21 The Checkout Line Jollies, Part I

Every now and then, someone comes up to me weeping. Most do not. Take Joe: he doesn’t. On the very first day, he arrived bearing candy. Every couple of hours he sidled up, shoved a Twix bar or a Kit-Kat into my fist, then eased back down the street without a word. Later in the week, he reappeared at the door with a smile. “I’ve come to tell you priest and rabbi jokes,” he said, and then spent a solid twenty minutes in this sacred pursuit.

So, no, not everyone weeps. But enough do that I begin to wonder whether anyone will ever again look at me without feeling haunted—by Chris, or by me. Because I have become, against my will, a harbinger of death. Imagine this. Imagine being the one person in an entire community whose presence reminds everyone that shitty things can happen, and sometimes do. However I was known before (as a: ink-stained wretch; middling fiddler; harried mom), I am now known as the Lady Whose Husband Made the News That Night, Remember? Gone are the days when folks ran across me in some public place, burst into a grin and howled, “Ames! How are ya!” Now they approach with moist eyes and ask, “Amy…?”

I’m grateful for their concern, and for those who express it. I’d be lost without them. I know that I’m the epicenter of everyone else’s grief, and I know how fortunate I am to be supported by them in mine. Truly, I could not ask for a more loving and generous community: If you think you live in a great neighborhood, I’m here to tell you it’s nothing compared to this one. I have literally dozens of friends in walking distance. More. And the only way not to bump into them is to not leave the house at all—or to leave it only after I’ve disguised myself in a latex peel-away mask a la Mission: Impossible. I suppose radical plastic surgery might be an option. Or crossing the street when I spot someone I know. I’ve done that more often than I care to admit. Sorry! Sorry! In a hurry! I yell out, hotfooting it as though pressed for time. I feel awfully guilty doing this, because I know I should be gracious to everyone who needs to connect with me; they need to know that I know that they care; and they need to be assured that I’m all right. But sometimes I’m exhausted. Sometimes, when I’m out and about, I just want to be out and about.

One afternoon, I head to the drug store to buy tampons and pads. I am not embarrassing anyone but myself in revealing this detail, which I mention only because I am amused by the irony of having to purchase such things when I find myself at the tail end, and what fabulous word choice, of my reproductive life. Hormonally, sexually, logistically, there is no further reason for my body to go through the hollow monthly motions of prepping eggs for the womb. Even if some random sperm were to come knocking at my door, and I were to introduce it cordially to my latest, hopeful, blushing ovum, nothing of interest would develop between them.

But today, I have a need of sanitary items, and so I plan a stealth mission to the big-box pharmacy. I have no great desire to bump into anyone en route. So I park in the lot, not on the street. Inside, I make a beeline for the feminine products aisle, snap up my selections, toss them into the basket, then scoot down past the magazines to pick up a trashy gossip rag for Betty.

In the checkout line, I zone out, adopting the expressionless, doughy face of an annoyed peri-menopausal female with a basketful of maxipads. Yes, I am tired and moody, but there are other reasons for this state beyond the death of my husband. At the moment I am not Amy the Quietly Grieving. I am, instead, Amy the Quietly Menstruating. My only hope is that no one will notice me.

That’s when I hear it.

“Amy…Amy.”

I turn around. It’s my friend Z. She is a sweetheart. Bumping into her always lifts my spirits. But today, seeing me in the checkout line with my OK! Magazine and my jumbo box of Tampax, she throws her arms around me and immediately commences weeping. I hug her back. We embrace for a long time, ignoring the attempts to ignore us by the three shoppers ahead of me, two shoppers behind, plus one cashier and a young, hovering manager. Crying continues for the duration of the scene, although not by me.

Finally, Z pulls back. She says something about being sorry for my loss. She asks something about my welfare, the kids’ welfare, how we’re holding up.

We’re OK. This is awful, this is hard, I miss him like crazy, I tell her. But life pushes us forward. There’s no other option.

This has become my mantra: Life only goes forward. I’ve noticed that of late. Call me when you hear anything different.

“I’m praying for you,” Z says, still weeping, and I thank her, and I thank her, and I thank her again. I mean it. Another hug, and off she goes. I take a deep breath and return my face to its fixed feminine zone-out—grateful for Z, and for the reticence of strangers who pretend that I’m invisible, who resist the urge to turn and stare. Someday, I’ll stop making people cry—I’ll stop personifying something so sudden, crushing and dark. But that’s out of my control. That’s not my shit to figure out. Time, and tampon runs, will take care of it without me.