The Parking Lot

Could that droplet of condensation move any slower?

“What will you have, sweetie?” 

Damn. All that time I spent flipping through the menu, and I forgot to decide on what food I was going to pick at throughout this torture. “ I’ll have a pulled pork sandwich. Thank you.”

“Are you okay with coleslaw and beans on the side?”

I would’ve order something else if I knew there’d be follow-up questions. “That’s fine.”

Once Delilah scurried off to the barbeque chain’s computer kiosk, my father gulped down his sweet tea, as my mother freshened her chapstick. Across from them, I sat on my hands, sweating in the middle of an air-conditioned tundra. I couldn’t tell them then. We hadn’t even tackled our cornbread yet.

“So how’s work?”

Toxic. “It’s fine.” 

They looked at me and waited, eye contact pressuring me to give the interrogators more information. “The kids are getting a little stir-crazy, but at least the school year is almost over. Summer vacation is right around the corner.” That was a lot of words. One numb hand flopped around enough to move my glass to sit right in front of me. I gulped the southern sugar water like it was an elixir -- a truth-telling potion to move my life along.

“And how’s your roommate?”

I came up for air and spoke. “She’s fine.” How eloquent. I dived back down, but where did my beverage go?

“You must have been thirsty.”

“I guess.” They must have caught on to me. I needed to act like my normal, nothing-is-wrong self. “I just haven’t had sweet tea in a while. I guess I missed it.” 

Dad admired the ceiling, Mom the windows, and me the table. I saw the busboy wipe down this surface before we were seated, but how clean was this? Did they use a cleaning solution or water? Did they use the same rag for the last fifty tables? I began to see bacteria taunting me from between my parents’ napkins.

“Here’s your cornbread!” Thank the Lord for Delilah. “Can I get y’all anything else?”

“No, we’re good,” my parents replied. “Thank you.”

“Alright then, enjoy!”

“You too,” I said. Damn. I tried so hard to seem normal. The room pulsed with my heartbeat. The cornbread smelled disgusting, and my thoughts and tongue were tripping over each other in a conversational tango. How would I survive this meal?

I thought of a new strategy: talk about them. “So how are Charlie and Oscar?”

“They’re good.”

“Charlie’s skin is getting better.”

“We took Oscar to the vet the other day.”

“Fourteen pounds,” my dad added in between bites of cornbread, spewing crumbs. Cleaning that up would ruin the conversation’s flow. I couldn’t make that sacrifice.

“Now, we have to put him on a diet.”

“But the weather’s warming up, so we can take them outside to play around.”

“But they’re cats,” I said.

“Yeah, but we got them harnesses and leashes so they can roam.”

“That should be funny.”

“Are you going to walk them around the yard?” I asked.

“No, we’re going to set up a clothing line, hook them up to it, and let them have their fun.”

“Right,” I started but failed to vocalize the end of my thought. My diaphragm, lungs, tongue, teeth, lips, and brain forgot the choreography. All that education was for nothing. I needed persistence. I focused on focus. “That should be funny,” I said, earning a teaspoon of relief.

“That’s what we thought.”

I exhausted myself. I couldn’t reply. The chatter of others amplified our silence. If only we needed forks and knives to eat cornbread, then at least we would’ve had that clanking to fill our space. Instead, other families surrounded us and made being a family look easy.

“Alright, folks!” Delilah to the rescue again! “We have the rib dinner.”

“Right here!” My dad salivated.

“The pulled chicken salad.”

My mom raised her hand and began picking off the croutons.

“And, last but not least, the pulled pork sandwich.” I wished I had the appetite to follow that rousing introduction.

“Do y’all need anything else?” She asked and posed herself like a concerned mother chicken with her serving tray tucked under her wing.

We declined and thanked her for her service. Now equipped with silverware, we tapped out of our limping conversation and into our food. But I could only muster the strength to eat five beans, four shreds of coleslaw, and one nibble of sandwich. It was mostly bread anyway. I kept on nudging the ten dollars worth of leftovers before me, while my parents ate just fine.

Once Dad wiped the sauce from his face and hands, we got the check, and I asked Delilah for a to-go container. With a paid-for meal behind me and a truth to be revealed before me, I strangled the styrofoam in my hand.

We navigated around parked cars and halted for moving ones. It was my last obstacle before my final test. Having arrived at our vehicles, we stood like the plastic pieces of a pegboard game, none of us close enough to jump over another. The styrofoam neared powder.

“Well, we’re off. We’ll see -- “

“I almost tried to kill myself,” I confessed. “But I’m okay now.”

“Excuse me?”

“When was this?”

“About a year ago. I went to therapy. I never did anything, just thought about it.”

“Okay.”

“I just thought you two should know.”

“Thanks for telling us.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you have any questions.” With such grace, I signed off like my parents were my colleagues.

“Let us know if you need anything.”

We shuffled around, trying our best to read each other. Mom made the first move to hug me. Then, Dad followed. I didn’t cry. They didn’t cry. At least not in that parking lot. 

Once free, I got into my car and drove off. Hypnotized by a red light, I convinced myself regret and relief were identical twins. I must’ve made my parents cry. For what? Once I realized the light turned green, I had to move along.