“And rubbing alcohol to wipe down everything we bring into the house, if stores aren’t already sold out.”

Brian had been reading the news, watching the development of the Coronavirus outbreak, but I hadn’t believed it would effect our family. Trying to process this, I could tell he had more to say.

“They’ve closed all roads coming into the city and there’s a question of whether or not there will be enough food.”

Enough food? My breath caught in my throat. Raising teens, food is at centre stage, and no matter how much we shop there never seems to be enough. Brian and I started piecing together a plan to protect our family from this Coronavirus and I was soon on the back of our electric scooter, arms wrapped around Brian’s middle, leaning into his back for security. 

We parked between two stores, nearly side-by-side. One sold food, the other was a pharmacy. While our need for food was in the forefront, we opted to look for face masks and rubbing alcohol, first. If buying the food and bringing it into our home was going to make us sick, what value was it?

Walking into the pharmacy, I realized I didn’t know the Mandarin word for mask. With a scarf wrapped around my face, I said “mouth”, and used my own sign language for the rest. It wasn’t hard for her to figure out what I was asking for, as many people were suddenly sporting this new style.

A few days before our family had gone for a hike and, out of the many people we saw, one group of three wore face masks. I thought it funny to see them hiking up the mountain, removed from the city and its crowds, covering their faces. But now when the cashier said, “No,” she didn’t have any face masks for sale, I saw the wisdom of those hikers.

The pharmacy didn’t have rubbing alcohol either. A man, whose face was already covered, walked with me down a few doors and into another pharmacy. He asked if they had masks. He taught me the term for face mask. And as I walked back to Brian and our scooter, still without masks, I turned and thanked the man who had his own concerns, I’m sure, but in a tough moment walked to the pharmacy with me, offering an act of friendship.

There was another pharmacy two blocks away. With China’s dense population you don’t have to travel far to find what you’re looking for. Skyscrapers fill every block and the first floor is lined with little shops, often family owned. A way of life I have come to love.

I directed Brian to this other pharmacy, thinking it would be our solution. I had bought masks there a few years before, when we were working on a dusty project. If only we still had them. As we reached the entrance, another girl ran in and we both asked for masks. The cashier shook her head.

We were not getting masks tonight.

We hoped we were making the right decision waiting until the next morning to go to the grocery store. We figured it would be packed tonight. It could take a few hours to push through the crowds and our kids were home, hungry.

Their supper sat on the stove, still waiting to be warmed. Brian had been halfway through preparing it when we got the call, and I’d been ready for a walk. I planned to stop along the river and watch the Chinese egrets – large, beautiful, white birds – as they soared over the river – free from the weight of the world.

But the need to protect our family overrode all else and we pulled up in front of a small store.

We passed the other two pharmacies. People streamed in and out but we were the only ones in the shop that sold food. I won’t call it a grocery store because that will give the wrong impression. It sells fresh produce, a few small cuts of meat, and small packaged items. Nothing in bulk.

It’s the kind of small shop you find in every neighbourhood in China, where people buy just enough to cook dinner, and are back again the next night after work. Kids stop on their way home from school to buy a snack.

The cashier pointed me toward the potatoes. They were soft and I found only two worthy of purchase, plus a few sweet potatoes, a squash and a bottle of alcohol to wipe down everything we brought into the house.

The virus hit over Chinese New Year, and during the seven day stat holiday, stores may be open, but they don’t receive deliveries. If this was a picture of the coming days, we needed to stock up on staples. I made a list in my mind. A big bag of whole wheat flour, oats, pasta in bulk, and several cans of spaghetti sauce. We could eat for weeks. It wouldn’t be fun, but we’d be fed. 

The next morning, Brian and I drove the long block down the river, away from the grocery store, to our friends’ apartment complex. They had extra masks and were willing to share. As I jumped out of the car, Brian told me to take my time. I walked toward the gate, with its guards, and was glad to see more people wearing masks. I was starting to understand how contagious this virus was. What would those who didn’t have masks do? Online shopping had stopped for the holiday and, as I’d discovered the day before, when millions of people are told to buy masks, supplies dry up.

Excited to see my friend, I was thankful for her goodness. She could have held on to those masks. I took the elevator up, above the treetops and when she opened her door, she ushered me to her table where she pulled out a chair.

Her husband and two mutual friends surrounding the table welcomed me. “We’re drinking tea,” one said, “to fend off this virus.” And he smiled.

It was homemade. Lemon and ginger swirled in the glass pitcher as she poured me a cup. And she passed me a tiny bottle of honey from Germany. A specialty. I breathed in the sweet smell and warmed my hands on the cup. As we chatted, for a moment, I let myself relax. On my way out the door, when she gave me the masks, she said, “They won’t let you in the store without one.”

And I wondered what I would have done without a friend.