the Dallas Cowboys won against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers. That’s good, but it’s not surprising. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers are terrible.
— • —
Sheila Renfro is acting weird. She seems annoyed at me because I was trying to make sure all the data got recorded properly in my notebook. She kept telling me “I know how to do it,” which was completely beside the point. I know she knows how to do it. My point is that I’ve been doing it longer than she has, and thus I know better.
Finally, Sheila Renfro left. She didn’t say where she was going, just that she would be back in time to get me loaded into her truck after I am released from the hospital. But she did take my notebook with her, which is damned dirty pool. (When I say “pool,” I’m speaking of billiards, not a swimming pool. Besides, if I were speaking of a swimming pool, that sentence would have required the indefinite article “a,” as in “That is a damned dirty pool.” The absence of the “a” is a giveaway as to the nature of the noun “pool.” I hear people say that grammar is difficult to understand, but it’s really not if you just pay attention.)
— • —
When I awake from my nap at 10:37 a.m., a uniformed police officer is standing at the side of my bed. This alarms me. I’m not a fugitive from the law, so I have no reason to fear cops, but my past interactions with them have not been good. This is another instance of what Dr. Buckley would call a conditioned response.
“Are you Edward Stanton?” he asks me. This is a dumb question. My name is written on the dry-erase board over my bed. Still, I am self-aware enough to not tell the officer that he’s being dumb. Nobody likes to hear that. Policemen take it particularly personally.
“Yes,” I say.
“This is for you.”
He hands me a slip of paper, which I take in my right hand—I’m learning to avoid using my left arm, which will aggravate my broken ribs—and hold close to my face so I can read it.
I’m being ticketed for my crash on the interstate. The ticket says I was traveling too fast for the conditions and that I was driving recklessly when I ran into the back of the snowplow. The ticket also says I owe the state of Colorado $562. I’d never received a traffic ticket before this trip, so I don’t have the means of comparison, but this seems like a lot of money. I’m fucking loaded, so I can afford it, but that doesn’t mean I can just blithely (I love the word “blithely”) part with $562.
“This is a lot of money,” I say to the policeman, who introduces himself as Officer Jonathon Hunter of the Colorado Highway Patrol.
“It is,” he agrees. “We like to make speeding and reckless driving unpopular violations.”
I giggle, and Officer Jonathon Hunter looks at me quizzically, so I stop. I do not want any more trouble. Policemen also do not appreciate being laughed at. I know this from experience.
It’s just that Officer Jonathon Hunter’s statement reminds me of something Sergeant Joe Friday said in an episode of Dragnet. It’s called “The Bank Jobs,” and it’s the fourth episode from the second season, and it originally aired on October 5, 1967. In this episode, Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon are investigating a series of bank robberies in which a man makes random women help him with his crimes. After Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon clear one woman of wrongdoing, she has a question. She has red hair and inspires sultry (I love the word “sultry”) music on this episode of Dragnet, but no-nonsense Sergeant Joe Friday doesn’t seem to notice that. When she asks what the penalty is for bank robbery, Sergeant Joe Friday tells her it’s twenty-five years for each offense. She says it hardly seems worth it for a few hundred dollars.
“That’s the idea. They want to make it an unpopular crime,” Sergeant Joe Friday tells her. Sergeant Joe Friday is a very logical man.
And now you can see why I giggled.
Officer Jonathon Hunter puts his sunglasses on and says, “You can pay that at the DMV, or you can mail it in, or you can appear on the court date and contest it.”
Officer Jonathon Hunter is very businesslike. I appreciate that. Maybe he learned something from watching Sergeant Joe Friday, like I did.
“Thank you, Officer Jonathon Hunter,” I say, and he again looks at me quizzically. Then he leaves.
I wanted to ask him what he thinks of Sergeant Joe Friday, but in the end, I’m glad that’s over with.
— • —
When Sheila Renfro comes back to the hospital room, she is wearing clean clothes and she looks as though she has had a shower. I guess I hadn’t noticed that she had been wearing the same clothes and pulling her hair back into the same ponytail while I’ve been in this place. I’ll go ahead and admit it, as there’s no denying the situation: I got preoccupied with my own problems, and I didn’t pay as much attention to my friend as I should have. That was wrong. I decide I need to rectify this.
