Page 111 of Error Handling

“He’ll hide in the bathroom while we help you change,” I say.

“This is humiliating,” Mom mumbles.

“I told you to take that raincoat off as soon as you stepped into my car.”

“It wouldn’t have made a difference.”

“It might have.”

“I should have taken an oob.”

“Uber. Yes, you should have. See? I was right.”

“Ladies,” Mary says, this time quietly. She places a hand on each of our arms. “Let’s get Patty changed and then we can discuss it. Lloyd, get your britches out of here.”

I’m starting to like Mary. My dad could stand a verbal whooping now and then.

“If I’m changing, I need you all to leave,” Mom says.

We grant Mom’s wish and congregate in my bedroom.

“Were you seriously going to sit there until I showed up?” I say to Dad.

He shrugs.

“Yes,” Mary says. “He won’t listen.”

“You would have been here all week.”

“I know, right?” Mary fluffs her pixie cut. “He said he heard your dog barking out back, which meant you’d be home soon.”

“That’s the neighbor’s dog.”

“I tried to tell him.” She checks her watch and taps her foot. “I could be on the beach right now. Not that I didn’t want to meet you.” She rests her hand on my arm.

“Believe me, I want the same,” I say.

“I’m dressed,” Mom calls from the living room.

When I see my mom in shorts and a T-shirt, I almost gasp. I’ve never seen my mom so skinny. For the first time in my life, I wonder how much time she has on earth. I make a mental note to stuff her with as much food as possible this week.

“Lie down for a bit,” Mary says when Mom tries to stand.

“So, is this where you paint?” Dad asks. He meandered into the kitchen and is peeking into the back porch. “This is where you keep your paintings, then, I suspect.” He steps into the porch. I feel a moment of panic.

“Don’t move, Mom.” I motion for my mother to stay and then I scramble to the back porch.

The fifth in my series of Charleston oak trees is drying on the easel. For this one, I used black and white paint with a few splashes of color.

Dad stands back and looks at it, rubbing his chin the entire time. He just says, “Hmm.” Then he walks over to my storage rack in the corner, which holds all my paintings since my first day at CofC. He begins thumbing through them. Every so often he pulls one out for a closer look.

Mary joins him, and she offers her opinions. “That’s gorgeous,” she says. “Mmm-hmm. Yes, I like that one.”

“What do you think?” I ask tentatively after Dad has gone through all of them.

“They won’t make it into any museums,” Mom says from behind me. She shuffled into the back porch without any of us noticing.

Mary’s jaw drops. “Why would you say such a thing?”