Coma Girl: Part 6 (Kindle Single) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  December 1, Thursday

  December 2, Friday

  December 3, Saturday

  December 4, Sunday

  December 5, Monday

  December 6, Tuesday

  December 7, Wednesday

  December 8, Thursday

  December 9, Friday

  December 10, Saturday

  December 11, Sunday

  December 12, Monday

  December 13, Tuesday

  December 14, Wednesday

  December 15, Thursday

  December 16, Friday

  December 17, Saturday

  December 18, Sunday

  December 19, Monday

  December 20, Tuesday

  December 21, Wednesday

  December 22, Thursday

  December 23, Friday

  December 24, Saturday

  December 25, Sunday

  December 26, Monday

  December 27, Tuesday

  December 28, Wednesday

  December 29, Thursday

  December 30, Friday

  December 31, Saturday

  A FREE Coma Girl Coloring Sheet!

  A note from the author

  Other works by Stephanie Bond

  About the Author

  Copyright information

  COMA GIRL

  (Part 6)

  by

  Stephanie Bond

  You can learn a lot when people think you aren’t listening…

  Introduction

  For as long as I can remember, I’ve had insomnia. I’ve always been a night owl and a morning person, surviving on five, maybe six, hours of sleep cobbled together in restless bouts. In hindsight, I realize all my life I sort of resented having to sleep. I suppose I was afraid on some subconscious level I’d miss something important or exciting or unrepeatable. Which makes my current predicament all the more ironic.

  I am in a deep vegetative state… better known as a coma.

  Other people refer to my situation as “sad,” “heartbreaking”… even “tragic.” I find all the attention rather strange considering before I landed in Bed 3 in the long-term care ward of Brady Hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, I was the girl no one paid much attention to. I was the middle child—middling pretty, middling smart, a middling achiever with a middling personality in a middling job at a middling company. My name is Marigold Kemp, but these days I’m more commonly referred to as Coma Girl. Apparently, I have a bit of a following. I’ve trended on social media. I have my own hashtag.

  Since it appears I’m going to be here for a while, I thought I might as well start telling my story; there have been a few twists and turns as to how I got here, and doubtless more to come. The list of pluses of being in a coma is pretty darn short, but if I had to name the best thing, it’s that you can learn a lot when people think you aren’t listening. I am the ultimate eavesdropper, and friend, if I ever wake up, I’m going to write a tell-all.

  Meanwhile, I’ll tell you.

  December 1, Thursday

  I SLOWLY BECAME conscious of my surroundings—the muted chirp of the hospital’s PA system, the stinging odor of disinfectant, the unfamiliar chill on my face.

  The fact that I could feel my skin disoriented me at first, then the memories of the past few days came flooding back—the seizures, the sensation of being forced through a tunnel, the bright light I’d been sure was the combustion of life meeting death, then the stupefied declaration I was…

  Awake.

  Am I still, or had I dreamed it?

  My heartbeat is pounding in my ears, fast and thick. I gingerly open my eyes and see cloudy grayness. I blink a few times for the sheer pleasure of moving my eyelids. I love my eyelids, I decide—they move beautifully up and down… up and down… up and down…

  They push the liquid gathered in my eyes onto my cheeks, creating little rivulets down the sides of my face to my ears. My deprived corneas are reeling, trying to focus in the shadows of the room. Gradually I make out a dim recessed light bulb overhead and a grid of stained ceiling tiles. They are as beautiful as a piece of artwork. I soak them in, vowing I will never again take the gift of vision for granted.

  Cautiously, I inhale, and when nothing bad happens, I pull more air into my lungs for the sheer joy of hearing and feeling my lungs inflate, then exhale slowly, experimentally. When it seems to work okay, I do it again… and again. I quietly thank my body for doing the basic things to keep me alive when I couldn’t tell it what to do.

  With a healthy influx of oxygen, all my senses scream to life and I feel assaulted trying to process all the inputs. I blink my eyes wider. I know I’m not in the vegetable patch because there are no windows and the noises are subtly different—perhaps ICU?

