Edward Adrift

with Jay Lamb, and you’re punishing her for that with your silence, what are you trying to do?”
    Dr. Bryan Thomsen doesn’t have to try to draw a picture for me. I see it.
    “I’ve been dumb,” I say.
    “No, you’ve been emotional. You’ve been human. And so has your mother. Each of you thinks he or she knows what’s best for the other, and you’ve both been behaving badly in an effort to exert that control. If your mother wants to move to Texas with Jay Lamb, you have to let her do that. You can’t change her decision. You can only decide how you’re going to live with it. Do you think you can?”
    “Yes. But I have to be honest. It bothers me to imagine her loving another man after my father. I don’t think that’s rational.”
    “Emotions often aren’t,” Dr. Bryan Thomsen says.
    “It’s just that my mother told me she doesn’t miss my father, and that flummoxes me. I miss him all the time. In some ways, I miss him more now than I ever have.”
    “Why do you think that is?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Think about it.”
    This is one of those areas where Dr. Bryan Thomsen bothers me. I’ve been thinking about it for days, months, and years. I don’t know.
    “I don’t know,” I say.
    “It sounds to me like your mother has made her peace with him,” Dr. Bryan Thomsen says. “Perhaps you should ask yourself if you have. You might better understand her point of view when you do. Failing that, maybe it’s time to ask her. You have a lot to talk about, don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you going to do it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Good. Merry Christmas, Edward.”

MONDAY, DECEMBER 26, 2011
    From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
    Time I woke up today: 7:38 a.m. The 212th time this year I’ve awakened at this time. A sign of normalcy, I guess.
    High temperature for Sunday, December 25, 2011, Day 359: 47. Four degrees lower than the high the day before, but still very warm for this time of year.
    Low temperature for Sunday, December 25, 2011: 29. Six degrees warmer than the low from the day before.
    Precipitation for Sunday, December 25, 2011: 0.00 inches
    Precipitation for 2011: 19.49 inches
    I have been thinking about what Dr. Bryan Thomsen said about my mother and her sovereignty, and I think it makes sense. I suppose that I will have to talk to her again sometime, and I do feel bad that Christmas has come and gone, but I’m just not ready. We have a lot of topics to cover, more than we’ve ever had before. When I am ready, I will talk to her.
    This morning, I went to the garage and retrieved the boxes of old letters of complaint that I removed from the house on Wednesday, November 5, 2008. For three years, one month, and twenty-two days, I have resisted the urge to resume my dailyletters of complaint, and I’m pretty sure I can keep resisting. Of course, “pretty sure” is a far cry from a verified fact, but it’s all I have.
    Before my father died, my daily, unsent letters of complaint were how I dealt with the uncertainty and frustration in my world. If someone was mean to me (often my father, but not always), or I grew irritated with a situation, I would write a letter of complaint and then file it away. Dr. Buckley had me do that. She said there was something therapeutic in writing the letter and letting my emotions out, but that I might get in trouble with people if I actually sent them. She is a very logical woman. For example, I can’t imagine that Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones would be happy if he received a letter from me calling him the biggest numbskull in the history of the NFL. I actually wrote six letters in which I called him that. That would hurt anybody’s feelings.
    After my father died, I began to question the value of my letters. I wanted to see how things went if I just tried to deal with my frustrations as they emerged. And I have to say, I’ve been pretty good at it. What I want to do now is reread all of these old complaints and remember the incidents that set me off and see if there is a pattern to them. If there’s a pattern, perhaps I can learn from it. If there’s no pattern, at least I can reminisce (I love the word “reminisce”).

    At 12:16 p.m., the doorbell rings. I put down a letter of complaint dated April 3, 2001, in which I scold my father for making my mother cry during dinner. I’m retroactively annoyed with myself for writing a letter I never sent. I should have just told my fatherright there, over dinner, that he was being mean. He