Page 112 of Error Handling

“What? I just mean, theyareappealing, but they aren’t breaking down any artistic barriers.”

“That five-hundred-page ‘novel’ you wrote when we were married didn’t bust down any doors either,” Dad says, garnishing his statement with air quotes. “Did you ever get that thing published?”

“I still could,” Mom snaps back. “I’m not dead yet.”

“I know a guy who runs two art galleries, one in Columbus and one in Cincinnati,” Dad says. “I think he might be interested in these.”

“Great,” I manage. I note that he still hasn’t said whathethinks of them.

“I want one for my wall,” Mary says. “How much are you charging for them?”

“I have no idea. Dad, what do you think?”

“So,” Mom interrupts. “I see you’re having some work done in your apartment. Is that why your gentleman friend stopped by when we were on the phone the other day?”

My throat tightens and my breaths become shallow. Searing heat ascends my neck and converges at my scalp. I need space. Air.

I exit the stuffy porch and head into the kitchen.

“A farmhouse sink,” my mom says, fingering the large unopened box in the corner. “Good choice. I’ve always wanted one of these. Who’s been helping you with the work? Is it your date? The HR manager?”

I nod.

My fingers are starting to go numb. I need out of the apartment. Now.

“He’s a handyman on the side, then?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean—I need to step outside. I’m not feeling well.”

As I stumble out of the house, a vice tightens around my lungs. I can’t get any air and my vision starts to blur. I hear Mary run up behind me.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Mary’s eyes widen when she gets a good look at my face.

“I can’t breathe,” I say. Tears well up and stream down my cheeks.

“I think you’re having a panic attack. Sit down. Breathe. It’s gonna be okay. This too shall pass.” Mary’s voice sounds distant.

I collapse onto the ground.

“What’s wrong, Sarah?” Mom says. She walks up and grabs my arm.

“Don’t!” I push Mom’s hand away.

“Well.”

“She needs space,” I hear Mary say through the cotton in my ears. “You two go into the house. I know how to handle this.”

Mary grabs my hand and starts stroking it. “Is that an azalea bush?” she asks.

I nod.

“It’s gorgeous. This street is so quaint. I love all the tiny bungalows. Your dad and I want to spend a day in downtown Charleston. I’ve been reading up on the history. Fascinating town. Just fascinating. Deep breaths. That’s right.”

Mary’s voice is soothing and helps divert my mind away from the tightness in my chest.

“Your dad says you have a pug named Dolly. I’d love to meet her. Is she boarded?”

I nod again and manage to explain the bit about the squeaky toy and the yak cheese. Like my mom, Mary is intrigued by the yak cheese.