Coma Girl: Part 4 (Kindle Single) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  October 1, Saturday

  October 2, Sunday

  October 3, Monday

  October 4, Tuesday

  October 5, Wednesday

  October 6, Thursday

  October 7, Friday

  October 8, Saturday

  October 9, Sunday

  October 10, Monday

  October 11, Tuesday

  October 12, Wednesday

  October 13, Thursday

  October 14, Friday

  October 15, Saturday

  October 16, Sunday

  October 17, Monday

  October 18, Tuesday

  October 19, Wednesday

  October 20, Thursday

  October 21, Friday

  October 22, Saturday

  October 23, Sunday

  October 24, Monday

  October 25, Tuesday

  October 26, Wednesday

  October 27, Thursday

  October 28, Friday

  October 29, Saturday

  October 30, Sunday

  October 31, Monday

  Bonus! Interview with an estate planning attorney: What will happen if YOU wind up in a coma?

  A FREE Coma Girl Coloring Sheet!

  A note from the author

  Other works by Stephanie Bond

  About the Author

  Copyright information

  COMA GIRL

  (Part 4)

  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.

  October 1, Saturday

  WHEN THE DOOR opened and I heard my mother’s voice, I tensed, hoping she’d brought my dad or Aunt Winnie… or was talking to one of the nurses or security guards… or was on the phone closing a deal on a McMansion in a part of Atlanta I wasn’t familiar with.

  “… can’t understand why she wants to meet us here,” my mom said.

  My sister Sidney’s long-suffering sigh is unmistakable.

  “ADA Spence said it would draw less attention if she came here than if we went down to her office.”

  I retreated from the sound of Sid’s voice. I was awake all night playing my recalled memories of the car crash over and over. Part of me wants to magically realize the scenes in my head are false memories or bad dreams. Instead I keep remembering small details and nuances that reinforce the realization I wasn’t been driving when my tan Ford Escort hit Keith Young’s yellow Jaguar head-on.

  Sidney was.

  And she’d lied, had let everyone—including me—believe I was driving.

  “What do you think she wants to talk about?” my mother asked.

  Another sigh. “Marigold’s case, I assume.”

  Sid sounds preoccupied—with her own guilt?

  “Maybe the D.A.’s office found out there was a payoff to the lab to alter the results of Keith Young’s blood tests.”

  “That would be such good news,” Sid agreed.

  “Is David coming?”

  “Um, no. He had a commitment he couldn’t get out of.”

  “Well, this was last minute. I had to postpone showing a penthouse condo, and my broker isn’t happy.”

  “Couldn’t Daddy have come instead?”

  My mother snorted. “You mean actually participate in our family?”

  Their conversation was cut short by the arrival of ADA Spence. I can tell from her curt greeting that she isn’t delivering good news.

  “I thought this would be the most private place we could talk,” the woman said.

  “About?” Sid prompted.

  “If either of you know anything about the assault on Keith Young, I need for you to come clean.”

  “What?” my mother said. “That’s preposterous.”

  “What makes you think we know something?” Sid asked, in a voice that makes me think she knows something.

  “I’m not saying you do,” the woman said carefully. “But Marigold has a lot of supporters, including a big social media following, and it’s come to our attention that threats were made against Keith Young.”

  “People go on social media to blow off steam,” Sid said.

  “Maybe,” Spence said. “Maybe not. Also, Keith Young told us his attacker seemed to be well-trained. ‘Professional’ was the word he used, maybe military or ex-military.”

  I recalled my brother Alex’s comment to my dad that one of his buddies in Atlanta had offered to deliver ‘street justice’ to Keith Young.

  My mother and Sid were silent.

  “We know your son is in the Army,” Spence added. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  “No,” my mother said, her voice firm.

  “I’m trying not to suspect your husband isn’t here because he knows something—or because he did it.”

  My mother scoffed. “Robert isn’t physical enough to pull off something like that.”

  How does my mother manage to make a denial of a criminal act sound like an indictment on my father’s manhood?

  “We don’t know anything about the assault on Keith Young,” my mother added. “And while we’re not happy he was injured, you can’t expect us to lose sleep over it, either.”

  “I understand how you must feel,” the ADA said. “But if you know something and you don’t report it, this could go bad for you.”

  Sid guffawed. “Bad for us? If you and the D.A. haven’t noticed, things are already bad for us.”

  “I’m sorry. I misspoke. Of course things are not good.”

