He looks me over slowly. I try to stand up a little straighter, as if it would make me look any less ridiculous.
He picks up the phone.
In two minutes that seem to take forever—it’s funny how time can be both fact and illusion—Donna Middleton emerges from the double doors separating the lobby from the emergency department.
“Edward, what’s going on?”
“I have to talk to you.”
“OK. Edward, I’m at work.”
“I know. I have to talk to you.”
“OK.”
“I need you to call Kyle.”
“Why?”
“I need you to make sure he’s OK.”
Her face, until now perplexed, changes in an instant. It flushes with color, her eyes bore in on me, and there is a snap in her tone.
“What happened? Did something happen to my son? Why are you here?”
“Please, just call him.”
“What do you know about my son?” She is yelling at me.
The security guard, having watched us warily from behind the desk, is advancing on me now. Donna Middleton’s hands are fists.
“I… I…”
“What about my son?” She is quaking.
I start talking fast. “I don’t know. I had a dream. I’ve dreamed the past two nights. I dreamed that something happened. I couldn’t save him. I tried. I really, really tried. You have to call him. Just make sure he’s OK. Please. Call him.”
Donna Middleton wheels away from me and sprints back through the double doors. The security guard, a very strong young man, grabs my arms and pulls them behind my back. I slump to the floor.
I am not surprised when my father comes through the automatic doors and into the emergency department lobby. The security guard called the police, and the police called my father. It has happened before, although never here at Billings Clinic.
My father is wearing a tan golf shirt under a windbreaker. Given the unseasonably warm weather—I haven’t compiled my data yet, but I would guess that it will get into the sixties today, although I don’t like guessing—I have probably interrupted my father’s golf game. He looks at me and shakes his head slightly, and then he walks over to the front desk. He talks with the security guard, but quietly. I’m sitting in a chair along the wall, my hands shackled behind the back of it. I can hear my father identify himself, and I see the guard nod, but I’m having trouble hearing more.
After a few minutes of discussion with my father, the security guard nods again, and now they’re both walking over to me. The security guard reaches behind me and unlocks the handcuffs, puts them back on his belt, and goes back to the front desk.
My father sits down next to me.
“What happened, Edward?”
“I had a bad dream. I was scared.”
“About this woman’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Edward, what’s your relationship with this boy?”
“Relationship?”
“Yes. Why are you so interested in this woman’s son?”
“I am not interested in him, Father.”
“Considering the circumstance you’re in here, Edward, that’s difficult to believe.”
“He has helped me with painting the garage. He came over one day. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. He has helped me paint. His mother knows about it. She hasn’t complained.”
“She’s complaining now.”
“Yes.”
My father sighs. He leans forward in the chair, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Do you understand how this looks? You’re in your pajamas, you don’t have any shoes, and you’re in a hospital emergency room talking about a woman’s son being hurt. Do you understand how that might be viewed as unacceptable?”
“Yes. I was scared.”
“OK, Edward. But now you’ve scared someone else.”
After talking with me, my father talks with Donna Middleton, who has come out to meet him. They talk a few feet away from me, and it’s as if I’m not here.
“Mr. Stanton, I’ve never been so scared.”
“I know.”
“I called Kyle. He’s fine.”
“That’s good. Edward says he had a bad dream. I’m sure your son was never in danger.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
My father smiles, as if to reassure her. “Edward has a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. He has had it for a long time. What he did today is something new, I’ll admit, but he generally does what he has to do to control his condition. He’s on medication. He sees a therapist.”
This shows what my father knows. The full story is that I’m obsessive-compulsive and that I have Asperger’s syndrome. Some people call that “high-functioning autism.” Dr. Buckley says it’s not my fault.
“Is he dangerous?”
“No. At least, he never has been. Edward’s compulsions generally lie in solitary things—the TV shows he watches, the projects he gets involved in, the things that stimulate his mind.”
“I see. But you say that he’s never done this.”
“No.”
“Can you assure me that he never will again?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think he will, but I can’t promise that.”
“OK. Would you please tell him to leave us alone? Will he do that?”
“I will see to it.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m glad your son is OK.”
“Thank you.”
Donna Middleton leaves.
My father lays out the situation for me, which I already know. I am to stay away from Donna Middleton and Kyle. I have scared them, and I am not to bother them ever again.
“Go home, Edward,” my father says.
There is so much to do back at the house. None of my data has been recorded. I start with the time I woke up. The fact is, I just don’t know. I was sitting in the 1997 Toyota Camry at 7:40, and so I estimate that my eyes opened at 7:39 and that I took a minute to dash out the door and get into the car. But I just don’t know for sure. I write down 7:39—the twenty-fourth time out of 292 days this year (because it’s a leap year), but the first time that I’ve put an asterisk next to the time. This signifies that the time is an estimate. I don’t like estimates. I prefer facts.
I also grab the Billings Herald-Gleaner and record yesterday’s high and low temperatures—fifty-four and twenty-eight. The forecast today is as I expected; it’s warm, with a projected high of sixty-three. I will know for sure tomorrow.
And my data is complete.
In the shower, I think about what a mess today already is. I’m relieved that Kyle is OK. I am scared of these dreams that I’m having. I wonder where they are coming from and why they are coming. It will be a long wait until Tuesday, when I can talk to Dr. Buckley about them. She is a very logical person. I hope she can explain what’s happening.
I think about how it’s too late now for a bowl of corn flakes, which is going to throw off my system of food consumption completely. I think about my data. I think about how ugly the garage is and how I’m going to have to do something about that soon.
Mostly, I think about Donna Middleton and how scared she was this morning. I was scared, but my fear was nothing like hers. I think about how if it hadn’t been for me, she would have been just fine, going about her work as an emergency department nurse at Billings Clinic. I think about my father and how disappointed he seemed. I think about how many times he has had to show up somewhere and get me out of some trouble. This is probably worse than the “Garth Brooks incident.”
I slump down into the tub, pull my knees up to chin, and rest my head.