Edward Adrift

whether she wore it or not. She has what the TV commercials call a “fresh look.”
    “May I ask you something?” I say.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you going to take care of me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Will you make me Jell-O brand gelatin?”
    “Brand-name gelatin is expensive, but if that’s what you want, I will make it for you.”
    “I could help buy the groceries,” I say. “I’m fucking loaded.”
    “I know you are. Don’t cuss around me.”
    “Can I ask you something else?” I say.
    “Yes.”
    “Will you take walks with me?”
    “Every day.”
    “Will you watch
Adam-12
with me?”
    “Any time you want, unless there’s a guest needing my help.”
    “Will you put in cable television?”
    “Yes…I mean, no, I mean…Edward, are you being serious now?”
    A big grin comes to my face. “Yes.”
    She looks at me really closely, and her eyelids narrow to little slits. “Are you sure?”
    I can’t help it. My grin begins to collapse into a giggle, and that makes my ribs hurt, and so I grab my side and say “Ohohohoh.” This must be a funny sight, because now Sheila Renfro is startingto laugh. It’s the first full-throated laugh I’ve ever heard from her, and it’s so high-pitched that I’m amused all over again, so I begin to laugh again, and it’s really bad because it’s uncontrollable. I laugh, and then I say “Ohohohohoh,” and then I grab my ribs, and then Sheila Renfro laughs some more, which makes me laugh. This is what they call a vicious circle, although I think I would amend that to a hilariously vicious circle.
    “Get out,” I say between gasps for air, and I say it with such emphasis (I love the word “emphasis”) that my ribs really hurt, and I say “WOWowowowow,” and Sheila Renfro falls out of her chair onto the floor on all fours, laughing.
    “Get out,” I say again, meekly this time.
    Sheila Renfro crawls on her hands and knees to the door, only it’s not a fluid movement. She’s going in spurts, and these spurts are interrupted by her failing attempts to keep from laughing out loud. So she is, essentially, sputtering across the floor, and as she finally reaches the opening, she lets go of a laugh that sounds like someone spitting out water, and at the same time, she farts.
    Now I’m really laughing and really hurting, and I can hear Sheila Renfro in the hallway, laughing with abandon. I also hear the quick pat-pat-pat of feet, and then I hear Sally scolding Sheila and telling her that she can’t laugh uncontrollably in the hallways here at St. Joseph Hospital.
    My ribs throb in pain. I want my Percocet and I want it now, but Sally isn’t yet ready to bring it to me.
    I can hear Sheila Renfro in the hallway, trying to smother her giggles, and I’m here in the room, still laughing despite the incredible pain.
    Holy shit!

    At 3:03 p.m., my mother calls. I know this because Sheila Renfro picks up my bitchin’ iPhone and looks at the number and then hands it to me, saying, “It’s your mom.”
    “Hello, Mother.”
    “Wow. You sound a lot better today.”
    “That stands to reason. Dr. Ira Banning said I can leave tomorrow.”
    “Well, then, it’s good that I called. Listen, Son, your car is ready. I hope it’s OK that Jay got you another Cadillac. You know, I figured you’d want the familiarity. He even got the same color.”
    “That’s fine.”
    “Wonderful! Hey, can someone there write something down for you?”
    I look at Sheila Renfro, who is listening intently. “Will you get my notebook and pen?” She pulls them off the table beside the bed.
    “OK, Mother, go ahead.”
    “It’s at seven-seven-seven Broadway in Denver. You’re to ask for Glenn.”
    “Seven-seven-seven Broadway. Glenn. Got it.” Sheila Renfro writes this down. “Mother, is it OK if I don’t pick the car up for a few days?”
    “But I thought you—”
    “I’m going back to Cheyenne Wells to rest up before I drive home.”
    “Back to Cheyenne Wells? Whatever in the world for?”
    “My friend invited me to stay at her motel while I recuperate.”
    “Her? Who?”
    “Sheila Renfro.” At this, Sheila Renfro’s eyebrows go up and her forehead crinkles.
    “Who’s Sheila Renfro?”
    “You talked to her.”
    “I did?”
    “She’s the woman who called you to say that I’d been in a wreck.”
    “I thought that was a nurse.”
    “No, that was Sheila Renfro of Cheyenne Wells, Colorado.”
    Crinkly-headed Sheila Renfro continues to look at me. She mouths the words