600 Hours of Edward

My father’s letter made me cry, too.
    I don’t know how it is that you write songs that seem to sum up how I’m feeling. It’s not because you know me; you don’t. But you have a talent for it, and I want you to know that I’ve noticed.
    “Everybody Hurts” is the perfect song to describe how I am feeling these days. I do feel like I am alone sometimes. But as you rightly point out, I am not alone. I have my mother. And I have a memory of my father that is a happy one.
    Thank you, Michael Stipe, for writing such perfect songs.
    I am, as ever, your fan,
    Edward Stanton

TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 4
    This morning, I sit calmly in Dr. Buckley’s waiting room, the soft sounds of string music washing over me. I have rearranged Dr. Buckley’s magazines; it wasn’t so hard. I have hope—that word again—that perhaps Dr. Buckley’s other patients are starting to care a bit more about maintaining order around here.
    I awoke again at 7:38 a.m., the 227th time this year (because it’s a leap year). For one of the few times in recent weeks, I slept soundly and dreamlessly. Well, that’s not true: Nobody sleeps dreamlessly. But I don’t remember any dreams, and that’s nearly the same thing.
    Today is the fifth full day without my father, and I don’t feel quite so badly about that as I did yesterday or the day before. I wish he were here, of course, especially now that I know he isn’t ashamed of me. But I also feel like it’s all going to be OK. I can’t explain this feeling. It is not based in fact, but rather in emotion. I prefer facts, but I don’t mind this emotion. Perhaps Dr. Buckley will have some ideas about all of this. I find emotions difficult to explain.
    Perhaps Dr. Buckley will have some ideas about Donna Middleton, too, because I have none. I wish I did.
    I’ll know soon enough. Dr. Buckley just ushered a man out of her office—the one I barreled into last week—and is signaling me to come in.
    The man scowls at me as we cross paths.
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    – • –
    “Edward,” Dr. Buckley says, taking her seat. “How are you doing today?”
    “I’m doing well.”
    “That’s good. Again, I’m so sorry about your father. How is your mother?”
    “I think she’s going to be OK.”
    “And you?”
    “I think I’m going to be OK, too. I feel…Well, it’s hard to explain.”
    “Give it a try.”
    “My father wrote me a letter. His lawyer gave it to me yesterday.”
    “Oh?”
    “But it’s not like the other letters I’ve gotten from the lawyer. My father told me in this letter that he’s proud of me and that he loves me. He apologized to me. I…Dr. Buckley, would you like to read the letter?”
    “If you feel comfortable with that, Edward, I would love to.”
    I lean forward in my chair and pull the folded letter out of my back pocket, then hand it to her.
    Dr. Buckley gingerly unfolds the letter and starts reading, and I can’t be sure, but it looks like her eyes are getting teary.
    After she stops reading, she looks for a while at the folded-up letter she still holds.
    “Edward,” she finally says, “this is an extraordinary letter.”
    “Yes.”
    “I have patients who have waited all their lives to hear something like this from a parent, or a spouse, or a child.”
    “Yes.”
    “You should put this somewhere special. Don’t keep it folded up in your pocket.”
    “Yes.”
    She hands the letter back to me, and I hold it carefully.
    “If I may, I think I can help you understand this feeling of peace you describe, Edward.”
    “OK.”
    “In the time we’ve been doing these sessions, what have been the constants in your life?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “The years change, the seasons change, the fashions change. What has remained the same?”
    “I watch
Dragnet
every night.”
    “Yes, you do, and strangely enough, I think that figures in. But what else?”
    “I take my fluoxetine.”
    “Yes. What else?”
    “I complain about my father.”
    “Yes. But it’s not just complaint. You’ve yearned for your father’s approval. You’ve wanted a better relationship with him.”
    “Yes. But he’s dead now. I can’t have a better relationship with him now.”
    “I disagree. Your father has given you a great gift with this letter. It allows you to have the relationship with him in death that you didn’t have when he was still alive.”
    “How do you have a relationship in death?”
    “It’s not a relationship in the way you’re thinking of. You