We get up on Wednesday and are still in this holding pattern, waiting on Mom's ashes and the death certificate paperwork to be processed. Erin and I of course took Dad's truck last night when driving back to the hotel. She badly wants go get out of this entire town for a little bit, and just explore, so we decide to cruise up to the Cocoa Beach area, possibly have lunch at one of those restaurants that Paul guy recommended.

At first we're contemplating this dive called Crackers Island Grille. Joking that the current similarly named Gorillaz song, which we hear on Sirius quite a bit back home, is about this place. But just doing a drive-by, it doesn't look that spectacular, and so we decide to keep moving. Finally wind up at this Grills Seafood Deck & Tiki Bar, right on the water at Port Canaveral. As we grab a table on their outdoor, waterfront patio, they have signs hanging everywhere warning us not to feed the birds, and our waitress even mentions such. And indeed, a couple different ones land right on our table, as well as on many others nearby. Sure seem to be posing and making “cute” faces in an attempt to butter you up for food, too, before they squawk and fly away in a huff when you don't give them anything.

We both get daily fresh catch seafood offerings here. After this, she and I drive down to a beach and kick around on it for awhile. All of which makes for a perfectly pleasant, late morning into early afternoon, and basically amounts to the last peaceful interlude of this entire trip.

I talk to Dad, and this is the first I'm hearing about the mad drama over at Marlen's place. After Christina had marched off into the night, at some point Daniel passed out in the yard itself, back by Marlen's camper. Then a little while ago, Dad for some reason decided to wake him up...which for unknown reasons provokes my brother into coming up swinging his fists. He's exceedingly angry that Dad hath disturbed his slumber.

So then these two launch into an extended argument. During which Daniel tells him, “the only reason I came down here is for Mom! I didn't come down here for you!” which really sets Dad off, although I think at the bottom of it his feelings are more hurt than anything else.

A short while afterwards, they have mostly calmed down, are only still somewhat squabbling, when Christina happens to at this inopportune moment come strolling up the road, back onto this powderkeg of a scene.

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Dad grouses, as she approaches – and considering Christina overhears this, his comment doesn't go over well for any of the parties involved. She understandably takes issue and now it's all three of them engaged in this turmoil.

This is the scene we are returning to. It's decided we will deposit Erin at our hotel room first, before I continue over there and attempt to defuse the situation. Or even if I'm not expected to dismantle this bomb, it would nonetheless feel like – and would surely be considered – bad form to remain aloof and distance myself from all of them, particularly as we have Dad's truck. Even if this is what I would in fact wish to do, ideally, to not even get involved.

So I show up over at Marlen's, where Christina once again stormed away up the street and hasn't been seen since. All three of these guys meanwhile seem mighty plastered, just hanging around the lawn chair area, under the big tree, on the side of the house. Now that I'm here, no longer content to play music from and ripping on the tinny sound from my iPhone, Dad announces he's going to rock out to some tunes of his choosing, goddammit, on the truck stereo he's suddenly boasting about. He fires up this Garth Brooks CD and CRANKS the volume, as loud as our eardrums can stand it (which, in the name of full disclosure, I must admit secretly does sound awesome.)

Almost immediately, Marlen, who has been inside during this spell, comes flying out the front door. “Bill! You gotta turn that down!” he's hollering.

And yet Dad is in kind of a belligerent mood, he does nothing of the sort. So Marlen's yelling at him, and then Daniel pipes up, sitting nearby at the picnic table. There's no real reason for him to get involved, he's just in this flippant mood where he's going to spout off and tell people how “it is,” so to speak.

“Why are you so angry all the time?” Daniel says to Marlen.

Now these two are jawing at one another. I'm basically just standing in the yard, in the middle of this triangle, dumbfounded. Regarding Dad, I know that he's grieving, and can't imagine how horrible it would be to lose a partner you've been married to for forty years, or intermittently involved with (more on that much later) for over fifty. But there's also this phenomenon I feel like I've seen before in people who have just lost someone, where it's as though they are plainly resentful toward everyone else around, because their lives are not as fucked up at the moment. It's horrible to say, but I do believe this rears its head now and again, and is possibly even unavoidable.

