“You’re too old, though,” she says to me. “Not biologically, but practically.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You have to be at least fifty-five years old, right?”
I am aghast. “I’m forty-two.”
Sheila Renfro smiles at me. A real smile. “Gotcha,” she says.
Sheila Renfro is pretty funny sometimes.
After we got the drywall in place, we had only the painting left. I told Sheila Renfro that I would help her do that tomorrow—technically today, now—and that Kyle and I would drag the old drywall and other detritus out to the garbage. That turned out to be harder than I figured. The snow continued to come down in big, heavy, wet flakes, and drifts had begun to form on the outside wall of the motel. It took us five trips into blowing wind and sideways snow and walking through the drifts, but we got the garbage out. Kyle was a good helper.
When we got back inside and shook the snow off our shoes and jackets, Sheila Renfro asked us to join her for dinner.
Sheila Renfro and I are a lot alike.
She has lived her whole life in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, where she was born. I have lived my whole life in Billings, Montana, where I was born. She likes routines and things she can rely on. I like the same. She’s very smart—in one evening with her, I learned that she knows almost as much about professional football as I do, including offensive formations and defensive alignments. I even tested her by asking what a dime package is.
She said, “Don’t be silly. It’s when there are six defensive backs.”
She was right.
She is even a Dallas Cowboys fan, just like I am. I asked her why she liked Dallas better than Denver, since Denver is much closer to Cheyenne Wells than Dallas is, and she said, “The Cowboys are America’s Team.”
That kind of logic is impressive.
She received good grades in high school, and I did, too. She said she never felt like she fit in with her classmates, and I know exactly what that is like. I never fit in with my classmates at Billings West High School, either. Despite our good grades, neither of us felt prepared for college, so we didn’t go. I asked her if she has regrets about not going to college—we agreed that regrets are not fun.
She said, “Heck no. I got to stay here and work for my daddy.”
That’s where Sheila Renfro’s story turns sad. When she was twenty-two years old, on August 7, 1997, her parents were killed in a car crash just seven miles out of town as they were coming home from Denver. That left Sheila Renfro all alone.
“They’re in the ground now,” she told me. She took me around her living room and she showed me pictures of her parents. I vaguely remembered both of them from my time in Cheyenne Wells, but that was a long time ago and memories are faulty. In the pictures that were taken toward the end of their lives, when they were much older than when I met them, they look content. Contentedness is a hard thing to quantify—impossible, in fact—but the looks on their faces in the pictures tell a lot. The smiles are genuine and loving. I don’t think you can fake something like that.
“Do you miss them?” I asked Sheila Renfro. I knew this was a silly question. Of course she misses them. It was all I could think of to say.
“Yes,” she said, “but I can’t do anything about it. They’re in the ground now.”
Sheila Renfro told me that she promised herself when her parents died that she would stay in Cheyenne Wells and make sure the motel they built together kept running. She said it has been hard sometimes, that her fortunes ebb and flow with oil activity and agriculture in southeastern Colorado. I knew what she meant. My father’s mood often correlated (I love the word “correlated”) with the price of oil, even long after he left the oil business and went into politics. Most people complain when the price of oil is high, because they know it will cost them more to fill their gas tanks. My father never saw that as a problem. Sheila Renfro doesn’t, either.
“It’s a great motel,” I told her. “You’ve run it well.”
“I’m glad I had the help today,” she said. “I could use it on a full-time basis.”
I told her that maybe things would pick up and she could hire someone. She sort of smiled at that. Then she said it was time to eat.
We had taco soup, which I’d never had before, and Jell-O brand strawberry gelatin. It was a good meal. Kyle liked it, too.
It’s 2:59 a.m. now and I’m no closer to sleep.
I throw off the covers from the bed and limp-walk to the bathroom to get a drink of water. My mouth is dry.
The back of my leg still hurts from where the barbed wire snagged me. Sheila Renfro was nice enough to patch my pants after dinner. She said I could stay in the living room with her while she did her sewing, but I was embarrassed because I was down to my underwear and my shirt, so I went into the bathroom and closed the door, and Kyle stayed in the living room and talked to her.
After she was done with the pants, she came to the bathroom door and said, “Open up. I want to see that cut.”
“No,” I said. “I’m in my underwear.”
“I have seen a man in his underwear before,” she said.
This declaration from her brought to my mind several questions that I wanted to ask—the kind of questions Dr. Buckley has told me are inappropriate. So I kept my mouth closed, even though it was difficult.
I opened the door, and she barged in and knelt in front of me.
“Turn around,” she said.
I did as I was told. Now my underwear-covered butt was in her face. I was so embarrassed.
“Looks like it nicked you,” she said. “Have you had a tetanus shot?”
“November twenty-sixth, two thousand and eight, from Dr. Rex Helton,” I said.
“OK, good. I’m going to put some peroxide on it. Stay where you are.”
She stood and began looking through the cabinet drawers in the bathroom, which I couldn’t see but could hear. Finally she said, “Aha,” and the next thing I knew, the spot on the back of my leg was cold and tingly. Next she pressed hard on my injured spot as she affixed a strip bandage to it.
