RETURN TO NORMAL
PEYTON CHIANG
On the day of the funeral, it had rained in the small California town for the first time in a year. On the side of the hill in that town, teenagers liked to arrange white rocks into messages for all of town to read. Today the message read “Jason, go to prom w/me? Love Melissa.”
At the town’s mortuary, Jerry Milton, the funeral director, stomped out his cigarette, disappointed that the teens hadn’t conjured up a more interesting message. On some days, they would spell out “Where’s Waldo?” or “Are you really alive?” Questions that made Jerry think, but not today. He slipped back inside the mortuary to arrange the flowers when he heard a rustling in the chapel, almost like the creaking of a hinge.
He didn’t have to turn to see that the casket was opening and the dead boy was crawling out from where he lay.
The child wore the boyish baby-blue suit and pink tie that the mortician had dressed him in. Layers of powder and blush looked suddenly unfitting on the boy’s rosey face. For many seconds, Jerry stood motionless, unable to overcome his confusion and shock.
The boy was dead; he was sure of it. Still, while Jerry stood there, the boy wandered from photograph to photograph, observing himself. He stopped in front of a digital photo frame, which portrayed a slideshow of the boy with friends and family or alone.
The boy finally turned towards Jerry and spoke. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“You’re alive,” the funeral director said.
The boy didn’t reply to this question, so Jerry called in the embalmer and demanded to know what had happened. A tall, thin man with bulging eyes, the embalmer took one look at the boy and grabbed his own stomach as if he might be ill. He said, “Oh my.”
For several moments, the funeral director and the embalmer stared at the boy before discussing the conundrum between themselves. “How could this happen?” “What have we done?” “Did you see the death certificate?” While the two men conversed, the boy in the blue suit made his way into the blue-carpeted reception room, where he spotted trays of small cookies and crackers. Without inquiry, he took fistfulls and shoved them into his mouth.
At that moment, the boy’s younger sister, Amberli, strode into the room. She wore a black dress and black patent leather shoes, her brown hair pulled back into a somber bun. On her four-year-old frame, the dress looked as if she had slept in it the night before—it had wrinkles in all the wrong places.
“Daniel!” Amberli said loudly. “Save me some!” She dashed over to the table of food and nabbed a handful of fig newtons. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you,” she asked, munching.
“The last thing I remember was hearing someone call my name,” Daniel replied. His lips were covered in cookie crumbs.
“Mom said I could have your toys. Do I have to give’em back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Just then, a middle-aged couple strode into the room, bringing with them a stream of sunshine from the open door. The woman’s face looked as if she had not eaten or slept in some time. The balding man seemed to have grown more bald in the past week. They wore different shades of black.
Spotting Daniel first, the mother mouthed incomprehensible words before clasping her own face and mumbling, “How?” Shaking, she didn’t hold back tears. On the other hand, the father didn’t recognize his own son for several strange seconds.
“Hello, Mom and Dad,” Daniel said.
In unison, the parents embraced their child in the blue suit, not seeming to mind that the boy felt cold and waxy to the touch. Their actions were normal—any parent embracing a child that had risen from the dead would be expected to show affection. Many moments went by in silence this way, the boy enduring the kisses and hugs like a saint.
“I need something,” the boy said while his parents wiped their faces.
“Do you, son?” the mother asked, wiping bangs out of the boy’s eyes, too filled with emotion to focus on anything other than the sight of her son alive.
Just then the funeral director and embalmer entered the room, the latter chatting on his cell phone with the hospital, his voice possessing the excited wobble of someone who’d witnessed a miracle. For many minutes the parents and the funeral director conversed about this unprecedented event.
“I know I embalmed him,” the embalmer said, still talking on the phone. “I injected him with formaldehyde.”
“He had no pulse, rigamortis,” the funeral director added.
“God has blessed us!” the mother cried.
“I still want his bike,” the girl interjected.
Daniel continued to let himself be hugged, prodded, and stared at. “I’m fine,” he repeated again and again. After the mortuary became flooded with family and friends expecting a funeral, the morose event swiftly changed into happy chaos.
People wanted to touch the boy to see if he was actually alive. They couldn’t believe his body had warmed. Guests told other guests as they arrived. People pulled out their phones and took photos.
Hours later, television crews and crowds gathered outside, waiting for the chance to spot the boy. Media began interviewing guests as they left or entered the ceremony. Crowds grew, until the block became so flooded with people that cars could no longer get through.
Some of the people outside shouted, “He’s the devil child! He’s an abomination!”
Others took pictures and videos of themselves in front of the funeral home and posted them on social media. One woman bragged to her friend, “I actually touched him!”
Another man hollered, “Praise God! It’s a miracle!”
