Originally appeared in Foliate Oak, November 2010 and The Best of Foliate Oak, 2011

Eulogy

The baby in aisle five should have been mine.

She doesn't look like me, of course not. She couldn't. Her hair is too straight, too dark. Her cheeks lack dimples; her forehead too wide. And her eyes are dark and exotic, skin olive. Actually, she doesn't even look like her father; she looks like Jimmy's wife.

Of course, I've only met her once - probably enough for both of us. She hated me and I loathed her and what was Jimmy to do? Simple really: stay far and away from me. Forget that I - we - existed and let the past pass. At least that's the version I got from Jimmy's stepfather a few years ago. Tom just reassured me that the wedding was "simple, quick, and painless." Truly, that's how he described the big day. And while it was tempting, I neglected to mention that when Jimmy wrote and told me he was getting married, he never even mentioned his betrothed by name.

Jimmy has his back to me and I watch him reading labels on tiny containers of baby food - strained beets (I'm allergic) - completely oblivious to my presence and I can't remember why I ever thought he wasn't good enough for me. I know I pushed him away. I remember distinctly the moment I did so, but, at the time, I thought second best was adequate - at least for standby. In case.

We'd gone to college together. Lived together for four years afterwards, making what we thought was love in the dark, under covers, sleeping quietly side by side until morning. When he finally said I love you, it left me speechless. I remember feeling pleased, but had no words for return. Later we "talked" about it. (We were fantastic at talking.) And Jimmy said that he was glad I didn't say anything in return because of the obligation factor. He liked knowing I didn't return his I love you by volley.

I guess you could say that we somehow metamorphosed into friendship when neither us were looking. We knew we didn't have a future, knew we were for now, and that was good enough. That was what we wanted.

No. That was what I wanted.

But that's almost too simple, isn't it?

One night we were drunk, talking nonsense, being silly, genuinely enjoying each other's company, deciding that if we ever had children their names would be Ava and Sam, when Jimmy asked me to write his eulogy. Fair enough, I thought. Actually, now that I think of it, Jimmy was drunk, I was regretfully sober, but pretending while I searched around paper and pen. This eulogy wasn't something to be written in the future; it was to be written in the now - back then.

We laughed at how absurd it would be: me and my impending fame (he was convinced I would be blindingly famous, though I had no reason to become so), and Jimmy with his long-standing hold on anonymity (not to mention his deep-seeded desire to become a hermit). Oh yes, and Jimmy decided that I would outlive him because I deserved the attention of public mourning. Jesus, how drunk was he?

If I remember correctly, the eulogy started a bit like this:

Friends, family, acquaintances, eccentrics, ex-husbands (he predicted three); basically "To Whom It May Concern:" We come together today to bid a final farewell to Jimmy. I know many of you are wondering why I am taking the time out of my busy schedule to say a few words about the dearly departed, and I do have an explanation as to why, but first, I'd like to say a few things about me...

The last line was Jimmy's. Passive-aggressive now that I think about it. But then, it was all about me. Always. I was so profoundly self-absorbed that I thought it should be all about me. But he let it be that way - insisted even. And now, even now, I somehow think it should be about me, yet I feel so far removed that something - what I don't know - seems lost in translation.

So. Who is – was – Jimmy? Well, he's just some guy that I met on a particular day of a particular year, sometime ago. Thanks to plastic surgery, no one knows how old I really am, so I'll not tell you how long ago it was. And even though I know Jimmy is dead and lacks the faculties to know whether or not I made good on a promise to deliver a eulogy, I figured what the hell. Good publicity, right?

Something like that. The next part was all Jimmy. He’d always been self-conscious about his height – 6’10”, but insisted that being so tall was an optical illusion since he was evenly proportioned. I never really thought of him as unusually tall; he just looked perfect sitting next to me. But the way he slouched…

I've heard the rumors, the snickers about the room; they’re not true. Jimmy was NOT too tall to fit in the coffin. In fact, being such an environmentally conscious individual, Jimmy opted to not have a coffin (SAVE THE TREES!) and asked to have his body propped up in the back of the room. He requested we string up his arms like a marionette and it was my idea (it really was) to attach one hand to the tap on the keg.

Now that I think about it, I don't know if that was the result of severe drunkenness or sheer stupidity. Maybe I wasn’t that sober.

But there in aisle five, I’m expecting Jimmy to turn around and see me - to flash that boyish smile and want to put his arms around me, but he doesn't. He just keeps reading from a list and comparing labels. I'm haunted by the notion that, in an instant, this voyeuristic trot down memory lane can sour because, should Jimmy turn around, I have to consider that he might not be happy to see me.

And in this lull, as I lean against a grocery cart cursed with a bad wheel that doubles as a makeshift brake, all I can think about is the woman I saw sitting in a turn lane maybe half an hour ago. With her face in her hands, shoulders heaved as she sobbed, just as the light turned green. I'd seen her minutes earlier, laughing, smiling, making pleasantries with a clerk in another store. Her hair was a vibrant, cautionary shade of orange, frizzy and wild, and I couldn't help but stare. Now I wonder if anyone is watching me.

What kind of person was Jimmy Anderson? Well, who knows? I became so wrapped up in myself that I never bothered to get to know the real Jimmy. I could tell you that he was a good and decent person, but that would piss him off and ruin his "image."

Let's see, he was a teacher, which means he corrupted the minds of fragile children in their most vulnerable, influential states, or at least hoped to. And his idea for including beer making and distributing in the home ec regimen has been permanently worked into the curriculum. In fact, Congress recently passed legislation ordering all middle schools incorporate this into the curriculum. SAT and ACT questions now include beer manufacturing. Way to go, Jimmy!

The baby drops her pacifier just out of reach on her blanket. She looks like she's about to cry, and if she cries, then Jimmy will turn around, and if he turns around he will see me. And as much as I don't want that to happen, I can't turn away. I just want one moment longer. The baby’s eyes brighten to a smile and she sticks her hand in her mouth and I'm left with a wide-eyed reprieve.

He never married, but he did have a child - a legacy, if you will. No one knows who the child's mother is, but some say she was a pretty, little señorita in Mexico. I, myself, have never met the child, and that child would now be an adult. So, if anyone here is Jimmy's kid...

The child was to be revealed right before my soon-to-be-ex-husband got up and walked out the wake. Stupid. We were both just stupid.

The last time I saw Jimmy in person was the day I moved out. I made him breakfast and kissed his cheek as he left for work. Once he was gone, I packed up everything – and to be fair left him most of what we jointly possessed – and a note telling him that I'd taken a job in Oregon. We lacked the patience or discipline to confront each other as adults. Yes, we were immature, but that was okay for us. I knew he would think my method of departure was best.

We wrote letters for awhile, some playful, some sad. The last letter was his marriage announcement, and then there was a Christmas card, a very quick email, and then nothing. Until now. He doesn't even know I moved back home.

Coming down the aisle is Jimmy's wife carrying two gallons of milk. She's just as dreadful as I remember her, and understanding that my time is up, I push my cart out of Jimmy's view, just inside aisle six. I hear Jimmy's voice for the first time in seven years, "Did you drop your binky, Ava?"

I left the cart and didn't look back.