Is it weird that a grocery store can feel more like home than the place I actually live? That’s how I feel about Publix. With its shimmering brightness and ultra-friendly employees, it feels like they’ve captured the sun and held it inside just for me. The ah feeling I long for at home only happens when the automatic doors slide open here, where everything is fresh, modern, friendly, well-stocked, and, most importantly, in proper working order.
Two years ago, I first pulled into this parking lot during its grand opening when a physically strenuous visit with her rheumatologist left Mom in bed, aching more than usual, and me scrambling for cheering-up supplies. A muggy spring rain had made everything gray and annoying, but that didn’t matter here. Traversing the wide, gleaming aisles, I didn’t get in anyone’s way, nor did they get into mine as my cart filled with baking supplies and Mom-comforts. In line, the cashier asked what I planned on making—I love to talk baking. The bagger insisted on carrying my single paper bag out for me and held an oversized lime green umbrella for us as we walked to my car. There, she handed me a coupon for free ice cream on my next visit before wishing me an amazing day. Free ice cream? Who does that? Since my social interactions had been mostly limited to doctors and nurses and were rarely positive, being there felt like a spa day, especially for an exhausted caregiver with zero time for a real one. I’ve loved Publix ever since.
Falling in love is all about the little things. Well, at least when it comes to grocery stores. And this one has an entire aisle dedicated to alcohol.
Today, I’m on another supply run. My brother’s plane has just left the airport, spiriting him back to California after a prolonged trip that began fourteen days ago when our mom died, and tonight’s the first I’ll spend alone in my crumbling family home. Why do things always feel worse at night? Supplies will help.
Well, not really “supplies,” but wine. I need wine.
I ignore pricy bottles for something more budget-friendly. It’s a classy move, anyway—buying wine in bulk. So what if it’s boxed wine? It’s practical and easy to open. And it’s best to bypass a corkscrew search in that house—the place with everything you need if only you could find it… and it’s not broken… and it’s safe to use… and I’m tired just thinking about it.
Anxiety rising over going home, I close my eyes and inhale the clean air. Then, I drop a merlot and chardonnay into my shopping-for-one cart. That should do it. It doesn’t scream desperation or loneliness. It says I’m having a party.
A nice party.
A wine party.
Not that anyone cares. Besides, after three years of a stalled life, I’m all about catching up on things I’ve missed—I have a list. Tasks take on more importance when they’re on a list. And when it’s a long one filled with overwhelming must-dos for restarting said stalled life, it’s smart to begin with easy items first. Get properly drunk.
Another cleansing breath pushes me toward the dairy section. Cheese goes with wine, right? An extra-large can of Cheez-Whiz clangs into my cart. Again, practical and easy. That’s another thing I haven’t had in forever—junk food. For far too long, it’s been a low-sodium, low-fat, and low-flavor rotation of chicken or fish with vegetables. My taste buds need stimulation to shock them alive again like Dr. Frankenstein reanimating dead cells with electricity. Cheez-Whiz coated Flaming Hot Cheetos should work… must hit the chip aisle. Junk food ranks high in my revised priorities.
So does personal care. The burning wood stove odor embedded in my hair forces a bothered sigh. Since the wood stove is that house’s only heat source, the campfire smell can’t be helped. But maybe it could be masked with the right body spray, like farts under a blanket. Lena! Don’t be gross! My mother’s voice skips through my thoughts. I slump and detour down the health and beauty aisle. Don’t be a sad sack.
I’m not sad. I’ve barely cried in weeks. I pass by the Visine, wondering if eyes can get so clogged with dust and soot they can’t produce tears anymore. That’s probably it—that and icy determination. I hate crying. Even more, I hate having witnesses. Who needs rubberneckers for her emotional trauma? Not me! This is my mess. I’ll deal with it. Nothing to see here. Being alone frees me from that, too.
The body sprays pull me into a hypnotic stupor. What mixes well with campfire? Cucumber Basil, Pineapple Mango, Strawberry Cheesecake. Do they have a marshmallow scent? Grabbing the Coconut Rum Cake, I read the label, hoping it’ll advertise a 100% Odor-Masking Guarantee.
“Help you find anything, ma’am?”
“Shit!” My expletive accompanies a cat-like jump at the voice.
A male voice.
Talking to me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” The dazzling smile of a neatly buttoned-up Publix employee meets my dumbfounded shock, which is doubled because he’s yummy-good-looking. His skin is like milk chocolate—and yes, I know it’s wrong to describe people in food terms, but is it still offensive if I genuinely want to taste him? And if that’s wrong, how come dousing women with food smells is still appropriate?
I return the Coconut Rum Cake to the shelf. A weak hand wave suffices for a response when words stick to my throat, afraid to come out. God, what’s wrong with me?
“Having a good day so far?” His buttery baritone sends a warm tingle along my spine, forcing me to straighten my back.
