Eli

I always find myself thinking about Eli at the most random times during the day. I could be doing the dishes and all of a sudden, his adorable youthful face would pop into my mind. He really was a likeable kid, and not all kids are likeable. Actually, most kids are terribly annoying, but not Eli. He was intelligent. Even as a five-year-old he was more intelligent than most grown-ups I know. He was incessantly curious. One time, I came home from playing baseball outside and he asked, out of the blue, how baseball gloves were made. Mind you, he was probably only three or four at the time. He would stare at you with those big brown eyes and tilted his head to one side. I’d always known he was going to be an incredible person. A doctor or something, something I could never dream of being in a million years.

He really was a terrific kid. I know you might not believe me when I say this, but I don’t say such things lightly, even when that person is family. Take my father for example, he, on the other hand, isn’t the brightest tool in the box. My father is the kind of person that would ask you a simple question and after he got the answer, tell you that he knew it all along and was just testing you. He thinks everyone believes him when he says that. It really is laughable. Pride and ignorance are two of the deadliest traits in a person, especially combined. Deadly. Such a funny word to say considering what has transpired in the past few months. I still haven’t grasped the entirety of the incident. Or maybe I’m just too much of a coward to face the truth: Eli is dead.

It’s difficult for me to feel emotions now. It’s not that I’m an awfully cold-hearted bastard or anything; I just can’t bring myself to shed tears. My therapist said that everyone grieves differently. But what if I’m not actually grieving at all? What if I’m incapable of feeling things? She said I’m probably still in shock from what had happened. I highly doubt it; it’s been months, and I should be able to feel overwhelming heart-wrenching devastating sadness by now. But there’s nothing. If anything, I’m merely confused and disappointed. They say it’s your brain that controls the emotions, not the romanticized version others call heartbreak. It should be brainbreak. Maybe my brain is broken.

From what I can gather, here is what happened on that day. I was at school when I received the news. From the principle, no less. Everyone let out a sharp gasp when, with a somber look and intimidating glare, he came to me in person just to bring me the news. He didn’t do it in front of everyone, of course. That would be tactless for a man of his stature. He led me outside the classroom and with a pained look on his face, told me he had just received a phone call from my mother. We weren’t allowed phones in school. I’ve always hated that rule. I can’t really describe what was going through my mind when he said that. I was rather more focused on his swollen face. He looked like he hated being there, embarrassed almost, as if he was trying hard to look woeful but ended up looking constipated instead. His words sort of blended together, blurred, in slow motion. It was like my brain wasn’t ready for such impactful information so it shut down instead. When you think about it, it’s just like a computer. 

I had to rush to the hospital by myself. I wasn’t exactly rushed since I had to take the bus. Where I live, the bus is almost always packed with students. It always distinctly smells like sweat and urine. Frankly, it’s disgusting, but I don’t have any other choice. When I arrived at the hospital, I saw my mom at the emergency entrance. She looked pale and dumbfounded. Her eyes were wide as if they had been pried open. I had never seen her like that. She always struck me as a fierce, stoic person. When she would cry, inevitably, she would lock herself in her room and stifled her whimpers with a pillow. She thought we couldn’t hear, but we did, a lot of times. We knew the routine so well. Sometimes I would just plug in my headphones and blasted music. It was a pretense that everything in my life was working smoothly the way it should. Eli would be beside me, reading a book or something. He was always reading a book, the kid. 

As soon as she saw me, tears started rolling down her cheeks. They looked like pearls almost, bright and clear, one after the other. She said we should go inside to check on my father. He had a few minor injuries, primarily on his arms. He probably had to wear a cast for some time. She suggested it as if she was scared to do so herself, scared of seeing my father I mean. I don’t blame her; I would be too. If my kid was found dead in a car accident with his father, I wouldn’t know what to do either. In the end we still went inside the hospital. What other choice do we have? It’s not like Eli could be brought back alive if we were to do something different. My father looked disheveled, a handful of scrapes on his face and a broken arm. He hung his head down like a convict being sentenced in court. His sentence was a life full of guilt and shame, over killing his own son. Some would argue that’s infinitely worse than a tangible sentence in prison. I had a feeling that he would opt for the latter if he could. 

The car was flipped upside down, the police told us. Eli was in the backseat unsecured; that’s why the trauma was so grave that he was pronounced dead on the scene. Curiously the windows weren’t broken or even cracked, except for the one side where my father was trying to pull Eli out. Even with passing Eli had to leave something so curiously intriguing behind. I know if he were still around, he would be asking all sorts of questions. How is that possible, he would inquire, with those big brown eyes, until he was satisfied with an answer. His big brown eyes, long eyelashes batting invitingly, as if grateful to be able to see the world in all its colors and greatness.

I actually have no idea, I said to him, looking at my baseball gloves, sort of ashamed that I couldn’t answer a question from a four-year-old. Well, maybe we should look it up together, he said, head tilted to one side. He always did that when he was curious about something. Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and told him what a terrific kid he was. He really was.