Supermarket Story
A shopping trip with my mother
There are no shadows in a supermarket. The light bathes everything and everyone evenly with a cool whiteness. To be in a supermarket feels like wandering outside of time.
We’ve been to lunch where my 85-year-old mother flirted with the cute, young waiter. This is our routine; lunch once a week at her favorite restaurant where she gets to enjoy her one weekly cocktail, then shopping for her groceries at the supermarket.
My mother leans on a shopping cart, her cane hooked on the push bar. The cart makes her feel supported, and secure.
“Do you want some of these little muffins?” I ask. She likes little things, two-bite muffins, and two-bite cupcakes. She points to the flavor she wants this week. I’m worried that she’s not interested in food much these days. I try to think of things that might appeal to her. And I try to talk myself into being OK with her not eating much.
“We need to get some fruit for you now,” I say.
“I’ll follow you,” she replies. She can’t thread her way through the aisles by herself.
I pick out three bananas for her, on the small side, not too ripe. She won’t eat them once they develop those little brown spots. We get a small container of cut-up melons; honeydew, watermelon, and cantaloupe; the colors bright and fresh. Appealing, I hope.
She has meals provided to her in the dining room of her residence but prefers to have lunch in her apartment. She rarely goes down for breakfast, so, in my mind, her lunches are important. I suspect she doesn’t eat much at dinner, either.
She used to enjoy these trips to select her food for the week; lunch food and lots of treats. Lately, she hasn’t been eating much of the lunch food, just the treats. She has a large, cut glass bowl on her dining table that she keeps filled with candy, like butterscotch drops, and Hershey mini bars. It disappears quickly. She tells me “the girls,” meaning the aides, come in and take some. She’s told them they can help themselves. I’m not sure it’s the aides that are eating the candy.
It used to be part of our weekly routine that, after the supermarket, we would stop at the liquor store, where she would buy a half gallon of bourbon. She would say, “This will last me a couple of months.” It didn’t. It usually lasted about two weeks. When I told her doctor how much she was drinking, at a recent visit, he told her that she needed to stop drinking and that alcohol was no longer her friend.
I felt guilty about outing her, but I also felt guilty about letting her drink that much. So one cocktail a week is important to her. It reminds her of years gone by when she laughed and drank with friends.
We move on to the cheese section. I select the smallest packages of sliced cheese. “One white and one orange,” she says. She likes to eat one slice of each with a slice of luncheon meat between them. No bread. Her special sandwich. We don’t buy any meat today, because I noticed, when I went through her refrigerator that the small package of sliced turkey we’d bought last week was still unopened. She stopped eating the meat six weeks ago, but I still buy it, hoping.
“Look at that,” she says, her voice lively with excitement. I turn in the direction she’s pointing, pleased by her bright smile. She happily begins to push her cart forward, with more energy and purpose than she’s shown all day. She moves up to a cart where an olive-skinned, curly-haired girl sits in the toddler’s seat. Heavy-lashed brown eyes gaze at Mom calmly.
“You are so cute! You are just so pretty!” she coos with pleasure at the toddler, ignoring her parents. “I am going to steal you. I am going to take you home with me.”
The child’s young mother, hair covered with a wine-colored scarf and wearing a long, blue skirt, is startled. She turns uncertainly to her tall, turbaned husband, standing at the meat counter. He turns to see what’s happening. They both gaze apprehensively at my mother. Mom pays them no mind. “Isn’t she the prettiest thing?” She is oblivious to the consternation that is rising in the child’s mother.
I smile apologetically at the little girl’s parents. “Yes, Mom. She is the prettiest thing. Adorable.” She is a beautiful child. I can understand why my mother is entranced with her innocence.
I rest my hand lightly on her frail shoulder. “But we need to get you some soda now. These people need to do their shopping.” Smiling, she follows me, pushing her cart. There’s a cheerful bounce to her step. She looks back and waves at the little girl.
In the unshadowed world of the supermarket, I can pretend that time has paused, and that I’ll always come to help her buy fruit and cheese. I’m grateful that she had a moment of joy in responding to the loveliness and freshness of the child.
The smooth light of the supermarket soothes me. I still want her to be my mother, and here, outside of time, that feels like the truth. But, in daylight, where the sun throws shadows, I feel her retreating from this world.
And I wonder if there will be a time when I’ll need someone to take me to the supermarket. That’s a thought lying quietly in those shadows.
