Catatonia.
That’s what Eon fell into that day he came home from school and watched the EMTs wheel out a gurney with his best friend Penelope zipped tight in a long black bag. Well, first he had a hissy fit, and then fell into catatonia. But that’s to be expected from a fourteen year old boy who hadn’t really dealt with a death before.
He just completely lost control of his emotions, let them violently heave themselves out of his body like projectile vomit. He remembered all he could say was “No,” and he repeated it so many times in his squeaky prepubescent voice, that after a few moments he imagined it probably started to sound like two badgers fighting.
And then there was the flailing. His mother anticipated Eon’s desire to run into the house to see her, so the moment before he made the realization, she grabbed him and held him tight, like she did when he was three and throwing a tantrum. It took all her strength to rein him in and during the awkward fit. She worried if she was actually hurting him with her squeezing. But if she was, he never let on. The fit got so embarrassingly sad, Eon ended up on the ground, energy spent, emotion spent and his heart empty.
That’s when the catatonia set in. He didn’t talk. He didn’t eat. He didn’t sleep. On autopilot, he walked and sat and went to the places he needed to go, but didn’t do anything, but stare forward, boring a hole through the fabric of reality with his stare.
Here’s a montage of how things went after Penelope’s death:
Breakfast
Eon sat at the table, eyes straight ahead, mind on autopilot. His dad read the newspaper and ate an egg white with whole grain toast and a grass of sugar-free orange juice.
His mom stood behind him with a carnival of cereal boxes in front of her. “I know its three separate handfuls of three different cereals, honey,” she said. “I just don’t know which ones they are?”
No response.
“Would you like an egg instead? Get some protein?”
No response.
“Let him be, Maggie,” his disembodied father said from behind the paper. “Let him deal with this on his own terms.”
Frustrated, his mother quickly reached into three different boxes of cereal and placed an ambiguous bowl of Cocoa Puffs, Froot Loops and Shredded Wheat Squares in front of Eon. She really didn’t understand the intricacies of cereal combinations.
On the Bus to School
Again, Eon sat, staring forward.
Autopilot.
Behind him Harold Maudlin intentionally ripped a loud fart to get him to laugh.
He didn’t. But the entire bus did.
In Class
Mr. Spurgeon lectured about the periodic table of elements, how the order of the table was so clean and inspiring. No one else sensed the same inspiration.
Eon sat transfixed. Autopilot again.
A paper airplane from the back of the room darted into the side of his head.
Nothing.
Mandated School Grief Therapy
Eon. Chair. Autopilot.
Across from him sat a well-dressed ferret-looking man in glasses. Everything about him was neat, buttoned-up and tidy. He held his hands together like he was about to give grace before a meal, but he said, “Now you are not required to talk, Eon. The school does these sessions to help students get through a tragedy. So feel free to say anything that’s on your mind.”
Nothing.
“Anything that might be getting you down. I know you and the deceased were very close.”
Nothing.
“It can often be very therapeutic to talk about it.”
Nothing.
“Would you feel better writing it down…your feelings?” The therapist slid yellow notepad and pencil across the desk to Eon.
Nothing.
“I really think you are missing out on an opportunity to get some real closure to these events, Eon.”
Nothing.
Agitated, the therapist said, “Like I said. You are not required to talk, but it can be helpful.”
Nothing.
Briskly, the therapist pulled out a mini tape recorder from his vest pocket and snapped it on defiantly. “Subject Eon Wilder displays mild catatonia and obvious depression. Reluctance to speak, or react, or emote on any level may indicate a deeper condition. Recommend continued sessions to determine a proper pharmaceutical therapy.”
Nothing.
The Bus Ride Home
Again, autopilot.
Billy Dawkins and Shep Murray wrestled in the seats behind Eon.
Chrissy Hutchinson slowly sat down next to Eon, placed his hand in hers, and then slowly leaned into him.
Dinner
Eon’s parents flanked him at the table. No one spoke. His father cut green beans with his knife and fork. The squeaking of metal silverware on china was ear-shattering.
Maggie dabbed her mouth with a napkin and opened her mouth to speak, but his father pointed his fork at her and said, “Let him deal with it on his own terms, Maggie.”
“But, Harold, I–”
“Ah!”
“He should–”
“Ah!”
“But I feel–”
“Ah!”
Bedtime
Eon lied on his bed. Not in it, but on it. No covers. Dressed in pajamas he never wore. He only wore them because his mother dressed him for bed.
On autopilot, he stared at the ceiling.
Repeat…
This sequence of events largely repeated itself on a loop for over four days. Oh, his mother wanted him so badly to speak, to smile, to cry, to register anything, but he didn’t. And the whole time, Eon’s father was there to quash any attempt for her to shake him or force him to talk or anything else. As far as he was concerned, men relate differently to death. It was an internal struggle, never external. You dealt with your feelings by yourself, inside your mind and you took as long as you liked. If it made you a crazy old bugger, it made you a crazy old bugger. That’s just how men were supposed to operate. You never let them out in heaping sobs, wailing blubbering and ten pounds of tissues. You muscled through it.
