Page 135 of Error Handling

“She does make good chocolate chip cookies.”

“So, why not eat them? Who cares what the scale says? I’ve always liked my women a little fluffy.”

I laugh again. Dad’s in rare form tonight. I like this version of him.

“The scale matters if you’re skin and bones and don’t eat,” I say, “There’s a word for that. It’s called anorexia.”

“I amnotanorexic.”

“Not on purpose, but old people sometimes get it without realizing because they’re never hungry.”

“Are you calling me old?”

“Yes.”

“Pshh.”

“Just eat, Dad. Even if you’re not hungry. Stick food in your mouth, chew it, and then swallow it. Think of it like a job. You do it because you have to, not because you enjoy it.”

“Speak for yourself. I always liked my job. Spent too much time working as a result and wasn’t there for you like I ought to be. But never mind. You should like your job. That’s what I mean. If you don’t, find something else to do. What happened to Puerto Rico, by the way? Are you going down there?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“I’ll eat.”

“Eat more. More often.”

“Fine. What about Puerto Rico?”

“I’m going down there in a couple of weeks.”

“You don’t sound excited.”

I stare into the blackness on the other side of my window. I think about the Unitarian cemetery. The ghost tour with Sarah. The way she clutched my arm when the wind kicked up out of nowhere.

“I’m excited,” I say.

“Son.”

“What?”

“Beaches. Girls in bikinis.Fluffygirls in bikinis. The ocean. Sunshine. That’s a lot to be excited about.”

“We have beaches here.”

“Who’s we?”

“Me.”

“You said,We.”

“Yeah, me and every human being in the greater Charleston area. We have Folly Island. The water feels like ice right now though.”

“Chris, I may have nagging-induced dementia, but I distinctly remember you saying there was a girl in Charleston that you were interested in.”

I scratch my neck and look up at the ceiling. Cracks radiate from a single point in the center of the plaster. They’ve been patched and repatched, each time a shoddy repair job. If I’d felt more grounded in Charleston, I might have tried to fix this apartment up, use my skills to patch the ceiling, upgrade the kitchen. The plan had always been to stay here for a little while and then move on to better things. “A girl was never part of the plan,” I say finally.

Dad is silent for a moment. I picture him rubbing his chin. “Sometimes ourplansare meant to change. In fact, more often than not, they do change. You can’t allow yourself to get boxed in. You might miss out on life’s greatest blessings.”

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