Eileen G’Sell

Safeway

    One good thing is there were roses everywhere. Even in October. She passed them everyday when strolling up the sidewalk. When Janie was little and nursing, they gave her Evening Primrose Oil to help get rid of the cysts. What cysts? She wanted to know. There were no cysts, she said. She didn’t take the medicine long. They were lovely though, those bottled capsules. Glowing gold mini-eggs that were almost sweet. Now Janie leaves the truffles on the icebox for days. They’re not as good as they once were; they’re dry and getting old. We eat too many sweets already, she says, but there were no sweets in the flat. There were biscuits and bagged granola, but Janie never touched them, and Ian was really the only one who bothered with them at all.
    The label for the Primrose was orange and lavender, and the pastel bloom was way too modernistic. It wasn’t real medicine. It was plants. A remedy. From nurses with names like Annie, who were almost always blonde. The bloom was almost identical, though, to the ones on the Nordstrom bottles she’d pushed for years. She was good at it, selling, but the artistic part as well. One day a girl came in with vicious blemishes, spreading angrily from her temples to the tilt of her chin. She was bright and young with a charming face, and when finished her scars were barely visible. The girl left with a new life. She couldn’t have been eighteen. When Janie was that age she didn’t like cosmetics, wasn’t aware of how they contoured her roundish face and made her young skin glow like a glass of milk in the fridge. Said that make-up was ridiculous and made her look like a clown. But Janie never said these things, just thought them, really. Her daughter said little of anything averse. It was all left to imaginative talent.
    In any case, Janie wore cosmetics now. Prudish little packages from the Boots nude collection. A brighter shade doesn’t look good on me, she said. Not like it does on you. The roses to the left are a clear-cut crimson, the only shade worth wearing this year. Red lips by the wrinkles were supposed to be risky, as though after age fifty it was beige or sudden death. She had surrendered. No, she hadn’t. She had accepted, and that would mean complaisance with what you hate. Only three visits a year to keep out the grays. No granny twist here; she wasn’t that old.
    She was old. She was old and surrendering. But not so bad, really, on certain occasions. Some women her age had whiskers, and in embarrassing places. Others had ridiculous amounts of cellulite or were just plain fat to start. In Britain everyone was thinner though, or smaller-boned, or both. Just look at those girls strolling by in wide belts; they couldn’t be a size our. Janie lost a lot of weight, and wouldn’t touch the truffles, but that was because she was saving them for a special time. But her mother was getting old and so all time should be special. She would stop buying them for Janie and get them for Ian instead. He appreciated them; he enjoyed them. He always said he did. Anyway, he wouldn’t get fat as easily because he was a man, and they had lower body fat percentages. He was also British, so that could help.


    “Janie, I want to know what you’re doing exactly. I’m interested. Don’t think I’m too old to appreciate these things. Since I’m not working, that’s all I do.” They were sitting having dinner with the lovely new tablecloth. She had given them candles to light in the evening, but as always the wicks were white and dry.
    “Well mom, currently, there’s this Blake exhibition, at the Tate. I’m exploring the way they’ve presented his life and his philosophy, and comparing it to earlier receptions he’s received.” She was wearing a gray sweater. She always was.
    “I’ve read Blake. Rebellious, right? I’m almost sure that I liked him.”
    “Well, not always as rebellious as many presume. Actually, that’s what I’m exploring.”
    “Exploring. Sounds very exotic. You’ve read Blake, haven’t you Ian. Surely they make you. In grade school even.” Ian used to have shaggy hair, but now it was trimmed to the top of his neck. It looked so much better that way. And Janie didn’t have to tell him to do it.
    “Yes,” Ian was wearing the boring shirt. “But not in primary. My favorite was that Defence of Poetry. Fascinating stuff.”
    “Actually, honey . . ..” Janie’s lipstick matched his top.
    “That was Shelley, not Blake. We both say it’s Shelley.” His hair really looked so much better though.
    “Oh it was Shelley, Lorna. I’m terribly embarrassed.” He smiled attractively. “If you’ll two excuse me, I think I’ll just do some washing up.” He was always leaving like that, to visit the sink.
