CH1 - Introducing Edwin

*** age 26 ***

I'm not usually like this; I don't usually do things like this. The beat up 1977 Rand McNalley road atlas is spread open in front of me, the steaming mug of coffee next to it. I'm lost in the lines, navigating my life to some hidden meaning that has yet to be found. The little street-corner dinner is empty; I don't even notice the waitress.

 

“Hm?” I look up.

 

“I said would you like some more coffee?”

 

“Yes please” I reply, scooting the mug to the edge of the table before taking my glasses off and setting them on the map, flexing my neck, left to right. The waitress is still standing there. I take a moment to look at her, average height, slim, brown eyes, light brown hair pulled up with a few loose strands falling to either side of her face. Beautiful in a quiet sense, someone who may just look average from a glance but upon a closer look you notice the warmth in her eyes. She smiles.

I realize I’ve been staring at her. 

I clear my throat and look away.

 

“Thank you” I say, taking a sip of coffee

 

“Where are you traveling?” she motions to road atlas before taking a quick look around the dinner before sitting down across from me.

For the moment we are alone. 

 

“I… uh….I'm not really sure.” I answer.  I honestly don’t know if I’m just starting, coming or going.

 

“Well where are you from?”

 

“Wisconsin” I reply.

 

“and what are you doing in Colorado?” she asks. I look at her, take a sip of my coffee and say “I don't know.” I sense that she feels uncomfortable now; she assumes I don't want to talk, the question is whether that’s true or not, she shifts uncomfortably. 

“What’s your name?” I ask even though I can see it clearly printed on her name tag.

“Amy”

“Nice to meet you, I'm Edwin.” She smiles, a quiet smile at the edge of her lips.

“How long are you in town for?”

“Well...” and before I can finish the large man who I assume is the cook comes out of the kitchen.

“Amy!, get back to work!” She jumps out of her seat and starts to go then turns back, scribbles something down and hands me my check before retreating to the kitchen. I read it as she disappears.

 

“Call me tonight”

-Amy

Below she lists her phone number. 

 

This kind of thing never happens to me.

 

* * *

 

I spend my afternoon doing laundry and attempting to figure out where or what I'll be doing tomorrow. I could head north, west, Washington, I don't know. My clothes are drying, I study the road atlas, attempting to interpret the penciled in notes and paths that outline my father’s wanderings. 

 

*** 30 minutes later ***

 

Its 5 pm now, my clothes are neatly folded and packed away in the back of the 1989 Toyota station wagon.

 

I stare at the keys in one hand, the other full of loose change. I take a long breath and shove the keys into my pocket, walking over to the pay phone on the wall.

 

Colorado is beautiful this time of the year, the spring sun everywhere, the phone rings once, twice, three times and on the fourth someone picks up.

 

I ask to speak to Amy

”this is her”

”Hi this is...” she cuts me off

”I knew you would call, Edwin right? Have you eaten yet?” she quickly asks.

 

I tell her no I haven’t.

 

”Good, you can pick me up at six.” and she goes on describing how to get to her place. I'm beginning to think I may be picking up the tab at some expensive restaurant tonight.

 

I arrive at her place, walking up the stairs.  I’m standing there, staring at the door of apartment 002.

 

*** age 31 ***

 

31 years, it seems like a long time to be alive, seems like forever sometimes. But right now isn't the time to be thinking about my age, I have more pressing matters to be concerned with right now, like getting my stupid cuff links on. I fumble, trying to make my shaking hands work the tiny metal into the cuffs.

 

”Here, let me get those.” Matt says relieving me from my struggle. “Getting nervous?” He asks, grinning.

 

”This is the scariest day of my life.” I jokingly reply. As nervous and happy as I am, I’m sad my parents weren’t able to be here today.

 

”I was beginning to wonder if this day would ever happen.” Matt says getting the second cuff link in place. “You should see Melissa.” I look at him quizzically. Matt just grins. “She looks beautiful.” I wanted to go on and say that she is the most beautiful women I know, that even when sick, home in bed in her pajamas, her hair pulled back with strands falling loose, nose running, box of tissue, she's beautiful. Instead I just nod, fidgeting with my collar.

Just over a year ago the roles were reversed, Matt was the one having trouble with his cuff links, he was the one getting married and I had just returned from a four year long trip.

 

*** age 29 ***

 

I had been on the road for so long my eyes were having trouble adjusting to the still quiet motionless half empty road side dinner. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, every word seems blurred, distorted.

 

”W O uLd Y o U L I Ke s Ome Co F F EE?”

