Aisle 13

A write-in from two years ago with an update at the end

~~~~~~

They met at the coffee kiosk inside Bennie's grocery store about a mile from Heather's hotel. Louise had a tall mocha Frappuccino with extra whip cream and a thick slice of pumpkin bread. Floyd ordered black coffee with a scone. Heather took a sip of chai tea and pushed the blueberry muffin aside; her octogenarian mother insisting she start each day with something good. Some things never change.

"You're in for a treat," Louise told her daughter, "Kenny will be playing his guitar at the clinic today. Folk music mostly. Brings back childhood memories of Daddy when he strummed on the front porch and the neighbors would come and Mama would sing and..."

"No!" Floyd barked. "Not today, Kenny comes Wednesdays. And 'treat' is not the word for this." He brushed off the shelf his paunch created. "Damn crumbs!"

"Today is Wednesday, old man, and our baby is in for a treat."

Baby.

Floyd raised caterpillar brows at Heather. "It's a thirty-minute drive. You'd best use the restroom now—I won't be making stops along the way."

Heather opened her mouth to remind him she was sixty-five years old but asked for directions instead. He knew her bladder.

Her mother waved a skinny arm. "The restroom's all the way back, dear, go through the florist section, the flowers smell heavenly! — then turn toward the fruit. You'll see Tara on the way, she's a tall brunette—her son started kindergarten last week. Walk past the lettuce and head to the bakery. The sign's above the air fresheners."

Heather stood. Floyd jabbed an authoritative tall-man finger toward the left. "Aisle 13. Straight shot." Once a colonel always a colonel.

She passed by laundry soap and floor wax and lightbulbs on the straight shot. For the return trip, she took her mother's scenic route; passed the lettuce, waved at Tara in the fruit section, stopped at the florist's, and bought two dozen yellow roses in a tall vase.

"Oh, my darling girl!" Her mother buried her nose deep into the bouquet and inhaled loudly. "Divine—Floyd, you have to smell these!" 

Ignoring her, Floyd scraped his chair back, squared his shoulders, unclenched his fists. "Time to go. Ready?"

"Ready." Louise said and then whispered, "Or not." She held her small hand out for help, he took it, turned it over, pressed dry lips to crepey palm. Heather's father supported her mother through the store and across the parking lot at a slow, unsteady pace. Her mother didn't applaud the blue jays or wispy clouds or toddler with curly, red hair. Her focus was on her feet and where to put them.

Heather followed behind juggling roses and sloshing frigid water down her front. She rummaged through her purse, retrieved the phone, and tapped out a group text. "Time to come, chemo isn't working." 

~~~~~

"Aisle 13" became family texting code for "we're here" when arriving at our folks for a visit. As well as the more favored translation: "I need to pee." Mom passed away a few days ago. On our last day there, I needed supplies to freshen the house for my dad and found them all on aisle 13.