    “And it’s your country, isn’t it? You have to be educated. Ian, prepare for my daughter to expand your mind.” Ian was quiet and gentle-figured and she wondered if he listened to anyone at all. “I bought some truffles for you yesterday that I think you should try. They’re on the counter. By the toastie thing.”
    “Mom, these gifts are way too generous.” Those thin dry lips just needed a liner. “We still have the other boxes on the refrigerator.”
    “Too generous? How? They’re how I say thanks.” They would have some after dinner.
    “Then maybe a tad extravagant? They probably cost the same or more as what’s in the freezer.”
    “If you would eat them, they wouldn’t be extravagant.” She was skinnier now than she was in eighth grade. “I’d eat them myself, but I got them for you. Anyway, better than this take-out nonsense.”
    “Mom,” Janie’s posture was suddenly elegant. “The Tajas are friends of ours. They rely on the business of local residents.” Ian had poured the carry-out onto real plates from the cartons. Maybe so his pattern of washing up could continue undisturbed.
    “Have you noticed, Janie, how you spend your money?” The real plates were brown and seventies looking. “Speaking of chocolate and freezer space. I mean, not that this whatever-it-is isn’t delicious.” It was. “But have you noticed that more money goes to dinners than to rent? I mean, how can you possibly expect a bigger apartment when your income flows directly to the shop below it?”
    “Lorna, our income goes a lot of places. Thank you for the chocolate.” Ian placed the box between the two yellow candles and returned to his business at the sink.
    “But mom, have I told you how expensive it is living here? I mean, here, in this flat?” She motioned to the wall like they were at the museum.
    “If you want me to cook, I can buy a cookbook. If you want me to pay rent, I am certainly capable . . ..”
    “No. No rent. This was supposed to be a gift.” Janie’s eyebrows were over-tweezed; there was nothing unattractive about prominent features.
    “As were the truffles, honey. As were they.” They were gleaming on the table, beside the tall and unlit candles. They were rich and expensive, and waiting, waiting.


    It was best to be a trim size, but you really had to watch out. Without twelve percent body fat, women couldn’t bear children. Men needed less, for obvious reasons. But too much on either was unattractive and people in Britain seemed to realize this. They also had fewer children and that couldn’t just be coincidence. Everything happens for a reason, even if it’s a stupid one. In an hour it would rain and the roses would glisten. The fat clouds would come rolling in and spoil a perfectly lovely afternoon. But by King Street it could be sunny, accordingly. Brilliant blues from a cloudless skyline. But mostly white clouds and light rain. She missed the clarity of the Bay Area. A storm there was really a storm, not this pussy-footing sprinkle silliness. And the buildings were newer, and all kinds of ethnics. But where were the Asians in this town? Oh yes, they were friends of local residents. But the chocolate here was darker. And the milk in the coffee shop never skimmed. And smoking was permitted at so many places. Yes, it was a good place to stay a little longer.
    For a while. Until she was feeling better. Or until Janie got ballsy and kicked her out. But she was feeling better, and the world would know it. Her paintings were doing well back home and her agent was into Donna Karan. So she couldn’t be that old, really. She had sent two completed watercolors to Janie in June. An engagement present. But they weren’t getting married. An encouragement present. These things required it. A home with artwork seemed so much more permanent. Less tense with the uncertainty of transient decor. What was she talking about? She knew nothing of households. She knew nothing of clothes pins, lawns, or red tricycles. They had lived by a highway, and she was all for safety. They had moved from city to town to city again. The daughter and the cosmetics peddler, tracking women with whom they had nothing in common. Then the daughter replaced her sandals with sweaters and the mother exchanged her blusher for paint. Certainly they shared a world in common: two people, one artist, one critic, one fate. But Janie never liked her paintings; she could tell, she could always tell. So what if the work cut a comfortable living; that was all it contributed to anyone’s life. Janie was surely thinking this always, though she’d never ever admit to it. A good liner would make her thin lips plumper, but she’d never apply this to good use. And she wouldn’t allow smoke in the apartment, the flat, whatever they claimed the small rooms to be. Even with it empty, which was almost always. But complaints like that are petty, unnecessary. She could smoke in the cafe; they allowed this here. Janie would ask her why she smoked and she would ask why keep asking? Because I enjoy it, she’d say, after that, while Janie impassively glanced at the menu. Just like the truffles, when you thought of it really, with its rich fatty darkness coiled inside. Better one good truffle than a lifetime of Hersheys. They weren’t creamy in any variety. Smoking in the city, she felt safe.
