Grocery Store Land Mines

By Kim McNealy Sosin

“Oh, come on, this will take only a few minutes,” Anne begs. Joe gets into the car and waits, sullen, but at least willing. She remembers her lesson from the last time she went to the grocery store. Leaving him home alone was no longer feasible, and leaving him in the car alone was downright dangerous.

Anne feels such relief when he follows her in. When he wants to push the cart up and down the aisles, she thinks, “This is going to be fine.”

That relief lasts through the first half of the first aisle. “Here we go, luv, I want grape jelly,”
Joe says as he grabs a colorful 12 oz. jar off the shelf and drops it in the basket of the cart.

“Oh, Joe, you remember that you have diabetes, and we can’t have jelly anymore, don’t you?” Anne starts what she knows will be a string of rejections and hopes it won’t end with both of them angry. Joe is already looking frustrated and confused. She looks at his handsome face, at the nascent gray streaks in his hair, and thinks for the hundredth time that she is losing him just as he is becoming beautiful.

Joe gives her a sly look, hiking his left hand behind his back. “We can have oatmeal cookies because they are good for us. I always eat just one, so that’s okay, luv, right?”

Anne feels tears well at the hopeful look on his face for one oatmeal cookie, tears that go far beyond cookies. “No, Joe, I know we used to eat cookies, but they all have too much sugar.”

Joe looks down, then slowly starts to put the cookies back. Just as he reaches the shelf, he slams them down. Next to it is a jar of bread and butter pickles, which he seems to remember that Anne loves.

“They look delicious, Joe, but we can’t have them in the refrigerator. Just too tempting.”

“But I want them for you,” Joe cajoles, sweetness replacing anger, “but you won’t let me have anything I want,” he ends, illogically and loudly.
Anne says, “Joe, let’s go around the walls to pick out our food. I read that the healthiest food is around the outside of the store.” This way, they’ll be able to avoid the most dangerous aisles and stay around the periphery of fresh meats and veggies. The basket is slowly but successfully filled with Thanksgiving provisions, suffering minimal further problems: turkey, a splurge of a little ham, green beans, a taste of cheese, eggs, coffee, and a few nuts for snacks. Anne hopes to get away with berries, apples, and yogurt for dessert, but Joe finds the pumpkin pies. She softly says, “No, we can’t eat that.” Joe counters in a loud voice that ends in a shout, “What is Thanksgiving without pumpkin pie and whipped cream?” Everyone looks, and then quickly looks away. Anne looks down and hurries toward an empty checkout lane.

Joe proudly tells the cashier what they owe—Anne thinks “How can he do that math and not remember the cashier’s name when he’s known her for years?” Then he pulls out the wrong amount of cash, and Anne quickly assures him to save his money, she will use the credit card machine.

“Let me carry those,” he offers, and grabs most of the bags.

Anne says, “We should put them all in the cart and wheel it to the car.” But it’s too late; he’s out the door and almost there. She watches him drop all the bags on the ground beside the car and search around his pocket for keys, which were taken from him several months ago after he forgot to open the garage door before he backed out. As she runs to help, her unbidden thoughts go to their Grand Canyon driving trip with Joe Jr. before the accident and before the illness. Joe had lost his keys and…“No,” she thinks. “No, I just can’t go there again.”

Some days she thinks she understands what is happening to Joe, but each new disaster catches her completely unprepared. She opens the car door, takes his rough hand, and holds it tight to her lips.