Before I Wake by Robert J. Wiersema

work and turned toward me, silent again, not surprised by my presence.
    â€œWell, it’s about time,” the large man at the back table said, in the same resounding voice. “Of course, time is the one thing we have no shortage of.”
    KAREN
    It was hard to say just what the hardest part was. I found myself wanting to preface every conversation with Jamie or Ruth or my mother on the telephone by saying “But the hardest part is…” But I couldn’t make such a distinction— everything I prefaced with that statement would be true.
    Getting out of bed, knowing what lay ahead of me in the day. Showering, washing—for who? No one cared. Eating…
    I invited Ruth for dinner most nights, hoping to have someone to eat with, but she always declined. I could see her point.
    So I ate alone. In the first few weeks after Simon left, I ate whatever was at hand: tins of soup, boxes of macaroni and cheese, ravioli, all of that crap stuff we’d give Sherry once in a while as a treat. I’d heat it up on the stove, dump it onto a plate, toss the pot into the sink.
    I couldn’t bear to sit at the table. The table was for family dinners, and Sherry was all the family I had left. I’d eat alongside her bed, mindlessly shoveling forkfuls into my mouth, staring out the front window, at the overgrown yard, the sidewalk, the cars going by on the street.
    I made sure I did the dishes each night, but that was only because I knew Ruth would be in the kitchen the next morning.
    I don’t know how long I would have continued eating that garbage if it hadn’t been for Ruth. One morning in early September she arrived carrying a large brown paper bag.
    â€œI hope you don’t think I’m trying to mother you,” she said. Setting the grocery bag on the table, she began pulling items from it. A head of lettuce. A small cauliflower. “I know that with everything that’s going on you haven’t had much chance to get out to the supermarket.” Several stalks of broccoli. Pale green celery. A bundle of carrots with the tops on. “So I thought I’d pick up some veggies for you while I was out doing my shopping last night.” Four apples, each a different variety.Several oranges. A grapefruit that almost rolled onto the floor. “If you want me to, I can pick up whatever you need when I go.” Setting a bunch of bananas with the rest, she artfully folded the bag.
    I don’t think I had ever seen anything so beautiful. The table looked like a child’s treasure chest. I felt a craving so deep it was primal, a desperate need for the sweetness, the fibers, the textures.
    When I turned to Ruth, I realized she knew exactly what I was feeling. “Of course, if you wanted to,” Ruth said, “I could stay here with Sherry and you could go for a walk, buy yourself what you needed. I know that in a lot of places, people shop every day, just for what they need. Everything so fresh.” She inhaled heartily, as if swept away by the thought herself. “There’s a little market not far from here, isn’t there?”
    I smiled at her. “What do I owe you for all this?”
    She shook her head. “We’ll call it insurance money.”
    Picking up a McIntosh, I bit, the skin exploding under my teeth, the sweetness flooding my mouth.
    Ruth smiled at me and went to check on Sherry. I finished my apple in private.
    So most days, early in the afternoon, I walked to the market. I loaded up the basket with what called to me as I passed: a glossy red pepper, a purple onion, snow peas, a cauliflower, grapes, a chicken breast, fresh flowers for Sherry’s room. And I took my time walking home, canvas shopping bag slung over one shoulder, the warm sunlight on my face, the breeze cool against my skin.
    The meals always seemed to come together as naturally as the shopping did. I lived on stir-fries over rice or noodles, maybe a piece of fruit