Some, afraid to approach the boy, filled the pews and the aisles, talking to each other, their eyes constantly looking in Daniel’s direction. The wooden ceiling above them seemed high and majestic. Beneath the central arch, a crystal chandelier hung down angelically, bright and shiny.
“Was I dead, Mother?” Daniel whispered to the woman who would not leave his side.
The mother was too busy conversing with guests to hear him. “I know, I’m so grateful he’s alive,” she said to her neighbor.
The crowds around him inside the funeral home seemed to be waiting, loitering around with expectant faces, as if they wondered whether another miracle would be witnessed. Friends and family took turns congratulating the parents on their good fortune. Even though the room overflowed with people and murmuring conversation, the boy felt isolated, as if he were alone.
Pastor Andrews and his wife pulled the parents aside and blessed them for their miracle child, as though the parents had somehow willed their child back to life.
The father asked, “You think maybe we should take him to the hospital, just to check him out?”
“Of course not. How can science justify God’s work!” the Pastor replied.
After more remarks like “God works in mysterious ways,” and “Praise be to God,” the conversation shifted. The pastor discussed the latest football game with the boy’s father while the pastor’s wife encouraged the boy’s mother: “You should write a book about this experience. Think about all people you could inspire!”
The friends of Daniel warmed up to him and cautiously approached him, asking him questions.
“What was it like?”
“Did you see anything?”
“Were you really dead?”
“Did you see God?”
Daniel couldn’t remember, so he clowned around with his school friends, running through the chapel playing tag. No one seemed to mind. “Let the boy play,” they said.
As night fell, the camera crews were the first to pack up. Soon the funeral crowd trickled out the exits. The boy got tired and sat on a pew while the people dispersed and his parents mingled.
“Come on, Daniel, we must get you home. You have school tomorrow,” his mother finally said.
With that statement, everything seemed to have returned to normal. Daniel was just a regular boy again. He could hear the sounds of nighttime traffic, the peace and calm of the mundane, the lacklusterness of being just a boy. Instantly, he remembered the way it felt to be alive in a world where nothing seemed to matter.
The funeral director shook hands with the last few stragglers, and the boy waited until no one was watching and his parents were gathering up photographs and food. Then he climbed back into the casket, where he lay down and wondered if life was nothing but a jumble of random events, like falling on his bike or getting food poisoning.
And he closed his eyes.
At the town’s mortuary, Jerry Milton, the funeral director, stomped out his cigarette, disappointed that the teens hadn’t conjured up a more interesting message. On some days, they would spell out “Where’s Waldo?” or “Are you really alive?” Questions that made Jerry think, but not today. He slipped back inside the mortuary to arrange the flowers when he heard a rustling in the chapel, almost like the creaking of a hinge.
He didn’t have to turn to see that the casket was opening and the dead boy was crawling out from where he lay.
The child wore the boyish baby-blue suit and pink tie that the mortician had dressed him in. Layers of powder and blush looked suddenly unfitting on the boy’s rosey face. For many seconds, Jerry stood motionless, unable to overcome his confusion and shock.
The boy was dead; he was sure of it. Still, while Jerry stood there, the boy wandered from photograph to photograph, observing himself. He stopped in front of a digital photo frame, which portrayed a slideshow of the boy with friends and family or alone.
The boy finally turned towards Jerry and spoke. “Who’s that?” he asked.
“You’re alive,” the funeral director said.
The boy didn’t reply to this question, so Jerry called in the embalmer and demanded to know what had happened. A tall, thin man with bulging eyes, the embalmer took one look at the boy and grabbed his own stomach as if he might be ill. He said, “Oh my.”
For several moments, the funeral director and the embalmer stared at the boy before discussing the conundrum between themselves. “How could this happen?” “What have we done?” “Did you see the death certificate?” While the two men conversed, the boy in the blue suit made his way into the blue-carpeted reception room, where he spotted trays of small cookies and crackers. Without inquiry, he took fistfulls and shoved them into his mouth.
At that moment, the boy’s younger sister, Amberli, strode into the room. She wore a black dress and black patent leather shoes, her brown hair pulled back into a somber bun. On her four-year-old frame, the dress looked as if she had slept in it the night before—it had wrinkles in all the wrong places.
“Daniel!” Amberli said loudly. “Save me some!” She dashed over to the table of food and nabbed a handful of fig newtons. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you,” she asked, munching.
“The last thing I remember was hearing someone call my name,” Daniel replied. His lips were covered in cookie crumbs.
“Mom said I could have your toys. Do I have to give’em back?”
“I’m not sure.”
Just then, a middle-aged couple strode into the room, bringing with them a stream of sunshine from the open door. The woman’s face looked as if she had not eaten or slept in some time. The balding man seemed to have grown more bald in the past week. They wore different shades of black.