At the Van Maur funeral home, Maggie Wilder escorted Eon into the display room and sat him down in the first row. Still on autopilot, nothing in the room registered with him. His mother stood up and looked at the tag boards lining the walls. Brimming with photos of Penelope from birth to her last day, Maggie couldn’t help but start trembling in sadness.
Eon showed up in a lot of the pictures: Penelope and Eon playing cowboys and Indians. Penelope and Eon playing saucermen from outer space. Penelope and Eon playing knight and princess. Penelope and Eon playing monsters, building forts, chasing each other through the backyards, eating birthday cake, watching movies and smiling with broad toothy grins choked with popcorn. It was too much for Maggie who left the room sobbing.
In the annex, visitors milled around, a gentle hubbub of conversation floating about them. There seemed to be a barrier between the rooms, an unwritten rule for this funeral that no one could go in yet. Not until Eon made his peace.
Of course, Eon thought none of this. On autopilot, he stared forward. Penelope’s black and brass casket conveniently poised left and out of his sight path. To the right was a door with a large mottled glass pane in it that read “Employees Only.” Eon sat in silence, protected by the unwritten rule between the two rooms of the funeral parlor. He didn’t even notice the “Employees Only” door creak open and a head pop out of it. “Pssst!”
No response.
“Pssst!”
Nothing.
On the third, “Pssst,” a crack developed in Eon’s catatonia. The voice, even though it was just an utterance reminded him of someone. He cocked his head to the door and his catatonia was blown away, just like in those old films you see of atom bombs decimating fabricated towns in the Utah deserts.
There, with her head peeking out the crack of the door was Penelope. Her hair was a bit darker, but he could never forget that face: her slender nose with little bean-like nostrils, lips full like truffle chocolates and green eyes like those Brazilian tree frogs you always see in biology textbooks. Perhaps his mind had grown weary. Perhaps he was tired of prolonging that state of mind. But whatever happened, he knew the person behind that door was his friend Penelope.
There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.
“Come in here,” Penelope whispered, curling her finger towards the door.
When he said it, he hadn’t meant to be so loud about it, but in his defense, he hadn’t talked in over four days, so his vocal judgments might have been off. “Penelope? Is that you?”
Penelope winced and slid back behind the door.
And as Eon’s loud words carried into the annex, people started filing in, beginning with the mom’s: Penelope’s and Eon’s. By the time they had arrived, Eon had already gotten up and stood by the “Employees Only” door, pointing at it like a hunting dog.
Eon’s mother was just relieved her boy spoke. “What did you say, sweetheart?”
Eon pointed at the door and repeated his words. “Penelope. She didn’t die. She was just behind this door!”
Nervously, his mother guided him away from the door and said, “Really, dear? Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure,” Eon said. “I would know if I saw Penelope or not.”
Lifting a shaky hand, Penelope’s mother, Alexandra, turned the door knob and opened the door, a fleeting hope dashing through her.
Empty.
Eon looked into the hallway that lead to the parlor offices and embalming rooms and said, “She was just there, mom. I saw her!”
Maggie combed his hair with her fingers and said, “I’m sure she was, dear.”
Eon pulled away from his mother and said, “No. You don’t understand! I saw her. Right behind the door!” He backed up, unknowingly closer to the casket. Alexandra gently gripped his arm and turned him to face the casket, where Penelope lied in a flower print sundress and way too much makeup on.
Eon’s first thought was that it wasn’t her. It was a dummy. She didn’t look like that. She looked like the girl behind the door. That’s when he looked down and saw the charm bracelet he gave her wrapped around her wrist. He felt his catatonia settling in again, but one thought kept it at bay – who was behind the door?
He grew agitated. His mom tried to settle him down, but she couldn’t. Agitation grew to embarrassment as Eon looked around at the faces – all placating him apologetically. He could read their thoughts, which wasn’t hard as they were displayed prominently in their facial expressions and cues.
Look at the poor, sad, crazy little boy.
He thinks she’s still alive.
It’s just so sad that he can’t let her go.
He’s definitely going to need therapy now.
Why can’t he be normal?
His face grew hot and his forehead sweated. He had to do something before they all started laughing, so he ran out of the funeral parlor and around the corner of the building, where he slumped down to the sidewalk and tried his best not to cry.
“You were just going to cry, weren’t you?” Penelope said.
Eon looked up and sure enough, there stood Penelope albeit with the darker hair. She wore black boots, ripped jeans and a faded, worn out blue flannel shirt. “What’s going on?” Eon asked. “I saw you. In there! In the casket!”
Penelope winced her face and said, “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure I’m right here.”
“I’ve gone crazy,” Eon said. “That’s the only explanation. That’s the only reason you are in there, in that casket and yet out here talking to me. No other explanation.”