    For a while until she’s in the wrong place. But not today; there was that map in her pocket. Passing prim gardens and lolling old men, tall-socked school girls in pink-hooded jackets. What could they be thinking when she strolled by, her new blue scarf in the air behind her? She was getting poetic. She really was. A woman’s story is hard to tell, as it is most often a poem. That was from where? Wait, she imagined it. No, it was real as the dogs ahead. They pass and seem to nod from their leashes. Pets and people were more civil here. Less opinionated about the people they looked up to.


    “Ian, you’re of the scientific type. Explain to me the flowers in the middle of autumn.” Freckles spotted his forearms from his watch band to his elbows.
    “The flowers? What type? I don’t really know botany.” A flush like rosacea across his cheeks.
    “Oh, you know. The roses. They are everywhere.” He had to have seen them while riding to work.
    “October’s peak season, if I’m not mistaken.” He probably was, like with Percy Shelley.
    “That surprises me. Janie, will it rain again this week? The wind tore my umbrella into shreds last week.” Another gray cardigan, over black pleated slacks.
    “Well, I really can’t say because it changes so quickly.” She looked up so quietly, her hands in her sleeves. “You’ll see when it happens.”
    “I usually do. See when things happen. Like I went out today and saw all the roses.”
    “What did you do again? You were gone when I called home.”
    She was always gone. “I stroll around. I tour. Is there more of this in the fridge?” They had a real knack for hiding things behind the cream and the flavored water. “I stroll. I mean, go from place to place. Museums, cafes, the salon.” Ian went to fetch some more Merlot.
    “The salon?” Janie did know a good wine.
    “Well, you know what I always say. Time on the hands puts age on the face.” She used that one with emollients in Portland. “Best to keep busy, no matter what you’re wasting time on.”
    “But I worry about you Mom.” She did, unreasonably. “You’re almost busier than I am, it seems. You’ve gotten a refill of your prescription right?”
    She hadn’t; she would not. “Oh I still have some left from home dear.” Where were her cigarettes? In her purse, her coat? “Janie, would it be okay if I had a cigarette by the window? After dinner, I mean, of course.” The smoke would float right out the window and no one would know the wiser.
    “Actually, no. Ian’s an asthmatic. Didn’t I tell you before?” The smoke would float right out the window and even Ian wouldn’t know.
    “He has health problems? No, I don’t remember that.”
    “Well, it’s not really a problem so long as we take care of it properly.” He returned from the fridge with the wine and some smelly cheddar. The brownish saucers sat oddly below.
    “Doesn’t sound like it, since I’ve never noticed it.” Couldn’t be too awful with this ventilation. We take care of it? What did that mean exactly? “I’ll smoke outside then. Preferably when it’s not raining.” The window would’ve been fine.
    “Supposed to start up again this evening.” Ian rose and turned towards the sink. His trousers were stylish but a bit too loose. The smelly cheese was still on the table, not as good as it was supposed to be. It was dreadfully old; Janie stared at it silently.


