Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift (25 page)

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.”

He looks at me funny. “Tim Tebow is a big deal around here.”

So I’ve heard.

I’m pretty funny sometimes.

“Do you remember what I said yesterday about coming back to the motel with me?” Sheila Renfro asks.

I’m dipping baked, breaded chicken chunks into low-fat ranch dressing and eating them. My appetite has returned. Dr. Banning says that I’m going to be amazed at how quickly I start feeling better now, and for the first time I’m inclined to believe him. Still, it’s barely past noon, and I’ve already been up four times to pee, each one an exercise in extreme pain as Sheila Renfro and the nurses pulled on my arms to get me on my feet. So despite my obvious improvement from yesterday and Dr. Banning’s proclamations (I love the word “proclamations”) of imminent health, I’m not ready to say that it’s going to be smooth sailing from here, to use a well-known idiom.

“Yes, I remember,” I say.

“Have you thought about it some more?”

“Since you brought it up yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Oh.”

“What’s there to think about? I’m going.”

“Oh!”

She smiles at me, and I don’t take it for granted. I remember when I first met Sheila Renfro and I wanted to see her smile and she hid it from me. She’s not hiding it anymore, and I’m glad. It’s a friendly smile. She has her hair drawn into a blonde ponytail, which makes her face look sleek and pretty. I don’t see any makeup on Sheila Renfro, but I’m not sure anyone could tell whether she wore it or not. She has what the TV commercials call a “fresh look.”

“May I ask you something?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to take care of me?”

“Yes.”

“Will you make me Jell-O brand gelatin?”

“Brand-name gelatin is expensive, but if that’s what you want, I will make it for you.”

“I could help buy the groceries,” I say. “I’m fucking loaded.”

“I know you are. Don’t cuss around me.”

“Can I ask you something else?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Will you take walks with me?”

“Every day.”

“Will you watch
Adam-12
with me?”

“Any time you want, unless there’s a guest needing my help.”

“Will you put in cable television?”

“Yes…I mean, no, I mean…Edward, are you being serious now?”

A big grin comes to my face. “Yes.”

She looks at me really closely, and her eyelids narrow to little slits. “Are you sure?”

I can’t help it. My grin begins to collapse into a giggle, and that makes my ribs hurt, and so I grab my side and say “Ohohohoh.” This must be a funny sight, because now Sheila Renfro is starting
to laugh. It’s the first full-throated laugh I’ve ever heard from her, and it’s so high-pitched that I’m amused all over again, so I begin to laugh again, and it’s really bad because it’s uncontrollable. I laugh, and then I say “Ohohohohoh,” and then I grab my ribs, and then Sheila Renfro laughs some more, which makes me laugh. This is what they call a vicious circle, although I think I would amend that to a hilariously vicious circle.

“Get out,” I say between gasps for air, and I say it with such emphasis (I love the word “emphasis”) that my ribs really hurt, and I say “WOWowowowow,” and Sheila Renfro falls out of her chair onto the floor on all fours, laughing.

“Get out,” I say again, meekly this time.

Sheila Renfro crawls on her hands and knees to the door, only it’s not a fluid movement. She’s going in spurts, and these spurts are interrupted by her failing attempts to keep from laughing out loud. So she is, essentially, sputtering across the floor, and as she finally reaches the opening, she lets go of a laugh that sounds like someone spitting out water, and at the same time, she farts.

Now I’m really laughing and really hurting, and I can hear Sheila Renfro in the hallway, laughing with abandon. I also hear the quick pat-pat-pat of feet, and then I hear Sally scolding Sheila and telling her that she can’t laugh uncontrollably in the hallways here at St. Joseph Hospital.

My ribs throb in pain. I want my Percocet and I want it now, but Sally isn’t yet ready to bring it to me.

I can hear Sheila Renfro in the hallway, trying to smother her giggles, and I’m here in the room, still laughing despite the incredible pain.

Holy shit!

At 3:03 p.m., my mother calls. I know this because Sheila Renfro picks up my bitchin’ iPhone and looks at the number and then hands it to me, saying, “It’s your mom.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Wow. You sound a lot better today.”

“That stands to reason. Dr. Ira Banning said I can leave tomorrow.”

“Well, then, it’s good that I called. Listen, Son, your car is ready. I hope it’s OK that Jay got you another Cadillac. You know, I figured you’d want the familiarity. He even got the same color.”

“That’s fine.”

“Wonderful! Hey, can someone there write something down for you?”

I look at Sheila Renfro, who is listening intently. “Will you get my notebook and pen?” She pulls them off the table beside the bed.

“OK, Mother, go ahead.”

“It’s at seven-seven-seven Broadway in Denver. You’re to ask for Glenn.”

