Her Eyelids Moved

At my six-year-old granddaughter’s funeral, I leaned over her casket to say goodbye.

Her eyelids moved.

I stood there with one hand resting on the polished white edge, staring at Emily’s face beneath the soft light of my son’s living room. For several seconds, I told myself grief was making me see things.

Then her fingers moved under the blanket.

“Emily?”

Her eyes opened just enough for me to see them.

I touched her cheek. Her skin was warm.

Then I lowered my hand toward her mouth and felt it.

Breath.

Weak, shallow breath.

My granddaughter was alive.

It was almost eleven that night at my son Michael’s house in Naperville, outside Chicago. The funeral service was scheduled for the following morning, but Michael and his wife, Sarah, had arranged a private family viewing at their home before the burial.

Everyone had left by ten.

Michael had asked me to leave too.

“Mom, go home. You’ve been here all day.”

“I want a few minutes with her.”

He had looked toward Sarah before answering.

That bothered me.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Then please go home.”

They went upstairs.

I stayed beside the casket.

Emily had supposedly died after what Michael described as a sudden respiratory illness. Everything had happened so quickly that I had barely understood it. Three days earlier, Sarah had called and told me Emily was seriously sick. The next morning, Michael called.

He said she was gone.

I had asked to see her.

“Mom, no. There are health precautions.”

I asked which hospital she had been taken to.

There was a pause.

“We handled everything.”

At the time, I thought my son was in shock.

Standing beside Emily’s casket three days later, I stopped believing that.

Her eyes opened again.

“Grandma?”

I bent so close that my hair brushed her forehead.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

Her lips barely moved.

“I was good.”

“What?”

“I stayed quiet.”

I reached beneath the blanket to lift her.

Something stopped me.

At first I thought the fabric had caught on the lining. Then I pulled the blanket farther down and saw a narrow restraint positioned beneath it in a way that prevented her from moving freely.

My hands went cold.

“Emily, who did this?”

Her eyes moved toward the staircase.

“Please don’t let them take me.”

I heard a floorboard upstairs.

I immediately pulled the blanket back into place.

There was no time to understand what I was looking at. I tried to free her, but I couldn’t figure out the fastening in the dim light.

Then I remembered something I had noticed earlier.

A tiny silver key.

It had been tucked beneath the edge of the white satin lining. I had assumed it belonged to some part of the casket.

I found it with shaking fingers and tried it.

The fastening released.

Emily gave a small gasp when I lifted her. She was frighteningly light.

I wrapped my black wool shawl around her and carried her toward the back of the house.

That was when I heard Michael coming downstairs.

“Where Is Emily?”

The laundry room was off the kitchen. I carried Emily inside, locked the door and lowered her onto a pile of clean towels beside the dryer.

Then I called 911.

I kept my voice low.

“My granddaughter is six. We were told she had passed away, but she’s alive. She’s weak and barely awake. Please send someone.”

The dispatcher started asking questions.

Someone tried the laundry-room handle.

“Mom?”

Michael.

I covered the phone with my hand.

“What?”

“Open the door.”

Emily grabbed my sleeve.

Her whole body tightened.

I put my hand over hers.

“Stay with me.”

Michael knocked again.

“Why are you locked in there?”

I didn’t answer.

His footsteps moved quickly away. Seconds later I heard him in the living room.

Then silence.

“Mom.”

His voice sounded different now.

“Where is Emily?”

I looked at my granddaughter.

Her eyes were open.

That was all I needed.

“An ambulance is coming.”

The handle jerked hard.

“Open this door.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Then explain it to the police.”

Sarah came downstairs.

I heard her ask Michael what was wrong. He said something too quietly for me to understand.

Then she screamed.

“Where is she?”

Neither of them sounded like grieving parents whose daughter had somehow come back to life.

They sounded frightened that she had.

Sarah came to the door.

“Linda, listen to me. Emily is extremely sick. She needs to be put back where she was.”

I stared at the door.

“Put back?”

There was a pause.