I manage a raspy, “It’s not bad, thanks.” His eyes land on my bare ring finger before bouncing up again. Is he checking me out? The innate mechanisms in place to decipher such things grind with rust and malfunction. No, he’s just being nice. Maybe he’s a hologram, and I’m blind-testing a new customer service feature. Or perhaps the Publix gods zeroed in on the lonely woman in aisle eight and sent her what she really needs—a meet-cute. Or at least normal human interaction that doesn’t involve anything medical, funeral, or family related.
“Glad to hear it.” His warm brown eyes stay laser-focused on mine like it’s part of their training—OSHA guidelines, cash register operations, and making single thirty-somethings feel seen again. “Is there anything I can help you find today?”
Answers stream my thoughts, but none I can say. A decent place to live. Days that are better than not bad. Someone to talk to. Ugh, that’s so pathetic. Even worse, I gawk like he’s asked me to solve for X in a complicated equation. Is this what happens to thirty-somethings after a long hiatus? X must be the last time I had sex. God, how long has it been?
Unable to math out the answer, I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. Thanks.”
He points to his lime green name tag. “I’m Sam. I’ll be at customer service should any needs arise.”
“Ms. Lena Buckley,” over the loudspeaker makes me jump. Again. “Please return to the pharmacy.”
I whip my cart around, nearly losing the Cheez-Whiz and cutting off Mr. Publix McDreamy while I rush away. Norman—pharmacist and old high school friend—holds up the bag of unused pills I handed him twenty minutes ago and waves me toward the storefront.
“Giving me that refund after all?” I’m only teasing. Big Pharma doesn’t do take-backs, even if something doesn’t work or gets you addicted or, hell, kills you. Funny how nothing else I buy keeps such loosie-goosey standards.
Norman smirks anyway. “These pill vials aren’t all filled with pills, Lena.” The bag rattles as he shakes it.
I extract a vial, opening it. Coins spill onto his tidy counter. “What the hell?”
“Clever recycling, I guess. I removed all the medications. It’s good of you to return them properly, especially the pain pills.”
“I lucked out that you’re an official take-back site. Couldn’t flush all these pills down the toilet. Not at that house.”
The bright lights shimmer off his forehead as he nods. “There’s a coin machine in the vestibule. You could exchange them for cash.”
More wine! I scoop up the bag.
“Oh, Lena, wait.” Norman flips through the plastic pouches on his shelves. “You have a prescription for once.” He holds up the baggie and mouths Xanax before asking if I still want it.
“Gosh, no, Norman. A kind ER doc insisted on the prescription, but I’m fine now.” My hands strangle the cart handle recalling just before Mom died when the mother of all panic attacks in the hospital emergency room prompted the doctor to write it.
Norman’s pressed lips curve into a look of pity, making me sink. “Is your brother still in town? Sophie could bring over another casserole. Lucas loves her eggplant parm.”
“Ah, tell her thanks, but it’s just me now. I’d hate to waste Sophie’s good food.”
He eyes my stacked boxes like he might ask about my imaginary wine party, so I wave goodbye and head to the vestibule. Nothing against Sophie. But, with a dozen dishes still crammed in the fridge, I wouldn’t know hers from anyone else’s and don’t want more to throw away.
Besides, I’m into junk food now.
The machine clanks as coins slide into its mysterious underbelly. Last night floats back to me with every metallic clink. Lucas and I sat on the patio. Ever the Eagle Scout, he built a fire in the wobbly fire pit. In equally precarious lawn chairs, we bundled in blankets against the bitter wind—still better than being inside.
His words surround me, the weight of them. “I want you to have it. All of it.”
I said nothing.
“It should go to you,” he went on. “You’ve been here. You’ve taken care of everything.”
I wanted to say, yes, I’ve taken care of everything, and now I’ll have to take care of everything else. But I didn’t. A teacher married to a lawyer and living in Malibu with their amazing daughter, Lucas doesn’t need coins in medicine vials. His ne’er-do-well older sister, though, can’t turn away his charity.
Pouring more coins, I muse over Mom’s creative money-keeping. A strange paranoia prompted it like travelers separating their cash between pockets, bras, and suitcases so hypothetical robbers couldn’t get away with everything. As if after being robbed, the victim might raise her fist in triumph. “Ha! You didn’t check my shoes, loser!” Of course, thieves would prefer the pills to loose change these days—an irony Mom never would’ve gotten.
Thirty bucks richer, I reenter the store near Norman’s perch, where he flashes another coy but sympathetic grin. “Oh, Lena, I almost forgot. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Um, thanks. You, too.” It’s Valentine’s Day?
My pace quickens through the red and pink balloon monstrosities, gaudy flower displays, and awkward men perusing the Hallmark cards. How’d I miss that?
I grunt, imagining the sappy choices on TV tonight. Where was I? Oh, personal care. I beeline for my previous aisle, grateful that GQ-Publix Sam isn’t in it. Though I love Publix, they can’t meet all my needs.
