The grand opening banner was still hanging over the grocery store’s automatic doors, which opened accordion style into a bakery. From there, Joanna could see a separate room for cheese, a whole aisle of salad dressings, and a large sign in the back that shouted ORGANIC, although she wasn’t sure what was organic. An older, stylishly thin woman stood at a table, handing out mini tomato-and-mozzarella tarts. “The recipe is in my book,” she crowed at Joanna as she passed, gesturing to a glossy cookbook at her side.
Joanna did a lap of the place, marveling at how many types of barley there were to choose from, ogling the flowers in the extensive plant nursery tucked away in the corner of the store, perusing the pottery, handblown glass, and folk-art weather vanes that were displayed near the fruits and vegetables. She sampled everything: all the cheese on toothpicks, little slices of right-out-of-the-rotisserie-oven rosemary chicken, crackers accompanied by thimble-size dipping cups of olive oil. On her second lap, she began to notice something. The aisles were clogged with women in pairs, their carts side by side, and baskets swinging on their arms. Women her age, in yoga pants and Tshirts, laughing together. Women Sylvie’s age, cluttered at the wait-staffed café tables, picking at Cobb salads. Clusters of women at the bakery counter, clucking at the cheesecake and the chocolate-chunk muffins and the lemon-mousse tartlets. There were too many baby carriages to count.
Suddenly, Joanna felt overtly singular. She began to make a game of it, finding someone like her, someone who was simply here for the utilitarian purpose of shopping for food, not to hang out. No luck. Was there an unwritten subtext about La Marquette, like the old adage about gay men and highway rest stops? She pushed her hair out of her eyes, pretending to concentrate on her list. How did these women know one another? How did one make friends here? She’d had a growing snowball of friends in the city, gathering them as she rolled, but now it felt impossible to even talk to anyone. She looked down at her unpolished fingernails, her ripped jeans, and Charles’s parka that she’d plucked out of the closet because it was the only other coat besides his good work trench that had been unpacked. She should have showered, put on makeup, blow-dried her hair, and ironed her clothes.
“Help you?”
She realized she was standing in front of the meat counter. A kind-eyed older man with ham-hock biceps and a droopy mustache gave her a pitying glance. Why aren’t you with anyone?
She perused the meats, trying to seem occupied. But then, desperate to talk to someone, she asked him what he thought was good today. “Cornish game hens,” he suggested. She nodded, asking if he could wrap up two. She’d made them once before and they’d turned out all right. As the butcher ripped off a section of paper, he said, “You ever have lamb? This shipment we got in is great. From a local farm.” And so Joanna said he could wrap up some lamb for her, too. She went for two steaks as well, some hamburger patties—she could freeze it all, she figured—and was even considering ordering a whole goose before her phone rang. It was her mother. Joanna gave the butcher an apologetic smile and picked up her phone.
“So have you heard?” Catherine said. No hello.
“Heard … ?”
“Heard about me, of course.”
Joanna walked up the condiments aisle. “No …”
Catherine exhaled and paused dramatically. “I’m going into the hospital on Friday.”
“For what?”
“I thought they might have called you. I thought they called emergency contacts for things like this.”
Joanna leaned on her cart. “Why are you going to the hospital?”
“Oh, honey. It’s too depressing to talk about, really.” Her voice was frail.
“Mom …”
Catherine swallowed hard. “Treacher found a lump in my breast. I couldn’t feel it, but who knows. They’re going to start with a biopsy. I’m sure it’s stage three. They’re going to have to do a mastectomy.”
“Oh,” Joanna breathed out.
“I can feel the cancer growing,” Catherine continued. “It’s probably in my lungs. Yesterday I woke up with such a headache, and I just know it’s in my brain. We probably don’t have much time left. There are so many things I need to tell you before I go.”