I noticed her first as she stood there among the vegetable bins, her eyes wary and arms hugging her body as though this might protect her from the stares. The eldest, she was probably 10 years old, young enough to be a child and old enough to understand what it meant when people looked at the six children clustered around their mother and the baby sitting in the shopping cart.
Inappropriately dressed for the weather, their clothes were cotton, ill fitting, and sometimes missing buttons down the back, while temperatures dropped, and a chill cut through the night air like a crisis outside the grocery store.
I, in my wool coat and lined leather gloves, had stopped by the store to pick up a few more treats for the celebration about to erupt in my home—nothing required or essential to my wellbeing—perhaps some sparkling water, another bottle of champagne, and some brie.
I stood there, not meaning to intrude on their lives but distracted from my errand of indulgence, embarrassed, actually, by my plans, when this family of wide-eyed faces was clearly doing without. The shopping carts, two of them, were filled with healthy food, and a lot of it, and I wondered how the mother would pay for it. I watched her place a bunch of bananas in the cart and kiss her baby’s head, as she held the hand of a little boy.
The girl’s eyes caught mine, and I looked away, sorry I had intruded on her attempts at invisibility. I moved on but could not shift my focus from this family seemingly in need. One aisle over, I found the champagne and a friend of mine, to whom I explained what I had witnessed and my concern for their welfare. “What’s tough,” she said, “is trying to figure out why people don’t just get a job.” I stared at her as she filled her cart.
I picked up a wheel of brie and wandered toward the front of the store, wondering how I might help this family, when I noticed a checker staring at me. “Can I help you find something?” she said.
“Not really,” I whispered. “It’s just that, well, the family in line next to you looks like they could really use some help, and I’m trying to figure out how.”
“What did you have in mind?” she said.
“I don’t know. I was thinking it would be great if someone, somehow, secretly paid for their groceries. But they’re already in line.”
“I can help you do that,” she said. Before I could respond, she picked up her phone, called the checker at the adjacent check stand and arranged for me to pay their bill.
“Whenever you finish your shopping,” she said, “just make sure you get in that line and let the checker know you’re the one.”
I was excited. I was nervous. I fled the check stand in search of sparkling water, assuming the family would be gone by the time I got in line.
But they weren’t. The checker was ringing in their purchases when I took my place behind two other customers in line. My face flushed; my heart pounded. I told myself to calm down; if I just kept quiet, no one would have to know it was I who had paid. I was invisible in this.
Once the checker had finished scanning the groceries, the mother unzipped a small woven coin purse and pulled out some food stamps, an assortment of coins, and a few bills. The checker held up her hand to stop her, and the mother’s face looked startled, maybe even embarrassed, as if she instantly felt inadequate.
“Your groceries have been paid for,” said the checker.
“What?” said the mother. “I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either,” she said. “Someone in the store has paid for your groceries.”
“Who?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
The mother and the others in line looked around, as the children began to clap and jump up and down. I, too, looked around, to keep my cover.
“This has never happened to me before,” the mother said, and she started to cry. “This is the most exciting day of my life. It’s like we just won the lottery.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, returned her coin purse to her pocket, kissed her baby’s head, and left with her family and her groceries.
The other shoppers made their way through the line, talking about “the event.” When I approached the check stand with my basket, the checker whispered, “Is it you?” I nodded, as she rang in my three purchases. “Your total is $27.92. Now let me add in the other groceries.” She pushed a button on her cash register, and it began a chugging sound somewhere between an adding machine and a slot machine as the receipt pumped out of the register.
“Your grand total,” she said, “is $438.23.” I took in a sharp drag of air. “You know,” she said, “things like this always have a way of working out.”
That evening, I received an unexpected email from an editor, asking if I had time to write an article for her magazine.
Two days later, I returned to the market. The manager greeted me, handed me a small stack of papers, and said, “I believe these belong to you.” I turned over the pages to find six crayon drawings and a neatly penned note that read, “Thank you for your gift. This was the only time it felt okay to be seen.” I’ve always wondered who got the bigger gift.
What a beautiful story. Lisa, I have started my own art business lindawoodscollection.com
I have several galleries but the still life gallery has my pear. You would love this painting for yourself, which can be reproduced on a variety of textiles. I wanted to invite you to explore my art as I enjoy your writings. By the way, how old are your twins now?
Beautiful