  I slowly and laboriously turn my head a quarter of an inch—apparently my muscles are not bouncing back as quickly as my corneas. I’m immobile, but I can feel my feet—my right one is uncovered, so I take that as a good sign. Before I can absorb more of my surroundings, my stomach growls… no, wait—that was movement, not noise.

  I froze. My baby?

  There it is again—a sweep from one side of my abdomen to the other.

  My heart took flight. Hello, my sweet little baby girl. Your mommy is awake now! I can feel you inside me!

  A painful kick landed, and I feel my bladder yield. Since I don’t feel any wetness, I assume I’m still wearing a pee bag.

  I hope this is not a foreshadowing of my relationship with my daughter. If she’s angry in the womb, there are rocky roads ahead.

  I hear footsteps and the rustle of clothing and suddenly my view is blocked by a blob. When the blob splits into a toothy grin, I realize it’s a face… of a man… whom I don’t recognize.

  “Well, well, Marigold, we meet at last. I’m Dr. Jarvis.”

  My heartrate spikes—my hero. He has curly dark hair, and kind eyes behind thick glasses. I can’t get my vocal chords to move, but I feel my mouth spasm.

  He grinned wider. “I’ll take that as a smile. You, Miss Marigold, are a medical miracle. You’re giving Dr. Tyson fits over how she’s going to write up your paperwork.”

  In place of a laugh, I manage a squeaky little sigh.

  “The feeding tube will make it difficult to talk,” he said gently. “All I need to know is if you understand me.”

  I tried to nod, but nothing happened, and I can’t squeak again.

  “Marigold, blink twice if you can understand me.”

  I do.

  He brought his fist to his mouth and seemed overcome with emotion. “Good girl,” he said hoarsely. “Okay, then, you should know you were in a car accident and you’ve been in a coma for six months. Today is December first. You’ve been through a lot, but yesterday you opened your eyes. You’re in the intensive care unit so we can monitor you… and your baby. You’re pregnant, Marigold. Do you understand?”

  I blink twice.

  “Okay, good. You’re in the last trimester, and the baby is fine as far as we can tell. We were afraid you might slip back into a coma during the night, but your condition seems stable. We’ll be doing another CT scan soon, just to take a look at your brain. Your family was exhausted, so we sent them all home.” He grinned again. “To give the staff a break.”

  I blink twice.

  He laughed. “But I’m sure they’ll be back soon. And the guy named Duncan? He seems devoted to you.”

  I blink twice.

  “Okay, enough chatter for now. Can you move your fingers? Either hand?”

  He clasps my hands into his big warm paws. I concentrate and my right thumb jumps.

  �
�Good. Are you in pain?”

  I conduct a quick survey. My head and back twinge, but honestly, I don’t mind—I want to feel it. I blink once.

  “No? I’ll ask again—blink twice for yes, once for no. Are you in pain?”

  I blink once.

  “Okay, then. That’s good news. I’ll tell the nurses to ask you, though, each time they come in to check on you. Don’t be alarmed that you can’t move or speak—you’ll just have to retrain your muscles.”

  When he starts to pull away, I make a desperate noise.

  He looks concerned. “You’re not in pain?”

  I blink once.

  “It’s something else?”

  I blink twice. And grunt through the pain, high, then low, then high again.

  His grin widened. “Music. Music?”

  I blink twice.

  He laughed out loud. “I bring you some music. Meanwhile, get some rest. You’re going to need it. The entire world wants to hear from you, Coma Girl.”

  December 2, Friday

  “HER EYES LOOK GREENER,” my Mom said, leaning over me.

  She would die if she knew how unflattering her face looks at this angle.

  “Her eyes look the same as always.”

  Dad is also leaning over me, still on crutches. He’s aged in the six months since I’ve seen him.

  Mom squinted. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Carrie. She has my sister’s eyes.”