Therefore this has surfaced throughout these days, where he appears to be and sometimes even admits he is thoroughly baffled by how well some of us are taking this. And me most of all. I am compared at times to a rock or a robot, and sometimes do admittedly feel like such. But just as often, as I've explained to him repeatedly these past few days, it's me forcing myself to be. Like detailing yet again that especially when Allie and Karen were around, trying not to make a big deal about losing Mom – because as much as this totally sucks, it was to some extent expected sooner or later, and can't possibly be as devastating as a parent losing one of their kids.

He always nods and agrees with me that this is true, and he gets it, but I can tell he doesn't really believe it. As though he really thinks this is the dumbest thing he's ever heard, even though it sounds good and proper in theory, and doesn't understand why I would ever consider that. And at any rate seems to have already forgotten this point by the next time it comes up again regardless. Which is all maybe understandable if he was trying to impress on me that I should not worry about that, and sob openly all day about Mom or whatever – except I don't really think this is the case, either. Harsh or not, he's a bit of a drama queen, and I am under the impression that what he's really angry, wounded, and thoroughly befuddled about is that he can't understand why everyone isn't walking around feeling sorry for him all day long, and basically why we would ever talk about anything else except how bad he's got it (his sister Jackie, without our ever having discussed the matter, will essentially say the same thing to him.)

Well, that's just my interpretation, maybe, but what isn't open for debate is that joining the fray and acting as crazy as these three would not help matters any. Call me a rock or a robot, but I have this kooky notion that maybe a little steadiness is what this situation needs. By now, Dad has at least turned the music down. And even he is attempting to play peacemaker, as there are plans afoot for me to whisk Daniel out of here. Nonetheless, the arguments escalate to the extent that Marlen runs into the house and...emerges with a gun in his hand!

“Get the fuck outta here! Get the fuck outta here, or I will blow you away!” he's shouting at Daniel.

“You're gonna blow me away?” Daniel scoffs, remaining right where he is in the yard.

“You better believe it! I will blow your ass away! Get the fuck outta here!”

“You're gonna blow me away with that pellet gun. Okay,” Daniel says with a dismissive wave. But at least we climb into the truck now.

Peeling out of here, there's basically nothing else to do but take him back to our hotel room. He can't get ahold of Christina and doesn't have a key to his own, might not be welcome there even if he did. And here's the first instance where this plentiful extra space we have comes into play.

We arrive over there and I'm telling Erin about the insanity that just went down. Daniel's outside sitting on the sidewalk, smoking and drinking, but then comes in and passes out on the couch in the other room. I have baseball playing on that TV for background noise.

Incredibly enough, considering the gun incident and everything, I feel like I really need to go back over to Marlen's house, to spend some time with Dad. And Erin's okay with this. And maybe these are famous last words, I'm thinking, but I'm not worried about it, I just know that I will not have any problems over there.

And it's true. “You made your dad's day,” Marlen tells me, matter-of-factly, when I show back up over there. This at a moment where it's just the two of us sitting in these war-torn lawn chairs, enjoying what is easily the most “normal” conversation I've ever had with the guy – even if it only lasts a couple minutes.

So I hang out here awhile, then return to the hotel. All parties involved seem to have reasonably calmed by now. At some point, Daniel wakes up, is outside smoking and drinking again. He still has no idea where Christina is, a situation understandably exacerbated in that she lost her phone yesterday. And he still can't get into his hotel room, which was booked solely in her name, is even now under the impression that she might have even completely changed hotels.

At some point, he passes out on the sidewalk, a situation to which Erin alerts me. So I have to head outside, rustle him up, lead him back to the couch. Throw a blanket over him after he passes out again. “You're a good brother,” Erin tells me, upon my return, but I think this is pretty standard behavior and not too many siblings would just let another sleep out there all night.

She and I head off at random in search of a tantalizing dinner option, and wind up at this fantastic noodle bar named Senzu. Here we both slurp down some ramen and split an order of bao bites, all the while savoring this funky, mightily vibrant atmosphere. The decor is all pure anime, as in the walls are completely plastered with the stuff, like wallpaper. And even though she is ordinarily far more into this sort of thing, I find it visually fascinating as well, and am glad we picked this spot.

