I never thought I would be grateful to find a key inside a coffin.
But that night, it became the only thing I wanted.
Jessi was lying in front of me.
She was breathing.
She had spoken to me.
And she was still fastened to the inside of that terrible wooden box.
I kept one hand near her shoulder while I searched.
I was afraid to move too far away from her.
I did not want to lose sight of her breathing.
Every few seconds, I looked back at her chest.
The white lace moved faintly.
Then went still.
Then moved again.
I was frightened by how little movement there was.
She needed help.
Immediately.
I knew that.
But I could not lift her while those straps were locked.
I had already tried.
I looked at the metal buckle over her waist.
There was a small keyhole in its side.
It was the same on the buckle over her thighs.
Someone had designed the restraints to be released with a key.
I thought about the person who had fastened them.
I did not know who it was.
I had no proof.
But whoever had put those restraints around Jessi had been close enough to touch her.
Close enough to tighten the straps.
Close enough to see her lying there.
The thought made me feel physically ill.
I swallowed hard.
Then I forced myself to look away from the buckles.
I needed to search.
The coffin was lined with white satin.
Soft padding filled the space beneath it.
Everything looked carefully finished.
There were no loose tools.
No visible keys.
Nothing beside her that seemed out of place.
Except the straps.
Those dreadful straps.
I reached along the left side of the coffin.
My fingers moved between the satin and the wooden frame.
The fabric was tightly fitted.
At first, there was barely any space.
I pushed harder.
The satin lifted.
A little of the padding came with it.
I felt along the narrow gap.
Nothing.
I moved my hand farther down.
I could feel the rougher material beneath the smooth lining.
The difference made my skin crawl.
On the outside, the coffin had been polished until it shone.
Inside, underneath the satin, there was only wood and stuffing.
A box.
Someone had dressed it up and made it beautiful.
And then they had put Jessi inside.
I tried to stop thinking.
I moved to the other side.
My fingers caught against the lining.
I pulled it loose enough to search beneath it.
Still nothing.
I could hear my breathing.
It came in short, uneven bursts.
I was beginning to panic.
Not because I could not understand what had happened.
I had already accepted that something was terribly wrong.
I was panicking because every second mattered.
Jessi was breathing so faintly.
Her skin was burning.
I had no idea how long she had been lying there.
I looked at her face.
“I'm trying, sweetheart.”
Her eyes remained almost closed.
“I know you're tired.”
I touched her cheek.
“Just stay with me.”
I don't know whether she heard.
I hope she did.
I moved down toward her waist again.
I ran my hand along the edge of the coffin beneath the satin.
The fabric brushed over my knuckles.
I pressed harder.
I wanted to feel every inch.
If the key was hidden there, I was going to find it.
My fingers moved past the place where one of the restraints disappeared beneath the lining.
I felt the strap's attachment against the wooden frame.
Solid.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Then I moved farther down.
Something scratched my finger.
I stopped.
I brought my hand back a little.
There was a small object buried beneath the padding.
At first, I could not tell what it was.
It felt hard.
Smooth in one place.
Sharp in another.
I pushed two fingers around it.
Metal.
I could feel the edge of something metallic against my skin.
My heart jumped.
I pressed deeper into the lining.
The stuffing caught around my fingers.
I tugged.
The object shifted.
I pulled harder.
A small silver key came free.
For a moment, I stared at it.
It rested in my palm.
Ordinary.
Almost harmless-looking.
I had spent so much time searching that I hardly believed I was holding it.
Then I looked at the buckles.
The key was small.
The keyholes were small.
It might fit.
I moved to the first restraint.
My hands were shaking.
I tried to put the key into the lock.
It struck the edge.
I tried again.
This time it slipped partway in.
I adjusted the angle.
Then it went all the way.
I gripped it between my thumb and finger.
I turned.
Nothing happened.
I nearly cried out.
I tried in the other direction.
The metal resisted.
Then something moved inside the buckle.
There was a small click.
The lock released.
I stared at it.
Open.
It was open.
I pulled the strap loose.
The pressure across Jessi's waist disappeared.
I wanted to lift her immediately.
But the second strap still held her thighs.
I moved down.
The key slipped in my sweaty fingers.
I caught it against the satin before it fell.
My hands were no longer behaving the way I wanted.
I had to force myself to slow down.
I held the key more tightly.
I found the second keyhole.
The key entered.
I turned it.
The buckle made the same hard little sound.
Then it opened.
I pulled the strap away from Jessi's legs.
For a moment, I simply stood there.
Both restraints were loose.
They no longer held her against the coffin.
I could lift her now.
That was all I had been trying to do.
Everything else could come afterward.
I dropped the end of the strap against the lining.
I looked at the red marks where it had pressed through her dress.
I could not see how badly she had been hurt.
I did not want to waste another second.
I reached beneath her shoulders.
Then I slid my other arm under her legs.
She was so light.
I remembered how she had once wrapped herself around me when I picked her up.
Now she did not move to help.