  Not unless his sister is related to the man my mother begat me with, but I’m staying out of this.

  My mother cast a worried glance at my father, then back to me. “Marigold, can you hear us?”

  I blink twice.

  “Is twice yes or no?” she asked Dad.

  “Twice is yes. She wouldn’t have blinked at all if she couldn’t hear you.”

  “Maybe she read my lips. Marigold,” she said, exaggerating her mouth movements like a mime, “do you know who we are?”

  I blink once.

  My mother gasped.

  Ha—just playing with you, Mom. I blink twice.

  “There—she does know who we are,” my dad said, sounding relieved. “Do you know where you are, sweetheart?”

  I blink twice.

  “Yes? Good. I mean, not good that you’re in the hospital, but good you know what’s going on.” He cleared his throat. “You’re probably wondering how you got here.”

  “Do we really need to go into that now?” my mother asked.

  “She deserves to know, Carrie.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “Marigold, you and Sidney were in a car accident Memorial Day weekend, and you received a head injury. Another car was involved—a Falcons football player named Keith Young.”

  “His Jaguar hit your Escort head-on,” Dad said. “It’s totaled,” he added as a sorrowful afterthought. “And apparently Sidney was driving.”

  “That’s what she said just before you woke up,” Mom rushed to say. “But she was so upset, frankly, we’re still not sure which one of you was driving.”

  “Carrie,” my dad said sternly, “the detective found Sidney’s DNA on the airbag.”

  Ah, so Jack Terry had been on to my sister and hadn’t needed the garbled message Aunt Winnie had passed to him.

  “As if it even matters who was driving,” my mother said with a wave.

  “You know it does matter,” Dad said lightly.

  “But Keith Young was driving drunk.”

  “Not according to his blood alcohol test.”

  “Whose side are you on, Robert? What if that tipster was right and the lab was paid off to say he wasn’t drunk?”

  “The fact that Sidney lied about what happened, and now all this mess with David Spooner embezzling from the foundation… none of it looks good.”

  “I never trusted that man. He took advantage of Sidney.”

  “And Marigold,” Dad added. “When they find him, I’ll going to kill him.”

  “You’re not going to kill him, Robert. That would be murder.”

  “Then I’m going to make him wish he was dead.”

  “That, I will support,” Mom said. “I’ll hold him down while you beat him to a pulp with your crutch.”

  And then they kissed.

  Kissed. On the lips and everything. It was just a peck, but was the first gesture of affection between them I’d witnessed in…

  Wait—it was the first gesture of affection between them I’d witnessed, period.

  “Sidney is busy, um, sorting things out,” my mom said vaguely. “But she’ll come to visit soon.”

  “And Alex had to go back to Afghanistan, but he’s ecstatic you’re awake. He said his entire unit celebrated.”

  I’m so glad. Alex had said such touching things when he’d visited at Thanksgiving.

  “But there’s something else we have to tell you,” my mother said primly. “Somehow or another, Marigold, you became pregnant.”

  Somehow or another?

  “And there’s a young man hanging around who says he’s the father,” my dad said in a suspicious tone. “A Duncan Weaver?”

  “Wheeler, dear.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Anyway, Marigold, do you understand you’re going to have a baby?” Mom asked.

  I blink twice.

  “And is this Duncan person the father?” Dad asked.

  I blink twice.

  They looked pained for a few seconds, as if they were picturing me and Duncan procreating.

  Mom sighed. “It’ll be a stocky child.”

  “But beloved,” my dad said warmly.

  “Yes,” my mom said.

  And they kissed again! Who are these people, and will they please adopt me?

  December 3, Saturday

  “YOUR PARENTS grudgingly gave me permission to sit in when they talked to your doctors,” Duncan said. “Do you want to know what’s going on?”

  I blink twice.

  He laughed. “Of course you do.”