Once we return to the hotel, she she soon conks out for good in her bed. Yet I'm having a rough night in mine, for no other reason than that my stomach is killing me again. But I don't believe this is stress or anything, I really don't, based mostly upon one other similar episode from months earlier. It's this strange sensation as though a heavyweight boxer just unleashed a series of furious jabs to my stomach, to where it's sore all over, internally and externally. The kind of thing most people would probably get checked out, but, I don't know, I'm convinced it has to be related to something I'm doing, and am mentally replaying this night and the other one through my head to see if there are any patterns. And I have this hunch that this weird energy drink I gulped down earlier must be the culprit – the last time I tried something similar, about a half hour later, I was driving down the road and was suddenly consumed by the need to roll down my window and vomit, pronto. Which I managed to do without any major catastrophe.

This has me thinking I'll probably steer clear of the energy drinks, moving forward. But for now, whenever I'm feeling rough, my old standby is to take a nice hot shower, then march straight to bed, where I'm usually able to pass out for a little while. And so it is tonight, where I repeat this process four times, alternately showering and dozing. Tossing and turning, trying a million different positions when I am awake. And I'm thankful that Erin and I have separate beds, that she is spared this ordeal, sawing logs in oblivion.

During the last of these showers, I'm standing there thinking about how this entire week all feels like some sort of bizarre test. Which isn't exactly original, maybe, as plenty of people in trying times will adopt a similar mindset. But I'm not considering it in any kind of religious terms, and definitely not feeling sorry for myself or anything: only exactly this, that it's some sort of test, to examine the results for how we will hold up.

It's now a popular theory to speculate that we might be living in a computer simulation, and at times I find this a thoroughly believable hypothesis. Mostly all the time, really. Because although technically operating under my own free will, it doesn't always feel as such. More often than not, I feel like an avatar in a video game. Not even getting into the whole emotionless robot bit – which is a valid charge, regarding for example my state this past handful of days, right or wrong – but rather just simply my behavior. It feels very much like I was sent here with a program, and I am executing it, thank you very much, end of story. Like a worker bee or an ant on a farm or, yes, a little character running around on a screen, acting out missions based upon his source code. Specifically the writing compulsion and taking notes and observing as much as possible and creating narratives out of everything, but you could extend it to just about the entirety of my existence. And I know I can't possibly be the only person who feels this way. While our “programmer,” whoever or whatever you think this entity is, records the results, improves the product over time, maybe occasionally hacks the mainframe to make forceful corrections or try out new features on the fly. It could simply be that, for example with my writing results, that we are all compiling “information” of some sort, billions and billions of avatars here, which is more efficient for our programmer than them mining this data themselves.

Well, that's all open for speculation, and I have to admit does sound a lot less farfetched at four or five in the morning than it might during other hours. With or without a beer or two. But what's not really open for debate is that this uncanny sense we had about the roomy hotel suite coming in handy was maybe an understatement, considering my brother is basically down to no other options. And as Thursday morning rolls around, even Dad has grown tired of Marlen's antics, he has taken to coming over here to shower and hang out while we assess the situation.

Whether or not Mom's ashes are ready and whether or not we can find Christina, the four of us have to leave town today. This due to the ultimate kicker in the timeline of this nearly weeklong odyssey, which is that Daniel must check into his local jail, bright and early tomorrow, for a seven day stint courtesy of his third DUI. He actually wasn't even supposed to leave the state, so they were rolling the dice with this one from the outset, and we definitely don't want to play around down here.

He's on the phone quite a bit, trying to figure out where his wife is. His phone has a cracked screen, he doesn't have his own charger and is using Dad's compatible one, though this is only somewhat working. And to compound the situation, Marlen's blowing up Dad's phone, because his own brother's health has suddenly taken a turn for the worse, he says, and he needs to drive to some distant hospital to see the guy today for possibly the last time.

On a positive note, that Paul guy from Island Cremations has also called, to say Mom's ashes are ready and all our paperwork is in order, so we can knock that out along the way. But before we can tackle such, Marlen is positively flipping out about Christina's big silver truck, which he admittedly has valid grounds for complaint about. Considering it's not just in his driveway, but his own vehicle is boxed into the carport ahead of it. And so a theoretically quick jaunt over there to deal with this crisis is in order.