    Only thirty minutes left until the candy at Thornton’s, and then forty-five more before she’d make it back. As always the sky turned dark by four, and she’d have to hustle before it was unsafe. But people here are different; Janie had told her. People are never different. They are all the same. Just look at how people get surprised at dinners. All worked up over a little shock. But it wasn’t a shock; it was just the truth. Just the truth and she would tell it. She had nothing to hide, so why pretend? How else to get things moving along, with the everyday sameness of carry out and dishes. Ian with his glasses on, late for dinner, with a face like he was ten and stepped into the ladies room. Janie making excuses and rearranging her noodles. A poster of Gauguin that costs less than the framing. A Cindy Sherman print magnetized to the fridge. The native in the painting had thick brown calves. She would make it up the upcoming hill because she was used to it, and in trim shape. The Taja father wants to know where she’s going, the reason she’s out in the first place. She had a right to go out and about and she would go right out when Janie left. She had a right to walk and she’d walk the right way and not even bother with her pocket a second. What a terrible way to live, with a veil, to cover up such a charming face. You can’t even tell the way she smiles, just the color of her eyes. Janie’s eyes were oyster blue. When she was a baby; they had later transformed. In Ian’s new glasses he looked almost serious. They were serious, and they would soon get married.
    And Janie would not wear a flouncy dress. Some girls wear dresses so completely ridiculous it’s no wonder their grooms grow wandering eyes. Vogue November has a dress on the cover; not a wedding dress but white, and completely unflouncy. American Teen for four pounds only; the girl on the cover with a magenta smile. An article inside so that a third of all readers can learn about their eating disorder. Disordered eating is really a new disease. The Federation of Health hasn’t said so, yet, but boy it will happen, and we’ll see when it does. Drugs for the masses, like Ritalin for boys. Teens in prom dresses with lavender fringe. Nothing is curable unless it’s a disease. Cockamamie concepts of disordered anything. These things will get you money; they will not get you respect.


    “Janie, where’d you put the ketchup?” If they even had some. Might take up too much space.
    “There might be some in the cupboard, Mom. Ian, do we have any left?” She gestured to the cupboard like it was in another room.
    “Where’d you get the new sweater?” She wasn’t wearing gray.
    “Oh, this? This was a birthday present. I told Ian I wanted one before it got too cold.” It was likely on clearance last April or May, but it wasn’t gray and was almost tight-fitting.
    “Janie had said she wanted that jumper and I figured it was practical, though maybe a bit unromantic.” Ian put on his glasses like the sweater was readable. “It was a fine choice, don’t you think? I think there might be some mustard left in the refrigerator.”
    “It was a good choice.” So much for condiments. But the sweater was fine; it was different. And red. “I thought you wore contacts.”
    “Well I do, in the daytime.” He should in the nighttime; his eyes were so blue.
    “Janie, you still wear contacts?” Of course, why wouldn’t she?
    “Yes, the soft kind.” Not those colored fakies.
    “I’ve never had to wear glasses. Did you know that Ian?” Why should he care? He was poking his noodles which were already cold.
    “No I didn’t know that Lorna. You’re lucky indeed.”
    “And at my age, I know. It’s completely ridiculous.” It was. “Even the reading kind I don’t even need. But then I’ve never had to really study. I’m sure Janie’s told you that.”
    “No, she hasn’t.” Of course she had. “You are lucky indeed.”
    “Mom, you studied painting.” Silliness. That didn’t count. Why were they still talking about this? It was her fault of course, as it most always was.
    “Silliness. That doesn’t count. There’s no need to exaggerate, dear.”
    “But she did, Ian. She was adamant.” Janie divided her noodles into off-white piles, still smiling with those lips as she stared at the plate. “You should have seen her early work. And now?” Now what? Indeed.
    “I understand some of your works are quite well-known.” Well-known among housewives with runny-nosed kids.
    “As though anybody really sees them.” Anybody but the secretaries paid to worry about them.
    “Don’t undervalue your ability, Mom. Thousands, maybe millions, have seen that one watercolor.”
    “Janie, you overestimate your ability to pretend. You’ll know what I mean. Someday.” She would.
    “Mom, we’re not pretending. A lot of people see it.” A lot of people like cereal too, and no one accredits the box color. Janie rose slowly from across the table and Ian looked over with school-boy eyes.
    “Something wrong, Janie?” Something was off.
    “I’m just a little tired I think. The sofa’s been calling my name all dinner.” From nowhere appeared that damn gray sweater.
