The Eulogy

Christopher Jacobs was a loving husband, father, and stepfather who I was lucky to have in my life. He was a man of strength, and my mother and I loved him so much—

“Screw this. I CAN’T do this,” I muttered, pushing my unfinished eulogy to the other side of my desk.

I sighed and rested my hands on the back of my neck, staring at the paper. How was I supposed to craft words of praise for the man who destroyed me over the last ten years?

My mother wanted something beautiful — a carefully painted picture of the husband and stepfather he pretended to be, but never really was. She wanted his biological children to have a moment to honor their father’s memory and to “know that he was loved by many.” I was being told to conjure up a fairytale about a man who virtually did not exist, covering up the reality of the man who raised his hand and his voice at me for years on end.

Every time I tried to write, I had to remind myself that people were counting on me to give this man a proper send-off. So why was it so hard for me to write some simple kind words to maybe ease their pain? All I had to do was write it, read it, and then never give it another thought. So why did it feel so wrong?

I stood up and stretched. I hadn’t left the house in days, aside from going to school, so I decided to force myself out. Sitting in that room 24/7 wasn’t helping me at all.

Before thinking too much about it, I grabbed my keys and headed out of my room. I could hear my mom watching TV loudly in the living room. She had been more distant than usual ever since the accident. She was never a woman of many words, but being with someone always seemed to make her feel complete, no matter what kind of person they were. When she met Christopher ten years ago, I was only eight. It had been a year after my father overdosed and passed away that my mother welcomed him into our home. Being with him seemed to temporarily fix her. By the time he started to really show his true colors, she was too attached, and even as a child, I knew it was too late for her to leave him.

I looked at her as I reached the front door and sighed. “I’m going to get some coffee…or something.”

She had a blank expression, but when she turned to look at me, her eyebrows furrowed. “Oh, good. Be careful.” She grinned ever so slightly and turned back to the TV.

***

Fallen autumn leaves lay in the parking lot, soaked with rain, and the midday sun had dulled to a soft gray. I sat warmly nestled in the corner of the coffee shop on a red leather couch. I took a sip of my caramel latte, pulled the folded eulogy out of my purse, and set it on the dark wooden table.

I sat back and reminisced. Elle’s Espresso was my favorite coffee shop. When I was a kid and my dad was gone on business trips, my mom would take me there on cold days to get hot chocolate and donuts. I lived for those days—some of the only times we got to do stuff just the two of us. My mom had a certain glow about her, and everyone noticed her beautiful smile. Sometimes I knew it was fake, a mask to hide her dissatisfaction with her life, which she might not even have recognized. Other times, she had a fleeting moment of happiness. But only when my mom and I spent those few warm moments together, just the two of us, did I know her smile was real—and it was for me.

The café was fairly empty, with only four or five other people at other tables. The sound of the pattering rain combined with the quiet music created a relaxed vibe. I looked at the short wooden bookcase next to me, containing children’s books and old novels for customers to read. My mother used to let me pick a book for her to read every time we went there together. After our orders were ready, I would run over, pick one with the cutest animal on the front, and then jump on the couch with hopeful eyes.

When Chris first took over our hot chocolate dates for “family time,” I wanted to continue our tradition. My mom hadn’t taken me to Elle’s in what seemed like forever, so I somehow convinced him to take the three of us. When we got inside, they went up to the counter, and I excitedly ran to the bookshelf. I saw them heading over after ordering and looked up at my mom, showing her the book I found.

“Mommy, can we read this one? It has a bunny! They never had one with a bunny before!” I smiled and tried to hand her the book.

She reached for it. “This one looks like a good one, Bella, sure sweetie—”

Chris snatched it out of my hand. “This is family time, remember? We didn’t come here to read. We can do that any time.” He said sternly, scowling as he sat down.

My smile dropped, the light in my eyes fading. I looked at my mom, hoping she would explain that we ALWAYS read a book on our hot chocolate outings.

She looked at me with a small, guilty-looking grin and grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry, honey.”

I sat quietly, playing with my long brown hair that flowed down my white and pink bunny shirt. I looked up a minute later and saw him come back with two cups, putting one in front of him, one in front of my mom.

“Do I get a hot chocolate?” I asked hopefully.

He took a sip. “They’re too pricey here. Have a sip of your mom’s if you want.” I looked at the ground, playing with the sequins on my shirt. I stayed quiet, hiding the lump in my throat.

A minute later, he snapped his fingers. “Sit up straighter. No one likes a hunchback.” He shook his head, looking at me with what I now consider disgust. I straightened my back and quietly apologized. Mom continued drinking her hot chocolate without another glance. That was the last time I ever went to Elle’s with her.

I nodded, forcing the bad memory away. He’s dead; I shouldn’t think this way. I tapped my pen on the table, trying to focus. He is gone, and he was loved. Think about the good. That’s what Mom wants.

I looked down at the paper and thought about her hopeful eyes the night she got back from her first date with Chris, and her look of defeat when she found out about the car accident. I always had a great memory, and I vividly remembered her going blank for weeks after my dad died. I sat and watched her go from an expressionless shell to flipping a switch and ignoring the problem altogether within months. When she met Chris, she had a new glow to her, and I was glad to see her happy again. He obviously couldn’t have been all bad if he could bring that joy back, right?

I kept that image of her smiling in my head, took another sip of coffee, and forced myself to write…

Christopher brought a new happiness to my mother that I hadn’t seen in what seemed like forever. His heart was full of love, and he showed us there was happiness and a life worth living, even after the sudden loss of my father…

***

One week later…

Mom started going out in the evenings again, something I wasn’t surprised by, considering she did that after Dad died. Even as a child, she’d leave me home alone for hours doing god knows what. Thinking back on it, I assume she was drinking, considering that she came back more off balance than when she left. Occasionally, she’d bring back dinner; other times, I had cereal or stale chips.

