Page 102 of Error Handling
Sarah.
She’s been on my mind since I left Charleston. The farther I travel from the city, the clearer my mind becomes. Maybe we could work something out. I could go to Puerto Rico for a year or two, save up a lot of cash. We could do Skype calls or Facetime. It wouldn’t be ideal, but...
What if she cheats on me while I’m gone? She’ll have all that free time without me. With me so far away, how will I know if she’s going behind my back?
Sarah doesn’t seem like the type to cheat. But neither did Allison.
Is Sarah still friends with that short, beefy Christopher guy? Christopher wants to be more than friends with Sarah, evidenced by the pathetic kiss he planted on her cheek as I walked by.
I have much more to offer. My gorgeous hair. My gorgeous behind (her words). I gave Sarah more than a modest peck, and she seemed to like it. She didn’t seem to mind that my pectorals don’t look like balloons either.
My mind wanders back twenty-four hours to the feeling of Sarah’s hands on my chest, to the way her arms and legs wrapped around me when I carried her to the couch. If I move to Puerto Rico, I’ll miss out on that. Skype calls won’t do our interactions any justice.
I sigh and force myself to do what I don’t want to do: talk to my mother. I’d bet a thousand bucks that she’ll ask me to take over the business within thirty minutes of my arrival.
It’s a cold, blustery day, which has always been my mother’s cue to bake. When I walk into the kitchen, she’s pulling out a pan of brown butter toffee cookies, her favorite and a childhood staple.
Sam sits on the La-Z-Boy watching an episode ofAlone. When he sees me, he stands and hugs me. Mom sets the cookie sheet on a hot pad and then walks over for a hug.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask.
“He’s upstairs sleeping.” Mom explains what happened again, even though we already discussed it on the phone.
He collapsed in the shower, breaking his wrist and acquiring a black eye. His oximeter read “72” at the time, so she called an ambulance. At the hospital, the doctors set his wrist, cleared the fluid from his lungs, and ran tests on his heart. Its capacity has diminished further, so they sent him home with a portable oxygen tank, which he will need to use indefinitely.
“Is he feeling okay?” I ask.
“Good enough. He’s just grumpy. The way he always is when he gets home from the hospital.”
“He did break a wrist and come home with an oxygen tank,” Sam says.
“I suppose,” Mom says. “Do you want a cookie?”
I grab a cookie from the cooling rack and bite into it. The warm toffee reminds me of my childhood. I’ll have to ask for the recipebefore I leave. There are some things I miss about Missouri. I can count them on one hand, but still.
My mother comes over and gives me another hug. “It’s so good to have you home. We miss you when you’re gone.”
“Speak for yourself.” Sam grabs a cookie, shoves it in his mouth, and winks.
“How was your flight?” Mom asks.
I detail the journey, including my two-hour layover in Chicago, which I feared might become an all-night layover when I noticed storms on the radar. Luckily, they dissipated as I sat in O’Hare, and the flights continued as planned.
“I sat by a bulldog on the plane.”
“A real bulldog?” Sam asks.
“I’m pretty sure. His slobber was real. It dripped on my hand more than once.”
“Why on earth did they let a bulldog on an airplane?” Mom asks as she furiously stirs another batch of cookie batter.
“Should Dad be eating cookies?” I ask.
“Everyone is coming over on Sunday because you’re home. I’m cooking for two dozen people.”
“Is that going to wear out Dad?”
“I asked him. He said he’ll just go upstairs and rest if he needs to.”