Marcy lives on a quiet street in a modest house bordered by similar looking homes. She’s blonde, about my height, and though she claims to be forty-two she looks ten years younger. Her parents are both walking that ever-narrowing balance beam between living in their own home and moving to some kind of independent/assisted living set-up, or maybe even to Marcy’s house. Though she has siblings, Marcy is the principal care provider. “It’s easier on me.” “My brother lives too far away.” “My kids are older.” One suspects she’s always had this role.

As I sat down at her breakfast table, Marcy said, “I’ve got a story to tell you.” In front of me – a cup of too-hot-to-touch coffee and a blueberry muffin. Just like the first day I arrived to help her fashion new closets. She doesn’t ask; she just gives. And her stories are told in much the same way. You can be having a laughter-induced epileptic seizure and she’ll dead-pan on. Most people, myself included, play to the audience. If a line gets a laugh, it’s expanded upon, but not Marcy. She’s much more in control.

As I sip my coffee, she begins:

“I was in The Christmas Tree Shop and …”

“They sell something other than…”

“Christmas stuff? Think of Pier One.”

“You mean junk no one needs?”

“You were with me? I’m walking through the aisles with my shopping cart and I hear over the loudspeaker, “If anyone has mistakenly grabbed the wrong cart, will they please return it to the Service Desk.’ I think to myself, What dumb bastard would take someone else’s cart? Then I look at my cart, which should have been empty, but it’s full. I was horrified. This woman must have been shopping for an hour.”

I can’t leave out how hard I’m laughing. As Marcy is talking, I’m watching Diane gently wrestle the wrong grocery cart from my hands. Sometimes, when I’m alone, and I’ve latched onto the wrong cart, I keep it. I figure this is the only way I’m going to leave this store with its  veritable cornucopia of choices without the same six items I always buy.

Marcy continues, “The last thing I want to do is return the cart and have anyone see me, so I sneak it back to the Service Desk and as I’m walking away I hear, ‘Oh, Sally, there’s your cart.’ I walked right out the front door.”

“Empty handed?”

“I didn’t buy a thing. That night after dinner I tried to tell my husband, Ken, what I’d done, but he wouldn’t let me.

 He said, ‘Please, Marcy, I don’t want to hear anymore stories.’ ”