Edward Adrift

driving.” I’m not sure what she meant when she said that. My mother never drove, not when my father was around.
    I will be seeing my mother in nine days. It will be the first time since August 28, which makes it 105 days since I’ve seen her. She spends only part of the year in Billings, and it seems like her stays have been getting shorter. Last year she went to Texas in September and she came back to Montana in April. The year before, she came back in March.
    It’s been a long time since I talked to my mother about my father. Lately, I have been thinking about him more than ever, and that surprises me, because I’ve had a lot of time—three years, one month, and eleven days—to get used to the fact that he’s gone. I wonder if she thinks about him, too. I wonder if she misses him, like I do.
    I will have to ask her, I guess.

    It’s 7:53 when I see the lights of Boise, and Michael Stipe is singing about bang and blame, and I have this rush of happiness inside me that feels like a Coke bubbling over into my cranial cavity. I try to concentrate, though, because I know I’ll need to stay alert. It’s four right turns—and, unfortunately, two left turns—to get toDonna and Victor’s street, but finally, the Cadillac’s tires are on the pavement of North Twenty-Fifth Street. I drive along slowly, because it won’t be far now and because I cannot see the house numbers in the dark, and I’ve only seen pictures of their place. Michael Stipe is telling somebody not to go back to Rockville.
    The house is not hard to find. Victor’s red Dodge pickup truck is parked in the driveway.
    I pull along the curb and park.
    When I pull myself out of the seat of the Cadillac, a dull ache is in my legs and my shoulders. I stretch.
    I close the door to the car and head for the trunk to retrieve my things.
    And then I hear her voice. “Edward!”
    I pivot back toward the house, and Donna is bouncing toward me—she is literally bouncing; this is not hyperbole. She is running and leaping and calling my name, and behind her is Victor with a big smile, and he’s extending a hand for me to shake.
    I walk toward them and Donna hugs me around the neck. Victor shakes my right hand and slaps me on the back friendly-style with his left hand.
    They are happy to see me.
    I am glad to be here.
    In the doorway, under the light, Kyle stands.
    He’s gotten so big.

TECHNICALLY MONDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2011
    It’s 12:09 a.m. and I haven’t been able to keep my eyes closed for more than seven minutes and twenty-seven seconds since I came down to the basement at 10:04.
    I don’t know what to do.
    Victor and Donna were great. They understand me completely and work hard to be good friends to me. After we finished greeting each other on the street, they helped me bring my things in. Once we were inside and in better light, they saw my bruised nose and they were very concerned when I told them what had happened in Bozeman.
    Kyle, for the first time, said something.
    “He hit you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t know. He doesn’t like the University of Montana, I guess.”
    “Did you hit him back?”
    “No.”
    “Why?”
    “It didn’t occur to me.”
    “You should have.”
    “He was gone by the time I was exactly sure what had happened.”
    Donna and Victor told me to sit down on the couch in the front of the TV. The Cowboys were playing the New York Giants, and the second half was just under way. They knew I’d need to see the rest of the game, and even though what I probably should have done is focus on visiting with them, they made allowances for me. That’s what good friends do for each other.
    “It’s a tight one so far,” Victor told me.
    He said Tony Romo had played great in the first half, with two touchdown passes, and the Cowboys led 17–15.
    Donna asked Kyle to come over and sit with me and watch the game. He was standing against the far wall and hadn’t said anything after all the questions about my being punched.
    “I hate the stupid Cowboys,” he said.
    I worked hard at not responding to that. Kyle and I have been over this subject before, and while I understand and appreciate that he is a Denver Broncos fan, he has never been willing to appreciate that I am a Dallas Cowboys fan. I have been ascribing (I love the word “ascribing”) that to his youth, which often comes with bullheadedness. But he’s getting older—he’s now 191 days older than he was when I last saw him in Billings—and still