Spotting Daniel first, the mother mouthed incomprehensible words before clasping her own face and mumbling, “How?” Shaking, she didn’t hold back tears. On the other hand, the father didn’t recognize his own son for several strange seconds.
“Hello, Mom and Dad,” Daniel said.
In unison, the parents embraced their child in the blue suit, not seeming to mind that the boy felt cold and waxy to the touch. Their actions were normal—any parent embracing a child that had risen from the dead would be expected to show affection. Many moments went by in silence this way, the boy enduring the kisses and hugs like a saint.
“I need something,” the boy said while his parents wiped their faces.
“Do you, son?” the mother asked, wiping bangs out of the boy’s eyes, too filled with emotion to focus on anything other than the sight of her son alive.
Just then the funeral director and embalmer entered the room, the latter chatting on his cell phone with the hospital, his voice possessing the excited wobble of someone who’d witnessed a miracle. For many minutes the parents and the funeral director conversed about this unprecedented event.
“I know I embalmed him,” the embalmer said, still talking on the phone. “I injected him with formaldehyde.”
“He had no pulse, rigamortis,” the funeral director added.
“God has blessed us!” the mother cried.
“I still want his bike,” the girl interjected.
Daniel continued to let himself be hugged, prodded, and stared at. “I’m fine,” he repeated again and again. After the mortuary became flooded with family and friends expecting a funeral, the morose event swiftly changed into happy chaos.
People wanted to touch the boy to see if he was actually alive. They couldn’t believe his body had warmed. Guests told other guests as they arrived. People pulled out their phones and took photos.
Hours later, television crews and crowds gathered outside, waiting for the chance to spot the boy. Media began interviewing guests as they left or entered the ceremony. Crowds grew, until the block became so flooded with people that cars could no longer get through.
Some of the people outside shouted, “He’s the devil child! He’s an abomination!”
Others took pictures and videos of themselves in front of the funeral home and posted them on social media. One woman bragged to her friend, “I actually touched him!”
Another man hollered, “Praise God! It’s a miracle!”
Some, afraid to approach the boy, filled the pews and the aisles, talking to each other, their eyes constantly looking in Daniel’s direction. The wooden ceiling above them seemed high and majestic. Beneath the central arch, a crystal chandelier hung down angelically, bright and shiny.
“Was I dead, Mother?” Daniel whispered to the woman who would not leave his side.
The mother was too busy conversing with guests to hear him. “I know, I’m so grateful he’s alive,” she said to her neighbor.
The crowds around him inside the funeral home seemed to be waiting, loitering around with expectant faces, as if they wondered whether another miracle would be witnessed. Friends and family took turns congratulating the parents on their good fortune. Even though the room overflowed with people and murmuring conversation, the boy felt isolated, as if he were alone.
Pastor Andrews and his wife pulled the parents aside and blessed them for their miracle child, as though the parents had somehow willed their child back to life.
The father asked, “You think maybe we should take him to the hospital, just to check him out?”
“Of course not. How can science justify God’s work!” the Pastor replied.
After more remarks like “God works in mysterious ways,” and “Praise be to God,” the conversation shifted. The pastor discussed the latest football game with the boy’s father while the pastor’s wife encouraged the boy’s mother: “You should write a book about this experience. Think about all people you could inspire!”
The friends of Daniel warmed up to him and cautiously approached him, asking him questions.
“What was it like?”
“Did you see anything?”
“Were you really dead?”
“Did you see God?”
Daniel couldn’t remember, so he clowned around with his school friends, running through the chapel playing tag. No one seemed to mind. “Let the boy play,” they said.
As night fell, the camera crews were the first to pack up. Soon the funeral crowd trickled out the exits. The boy got tired and sat on a pew while the people dispersed and his parents mingled.
“Come on, Daniel, we must get you home. You have school tomorrow,” his mother finally said.
With that statement, everything seemed to have returned to normal. Daniel was just a regular boy again. He could hear the sounds of nighttime traffic, the peace and calm of the mundane, the lacklusterness of being just a boy. Instantly, he remembered the way it felt to be alive in a world where nothing seemed to matter.
The funeral director shook hands with the last few stragglers, and the boy waited until no one was watching and his parents were gathering up photographs and food. Then he climbed back into the casket, where he lay down and wondered if life was nothing but a jumble of random events, like falling on his bike or getting food poisoning.
And he closed his eyes.
PEYTON CHIANG is a junior at Lynbrook High School in San Jose, California. For fun, he enjoys chasing spiders out of canvas tents while camping with the Boy Scouts, reading sci-fi novels, playing volleyball, and writing in all genres. He also plays cello for the El Camino Youth Orchestra where he likes to jam out to Mozart. His favorite greeting is “Wanna grab some food?”