When Chris was alive, he didn’t want her going out alone, so she stayed home cooking, cleaning, and doing occasional freelance work for extra money. Now, we survived on her sparse savings and cash Chris had hidden.

This morning, I woke early for school. I was actually looking forward to going since I had been missing a few days here and there. Mom was still asleep, like she usually was in the early morning. I hadn’t spoken to her much since the accident, other than about the funeral and eulogy.

I picked at my salad while skimming calculus homework when my friend Layla walked toward my table.

“Hey!” I waved.

“Hey! You have a free period after this too, right?”

“Yeah, I need to finish my homework and try to work on my eulogy.”

She nodded. “Well, me and Emma were talking about prom. Andddd we’re thinking about getting a limo.” She sang excitedly.

My mom will pay for it if it isn’t too crazy expensive.

Butterflies filled my stomach. I thought of the royal-blue prom dress in my closet. The top with dark beading lace that dispersed over the soft tulle skirt with an elegant slit. I’d gone to four thrift stores to find a dress I loved that was under my $90 budget. Trying it on had immediately boosted my confidence.

When I got home, I couldn’t wait to show Mom. She gasped quietly. “It’s so pretty!”

Chris came in before I could shut the door. He looked me up and down, scoffed.

“It makes your chest stand out,” he said, staring at the drop in the neckline. “Makes it look big.” He gestured with his beer bottle. A wave of nausea washed over me. I felt disgusted. Trapped in a body I wanted to escape from.

“Bella?” Layla looked concerned.

I snapped out of my flashback and looked at her. “I’m not going to prom. I don’t like my dress.”

We walked outside, standing next to the pickup area. She crossed her arms. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

I trusted her and told her about the incident with the dress and the cafe. When I turned and looked at the pickup and drop-off area, it reminded me of the time Chris came to get me from school and rolled down the window, telling me I needed to “exercise more” in front of a crowd of people. I lost it.

“I CAN’T finish this eulogy that everyone expects to be beautiful when every time I think of Chris, I’m reminded of something bad he did. I feel guilty because he’s dead and he was a person who was loved and deserves a proper send-off. I just DON’T know what to DO!”

She hugged me. “You deserve to heal from him but you’re so focused on pleasing these other people. Have you given yourself a chance to actually recover from the things he did?”

“I don’t know." I threw my hands up. "I’ve been focused on finishing it and being respectful. At this point, I just want to finish it, read it, and be done.”

She grabbed my hand. “That dress is beautiful, and you KNOW it. Don’t let that jerk ruin it. He is gone; he can’t hurt you anymore. I seriously don’t think it would be a crime to feel happy about that.”

I nodded. “I just need to finish this, then forget it after the funeral on Saturday.”

***

Two days later – East Tiverton Funeral Home...

My black boots splashed in puddles as I hurried to the entrance of the funeral home. Raining again. I dug the folded eulogy from my pocket—it was dry, with ragged creases from folding and unfolding so many times.

Mom and I were among the first to arrive, only Chris’s kids, Michael and Elizabeth, before us. At the entrance, they had set out a memory book next to vases filled with beautiful flower bouquets. I flipped through pages: “Strong,” “Loving,” “Kind-hearted.” I wondered if these words were true, or if they were also written by people who could barely muster up the courage to lie about how they felt about him.

The funeral home quickly filled with people dressed in black. I sat next to Mom in the front row, wishing time would pass faster, and feeling guilty about that at the same time.

Eventually, they brought the casket in. I felt sick. The last time I saw a casket was when my father died, and I still couldn’t believe there was someone in there who used to have their own entire life full of thoughts and memories. The organ player quieted the dreary tone. Mom spoke, then Michael, then Elizabeth. Their words were beautifully false. When Elizabeth sat, it was my turn.

I stood up, forcing down the nerves that had been building. I walked up the red stairs, my heart pounding. When I made it up the stairs and stood behind the open casket, I looked down at Chris—pale, cold, dressed in a suit, red and white flowers surrounding him—his favorite.

I expected to feel at least some level of sadness, or pity. But the second I saw him, all I felt was disgust. The mouth that degraded me. The hand that dragged me away. I saw a monster.

I looked at Mom. She never protected me. She let him drain my spark—for what? Why was I trying so hard to ease her pain when she enabled the pain that broke down my spirit for years on end? Anger rose within me. Why did no one care about the people he hurt? Why, just because he was dead, did we have to ignore the damage that was done? I imagined him up in the sky somewhere, absolutely satisfied that he got to do what he wanted in life, and was still honored so greatly in death.

Sweat dropped down my forehead, and before I could give it another thought, I blurted:

“I’m glad he is dead.”

Quiet gasps floated around the room. Mom’s eyes widened, furious.

“I’m glad because he was NOT a good person. He was not strong, loving, fun, or kind. No one protected me while he hurt me for years, and I physically cannot pretend he was amazing any longer.”

I took one last disgusted look at him and began to walk back down the aisle, my heart pounding with adrenaline, whispers following me every step of the way. I walked outside, the doors slamming behind me.

Rain eased. My stomach fluttered—not with fear, but strength. My skin tingled, but in an exhilarating way. They would never forgive me, especially my mother. I knew that. But strangely, I was okay with that, because I knew I would be able to forgive myself, and for once in my life, that meant more to me.

I unfolded the paper, letting raindrops blur the words I had forced out. I let go.

A small ray of sunlight slipped through the grey clouds. It was warm. Comforting. And in that moment, it felt like it was just for me.