 

I just nod and scoot my mug to the edge of the table. I pick up the plain colored envelope, turning it in my hands, my name written in a finely penned cursive. I haven't opened it yet, although I'm pretty sure I know what’s in it. And I'm out of it, lost in the grain of the paper and the symmetry of the letters.

 

Then I remember the waitress.

 

She stands there, little order pad in hand looking at me slightly annoyed.

 

It’s just I've gone all nostalgic suddenly.

 

”I'll have two eggs over easy, hash browns, and toast.” She flashes a quick politely required smile and scribbles down my order before saying that it'll be right up. I'm the closest to home I've been in four years. The town I grew up in is right across the river waiting for me. I'm not sure if I can call it home any more. My parents are years dead and my friends moved away before that. If it wasn't for this envelope with my name on it I'd have no reason for going back, but I'm not a man to break a promise. Even a silly one made back in elementary school.

 

Four years ago I flew into New York from Moscow Russia at 6:00 AM, on September 10. 

 

*** age 25 ***

 

A day layover till my flight to Chicago, I didn’t really have any desire to get back on a plane and couldn’t stand the idea of waiting around so I decide to rent a car and drive straight through to Wisconsin. 

 

“Do you have any preference on a car sir?” The fellow behind the counter asks me.

I tell him no while I finger the plain manila envelope in my right coat pocket waiting on the paperwork; it’s the letter, sent overnight courier which prompted my early trip home. 

 

“There you go, here are the keys, sign here and you’re all set.” The sales person shows me to my car. 

 

Four Hours later I pull off to gas up at some ma pa truck stop/dinner.

It’s only when I’m paying for the gas and I smell the scent of eggs and bacon that I realize that I haven’t eaten since I left Moscow. Before handing the clerk the money I ask for a pack of Lucky Strikes and if the dinner was still serving breakfast. 

 

“They serve till 11.” He replies, I tell him thank you and go and take a seat in the dinner. I pick a booth next to the window, the red vinyl benches a mismatch of cigarette burns and red duct tape patch jobs. The dinner is empty; a hefty man comes out of the back wiping his hands on a towel hanging from his waist. 

 

“Can I get you some coffee Mr?” he asks as he pours himself a mug. Yeah I say, black. He brews me up a fresh pot while I open the pack of smokes and dig through my coat looking for a lighter. Before I can find one the man brings the coffee over, pours me a mug and sets a match book on the table. Thank you I say. 

“What can I do you for today?”

Two eggs scrambled hash browns, and two slices of toast I say. He scribbles the order down, nods and disappears into the kitchen. 

 

I light up the smoke and hold it there in my hand as I stare out the window, sipping on my coffee. Again I find myself thinking about the letter in my coat pocket. Written in clear and graceful cursive it goes as follows; 

 

Dear Son,

 

I’ve never been good with these kinds of things; I just wish you were home. I wish I could just hear your voice and tell you that your brother died yesterday, and I may be joining him soon. There was a car accident….

 

The letter continues on to describe the accident and tell me that I’m the last to carry on the family name, the family farm is mine. I've inherited my way into retirement; 20,000 acres in the rural Midwest are now mine, along with three houses, 2,000 cattle, two massive sheds full of farm equipment and a border collie named Rusty. I’m fairly sure he didn’t write it. I just don’t know who did, perhaps a nurse. 

 

I come to the realization of what I’m doing, throw a twenty on the table and leave.  I have roughly a 16 hour drive ahead of me.

 

*** 4 days later ***

 

The funeral is small, mostly friends of the family and coworkers of my father; they all ask me “how I’m holding up?” “Fine” is my reply every time. It was raining the day they were buried, the last of my family, next to my mother and my father’s parents. 

 

“…ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”  I just sit there staring at the two oak caskets resting on their stands.  The pastor gently spreads some of the fresh soil on the casket before closing his bible.  He motions for me.  I stare for a moment longer before standing, I can feel the eyes of everyone in attendance on me, waiting for me to react somehow, instead with my same blank faced look I walk to the caskets, bend to gather a handful of soil and sprinkle it on the top of the two caskets.  I stand silent; I have no words or thoughts. 

 

The day after the funeral I call in a favor from a friend of mine. 

 

“I was wondering if you could do something for me Matt” I ask. 

“Anything” he replies.

 

After speaking with Matt I return to my parents house, I make up a pot of coffee in the kitchen and pull up a seat at the kitchen table. 

With the steaming mug in hand I think of the last thing I said to my father and what I am suppose to do now.

