In addition to all of that, Dr. Buckley taught me coping strategies for rage and frustration. Sometimes I close my eyes and let the flash of anger pass before I take any action. Sometimes I sleep on things and wake up with a new perspective. And sometimes I even get angry and show it, although not very often. The point is that most reasonable actions, even anger, have their place. It’s just a matter of learning how to judge the situation and the propriety (I love the word “propriety”) of the moment. That, among other things, is what Dr. Buckley has helped me to do. I am not saying I’m perfect at it; no one is perfect. I am saying that I’m better than I was before I started seeing her.
I know this sounds like bragging. I do not wish to do that. I’m simply trying to say that if Kyle needs my help developing any of these coping strategies, I will be happy to provide it. I’ve had practice.
Donna and I are having coffee at the kitchen table. She is having coffee, anyway. I am having sugar-free hot chocolate, because I don’t like coffee and because Donna didn’t have any chai tea, which I do like. Discovering that was the only good thing to come of my misadventure in Bozeman, although I’m not sure that chai tea was worth a punch in the face from the intemperate young man.
Donna has a grave look, which I understand. Today has not been easy, nor has it been fun.
“Edward,” she says. “I want to talk to you about something. I want us to talk about it now so when it comes up tonight when Victor’s home and we all sit down to chat, you won’t be surprised by it.”
“OK.”
“I think you’re going to need to go back home.”
I feel an ache in my stomach.
“OK. Why?”
She looks at me, and tears have begun to build up in her eyes. I reach out and catch one on my thumb before it runs down her face. This surprises her. It surprises me, too.
“I hate to say it,” she says. “I hate it. But this thing is so much bigger and more awful than I imagined, and I think we’re going to need all the time and effort we can muster to save Kyle from whatever’s got hold of him.”
I agree with what Donna is saying, and I try to communicate this to her by nodding.
She goes on. “You’re a part of this family, Edward. I want you to know that. When Kyle came home after being expelled, he said he wanted to go back to Billings and visit you, and, honestly, we considered it. We’d still love to do it. But we can’t while he’s like this. It wouldn’t be fair to you. He’s way, way out of control. Do you get what I’m saying?”
I nod again. I get it. It still hurts me in my gut, but I think Donna is only making sense. She is a very logical woman.
“I will do whatever you think helps the most, Donna,” I say.
Donna sets her head down. She grinds her forehead into her arms, which are crossed on the table. Her shoulders heave. She is crying again.
I sip my sugar-free hot chocolate and I wait for her to finish.
I’m going home, but there’s nothing for me there.
I am adrift. I hate that word.
I’m leaving the bathroom—this medicine continues to make me pee prodigiously (I love the word “prodigiously”)—and passing by the door to Kyle’s room. He cracks it open and speaks to me.
“Don’t let them make you leave,” he says.
I look around, afraid that we’ll both be in trouble, but Donna can’t hear him. She’s in the kitchen cutting vegetables for dinner.
“Kyle, you’re not supposed to be out here.”
“Screw her.”
“Kyle.”
“Why are they making you leave?”
If he’s managed to eavesdrop enough to know that I will be going home, he should know the answer to his own question. Still, I tell him.
“Because you’re being bad and they don’t know what to do. I’ll get in the way.”
For just a moment Kyle looks mad, and I brace myself in anticipation that he will call me another name that hurts my feelings. But he doesn’t do that. He’s just defiant.
“So what? They’re doing it because they want to punish me. And you’re going to leave because you want to punish me, too.”
“I don’t want to punish you.”
“Then why are you leaving?”
“Because your mom thinks it would be better if I did.”
“She’s wrong.”
“She’s very logical, Kyle.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I don’t think so. We’ll have to see what the facts bear out.”
Donna’s voice calls out from the kitchen. “Edward, can you help me with something real quick?”
“Close the door,” I tell Kyle.
“Don’t let them make you leave.”
“Close it!”
Kyle, at last, does as he’s told.
I head for the kitchen.
I’m flummoxed, to say the least. No, I guess to say the least would be to say nothing at all—another phrase that doesn’t make much sense.
TECHNICALLY TUESDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2011
It’s 4:47 a.m.
My father visited my dreams again. This is not an altogether rare occurrence, especially since he’s been dead, but my recent dreams about him have deviated from the norm in that they’ve been set earlier in my life, when I was just a boy. Most of the time, my father appears in my dreams as I knew him around the time he died, and I am generally around the age I was then or am now. I don’t like to use phrases such as “most of the time” and “generally,” as they provide no precision about the frequency of occurrence, but dreams are hard to enumerate (I love the word “enumerate”) and categorize. Science has proved that all mammals dream, and I certainly am a mammal, but just because I have dreams doesn’t mean I remember all of them when I am awake. Sometimes I can’t remember a single dream. Sometimes I remember only pieces of dreams and it’s hard to make sense of them in the conscious world. And sometimes I remember entire dreams with vividness, as if they were a movie or a TV show I watched. When my father appears in a dream, for better or for worse, I remember it in the latter way.
This time we were again in Cheyenne Wells, Colorado, on that long-ago trip, only it was a blend of that time and a time much earlier, one I’ve only read about in books. My father and I were out in the oil fields, where he oversaw a crew of men who were doing cathodic protection on oil pumps to keep them from corroding. That image is based on something that really happened. While in the field, in my dream, we met up with two men who were traveling in a wagon train, and this is where the dream becomes illogical. They introduced themselves as John Charles Fremont and Charles Preuss, and although this seemed perfectly natural in my dream, as I sit here now, eyes open, I know it is absurd. They were men of the 1840s. Fremont was a man who made important expeditions to the West, seeing many things in this part of the country before any other white man did, and Preuss was his long-suffering cartographer, who hated the very thing he was great at doing.
In my dream, my father told me that Fremont and Preuss were men who had the courage to set out for frontiers that no one had seen before. The actual truth of the matter is that my father never said any such thing. If he knew anything about Fremont or Preuss, I never heard him talk about them. Furthermore, I know for a fact that my knowledge of both men comes from books and television. The question of how my brain came to blend Cheyenne Wells—which is far south of where Fremont and Preuss traveled—with two early-nineteenth-century explorers is likely to remain a mystery. There is just no logical explanation for it, and I am a person who values logic over all else.