“You look nice, Sheila Renfro,” I tell her, and she smiles again. I am getting better at making Sheila Renfro smile. I’m proud of myself and happy for her. After what I’ve been through on this trip, I’m starting to appreciate the value of happiness.
“Are you ready to go, Edward?” she asks me. “I got some nice bedding material for you to ride in the backseat of my Suburban, and I got some clothes for me, and then I gassed up at a truck stop and took a shower.”
“You smell like Irish Spring,” I say.
“I like Irish Spring,” she says.
“So do I.”
Sheila Renfro smiles again.
I’m pretty talented sometimes.
— • —
Sally makes me ride in a wheelchair all the way to the loading area, which is silly. I didn’t break my legs. They still work, and I tell her this.
“Sorry, Edward. Regulations,” she says.
That, of course, changes everything. A society can’t function unless its members obey the rules. It seems to me that we have a nation full of people who think rules are for other people. This is not an idle observation on my part; I’ve been watching closely. Despite my better judgment, I continue to try to understand politics in America, since I live here and have been entrusted with a vote for more than twenty-four years. I’ll point out here that I’m emphasizing the word “try.” I’ve begun to think that no one understands politics in America except the politicians. I have a fact-loving brain. I think that’s well-established by now. Politics, it seems to me, celebrates the absence of facts rather than the existence of them. I cannot comprehend that. We’re going to elect a president in a little less than a year, and I expect facts to be so marginalized (I love the word “marginalized”) by then that we’ll have to rename our country the United States of Happy Horseshit.
I could say more about this, but I’m done now. I didn’t mean to go off on a political tangent. My point is, I don’t fight Sally about the wheelchair. I follow the rules.
— • —
Sheila Renfro has made me a paradise in the back bench seat of her old Suburban. I have a foam bedlike base to sit on and a big beanbag wedged into the corner, where the seat meets the door, so I can remain in a reclined position and ease the stress on my ribs. I have lots of blankets. It’s perfect.
From where I sit, I can see the back of Sheila Renfro’s head, and it’s very easy to talk with her, so I don’t feel left out of the action at all. The Suburban is really old—“It’s my daddy’s nineteen seventy-two model,” she tells me—and thus doesn’t even have a CD player, much less an adaptor that will play songs from my bitchin’ iPhone. As we work our way through Denver, Sheila Renfro sings along with Merle Haggard on an old-time country music station. Sheila Renfro seemingly has good taste in country music. She prefers the era before Garth Brooks ruined it.
“Why do you keep such an old vehicle?” I ask her. “If you had an adaptor, we could be listening to R.E.M. right now.”
“It’s my daddy’s. I don’t have him anymore, because he’s in the ground with my mother. So I have his Suburban. Besides, I like this music.”
This seems to be a plausible answer, so I don’t intend to ask another question. Sheila Renfro looks in the rearview mirror and makes eye contact with me.
“My daddy bought this before he and Mom started thinking about a family,” she says. “Daddy always wanted a big family, with lots of kids. That’s why they built the motel. It was the kind of place where you could raise a family and bring them into a business.”
She stops talking. I want to ask her questions, but I get the sense that she’s not done, so I wait.
“But Mom found out that she couldn’t have kids—”
“But—”
“At least, that’s what the doctors told her. When she got pregnant with me, I guess it surprised everyone. When I was born, though, she nearly bled to death, and the doctors were saying, ‘OK, you got your miracle baby, so now, no more.’”
“You’re a miracle baby!” I say. This makes me indescribably happy.
“I guess. Daddy just couldn’t bear to part with the Suburban, even though it was way more truck than we ever needed. It’s like it reminded him of what he dreamed about but couldn’t do.”
“He said that?”
“Well, no, not like that. But the way he’d talk about things, I’d kind of know. You know, Edward, I wasn’t very popular in school. I didn’t have a lot of friends, or any, sometimes. That’s hard on a kid. My daddy was my best friend.”
Sheila Renfro’s story makes me as sad as it does happy. First, it is a sad story. Even if she was a miracle baby, her mother and father clearly wanted more children. It’s also sad on a personal level. Sheila Renfro had a relationship with her father while he was alive that I’ve been forced to try to find with mine since he’s been dead. I know for a fact that once my parents found out that there was something different about me—I’m speaking here of my developmental disorder and my obsessive-compulsive tendencies—they decided that they didn’t want any more children. This is not conjecture. My father told me this during the height of the “Garth Brooks incident,” when he and I were fighting all the time. He was drunk; he had been drinking all day. He came into my bedroom after one of our battles and said, “You’re such a fucking idiot, boy. I wish you’d never been born so you wouldn’t fuck everything up.”
