The Casket Wasn’t Supposed to Be Opened

My granddaughter’s casket was already closed when I walked into my son’s living room.

That bothered me.

Not because I wanted to see her.

Because nobody had asked me.

I had spent most of the previous six months driving back and forth between my home in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and my son Nathan’s house outside Milwaukee. I had sat beside Lily’s bed, read Charlotte’s Web to her, rubbed lotion into her dry hands, and watched her become thinner every time I visited.

And now Nathan was telling me I couldn’t say goodbye.

“Mom, please don’t open it.”

He stood beside the fireplace in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

The house was quiet. The memorial service was the following morning, and most of the family had gone to a hotel.

I had offered to stay behind.

Nathan looked tired.

“Why?” I asked.

“The funeral director recommended keeping it closed.”

His wife, Claire, was standing near the kitchen island.

She didn’t look at me.

“She doesn’t look like herself,” Claire said.

I put my purse on a chair.

“I don’t care what she looks like.”

Nathan rubbed his forehead.

“Mom.”

“I’m her grandmother.”

He glanced at Claire.

It was a small thing.

But I noticed it.

Then Claire picked up her coat.

“We still need to get the flowers from the church.”

Nathan hesitated before following her.

At the front door, he turned around.

“Please leave it alone.”

The door closed behind them.

I stood in the living room looking at that small white casket.

There was a spray of pink roses across the top.

One of Lily’s school pictures had been placed beside it. She was missing one of her front teeth in the photograph.

I sat down.

For several minutes, I did exactly what Nathan had asked.

Then I got up.

I moved the flowers carefully onto the coffee table and lifted the lid.

Lily was wearing the pale blue dress I had bought for her birthday.

Her hands were folded across her stomach.

Her hair had been brushed away from her face.

I touched her cheek.

Warm.

I pulled my hand back.

Then I touched her again.

“Lily?”

Nothing.

I leaned closer.

Her chest moved.

Barely.

But it moved.

“Lily.”

Her eyelids fluttered.

I grabbed the edge of the casket because my knees went weak.

Her lips moved.

I bent until my ear was almost against her mouth.

“Grandma?”

I couldn’t answer at first.

Her eyes opened halfway.

Then she whispered something I have never forgotten.

“I was good. I stayed quiet.”

There Was a Strap Beneath Her Dress

I reached for her immediately.

That was when I realized I couldn’t lift her.

Something was holding her down.

I pulled the blanket away.

There was a wide padded restraint across her waist.

For several seconds I simply stared at it.

“Who did this?”

Lily’s eyes closed again.

“Daddy said don’t move.”

My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t work the buckle.

I tried once.

Twice.

It wouldn’t release.

Then I saw another strap near her ankles.

This wasn’t part of preparing a child for a funeral.

I knew that much.

I searched around the lining, pushing my fingers underneath the padded fabric.

Near Lily’s left hip, I felt something hard.

A tiny brass key.

I pulled it out.

It fit the buckle.

The restraint released.

I unlocked the second one and slid my arms underneath her.

She weighed almost nothing.

That frightened me more than anything else.

I carried her through the kitchen and into the laundry room because it was the only room downstairs with a lock.

I lowered her onto a pile of folded towels on the floor.

Then I locked the door and called 911.

The dispatcher asked whether Lily was breathing.

“Yes.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Barely.”

“How old is she?”

“Six.”

There was a pause.

“Where did you find her?”

I looked through the laundry room doorway at the white casket visible across the kitchen.

“In her casket.”

The dispatcher asked me to repeat myself.

I did.

She told me not to give Lily food or water and to keep her on her side if she became sick.

I was still talking when I heard the front door open.

Nathan called my name.

I didn’t answer.

His footsteps crossed the living room.

Then stopped.

The casket was open.

“Mom?”

He came toward the laundry room.

The handle moved.

“Mom, open the door.”

I put my back against it.

“An ambulance is coming.”

Silence.

Then he hit the door once with his palm.

“Open this door.”

Lily flinched.

I knelt beside her.

“You’re okay, sweetheart.”

Nathan’s voice changed.

It became quieter.

“Mom, you don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Then explain it.”

He didn’t.

Claire came running in a few seconds later.

“What happened?”

Nathan said something too quietly for me to hear.

Then Claire tried the handle.

“Margaret—”

I don’t know why she used my full name.

She normally called me Mom.

“Open the door.”

“No.”

“Lily is very sick.”

I looked down at Lily.

Her eyes were open again.

“What medicine did you give her?”

Nobody answered.

“Nathan?”

“Mom, she has a respiratory condition. You know that.”

“What medicine?”

Claire spoke from the other side.

“This is ridiculous.”

Then Lily coughed.

It was a weak, dry sound.

Claire heard it.

The hallway went completely quiet.

Then she said:

“She wasn’t supposed to wake up yet.”

Nathan said her name sharply.