    “You cold? You two should turn up the heat.”
    “I’m just trying to get cozy.” She settled on the loveseat, hiding her lap with an Afghan throw. “You want to watch Antonia? Best foreign film a few years back.”
    “You’d be much cozier if Ian kept you warm.” Ian’s hair looked so much better. And Janie didn’t have to tell him to do it. “He bought that little sweater and you’ve got to know why.” At least he might remove those glasses. “I think I’ll visit the Taja’s and you two can be alone.” No one noticed the box for facial tissue, but her agent assured her that that wasn’t so. You could find it, if you wanted to, the title on the bottom. “Many-colored flowers under frail sunshine.” How many kids did the Taja’s have? It was cold season and her new design was due to be out any time.


    Soon the fat clouds would spoil a perfectly good evening. Ian would look puzzled and study astronomy. Nothing was open late so they would all watch a video, and as always Janie’d add on another gray sweater. If it’s cold, turn up the heat, she’d say. But I’m not cold, Mom, I’m just getting cozy. King Street approaching, with a runaway on the bench. So many runaways and as always it would rain. But the chocolate here was better. Who needed drugs when you had calories?
    This time she would buy something different. White instead of dark, and then she’d go home. Buy a pack of ten cigarettes at extortionist prices, and say hi to the Taja’s about to close up. As always they would say good evening as she left, and she’d say goodnight and be afraid of how it sounded. Their youngest would turn his head toward the window and smile like she read to him every night. His eyes were a deep, expectant umber. They definitely hadn’t changed and they never would. You could stare at children like that and they would stare back, and somehow, for a second, you were almost equals.


    “When’s Ian getting home? Is he out late often?” Janie with her fork and charcoal vest. A chicken pock scar behind blousy bangs.
    “Oh, he’s just out with some friends.” What friends? Why didn’t Janie go out with friends?
    “Why don’t you go out with your friends?” Go to the salon, get those bangs trimmed a bit.
    “I’m too tired to go out with anyone tonight. Since this morning I’ve been feeling kind of woozie, like I’m coming down with the flu or something. Besides, Ian needs his freedom. He never gets to see his friends anymore.”
    “Freedom’s overrated for men, underrated for women. And there’s a reason for that.” There was.
    “But it’s not like we’re married or anything, mom. Or getting married, even. I don’t want you to think anything.”
    “Of course not. Think what?” Watercolor. “I make it a point to think as little as absolutely possible. Of course, I fail miserably, seven days a week.” All Janie really needed was a new lip liner. Raisin color maybe. Or cinnamon. “Let’s break into those truffles for dessert, Janie. You have to try the new French Dreams.”
    “Oh Mom, I’ll be okay. Let’s save those for a special time.”
    “As you were saying dear. As you said.” She would buy another new tablecloth, one white and eyelet with tasseled corners. She and Janie and Ian and seven red boxes. The Taja’s could come, if they wanted to, and it would be a real event.


    White was the best choice, and she was making remarkable time. It wasn’t even three-thirty and she was half way finished. She was going too fast though, and spilt coffee on her muffler. She tried to dab it off while holding the cup, but like a clumsy adolescent dropped it all to the ground. She would go to the cleaners tomorrow afternoon. The owners were from Pakistan and didn’t wear belts. Three bitter men younger than she was but old enough to know the scoop. They didn’t have any children, and only one had a wife. Maybe they were brothers. Running away from home together. Janie was only twenty-two when she got up and left. Sending home assortments of special cheeses. The kind you see in catalogs and nobody ever buys. Catalogs were a part of aging gracefully. Settling in with a mug of Ensure and your ballerina shoes by your walker. Grow old gracefully and you’ll never make good time. Belts were ridiculously in this season and everyone seemed to be wearing one.