 

*** 2 days earlier ***

 

“I’m here dad, I’m here dad”, I repeat it over and over in my head as I pull into town. After stopping at the dinner I drove straight through the night, arrived in Wisconsin three hours before my plane was scheduled to take off from New York. Up through the state capital of Madison from Chicago, I head west towards the border to a small little town of Prairie du Chien. I barely get the car in park before running into the hospital; it has been 2 days, 23 hours since I received the letter. I tried calling the hospital when I needed to gas up, but the lady on the other end just told me my father was in surgery.

 

“I can have the doctor call when he’s out.” Instead of explaining how that wouldn’t be possible I just hung up the pay phone, got in the car and took off again.

 

All of that is irrelevant now, I’m here. I keep thinking to myself, “why did you stop for breakfast…it cost you an hour…” Maybe I was still out of it from the plane ride. 

 

September 11, 1:13 AM

 

I run through the ER, I’m frantic, reeking of smoke and truck stop coffee.

 

“Alan Matthews, where the f**k do I find Alan Matthews!” I scream at no one in particular. A hand grabs my arm and pulls me down a hall, I must seem crazy, all strung out on nicotine and caffeine. 

 

I recognize the face of the woman who’s quite literally dragging me down the hall. 

 

“Amanda?” In all of this I forgot about my brother’s fiancé. She doesn’t say anything, its quite obvious she hasn’t slept since the accident. 

 

“He’s in ICU, he’s awake.” I run ahead of her and duck inside the room. 

 

Ragged shallow breaths are heard between the humming and quiet beeps of medical equipment. I stand there in the doorway for a moment, tubes, needles, running all over my father’s body. IV drips, oxygen, heart monitors, vital scanners. 

 

“Edwin?” the deep strained voice asks in the darkness. I walk over and grip his hand, I tell him that I’m here, that its okay, that I’m home. 

 

Amanda dims the lights up so I can see my fathers face. She stands in the doorway for a moment before softly closing the door and leaving. 

 

I keep mumbling how sorry I am, sorry I wasn’t here.

 

“Son”

 

“What is it?” I ask him.

 

In his tired scratchy voice he tells me he was glad he could tell me he loved me one more time, that not to worry, that he’s going to see my mother, that he will be with his wife again.  He tells me that I’ve been a good son, that this isn’t my fault that I have to be strong. He tells me everything will be okay. 

 

“I love you too dad.”

 

He’s barely conscious; his eyes keep slowly rolling back before snapping into focus again.  I tell him how I should have been here, that he can’t leave me, not yet. 

 

He’s exhausted; I tell him he needs to rest, that he needs to sleep. He mumbles about how nice it will to see Janis, my mother.  I squeeze his hand and kiss his forehead as he sleeps. A doctor comes in the room and asks if I’m his son. He asks me to come outside with him, even though I’m hesitant to leave I go anyways.

 

“How is he?” I ask. The young, clean shaven man is obviously having a hard time trying to find the words to explain it. 

 

“Just tell me.” I ask, rubbing my hand across my unshaven face.  I don’t want to hear any sugar coated bull s**t.

 

The doctor goes on to tell me that he’s bleeding internally, that his heart is straining to work, that many of his internal organs are failing, that one of his lungs is punctured, that his legs are broken. 

“He’s not going to make it is he?” I calmly ask in my sleep deprived caffeinated daze.

 

“No...” the doctor replies, he goes on to say that at his age the chance of survival is low.  That he was surprised that he hadn’t passed yet, I cut him off and before he can say any more I thank him and ask him if he could get me some coffee. 

 

I return to the room, and take a seat next to my sleeping father. A few minutes later a young nurse comes in with a cup of coffee, I thank her and ask her to dim the lights before she leaves. 

 

In the early morning darkness I silently watch my father sleep and think of life as a child with my brother and parents and how much I miss the simplicity of it.  Summer vacations and Christmas mornings; laughing and smiling.

 

At 5:07 am my father quietly passes away.

I cry.

 

* * *

 

This is how I come to find myself standing in front of the door to apartment 002. I’m running from the reality of my life. 

 

I hesitate there for a moment, in front of the door. I set off on this trip three months ago with a box of old letters and photos.

Maybe this is some desperate attempt to find a way to continue without him, to connect with him. I don’t know what I’m doing here, outside the apartment door of some girl I met today. 

 

All I know is I’m looking for something.

 

At that moment I’m so lost in the thought of leaving that I don’t notice the door open.

 

“Are you going to come in?”

 

I stand there for a second looking at her and think to myself that this girl has the most beautiful brown eyes I’ve ever seen before.

Then I realize I’m starring again.

 

“um, sure” and I awkwardly step forward into her apartment.