Page 7 of Error Handling
Now that I’m an adult and have spent time researching, I suspect I have ADHD, but I’ve never been tested. It doesn’tmatter. I’ve fashioned my life around my forgetfulness, become skilled at jobs that require my hands, not my short-term memory.
Red taillights continue to glow in the hazy February sunlight, which is further diminished by a blanket of gray clouds that slowly inches eastward. Will Sarah wait, or will she think I stood her up?
I know what it’s like to be rejected. I don’t want to foist those emotions on anyone else. I’ll see this little misadventure to the end, even if I end up home alone eating Chinese take-out.
Fresh Atlantic fish sounds more appetizing though. I’ve been craving it for weeks. That’s why I suggested we meet at Jumbo’s Seafood. In hindsight, I should have suggested a restaurant by Northwoods Mall.
Because of Charleston’s favorable year-round temperatures, downtown events occur during every season. I try to stay aware to avoid traffic like this, but I didn’t check the events calendar before scheduling the date. I forgot.
The brake lights on the car in front of me flicker. Traffic inches forward, stopping frequently for unknown reasons before crawling forward again. Seven minutes later, I pass a barricade. Beyond it, people mill about on foot to the sounds of live jazz.
Right. The two-week Black Heritage Festival is culminating tonight in an outdoor jazz celebration. I saw a flyer for it at work.
If I’m stuck in traffic, maybe Sarah is too. Or maybe she’s already given up on me. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’ll have ample opportunities for fresh fish in Puerto Rico. I haven’t interviewed for the job there yet, but my contact, Joe Riley, whom I’ve known since high school and who is a Christian missionary in Puerto Rico, assured me that I’m a shoo-in. The island hasn’t fully recovered from Hurricane Maria and the contracting companies down there take all the help they can get.
Traffic snakes around the festival and becomes more fluid as cars flow onto adjacent streets. I turn into East Bay Parking Garage behind two other cars. We take turns pulling our tickets before filing up the ramp in search of empty spots.
The parking garage gods smile upon me. An empty spot on the third floor beckons. Before I pull in, I let a female pedestrian pass. She gives a wave of thanks, and when our eyes meet, I feel a tingle at the base of my skull and a pull in my gut.
She flips her wavy, brown hair over her shoulder, revealing a slender neck anchored by delicate collar bones. Her V-neck, forest green sweater rolls over her curves, holds them snugly, her short stature emphasizing her hourglass shape even more. High-waisted, dark-wash jeans meet the sweater just under her full breasts and cinch against her flat stomach.
But her eyes, not her hourglass figure, are what catch my breath. I’ve seen thousands of pairs of brown eyes in my lifetime, but none have reached out and hooked onto me like hers.
My phone rings and interrupts my transcendent moment. My phone that I thought I forgot at home. Somehow it fell off the console and landed on the floor behind the driver’s seat. I can’t noodle my arms around to grab it while strapped in, so I pull into the open parking space, throw the car into park, and twist around in my seat.
My cracked, outdated iPhone reads “Mom” across the top. I sigh. What now?
I contemplate ignoring the call, but my dad just got out of the hospital for a routine procedure—routine for patients with heart failure. Dad’s heart only works at thirty-five percent since last year’s heart attack. Sometimes he develops fluid around it, which the hospital drains. They monitor him for a couple of days and then send him on his way. He’s had the same procedure twice, mainly because he ignores his doctor’s warnings to cut his salt intake.
On the off chance something is truly wrong with my dad, I decide to answer the phone.
“Yeah, Mom. What’s up?” I climb out of the car with the phone pressed to my ear.
“Your father.”
“Is he sick?”
“Of course he’s sick.”
“I know, but—If it’s not an emergency, I don’t really have time to talk.”
“Your father isn’t eating.”
I head toward the bank of elevators. The brunette is there. Somehow the harsh fluorescent lighting makes her even more beautiful. I leave several feet of space between us. She smiles and pokes her fingertips into her jeans pockets.
“Maybe he isn’t hungry,” I say to my mom.
“He can’t afford to lose more weight. I need him around the house. The last time I mowed the lawn I nearly fell off the tractor.”
“You’re supposed to go up and down the hill, not along it.”
“How am I supposed to know that? Your dad has always taken care of everything. I don’t know what to do.”
“Feed him potato soup. He likes potato soup. But go easy on the salt.”
“I don’t have potatoes.”
“Go to the store?”