“Good as new,” she said, and she left. I put on my pants. I had a boner, so they didn’t fit right.
Kyle stirs as I’m heading back to bed.
“What time is it?” he asks. I left the light on in the bathroom by accident, and it is casting a yellow bar across his face.
“It’s 3:03 a.m.”
“Wow.”
“Yes. Why are you awake?”
“I had a dream.”
“About what?”
“I don’t want to say.”
I sit down on the edge of Kyle’s bed, and he sits up and gathers his legs into his arms.
“Was it a bad dream?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“You can tell me about it if you want.”
Kyle sets his forehead on his knees. He speaks, but he doesn’t look at me.
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“You know how you and that lady were talking about how your parents died?”
“Yes.”
“I dreamed that my mom died. She was reaching out for me, and I was reaching out for her, and I couldn’t reach her and she was gone.”
Kyle looks up at me now. He’s crying. I understand it. I feel like crying, too, when I consider such a dream. Donna is my good friend.
I tell Kyle something I’ve never discussed with him.
“Do you remember when we first met?” I ask.
“Yeah. You were painting your garage. I helped you.”
“Did you know that a couple of days after that, I had a dream about you?”
“You did?”
“Yes. I dreamed that you were dangling off the rimrocks above Billings and that I was holding on to you, only I dropped you and you fell.”
Kyle is looking directly at me. He uses the back of his hand to wipe his nose.
“I woke up and I drove to where your mom worked and I asked her to call yo
ur grandmother in Laurel and make sure you were OK. I was freaked out, and I freaked out your mom, and for a while she wouldn’t even talk to me.”
“Wow.”
“That was as scared as I’ve ever been, Kyle. I don’t keep statistics on such things, but I’m confident that’s true. But here’s the important thing: What I dreamed wasn’t real. You didn’t fall off the rimrocks. That’s how I know your mom is fine.”
“I want to go home.”
This surprises me. Two days ago, Kyle couldn’t wait to get away from Boise. Now he wants to go back. I’m flummoxed.
“We’re meeting your mom and Victor in Wyoming on Saturday. Technically, that’s tomorrow.”
“Can we go early?”
I think of the plans I have for later today. I want to help Sheila Renfro paint the repaired wall in room number eight. I want to take a walk around Cheyenne Wells, if it stops snowing. I want to find out more about Sheila Renfro. I want to see if I can make her smile again.
“Aren’t you having fun?” I ask.
Kyle leans across the bed and puts his hands on my head, which startles me a little bit, and then he musses my hair.
“Of course I’m having fun, douche.” It’s the first time he has called me a name and not meant it in a bad way.
I reach out and muss his hair back. “You’re the douche.”
“No, you are,” he says.
“No, you are,” I say.
“No, you are,” he says again.
I lunge for Kyle, pretending that I’m a champion wrestler, and I knock him onto his back on the bed. I then lie gently across him and try to bundle his legs with my free arm. I’m going to count him out.
Kyle tries to throw me off. “What are you doing?” His voice is high. I lean into him so I can pin him.
“GET OFF!” he screams. “GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”
I let him go and I push myself off the bed and I run to the other side of the room. Kyle is screaming and crying and, oh God, maybe I hurt him. I clap my hands over my ears and I say “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” and Kyle makes himself into a ball on the bed and he cries.
I hurt him. I hurt him really bad.
Twenty-three minutes go by. Twenty-three minutes of Kyle crying, a little less, and then a little less, and twenty-three minutes of me apologizing a little more, and then a little more.
When Kyle finally tells me what happened, after he makes me swear that I will not tell anyone, I am sick to my stomach.
I didn’t hurt Kyle. Some big kids at his school did. They trapped him in the locker room, just him and the three of them, and they pinned him down, and they did bad things to him.
I have to get him home. I promised I would not tell anyone what he told me, but there are 267.5 miles between here and Cheyenne, the capital of Wyoming, that I can drive this morning, and during that time I can talk to him and convince him that he must tell his mother. We can get to Cheyenne and I can call Donna Middleton (now Hays) and tell her that we have to meet somewhere so she can have her boy back and they can figure out what to do.
It’s 3:47 a.m. when I leave the handwritten note on the front desk for Sheila Renfro.
Sheila Renfro:
Something has come up, and we had to leave early. If there are any other charges, please add them to my bill. I’m sorry I won’t be able to help you paint.
Thank you for mending my pants and for the taco soup and the Jell-O brand gelatin. Good luck with your motel. We enjoyed our stay.
With regards,
Edward Stanton
I leave the note and the room key, and then I go outside to the car, where Kyle is waiting for me.
It’s dark and cold, and nobody is moving in Cheyenne Wells except for us. The Cadillac DTS skids in the deep snow as we turn onto Highway 40, headed west.
“I’m sorry, Edward,” Kyle says.
“You never have to apologize to me,” I say. “You’re my best friend.”
OFFICIALLY FRIDAY, DECEMBER 16, 2011
From the logbook of Edward Stanton, as recorded by Kyle Middleton:
Time Edward woke up today: Dont know. He was awake when I had that bad dream. He said it was 3:03. I guess 3:02.
