Page 114 of Error Handling
My father’s cottage is grander, with enough room for twelve and a screened-in, second-floor porch adorned with latticework. The low-lying grasses and bushes behind the house allow for spectacular views of the Atlantic Ocean from the back deck.
On Saturday evening when we arrive, I take my mom to Folly Market to stock up on food for the week. I choose full-fat coffee creamer, Greek yogurt, cream cheese for morning bagels, tubs of ice cream—anything I can think of to add meat onto mymom’s bones. Surprisingly, Mom doesn’t object to any of my suggestions.
Sunday is a warm day at my dad’s cottage. Mary insists we do nothing, and I don’t argue. I spend the day sunbathing on the beach, occasionally dipping my toes in the frigid water just to feel the waves.
Chris and I correspond some over text. I initiate it, sending a message to check up on Chris’s dad. Chris gives a favorable report and laments that he is surrounded by immediate and extended family who expect him to talk about the weather, his life, and his future. I want to respond with,What are your plans for the future?Even though he’s made it fairly clear. He plans to move to Puerto Rico. What that means for our relationship, I’m still left to wonder.
On Monday it rains, and I return to Mom’s cottage. We spend the day playing Scrabble and cards and watching Hallmark romance movies. Keeping my mother busy is my top priority. If I keep her focused on a task, I don’t have to dodge questions about my love life or about how I plan to become a fully functioning member of society after graduating from CofC. The busyness also keeps my mind off Chris, who I miss more and more as the days pass.
On Tuesday, Dad forces us to go sailing despite choppy seas. He emphatically reminds us that he’s already paid, and it was expensive. We are going, never mind that the waves are taller than I am. Luckily the sail “boat” is more like a sail “yacht.” If it had been the kind of sailboat I imagined, we probably would have capsized. My stomach nearly does, several times. Four hours of seasickness isn’t my idea of a good time.
The temperature combined with the northerly wind makes for a bad beach day on Wednesday. Mom and I put on our long-sleeved shirts and pants and explore the merchants along Center Street, including a cottage shop called Coastal Creations, whichoffers handmade candles, local fiction and beach reads, artisan jewelry, and hand-painted shells. My mom buys a boho V-neck tunic to wear over her swimsuit and light cardigan and then we head to Seaside Sweets for ice cream.
I spend half of Thursday with my mom and the second half with my dad. Mary goes above and beyond with a homemade fish-and-chips dinner and pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. I eat too much and waddle up to my bedroom to read a book before bed.
My phone rings just after I plop onto the bed and cross my feet at the ankle. Earl the Squirrel somehow finds room in my overstuffed stomach to perk up and begin gnawing on walnuts.
“Hey Chris,” I say. Despite his occasional texts this week, part of me thought I might never see him or hear his voice again.
“I made it home,” he says.
“Home to Missouri, or home to Charleston?”
“I’m back in Charleston.”
“Oh,” I say. “Is everything all right with your dad?”
“Yeah. He seems to be gaining strength.”
“That’s good.” I wad up my blanket in my fist. I need to keep Chris talking. “Dad and I are going on a dolphin tour tomorrow. If it’s anything like the sailboat excursion, I might get a second look at my dinner.”
“How’s that?”
“I might throw up. Seasickness. Although, I checked the weather and it’s supposed to be a great day. Sunny, in the eighties. Slight wind.”
“That’s good.”
“Hey, do you feel like having a beach day tomorrow? Or, a beach afternoon, rather? You’re welcome to come out. My dad overestimated our lodging needs. You need to see this cottage. We have three extra bedrooms.”
“Sure,” Chris says with only a slight hesitation. I take that as a good sign. “I promised Kahlil I’d work on his plumbing while he’s on vacation, so it will have to be later.”
“That’s perfect. We have the dolphin tour, and then I’ll probably need an hour or two to recover. Mary is fixing an early dinner, so you could stay and eat.”
“It depends on the menu.”
I almost forgot. Chris can’t eat wheat. “I’ll see if Mary can make some gluten-free options.”
“Or I can just watch you guys eat. I’m good at that.”
“I’m sure she can throw a russet in the oven.”
We agree on a time, say our goodbyes, and then I hang up. I can’t stop smiling. He agreed to meet the parents. Or a parent. That feels significant.
Maybe tomorrow while in the sand and sun, Chris and I can broach the topic of our future. I need to know if he’s up for virtual dating. If not, I need to come up with a plan for getting over his puppy-dog eyes and impeccable curls. My chest aches at the mere thought of it.
I grab my Kindle and prepare to read, but my phone buzzes. I assume it’s Chris telling me he’s changed his mind.
Hey, Sarah, Christopher Fonseca texts.