We are already aware that Christina lost the keys two days ago. But the latest thinking is that maybe they are on the property here somewhere. So an extensive search ensues, with five of us in various states of dedication to the task. When this fails to yield any miracles, Marlen questions whether we shouldn't break into the truck to examine the interior. But Daniel says he doesn't think this is such a hot idea, given his and Christina's current combative state. Or would-be combative state, maybe, if he were even able to reach her. Erin has at this point already returned to the passenger seat of Dad's vehicle, over and done with this mess. Now Dad, Daniel, and Marlen are arguing about whether they should or should not call a tow truck, and if so which company, and then what kind of story they should give those people.

I wordlessly slip away, pull up the map app on my phone, click the nearest towing company, and punch through a call to them. Then tell the guy someone left their vehicle in my driveway, but I don't know who it was, and ask him to show up here. Problem solved, in less than five minutes.

The dude I talked to on the phone is somehow the same one driving over here, though, with impressively little delay. By now I have joined Erin in Dad's truck, and we're both just kind of smirking at this trio still squabbling in the yard – which has persisted even after I told them help was on the way. And though the driver found my scenario perfectly plausible over the phone, the instant he steps out of his vehicle here, he smells the distinct aroma of bullshit in the air. It's not exactly outlandish, though, to consider these characters in the yard might factor into that assessment.

“Something's weird here,” he declares, eyeing the three of them suspiciously. When they hem and haw but don't say anything, he waves a hand and tells them, “look, I don't give a shit. I just need a story.”

So they break down for him exactly what happened. He nods, hooks up Christina's truck, and begins the process of towing it away. We don't need to stick around to see the end result, and don't, as we hit the road back home, and Marlen is off to wherever he is headed. Though appreciative enough for his hospitality, such as it was (Erin and I will even mail him a Veterans' Day card, to thank him for that and his service), you were pretty much on edge at all times, every moment spent in his presence, and I can't exactly claim I'll be in a hurry to hang out with that lunatic ever again. Still others have a blunter summary of this phenomenon.

“That guy is an asshole!” Daniel remarks, halfway disbelieving, as this horror show gradually fades behind us.

“Look, I know he's fucked up, okay...,” Dad says, before launching into an extensive counter defense. Yet Marlen to me is another in this long list of characters Dad is totally enamored with, whom he raves about and attempts to foist on the rest of us as this really swell person...then seems bewildered and offended, like his feelings are hurt, that none of us want to become best friends with the individual. Who quite often, shocker to end all shockers, do seem to wind up burning him in some fashion a high percentage of the time.

For much of the ride home, Daniel is on the phone with Allie, who is using his cop contacts and expertise in an attempt to locate Christina. He and Karen team up to call every jail and hospital in the region, for starters, but are coming up empty handed. It's a predicament that gets more and more surreal with every mile put behind us, after swinging over to Island Cremations to pick up Mom's ashes, then returning to the interstate and continuing north. Mom is still with us, technically, meaning the three of us who made the ride down are also returning, albeit with a couple other passengers we never would have dreamed would find themselves in the mix. Meanwhile, did we seriously just leave my brother's wife down in Melbourne, Florida, without a clue to what became of her? Yes, we did.

“Do you think that guy might have done something to her?” I can overhear Allie asking Daniel, speaking of Marlen.

“No...,” Daniel admits with a sigh, as though it pains him to admit as much, “I don't. I really don't.”

At the Daytona Bucee's, we stop off for gas and snacks, though Dad remains in his truck and has no interest in entering the building. Daniel is at least able to score a phone charger, however. A little farther up the highway, once we get moving again, Dad once more begins laughing at his own father for refusing to ever consider his suggested route for wintering in Florida.

Which is especially comical to me all over again, however many hours later, when a weary Erin asks him if he can't just drop her off in Statesville, before the rest of us continue onward to Mocksville. Because she's even figured out that her mom is at church right now, which is just off the interstate, and he wouldn't really have to diverge very much at all from that, he can leave her there.

Dad agrees to do so, though joking – still completely serious, mind you – about how he supposes he doesn't mind doing her this favor, even though it's majorly out of the way. From the backseat, I pull up my map app one more time, examine the routes home, just to confirm that we still are not crazy. Then take a screen shot, wordlessly text this to Erin. She almost instantly opens it, issues a highly amused, conspiratorial giggle.

“Jason, I love you,” she tells me.