Resuming my deliberations over body spray, I take more deep breaths. Lucas doesn’t understand—why should he?
“I hate leaving you like this,” he said. “I haven’t done nearly as much as I wanted.”
“That’s what I’ve said for three years, and it’s okay. You have a family to get home to,” I said in a slightly defeated tone. Honestly, he did a great deal, and I told him so. He stayed an extra week, meticulously sorting his old things and shipping boxes to California. He saved baby clothes—just in case—baseball cards, Boy Scout memorabilia, and the rainbow wine glasses Mom adored, but he didn’t want the floral china, silver flatware, doilies, or tea sets. “Who bothers with that anymore,” he said, making me inexplicably sad and forcing me to wonder what will happen to Mom’s treasures now.
He tended the fire, stacked wood, and mowed the high grass I’d let go last summer. He forced me to sort her closet, where he salvaged beautiful dresses and suits he dry cleaned and donated to our old high school’s theater department.
Oh, and he left me a list. Lucas loves lists—not fun ones like mine, either. #1 Take unused medications to a proper disposal site. #2 Clean out fridge. #3 Wash Casserole Dishes … and so on, like I’m a child, even though I’m older and have survived tougher things than him. But he means well. He always means well.
“You’re in your head too much again, Lena. I can tell,” he said, mid-listing, “Come with me. Leave this place and Nervous Nellie behind for a few days.”
When he was eight, he thought himself so clever calling me that. He first stole the idea from our parents, who used the term affectionately somehow. Then, when he found Nervous Nellie amongst his Garbage Pail Kids cards, it stuck. The card depicts a freaked-out girl sitting in a dark, cinderblock corner biting her nails down to the bloody bones. Though exaggerated to delight middle schoolers and younger brothers everywhere, my fingers used to bleed from nail-biting all the time—an unconscious anxiety habit kicked thanks to my ex—not a good Valentine’s Day story.
Giving up on body spray, I grunt and refocus. Shaving cream. Razors. God, how long has it been since I shaved my legs? A Venus multi-pack lands in the cart. And my “not bad” day feels worse, somehow.
Maybe I should’ve agreed to the getaway. I’d be on a plane with Lucas right now while he regales me with mixed drink recipes we’ll try at his poolside bar—Frose` Cocktails, Gin Fizzes, and Baileys espresso-tinis—and books I must read, and tapas I must sample… Ah, Malibu.
My cheeks perk in a strange smile. He’s only been gone an hour, and I miss him.
But I’ll trade North Carolina for California soon enough. A pool house apartment, a job at a posh restaurant called Root & Bone, and living with my only remaining family—everything’s set. It’s better to move with nothing hanging over me and no reason to return. Besides, leaving that house empty isn’t wise. It’s an open invitation to whatever wants to come in—robbers, nosey neighbors, critters, poltergeists, anything.
Coins in medicine vials? Really, Mom? Lucas will say. “Aw, she left you a treasure hunt.” And I’ll roll my eyes and say, “No, she left me more work to do.” Haven’t I done enough work?
Inside, I wilt, feeling terribly selfish.
In line, the Redbox selections near the exit divert my attention. That’s another thing I haven’t done in a while… pick a movie just for me. I’ve seen enough TV crime shows and sappy Hallmark originals to last a lifetime. I need bad words. Gratuitous violence. And hot, shirtless musclemen… ones I don’t have to talk to.
“Looks like my kinda party,” a voice interrupts my movie deliberations. A fifty-ish blonde gives me an approving grin, motioning to my cart like we could be besties based on this information alone. Friends—another thing to put on my list.
“Yes, I’m having a party. A wine party. I thought, wine not?”
She leans in with a gracious laugh, bringing a whiff of gardenias and leather. “Don’t look now, but a cutie in customer service has his eyes on you.”
Of course, I look. Publix Poster Boy Sam offers a flirty wave. I gnaw at my bottom lip, feeling a rush of heat—not the good, sexy kind but from nerves. “Um, he’s just my Publix groupie. You can rent them at the service desk.”
“Dang, I gotta get me one of those!”
She laughs, and since she’s a polite, kind woman, I attempt more conversation. Her cart has three bags of birdseed, duct tape, and a frozen pizza. I don’t know what to say about that, so I point to the logo on her hot pink, collared shirt. Pines & Palmettos Equestrian Center. “You’re into horses?”
“I better be. I’ve got a hundred and seven of ‘em.”
“Mom says you can solve all of life’s problems on the back of a horse.”
“Sounds like a smart woman.”
“She is.” My breath hitches, squeezing my throat. “I mean…” My last words to Mom bully their way into my thoughts… Please, don’t leave. Stay with me. Fight through.
It’s like someone’s smashed wine boxes on either side of my head, breaking my anti-tear determination and knocking my dust-clogged tear ducts free. My Publix meltdown tarnishes my bright home away from home and sends me scurrying to hide in the real one.
