Page 108 of Error Handling

Mom presses her hand to her stomach. “I’m just getting over a stomach bug. Don’t worry about me. Shall we?”

I grab my mom’s carry-on and make her wait curbside while I retrieve The Cube. I try to crank the AC, but it seems to bethe latest casualty. The blowing air feels slightly cooler than the outdoor temperature, not cold enough to keep my mother comfortable, especially with those winter clothes.

As I pull my car up to the curb, my mom regards it distastefully.

“You still have this old thing?” she asks after her luggage is in the back and she’s strapped into the passenger seat.

“You’re going to want to take off that raincoat.”

“I’ll be fine. I still feel chilled to the bone from this year’s winter. We had negative temperatures for two weeks in January, and the president never shut down the university. My goose down coat wasn’t even warm enough.”

“Well, you’re going to get heatstroke in a matter of minutes. It’s eighty degrees, and my AC isn’t working very well.”

“I’m not surprised. How old is this thing? Twenty years?”

“Not quite.”

Mom wrinkles her nose. “I could never stand the smell of old cars. That hot vinyl scent never seems to go away.”

“I’m a student. I can’t afford a new car.”

“Less than three years ago you were a paralegal making good money.”

“And I hated it. Remember?”

I turn out of the airport and jog around to the east.

“I know. I know. But you could always go to law school.”

I gape at my mom. “And waste more of my life in school pursuing a career that would make me want to fry my eyeballs in avocado oil? I don’t think so.”

“You don’t have to be dramatic. I could help pay.”

“No. This isn’t going to be one of those one-up games you and dad play. If you want to throw money at me,youcould buy me a new car.”

“It’s not a game, Sarah. I just want you to be a fully functioning member of society.”

I bite my lip. Thirty-five minutes to Folly Island. I can make it that long without throttling my mother.

Then it hits me. I forgot my toiletry bag at my apartment. I utter a swear word.

“Sarah!”

“What? I forgot my bag.” This could add another twenty minutes to our trip.

“There’s no need to hurry,” my mom says. “I’m hungry anyway. Let’s stop and eat.”

I forgot I was hungry. Stress has a way of doing that to me.

After arguing about where to eat for ten minutes, we find an authentic Mexican restaurant. My mother doesn’t complain about it much. She makes a few critical comments about the restaurant’s cleanliness, particularly the grout in the brick tile; however, she has better words to say about the food, even though she hardly eats any of it.

“My hamster, Chloe, ate more food in her entire life than you just did,” I say.

“I’d forgotten about that little rodent. Your father got you that for Christmas one year to spite me because I wouldn’t get you a dog.”

“I never wanted a hamster. I wanted a dog.”

“And now you have one. Where is she?”