  “And we have no interest in making things worse,” my mother said evenly.

  “Okay,” the woman said, sounding mollified. “If you do notice anything relevant in Marigold’s social media stream or if you learn of who is behind the assault, even a rumor, you will call me immediately?”

  “Yes,” my mother said.

  The woman’s shoes clicked on the floor in retreat, then the door opened and closed.

  “Of all the nerve,” my mother sputtered.

  “I know,” Sid said, sounding more upset than I realized. “I wish David had been here.” Her voice broke o
ff on a sob.

  “Oh, honey. Is everything all right between the two of you?”

  “I’m having… second thoughts.”

  “About David?”

  “No, not about David.”

  “What then?”

  Perhaps about lying to the entire planet?

  Sid sighed again. “I’m having second thoughts about sitting out this semester.”

  “Absolutely, you should go back to Boston,” my mother said. “I never wanted you to interrupt your studies.”

  “But I hate leaving you and Daddy to deal with Marigold alone.”

  Deal with me—ouch.

  “We’ll manage. And David will still help, won’t he?”

  “Yes, of course. And I’ll still be able to lend a hand with the social media accounts.”

  “Then go.”

  Sid sighed yet again. “Maybe I’ll go back to talk to my instructors and see if the semester can be salvaged. I’ve only missed a couple of weeks’ worth of classes.”

  “We’ll book the next flight,” my mother said, as if it were decided. “Walk with me to my car.”

  “I’d like to stay,” Sid said, “and say goodbye to Marigold.”

  “Oh, okay,” my mother said, as if she just remembered I am still in the room. “You’re such a good sister.”

  I picture Mom squeezing Sid’s shoulder and bestowing her with a look of parental pride and adoration. My turn to sigh.

  My mother left. I wondered if Sid was just trying to get rid of her to make a phone call under the pretense of saying goodbye to me.

  So I was surprised to hear the clink of the rosary my sister had hung on my bed, and the fervent words of prayer, so fervent I began to soften toward my sister. And I remembered something she’d uttered on a previous visit.

  It was just a little lie. To protect us… to protect Mom and Dad. They were so distressed, I couldn’t bear to pile on. You understand, don’t you?

  I understand now what she’d meant. And darn it, I have to agree that having one daughter in a coma, and one under suspicion for causing the accident might’ve been too much for my fractured parents to handle. And Sid had shouldered a lot of the responsibility for making the best out of a terrible situation.

  The rosary beads clinked against my bed rail.

  “Goodbye, Marigold. I’ll be praying for us.”

  For us.

  Earlier, when I’d thought Sid was lying to the police about me talking on the phone when the accident occurred was to cover for me, I conceded if the tables were turned, I’d lie for Sid. And in a way, I am doing that now.

  So how can I be angry?

  October 2, Sunday

  “TIGERS AND BRAVES at home,” Detective Terry said as he walked in. “This is the last regular game of the season, Marigold. I know it’s been ugly, but I still hate to see it end.”

  So do I. It’s been our thing, me and the detective. Will he stop visiting?

  “It’s cooling down outside. Where did the summer go?”

  Indeed. I’ve missed an entire season of brutal Atlanta temperatures and off-the-charts pollen count. It’s depressing. Is this how it’s going to be? Me lying here while seasons slide by, like my roommates Karen Suh and Jill Wheatley? If so, would I be better off not to have a sense of time passing?

  “I brought wings from Taco Mac,” Jack said. “I figured you for the adventurous type, considering your double life as a burlesque dancer. So I got them with Three Mile Island spice.”

  Ooh, good choice, Detective. I do like spicy food.

  He dragged the chair over to assume the watching position and brought up the baseball game on whatever gadget he had with him—I assume his phone. Detective Terry did not strike me as an iPad kind of guy.

  “Falcons play today, too,” he said. “At home. I heard Keith Young wanted to play to show everyone he’s recovered from the beating, but the coaches didn’t think it was a good idea.”

  He popped open a soda can. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to talk to your brother about his possible involvement. The D.A. wants this put to bed to squash some of the controversy.”

  I know Alex was angry on my behalf, but I don’t think he’d ask someone to beat up Keith Young. Granted, if he were here, he might do something like that on his own, but I can’t see him asking someone else to risk getting hurt.

  “I heard your sister went back to Boston. She came by the station and asked for your cell phones again, but I had to tell her no because the investigation is still open.”

