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Authors: Craig Lancaster
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because I was medicated like I am now. When I emerged from the bathroom, the old man was waiting for me, and he grabbed me by the wrist and tried to hurt me.
I screamed for my father, and he got there in what seemed like a millisecond, although I know that’s impossible. He grabbed the old man’s hand and my wrist and yanked them apart, and then he threw an elbow into the old man’s chest, knocking him to the floor.
“Get the hell out of here,” my father said, and the old man did.
After the old man scrambled away, my father turned to me. He looked concerned. “Teddy, are you all right?”
I nodded. I couldn’t say anything.
My father held out his hand.
“Come on, Son.”
He led me back to the bar and told the bartender to set me up with a fresh root beer.
I have to be honest about my father. He was an inscrutable man sometimes. We got along great when I was a young boy, but in later years, especially when I was a teenager and even older, we fought a lot. There were times when he was cruel to me, like when he directed Jay L. Lamb to write me nasty letters upbraiding (I love the word “upbraiding”) me for what he perceived to be my failures.
When he died, which was quite sudden and unexpected, we had not resolved many of our disagreements, and that left me regretful.
Dr. Buckley said that as I adjusted to my father’s death, the good memories would replace the bad and perhaps I could have a relationship with him in death that I could not manage while he was alive. This has been true for the most part, but not entirely. The truth is, I alternate between happy memories, ones where it almost seems as if he’s by my side, and regretful ones, where we’re still fighting and still finding it impossible to understand each other. The one constant, regardless of memory, is that I wish he were here for real. As I lie on my back in bed, staring into the dark, the blanket pulled up around me, I think that I have never wanted him here more than I do right now.
If my father had been with me yesterday, he would have protected me from the intemperate young man in Bozeman. If hewere here right now, he might be able to tell me why I am suddenly so scared of figuring out how my life is supposed to go. I don’t know anymore. I used to have a job and friends whom I saw every day, or nearly so. I used to have routines and things I could rely on. I don’t have many of those things anymore. I don’t know how to replace what I’ve lost. I don’t know if it’s even possible.
I would want to tell my father this, but I also would want him to know that I am hanging in there. My father admired people who hung in there. Troy Aikman was his favorite football player ever because he seemed to be fearless, even when other teams were hurting him bad. I am not fearless. I cannot even pretend to be. But I am hanging in there. I’m trying to make sense of things. I think that’s why I’m on this trip. Yes, Kyle is in trouble, and I want to help him if I can. Yes, I want to see Donna and Victor again. But maybe I want something for me, too, such as not feeling so adrift. That seems selfish, but I think it’s OK. I think my father would think it’s OK, too.
I’m glad I could think about this, even if it did interrupt my sleep.
OFFICIALLY SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2011
From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
Time I woke up today: 2:37 a.m. to deal with the dream about my father. 7:38 a.m. for good. The 208th time all year I’ve been awake at this time.
High temperature for Saturday, December 10, 2011, Day 344: 43 (according to the Butte newspaper)
Low temperature for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 27
Precipitation for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 0.00 inches
Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches
New entries:
Exercise for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 47-minute brisk walk after dinner.
Miles driven Saturday, December 10, 2011: 223.4
Addendum: While I had a bowl of oatmeal this morning at the complimentary continental
I screamed for my father, and he got there in what seemed like a millisecond, although I know that’s impossible. He grabbed the old man’s hand and my wrist and yanked them apart, and then he threw an elbow into the old man’s chest, knocking him to the floor.
“Get the hell out of here,” my father said, and the old man did.
After the old man scrambled away, my father turned to me. He looked concerned. “Teddy, are you all right?”
I nodded. I couldn’t say anything.
My father held out his hand.
“Come on, Son.”
He led me back to the bar and told the bartender to set me up with a fresh root beer.
I have to be honest about my father. He was an inscrutable man sometimes. We got along great when I was a young boy, but in later years, especially when I was a teenager and even older, we fought a lot. There were times when he was cruel to me, like when he directed Jay L. Lamb to write me nasty letters upbraiding (I love the word “upbraiding”) me for what he perceived to be my failures.
When he died, which was quite sudden and unexpected, we had not resolved many of our disagreements, and that left me regretful.
Dr. Buckley said that as I adjusted to my father’s death, the good memories would replace the bad and perhaps I could have a relationship with him in death that I could not manage while he was alive. This has been true for the most part, but not entirely. The truth is, I alternate between happy memories, ones where it almost seems as if he’s by my side, and regretful ones, where we’re still fighting and still finding it impossible to understand each other. The one constant, regardless of memory, is that I wish he were here for real. As I lie on my back in bed, staring into the dark, the blanket pulled up around me, I think that I have never wanted him here more than I do right now.
If my father had been with me yesterday, he would have protected me from the intemperate young man in Bozeman. If hewere here right now, he might be able to tell me why I am suddenly so scared of figuring out how my life is supposed to go. I don’t know anymore. I used to have a job and friends whom I saw every day, or nearly so. I used to have routines and things I could rely on. I don’t have many of those things anymore. I don’t know how to replace what I’ve lost. I don’t know if it’s even possible.
I would want to tell my father this, but I also would want him to know that I am hanging in there. My father admired people who hung in there. Troy Aikman was his favorite football player ever because he seemed to be fearless, even when other teams were hurting him bad. I am not fearless. I cannot even pretend to be. But I am hanging in there. I’m trying to make sense of things. I think that’s why I’m on this trip. Yes, Kyle is in trouble, and I want to help him if I can. Yes, I want to see Donna and Victor again. But maybe I want something for me, too, such as not feeling so adrift. That seems selfish, but I think it’s OK. I think my father would think it’s OK, too.
I’m glad I could think about this, even if it did interrupt my sleep.
OFFICIALLY SUNDAY, DECEMBER 11, 2011
From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
Time I woke up today: 2:37 a.m. to deal with the dream about my father. 7:38 a.m. for good. The 208th time all year I’ve been awake at this time.
High temperature for Saturday, December 10, 2011, Day 344: 43 (according to the Butte newspaper)
Low temperature for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 27
Precipitation for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 0.00 inches
Precipitation for 2011: 19.40 inches
New entries:
Exercise for Saturday, December 10, 2011: 47-minute brisk walk after dinner.
Miles driven Saturday, December 10, 2011: 223.4
Addendum: While I had a bowl of oatmeal this morning at the complimentary continental
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