marie aquilino
Jul 22, 2017 · 3 min read

Eddie

Eddy, with a “y”, is the blue, white, pink, green and yellow squishy stuffed bunny that dances the rumba and spins to the crazy techno sounds I make while entertaining my cat. My mom sent him in an Easter care package.

My Eddie, with an “ie,” joined me three years ago in late April. I was careening downhill on my way to the gym. She saddled up to me in full stride, laughed at what I was thinking in that instance, and has been with me ever since.

Sometimes she stands behind me as I type, her fingers tickling the back of my neck. And for a long time, Eddie sat on a corner of the bed. Her legs crossed Indian style, wearing light grey gym shorts that tie at the waist, a short sleeve sweatshirt and white ankle socks warm from the dryer. She laughed easily and told me about her day. But since I switched apartments, she doesn’t sit there anymore. I think the bed is too high.

It’s not as if I hear her voice. I hear the energy of her speaking, if that makes sense. So I don’t know the particulars.

When Eddie was deciding whether or not to stay, she would zap in and out, as if she was between channels on the radio, in a weird dissonant zone. But the zapping stopped a long time ago.

We often take trips together while I’m sleeping. Once we were on the beach, probably in southern California because that’s where I feel at home. We chased and caught one another in the waves.

And once I picked her up in a baby blue convertible with buckwheat leather seats.

“Hop in,” I said to the woman carrying a lunch box, a tattered valise and sporting Mary Janes.

“What took you so long,” I hear her asking.

“Had to get gas,” I say.

We stopped for a picnic and watched the orange and yellow streaks become black over the bay before leaving.

Another time, we were standing in a huge meadow. Eddie was a football field from me, close to the trees. She turned and ran in zig zags and circles, convinced that I wouldn’t catch her. I gave chase, running suddenly at a speed only cartoons run. I caught her around the waist. We laughed our laugh as we tumble to the ground. I brushed the grass from her hair.

I can’t make out Eddie’s features, so I can’t tell you what she looks like. Although I’m sure I would recognise her. Sometimes I think she looks like me — a little younger, thin, with athletic knees. Maybe she is me.

I can’t summon her. Though I’ve tried. But she is not my beck and call girl. Eddie shows up when she has time or needs a break. Sometimes she’ll stay all day, but that’s rare. When she stays over, she’s always the first to wake up.

I’ve been told things about her by someone else — someone who isn’t imaginary. Eddie, I’m told, has good taste and a radiant smile. She’s a foreigner and very different from my American roots. There’s more. But I can’t tell you.

I thought she had come because of the loneliness. To keep me upright. I thought she had come because of what happened with Kate. But once I started to colour and draw — to cut out shapes and mix ink with gauche, the loneliness soaked into the paper like a stain and disappeared. She was still here.

Don’t get me wrong. Eddie is not a ghost. Eddie is not like Peter, who passed between worlds when my grief opened a door that led to his anguish. Peter was a ghost. So I had to ask him to leave. And Eddie’s not a fragment like the dark grey cat I see slipping in and out of here and there.

Sometimes, I think Eddie must be hawk energy, seeing out beyond my view and returning with comfort and laughter.

At night, Eddie comes to me as bursts of yellow and orange light just before I’m about to doze off, her energy mixing with mine.

But today is Sunday, so I’ll think of her as a prayer.

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