Her body hung heavily in my arms despite how little she weighed.
I supported her head against my shoulder.
“Grandma's got you.”
I said it quietly.
Almost as if I were afraid speaking too loudly might hurt her.
She gave a small breath.
I felt it near my neck.
Warm.
Weak.
Alive.
I held her closer.
There was no time to stand there crying.
I knew she needed medical care.
Her breathing was not normal.
Her skin was far too hot.
And I had no idea what had been done to her.
But for those few seconds, the simple fact of holding her was almost too much for me.
I had walked into that room believing I would never hold Jessi again.
Now she was in my arms.
She was sick.
She was frightened.
But she was alive.
I looked at the open coffin.
The white satin was disturbed.
The straps lay across it.
The silver key was still in my hand.
I could hardly believe those things had been hidden beneath the beautiful funeral arrangements.
The lilies were still there.
The artificial candles continued to flicker.
The house remained almost perfectly quiet.
Everything looked as it had when I first entered the room.
Except that the little girl who was supposed to be buried in a few hours was no longer inside her coffin.
I shifted Jessi carefully against my chest.
Her head rested beneath my chin.
I could feel her fever through the fabric of her dress.
I wanted to carry her away from that room.
Away from the flowers.
Away from the coffin.
Away from the people who had told me to stop asking questions.
I looked toward the entrance hall.
My handbag and shawl were still on the console table.
I had left them there because I couldn't bring myself to say goodbye.
I remembered the moment so clearly.
A small decision.
One that had seemed selfish at the time.
I had told Arthur and Patricia I was leaving.
Instead, I stayed.
I thought I was disobeying them for the sake of one final moment with Jessi.
Now I was holding her because I had disobeyed.
I looked down at my granddaughter's face.
Her eyes were closed again.
Her lips were slightly parted.
I could hear the faint sound of her breathing.
I placed my cheek briefly against her hair.
“I'm not leaving you.”
The words came out before I could stop them.
I meant them.
I was not going to let anyone take her out of my arms without a very good reason.
Not after what I had found.
Not after hearing her ask whether she had been punished enough.
I moved toward the steps leading out of the sunken living room.
Each step felt strangely difficult.
I was frightened of jostling her.
I was frightened that her breathing might stop.
I was frightened of everything I still did not understand.
I kept my eyes on the doorway.
I needed to get her help.
That was the only clear thought in my head.
Then I heard a sound from upstairs.
I stopped.
It was not the air conditioning.
It was not the sound of my own feet.
Something heavy had moved on the floor above me.
I stood still and listened.
Jessi lay against my shoulder.
Her breath brushed my neck.
For a moment, there was silence again.
Then I heard a footstep.
A heavy one.
It came from somewhere near the upstairs landing.
I knew that part of the house.
I had walked along the upstairs hall many times during visits.
Arthur and Patricia's bedroom was there.
I remembered watching them go inside less than an hour earlier.
Patricia had said they were taking medication to sleep.
Arthur had followed her without looking at me.
I had believed they would remain upstairs until morning.
Now someone was moving.
I looked down at Jessi.
I tightened my hold without squeezing her.
I did not know who was awake.
I did not know whether the sound had anything to do with what I had done downstairs.
There were explanations.
Someone might have needed a glass of water.
Someone might have heard me moving around.
The house was quiet enough for ordinary sounds to travel.
But I could not forget the restraints.
Or Jessi's words.
Or the way Arthur had refused to discuss another doctor.
Or the way Patricia had guarded Jessi's bedroom.
Those memories were no longer separate.
They belonged to the same night now.
I stood beside the coffin holding my granddaughter.
I listened again.
Then I heard a door opening.
The sound came clearly from the direction of Arthur's bedroom.
I recognized the heavy movement of the door and the final little click as it opened.
Someone was awake upstairs.
Someone had come out of the room where my son and his wife had gone to rest.
I looked toward the staircase.
My first instinct was still to call Arthur's name.
That frightened me afterward.
Even with Jessi alive in my arms, some part of me wanted my son to help me understand what was happening.
He was the child I had raised.
I had loved him all his life.
I wanted to believe he would come downstairs, see Jessi breathing, and be as shocked as I was.
But I could not make myself call out.
Not yet.
I remembered how Jessi had looked at me.
How she had struggled to form the words.
How she had asked if the punishment was over.
I had no right to ignore that.
I shifted her slightly so her head was supported more securely.
Then I looked toward the stairs again.
The footsteps continued.
I could hear their weight against the floor.
One after another.
Closer now.
I stood beside the open coffin with Jessi in my arms, the loosened straps still lying across the satin behind me.
The house smelled of lilies.
The funeral was only hours away.
And the person coming from upstairs was about to find that the coffin was empty.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: I Was Holding My Living Granddaughter Beside Her Empty Coffin When I Heard My Son Coming Down the Stairs
I Stayed Behind After Everyone Went Upstairs Because Something About My Granddaughter’s Funeral Had Been Troubling Me for Months
Part 4 of 15