High temperature for Thursday, December 15, 2011, Day 349: Dont know. Its weird that hes keeping temps in Billings while hes not there.
Low temperature for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know.
Precipitation for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know.
Precipitation for 2011: Dont know.
New entries:
Exercise for Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know. We saw that oil pump and stuff. He helped that lady at the motel I guess.
Miles driven Thursday, December 15, 2011: Dont know. We drove to the oil pump. That was like 20 miles or whatever. We tried to drive to Wyoming but hit the snowplow and Edward got hurt. That was like 50 miles or whatever. 70 I guess. Who cares.
Total miles driven: Who cares.
Gas usage Thursday, December 15, 2011: Who cares.
Addendum: I dont know what would have happened if that lady from the motel hadnt shown up. I told Edward he was going to fast in the snow but he was in a hurry and we hit the snowplow and he got hurt real bad. He couldnt talk and he didnt have any breath. The guy in the snowplow called an ambulance and while we waited Edward kept trying to talk and he couldnt breath and I was real scared and that lady from the motel drove up behind us just as the helicopter arrived.
Edward flew to Denver in the helicopter. I wanted to go but the lady took me here in her truck. Hes still in the operating room. Shes sitting here with me. She doesnt talk very much but Id be alone if she wasnt here and that would suck.
Mom and Victor are getting on a plane to come here.
The doctor people who took Edward on the helicopter said he was lucky.
I wish theyd come out and say something.
I hope hes okay. Im really scared. So is that lady.
I had the strangest dream.
In my head, I was a building. Only I wasn’t a static building, rooted to one place like buildings are. I was a shape-shifting building. I would grow longer and longer and take up entire city blocks, then I would shoot up high into the sky and change color, and then I would double back the way I came on the other side of the block. It was a little like the old arcade game Centipede, the way the centipede would grow and grow, taking up more of the screen. The only difference, in this case, is that no one was shooting at me and trying to separate me.
I’m so thirsty.
I open my eyes, and sitting next to me is Sheila Renfro. She’s looking into my face with her blue eyes. I must still be dreaming.
“Sheila Renfro.”
“Hello, Edward.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You had a wreck.”
“Where’s Kyle?”
“He went to the bathroom. He’ll be back in a minute.”
I look around the room. It’s all white.
“You lied to me about Kyle,” she says.
“What?”
“You lied to me. He’s not your nephew. He’s your friend, and his mom and dad are on the way.”
I try to move my elbows behind me to push myself up, and the pain is so bad that I think I’m going to pass out. I don’t keep statistics on such things, but it’s the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt.
“Edward, be still,” Sheila Renfro says. “You broke a couple of ribs.”
I stop moving and wait as the pain recedes.
“Can I have some water?” I ask.
Sheila Renfro comes to the other side of my bed. I follow her with my eyes. I’m afraid to move again. She slips a big plastic cup of water with an oversize straw under my chin.
“Drink up,” she says, and I do.
Every time I swallow, it hurts.
When I’m done, I say, “How did I break my ribs?”
“You drove into the back of a snowplow.”
“Is Kyle all right?”
; “He’s fine. A little sore, but he wasn’t hurt.”
“Where is this?”
“St. Joseph Hospital in Denver.”
“Is Kyle all right?”
“Yes. I said he is.”
“How did you get here?”
“I drove. You left your phone and your medicine and I followed you.”
“You brought us here?”
“I brought Kyle here. The helicopter brought you.”
“Where’s Kyle?”
“He went to the bathroom. I told you that.”
“What happened?”
“I told you.”
“I’m sorry I lied.”
“Don’t lie to me ever again.”
“I’m sorry I lied.”
“Close your eyes, Edward.”
I close my eyes as Sheila Renfro tells me to do, and a new image fills my head. It’s my father in the Cadillac DTS that used to belong to him and now belongs to me. It’s midday and the sun is out, and my father is wearing sunglasses.
“Where shall we go, Teddy?” my father asks.
“You’re driving, Father,” I hear myself tell him.
“Damn right,” he says, and we’re off.
The dream blinks out of my head like a television being turned off. I open my eyes.
Sheila Renfro is stroking my forehead, pushing my hair back slowly and rhythmically, and she’s looking at me. She’s smiling at me.
When I wake up again, it is to the sound of multiple voices talking in my hospital room.
I open my eyes and wait for the adjustment to the light, for the retina and the iris and the rods and cones to do their jobs.
It’s Donna and Victor and Kyle and Sheila Renfro and a young man in a white shirt and a black tie.
“Hi,” I say. My ribs ache when I do.
My friends all jump as if they are surprised to hear my voice. Donna comes over and dips her head down to mine and kisses me on the cheek, and I feel suddenly warm. Sheila Renfro lingers behind her, watching. Victor shakes my hand gently; I think he sees me wince as I reach across my body with my right hand, and he spares me the vigorous shake I usually get from him. Kyle walks around to the other side of my bed, opposite the grown-ups, and says, “Hi, Edward.”
Edward Adrift Page 14