“You’re probably right then,” she said. “There’s no other real explanation for this.”
Eon shook his head. “So are you going to be in my head forever, then? Or is there some unfinished mystery that you need me to help you discover so you can pass on?”
Penelope snortled a laugh. Eon hadn’t ever heard her snortle before. That was new.
“Nothing like that,” she said. “I just need something from you before I can ‘pass’ on.”
“Eon!” yelled his mother. It wasn’t long before his mother rounded the corner and saw him. “There you are! Come with me, dear. We’ll just go straight home.”
Eon looked around and Penelope was again gone. He figured it was funny that his hallucinations only found him interesting when he was alone. He stood up and said, “No, mom. I’m fine. I can go to the funeral. I just thought I saw her.”
Again she combed his hair with her fingers and said, “It happens to everyone, dear. It’s very normal.”
Back in the funeral parlor, he listened to the pastor speak about death and remembrance, how everyone must make the journey and all that. He found it quite boring and sentimental. When the time came for people to speak about Penelope, he listened to numerous people tell their stories and as each person stood, he felt a growing anticipation about speaking himself. He should, he thought. Everyone already figured he was crazy, what’s a little more.
So when it felt like no one else would speak, he stood up and opened himself to let all the stories out, all the adventures. It felt good. He felt happier. Midway through his talk, he looked out of the display room and into the annex. There stood Penelope, his hallucination with darker hair, black boots, ripped jeans and the blue flannel shirt.
She listened to him and then mouthed the words, “I need you.”
He smiled. Being crazy would be fun, he figured. He might as well get something out of it. For twenty more minutes, he regaled the mourners with his stories and when he was done, his hallucination had vanished. Just like she always did.
By the time they had arrived home, Eon was fully resigned to being insane. It made him happy. Through dinner, he kept seeing the dark-haired Penelope outside the nearest window.
Again, she mouthed, “I need you.”
Eon ignored her and ate his mashed potatoes, all four heaping helpings of them. His appetite certainly came back.
At bedtime, he crawled under his covers and let his mother tuck him in. He felt really sleepy, like he hadn’t slept in five days. His mother sat on his bed next to him and said, “Quite a BIG day today, huh?” She said ‘big’ as if it were a replacement word for something else.
“Yeah,” Eon said. “A good day. I feel much better.”
“Are you sure?” his mother asked, feeling his forehead. “It’s just that everything was so sudden.”
“I’m fine, mom.” She sighed like a giant rock was lifted off her and she could breathe again. Then she pulled something out of her pocket wrapped in pink tissue paper. “Penelope’s mom told me to give you this,” she said. “She told me Penelope had worked very hard on it. She wanted to give you something in return for the charm bracelet.”
His mother unfolded the tissue and lifted up a neat necklace made from a slender leather lashing that held numerous different engraved wooden beads. Some had been stained a variety of colors, while others were just marked with unique symbols.
Eon took it in his hand and said, “This is so neat.”
“Do you know what the beads mean?” his mother asked.
“Of course,” he said. “This black bead here? That’s our story about the Minotaur. And this aquamarine one, that’s for her mermaid story. They’re all symbols of the neat stories we’d create or play.”
Maggie smiled. “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Now get some sleep. You need it.”
His mother left and Eon sat up and tied the necklace around his neck. Then he lay back down and pulled his blankets over. That’s when he heard the wooden squeak of his bedroom window opening. Sitting up, he saw his hallucination step in from the window and say, “It’s about time. I thought she’d never leave.”
“You’re using the window,” Eon said. “Why would a hallucination need to use the window?”
Penelope cinched her mouth up and shook her head. “I don’t know. For the realism?”
Eon nodded in agreement. “Of course. To be a better replica of the real Penelope, you have to act as if you physically exist, even though you are just a projection of my mind.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Penelope said. “Listen. Like I said before, I need something from you before I can ‘pass’ on to the next, err, realm or whatever.”
“Sure,” Eon said. “But I’ve just gotten used to you. Do you have to be passing on already?”
Penelope crawled onto his bed and inched closer to his face. “Oh, I’ll come back to visit,” she said.
Eon felt his heart race. He couldn’t believe a hallucination of her could get him this excited. He could feel her pressure on the bed with each crawling step. When she pressed her face closer to his, he could feel her warmth. His skin bristled and fell goosebumpy. For a hallucination, she felt as real as the old Penelope.
“I really, really need you,” she said. Her lips kissed his cheek and he felt it. A random thought buzzed through his head. If he kissed the hallucination of his dead best friend, was it still considered a kiss? He didn’t care if he fell deeper into crazy. He cocked his head to the side and his lips met hers. And it was splendid. Penelope answered back with her tongue. And even though Eon thought it was odd that she would know so much about the art of kissing, and that it felt like she was trying to crawl into his mouth, he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and kissed back with everything he could muster. Then, like a thin, stretched out soap bubble popping, she was gone.
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