That devastated me. First, I’m not a fucking idiot. I have a developmental disorder, but I’m not stupid. Second, it upset my mother terribly. It’s the first and only time I ever saw her really stand up to my father. She told him that he was a cruel and awful man and that he should apologize to me. He never did, at least not while he was alive. Four days later he bought the house where I now live, and I was made to leave my parents’ home and begin seeing Dr. Buckley. I was thirty-one years old, so maybe it was time. I think my parents wanted to keep me close to protect me; that’s what Dr. Buckley said when she diagnosed me. But as my condition worsened, my father came to resent me (and I came to dislike him). I was certainly happier on Clark Avenue than I was in my parents’ house, but it was hard to forget what my father said to me in those last days at his house. The truth is, I’ve never forgotten it. From time to time, my mother tried to explain my father’s behavior when he was mean to me, telling me that he was struggling at his job on the county commission and that he was under a lot of stress. I think she gave him too much credit, and to be fair, my mother would agree with that. After my father died, and after she saw the way he controlled me through Jay L. Lamb, she made a break with him. She scarcely talks about him anymore.
I don’t like remembering that story about my father, and I don’t like telling it. I’ve never told anyone except Dr. Buckley, not even Donna Middleton (now Hays). I think I would like to tell Sheila Renfro, however, and this surprises me.
I will have to think about it a while before committing to telling her. Instead, I say something else, because it occurs to me that as Sheila Renfro describes her parents to me, she’s telling me about people I never got a chance to know even though I met both of them in the summer of 1978. That’s odd. It’s like they’re more than an anecdote and less than a robust memory.
“I wish I’d gotten to know your parents,” I say. “I’m sorry they’re in the ground.”
“You’d have liked them,” Sheila Renfro says. “And I think they’d have liked you.”
I’m trying to formulate my next question when I actually hear the words coming out of my mouth.
“How did you find out when your parents died?” I can’t believe I just asked it like that. I was too abrupt, but Sheila Renfro doesn’t seem to mind.
“It happened in the middle of a hot summer day, seven miles from home,” she says. “The sheriff and a deputy got there fast, and one of them came to the motel to get me. I was making dinner for us. Grilled chicken. It was too hot to cook inside, so I was on the patio. He said, ‘Sheila, you’ve got to put that chicken away and come.’ By the time we got t
here, it was over with. Daddy and Mom were in bags on the side of the road. The guy who hit them was, too. I guess he had a heart attack and lost control of his pickup. He hit their pickup on my daddy’s side at seventy miles per hour. Sheriff said there were no skid marks.”
Sheila tells me all of this matter-of-factly. I am mesmerized.
“How did you find out about your daddy?” she asks me.
“My mother called and woke me up and told me to come to St. Vincent Healthcare right away. He died after I got there.”
“What happened?”
“He had a heart attack in the parking lot of his favorite golf course.”
“I’m sorry.”
I haven’t thought about the actual day that my father died in a long time. It’s been three years, one month, and eighteen days, and most of my effort where my father is concerned has been focused on making peace with every day other than the one on which he died.
“After the doctor told us he’d died, we got to go into the hospital room and see him. It was weird. It was clearly his face, but his hair was mussed, and the qualities that made him who he was—things like his loud voice and his mannerisms—were gone. The only thing that I really thought was odd was how peaceful he looked. He looked much more peaceful than he did the last time I saw him alive.”
“They wouldn’t let me see my daddy,” Sheila Renfro says. “They said it was really bad and that it wouldn’t be something I’d want to see. My mom didn’t have a scratch on her, though—she died because of how shook up her insides were in the wreck. They let me see her. It looked like she was sleeping.”
“What was your mother like?”
“She was a good person. My daddy was my best friend; he had the mind of a child, and so I related to him. My mom didn’t make a lot of time for fun. She was too busy trying to keep things going. I think I’m more like she was.”
It’s interesting to me that Sheila Renfro has thought all of this out. I’ve never considered whether I’m more like my father or my mother. I don’t think I’m like either one of them. That’s been the problem.
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