  I can’t stop staring at him. His hand-rumpled hair is the color of brass, his eyes are deep brown. He’s so earthy and handsome, rocking a gray corduroy shirt. I’m still marveling over the fact that he left his fiancée Trina at the altar to come to my bedside and say he loved me when it looked like I might never wake up, and when he thought I was having someone else’s baby.

  I mean, that’s love, right? Big, fat love. The kind of love that Emily Dickinson wrote about… the kind of love that transcends all. Because it’s hard to imagine Duncan and I will face anything more challenging than the circumstances of the past six months.

  He grinned. “Did you know the baby is a girl?”

  Only because I’d seen her in my mind just before I’d awakened. I blink twice.

  “Wow, a little girl. I hope she looks like you.”

  Speaking of… I wonder what I look like these days. Is my face still a crosshatch of scars? Is my hair growing back from the last surgery? Without my regular nurses, I’ll bet no one is bothering to cover up the bandage with a head scarf.

  “They’re going to move you into a room tomorrow.”

  Good—I could have regular visitors again. I wonder if they would move me back to the long-term care ward.

  “Then you’ll have physical therapy and speech therapy, and they’ll wean you off the feeding tube. Does that sound good?”

  I blink twice.

  He smiled and nodded, then his face clouded. “Marigold, I owe you an apology.”

  I wonder if he can see my confusion.

  “It’s no secret I’ve made a mess of things. Trina is hurt and angry, and her parents are just plain angry.” He made a contrite noise. “I’ve made selfish decisions that affected other people, including you. It occurred to me that even though the baby is mine, you might not want me here. When I barged into your room the day of the wedding and told you how I feel about you, I foolishly assumed you could hear me… and that you felt the same way about me.”

  No one had yet asked me if
I was aware of what was happening around me during the coma… if I could hear and understand and deduce. Depending on who asks, things could get tricky.

  Duncan took my hand and squeezed it. “Do you want me here, Marigold?”

  I blink twice, and for good measure, I squeeze his hand back.

  “Hey, I felt that!” He exhaled and brought my hand to his mouth for a kiss. “I’m not going to ask how you feel about me. We can talk about that later. Right now you need to concentrate on getting strong, okay?”

  I blink twice.

  “Okay,” he said, then smiled again. “I’m not trying to steal your thunder, but I feel like I’m the one who just woke up.”

  December 4, Sunday

  THE DOOR TO MY ROOM opened and when I heard the bootsteps on the floor, so did my eyes.

  “Hi, Marigold. I’m Jack Terry.”

  Holy Testosterone—the man is a specimen in jeans and a black fleece. Now that I’m back in the long-term care ward, my bed is slightly elevated, so I can see without people standing over me. And the tall, bulky detective is definitely a treat for the eyes.

  Poor Carlotta.

  He grinned. “I heard you woke up.”

  I try to smile and feel my mouth twitch. Under the covers, my toes are also curling.

  “Those are some pretty green eyes,” he said, coming to stand by my bed. He held up a potted red poinsettia. “I brought you a plant. The nicest Home Depot had, but not as nice as all the flowers you’ve received, I see.”

  The area next to the window was overflowing with plants and flowers from well-wishers, but none were more special than his gesture. The black-eyed Susans around his houseboat must be gone—or maybe the houseboat was gone. If Jack was spending time at Home Depot, maybe he‘d bought a fixer upper.

  “I’ve been warned not to stay long, that you have a physical therapy session.”

  But I needed for him to stay long enough for me to somehow communicate to him at this very moment, Sister Irene was holding a man captive at her home and torturing him. I wasn’t as concerned about saving the life of the man who’d murdered her sister as I was about saving Sister Irene’s life. If she killed him, it was so clearly premeditated, she’d probably get the death penalty. If Jack got to them before she killed the man, the most she would be found guilty of would be kidnapping and general bad nun behavior.

  On the other hand, if word got out I’d heard everything being spoken, discussed, and confessed over my bed and in my room the past few months, how would my friends and family react? Jack himself might be uncomfortable knowing I actually remembered all the personal things he’d related about his own life.