“Seven-seven-seven Broadway. Glenn. Got it.” Sheila Renfro writes this down. “Mother, is it OK if I don’t pick the car up for a few days?”

“But I thought you—”

“I’m going back to Cheyenne Wells to rest up before I drive home.”

“Back to Cheyenne Wells? Whatever in the world for?”

“My friend invited me to stay at her motel while I recuperate.”

“Her? Who?”

“Sheila Renfro.” At this, Sheila Renfro’s eyebrows go up and her forehead crinkles.

“Who’s Sheila Renfro?”

“You talked to her.”

“I did?”

“She’s the woman who called you to say that I’d been in a wreck.”

“I thought that was a nurse.”

“No, that was Sheila Renfro of Cheyenne Wells, Colorado.”

Crinkly-headed Sheila Renfro continues to look at me. She mouths the words “What’s going on?” I shrug my shoulders, and it hurts. I won’t do that again.

“Well, who is she?”

“She owns the motel I stayed in while I was in Cheyenne Wells.”

“Is she there now?”

“Yes.”

“I want to talk to her.”

I hand the phone to Sheila Renfro, who shakes her head. I purse my lips and push the phone toward her with insistency. Finally she takes it, and soon I’m left to bemoan (I love the word “bemoan”) the fact that I can hear only one side of their brief conversation. That must have been frustrating for Sheila Renfro when I was the one on the phone.

The side of the conversation I hear goes like this:

“Hello, Mrs. Stanton.”

(Pause.)

“I’m thirty-six.”

(Pause.)

“It was my mother and father’s motel. Now it’s mine. They’re in the ground.”

(Pause.)

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, with all due respect.”

(Pause.)

“He wants to come.”

(Pause.)

“But—”

(Pause.)

“Tell him, not me.”

(Pause.)

She hands the phone back to me.

“Yes, Mother?”

“I don’t like this, Edward. I think you should go home before you get into any more trouble.”

“Trouble? I’m not in trouble. Did Jay L. Lamb say something?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. You’re not in trouble, trouble. It’s just that you’ve been through a lot. It’s time to go back home. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“I think people are taking advantage of you.”

“Which people?”

“That woman, for one.”

“But she’s my friend.”

“I know you think she is, and maybe she is, but given what you’ve been through, I think it’s best that you just go back to where you live and she goes back to where she lives. I don’t trust her.”

“I do.”

“I think you should go home.”

My mother flummoxes me. I’ve never seen her act this way.

“I’m going to Cheyenne Wells, Mother. It’s just for a few days. Then Sheila Renfro will bring me back to Denver, I’ll pick up the car, and I’ll go home.”

My mother sighs into the phone. She’s not happy.

“I think you’re making a mistake.”

“I think we should see what the facts bear out.”

“Fine. But I want you to call me every day, OK?”

“Yes.”

“Good-bye, Son. Be careful.”

“Good-bye, Mother. I will.”

I hang up and I look at Sheila Renfro, who is biting at her bottom lip.

“You don’t have to come,” she says.

“I want to.”

“It’s going to cause trouble for you with your mom.”

“I’m forty-two years old. I can do what I want.”

Sheila Renfro smiles just a bit at this, the kind of hidden smile she would give me back at the motel in Cheyenne Wells.

“She’s bossy,” she says.

I pee four more times throughout the afternoon. Twice I’m sitting in Sheila Renfro’s chair while she sits on the end of my bed, and those instances make it easier for me to stand, although I still need help getting to my feet. I’ve learned to anticipate the pain from my broken ribs, and at the moment I’m being pulled up I blow out my breath as hard as I can, which seems to help with the discomfort. It doesn’t cause all of the pain to go away, of course. Only when the ribs are fully healed will that happen. Dr. Banning, who comes and sees me one more time before dinner, assures me that will happen within the next few weeks.

After dinner—grilled chicken breast, rice, and cauliflower, which I despise and thus do not eat—Sheila and I watch another episode of
Adam-12
on my bitchin’ iPhone. This one is called “Log 172: Boy, the Things You Do for the Job.” It’s the twenty-fourth
episode of the first season, and it originally aired on March 22, 1969.

Sheila Renfro again puts her head next to mine as we watch on the tiny screen. In this episode, Officer Pete Malloy and Officer Jim Reed pull over a blonde who is driving recklessly in a foreign sports car. Officer Pete Malloy tells her that in addition to her considerable driving violations, she also has an expired driver’s license. This kind of flagrant disregard for the law flummoxes me, even on a TV show. As Officer Pete Malloy is writing the ticket, the blonde puts on her feminine wiles (I love the word “wiles”) and suggests that they have a date instead. Officer Pete Malloy, being a good, upstanding cop, declines her offer.