    Her hair would be soaked by the time she was home. She forgot about the umbrella in her coming-home haste. The shopping mall was nine blocks away, and she’d be drenched and pathetic just trying to get there. The runaways would see her and be empathetic. Everyone needs a good umbrella, even if they own barely anything. Sometimes she gave them a toffee bar, because everyone deserves a little enjoyment. They were always so surprised; not at the giving, but at the gift. If you’re diabetic, I’ll take it back. Her jokes made completely no sense. But they were certainly happy, overjoyed even, and though her hair would be frizzy, it would sparkle like an ice-rink. The Taja kid wasn’t there to greet her, but with an encouraging entrance, she could almost greet herself.
    “I’m home!” They were already seated at the table. Janie looked tired. “So how was your day?”
    “Well, mom, it was fine. We were wondering when you’d get here.” She had wrinkles already, spreading from her eyelids.
    “And how was your day, Ian?” He wore his hazel cardigan.
    “Eventful.” He left two buttons unfastened, at the top and bottom.
    “My day was impeccable.” Her hair was a mess. “I walked into town and got a surprise! We’ve never had these kind before.” She tossed the ivory box toward the table, gracefully.
    “But mom, we still have the others to worry about.” As always that gesture like they were light years away.
    “Others to worry about? Just what do you mean?” She sat down and pushed the box toward the center. “I met three Paki refugees today, and I worried about them. Almost as bad as the runaways.” They would eat these damn things if it took until Lent.
    “Mom, don’t be facetious. You’re always so dramatic.” Ian would try some. She’d let him go first.
    “Dramatic? In what way?” Chivalry wasn’t dead, it was only in transition.
    “Let’s just eat, okay? Can we not just eat?” A pause, a hush, a swallow of milk. Janie’s bangs pulled back from her forehead,
    “I met these Paki refugees today, and they were almost as bad as the runaways. Ian, they’re everywhere. You’re of the analytical type, just what do you propose?” And please, keep those glasses in their case.
    “I’m afraid I can’t catch what you mean, Lorna. Who’s everywhere?” He knew.
    “The Pakis, the runaways. Everyone’s the same. They had a lovely terrier dog though, and I was almost jealous.” The sparkling box before them was useless. “Why don’t we get a dog?”
    “Mom....” Her face was so very tired.
    “Lorna....” His cardigan matched her eyes.
    “We’re having a baby.” The truffles were gone and the candles were lit and the room grew larger, riskier.


    When Janie was little and nursing she had a rash around her mouth. The la Leche girls said it was a food allergy, don’t worry, you can fix it. Just adjust your diet one food at a time. Janie was allergic to cheeses apparently and that was why it stopped when it did. Cockamamie concept; chicken in peach yogurt. But Janie was anemic, or at least that’s what the doctor suggested. You’d never believe how much iron chicken livers have. But she wouldn’t eat it, and instead spit it on her bib. Quiet and intractable, she shut her mouth and there was no reasonable way to make it open. Babies can’t taste food; they only taste textures. Chicken livers in yogurt was a good idea for exactly this reason. There was a reason for everything and with kids you had to find it. Even in the dark, with nothing open, you had to hunt your way down, to a place with lights. White instead of dark was a good idea and those Evening Rose Pills were a nice suggestion. She’d give the Taja boy a bedtime book, the one with the Runaway Bunny. He’d learn the language soon enough. He could read the title on the Kleenex box. It was cold season and the rain was crueler than ever. The wind was obnoxious; where was her scarf? Oh yes, on the sidewalk of local residents. She was getting poetic; she really was, but the rose-bordered sidewalks were barely visible. Janie didn’t understand the weather, asking Ian as always. Ian with advice as useless as Ritalin. Janie had wrinkles, was growing old gracefully, when she was barely turning twenty-eight years old. And she wasn’t married. They weren’t getting married. Watercolors or not. This way she can’t taste the livers; she can’t; she’s only a baby. I’ll give this girl iron anyway that I can. This kid will be strong, I don’t care who’s anemic. No one could say she had no food in the house. She had plenty, and most of it was baby food. Those kids don’t know how flavor conflicts, their taste palates aren’t developed. I’ll give this girl strength anyway I see possible. It depended on the truffles, it depended on texture. Ian’s eyes matched the Rice Krispie box and he had excellent taste in foreign films. He knew the city; he lived there all his life. He would find her and Janie and take them home. They’d learn the language soon enough.


    “What are you doing Mom?” She was in the yogurt section, filling her trolley with disposable cups. Her smile was amazingly cheery, as though they had arranged to meet there earlier that morning.
     “Where’s Ian?” Her hair was a mass of corkscrew curls and her lashes were dark with freezing rain. She was asking about Ian?
    “Ian’s at home. Waiting for you. What are you doing here?” She’d left and said she was going to the cleaners. But the cleaners had closed and the hours passed. Safeway was the only place open.
    “Janie, when you were little, I put chicken livers in your yogurt. Did I ever tell you that?” She hadn’t.
    “Mom, this is crazy. It’s almost eleven. Ian and I were calling everywhere. You have no idea how much we worried.” Her mother wouldn’t care even if she had known. In her tall leather boots and American laugh, she would go and make a scene. She would ramble and question obstinately, with no reasonable way to make her leave.
    “Worried about what? That damn candy? You were.” She pointed an angry finger, then steadied her voice, studying the contents of her cart. “They have so much yogurt here I can barely believe it. Why haven’t we gone here before, Janie?”
    “Mom, let’s go home. Can we not just go home? It’s almost eleven and this is crazy.” She would drag her out of here if she had to. “Is this about the baby? Are you that upset?”
    She smoothed her hair back and stepped slowly forward, abandoning the trolley. “When you were a baby you could have gotten sick, but I kept you going with this stuff.” She gestured toward the shelves with her rain-heavy sleeve, her left hand clutching a plastic carton. “I made sure we got the full-fat kind. None of that non-fat silliness. You were a baby and so you needed it. Naturally, I picked the healthy kind for me, because I was just getting back into shape.”
    This was just stupid. It was almost eleven. “Mom let’s go home. You can tell me these stories at home.”
    “Home? What home? We have no home.” The smell of wet wool traveled past her. It was the dairy section; it must have been freezing.
    “Mom, we do have a home. And we’re going back there.” Her mother’s red lipstick was bleeding at the edges. “Don’t you want to take off that coat? Your coat is wet, mom. I can smell it.”
    She examined the coat and shook her head, then placed the carton back on the shelf. “It’s wet? I smell? Is that what you said?”
    “Mom, it’s raining. You left without telling us when you were coming back.” She was irresponsible. She lied. She was beautiful by the yogurt. “Mom, we really missed you. We want you to come back.”
    “It is wet, isn’t it?” She smiled at her sleeve. “I bet I smell like a wet sheep. A filthy farm-type animal.” Her smile evaporated and she walked past Janie, motioning forward that they should leave. With her untamed hair and large green eyes, there was an air of haphazard glamour about her that startled Janie as she ran to catch up.
    “I’m glad we’re going home, Mom. We’ll dig into those truffles.”
    “Oh well, not me. I’m getting old. I think you and Ian should feed them to each other.” She winked and they walked, together toward the registers, past the produce and the seafood and the frozen mince pies. “I bet everyone heard us.” They probably had. “I bet everybody thinks we have issues.”
    “We do have issues Mom. You’re cracking me up.” Her mother arabesqued when they reached the exit and leapt from one foot toward the sliding doors.
    “Janie, you look better than ever. I never would have thought you were pregnant.” She turned and laughed and then walked outside. “I love that lavender sweater you always wear. And your face is just glowing. Like milk in the fridge.” Her favorite comparison since they bought a real refrigerator when she was just six. A door within a door, she would say, like it was magic. And it was when you were six, or thirty and her mother.
    “You look good too, Mom. It must be the lighting.” They were standing by the stop light and her mother looked thirty-five.
    “Speak for yourself, sweetie. I always look this good.” She twirled around a puddle and it wasn’t raining anymore. “But the light’s going to change really fast, kiddo. Enjoy it while you last.” She looked up at the light across the crosswalk and removed a cigarette from her left coat pocket. When the red light ahead was replaced by green, her mother took her hand then quickly returned it.