  With a start I realized Jack Terry had been suspicious about the accident from the beginning. Had he sensed Sidney wasn’t telling the whole truth? And would he figure out what really happened? Although, with Keith Young’s blood alcohol content below the legal level, it seems likely the investigation will be closed soon.

  “Meanwhile,” Jack said, “I’ve been reading through your social media posts to see if anyone threatened Keith Young. No offense, but people are kind of crazy. I mean, I understand why they’d be interested in your situation, but I’m blown away by the number of followers you have and the things people say.” He gave a little laugh. “Do you know how many marriage proposals you have waiting for you when you wake up?”

  And none of them are the marriage proposal I want. Poor little Coma Girl. Knocked up with a baby by a man who is marrying someone else. It’s so Melrose Place.

  He tore into a bag, and the strong scent of the hot wings filled the air.

  “But it’s been a good exercise for me,” he continued. “I’m a dummy when it comes to social media. Carlotta keeps saying I need to join the rest of the world.”

  Carlotta again, not the mother of his baby, Liz… hm.

  “I’m not a complete Neanderthal. I text, dammit, and it’s hard when you have big fingers.”

  The scent of the wings grew stronger, and I heard him licking his big fingers, so I assumed he was chowing down. A sneeze sounded—the spicy food is getting to Detective Terry.

  “Marigold?” he said in an odd voice. “Was that you?”

  Wait—was it me? Did I sneeze? Is it a good sign? And more importantly, do I have snot all over my face?

  “Hold on,” he said, then his footsteps sounded and the door opened. “Could I get a doctor in here? She sneezed! Coma Girl sneezed.”

  October 3, Monday

  “WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME a sneeze made national headlines?” Gina asked.

  “This could be a first,” Dr. Jarvis agreed. “If Marigold sneezed.”

  “The Detective swears he heard her sneeze yesterday.”

  “You were the first person in the room. Do you believe him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why hasn’t she done it again?” Jarvis sniffed, then gave his nose a hearty blow. “We’ve tried pepper and smelling salts and all we’ve managed to do is clear our own sinuses.”

  “Doctor, if Marigold did sneeze, what does that mean, exactly?”

  “Hard to say.” He made a thoughtful noise. “It’s unusual, for sure. Being in a coma is like being in a deep sleep. When you’re asleep, so is the part of your brain that affects involuntary responses, like sneezing and yawning.”

  “So if she sneezed, that would mean a part of her brain is waking up?”

  “If she sneezed,” he agreed.

  “But I’m confused… she responds to pain—that’s involuntary, isn’t it?”

  “The pain response is more primal, and more complex. It’s controlled by as many as three parts of the brain.”

  “Wow, the brain is so complicated.”

  “And there’s still so much we don’t know about the brain, compounded by the fact that everyone’s brain is different. It’s why we’re never a hundred percent sure of a coma patient’s prognosis. Sometimes I think neuroscience is part science, and part science fiction.”

  “Is there anything else you want to try to trigger a sneeze?”

  “Not for now,” he said. “But do you have time to help me administer a motor sensory
test?”

  “My shift is over, but I’m happy to stay,” she said.

  “That’s nice of you, Gina. You don’t have anyone at home waiting for you?”

  Ooh, sly, Dr. Jarvis.

  “Just my son,” she said. “But he’s at my sister’s house with his cousins, and I’m sure he won’t mind if I’m a tad late.”

  “Something tells me the best part of his day is when he sees you,” Dr. Jarvis said.

  Gina cooed.

  He cleared his throat. “Okay, then, let’s see if Marigold has improved.” The click of his penlight sounded. “Pupils are dilated and fixed. Heart rate is slightly elevated, but that’s probably due to the baby.”

  He continued to check and report on my vital signs, and everything seemed normal. Then he went through a full battery of touch tests to my hands and feet, using a probe, a brush, and his hands.

  The good news: I could feel sensations when he said he was holding my fingers and toes, like the pings I felt when Teddy and Gina removed my nail polish. The bad news: I couldn’t seem to make my appendages move in response to his commands. In my mind, I’m gaining ground, but I know Dr. Jarvis was disappointed.

  “How is the baby?” Gina asked.

  “As good as can be expected,” he said. “We’ll administer another ultrasound soon. Thanks for staying Gina. Go home to your son.” He sounded tired.

  “Don’t give up on Marigold, Dr. Jarvis. She needs us.”

  “I know,” he said.

  They left the room. I was so touched by their words, I wondered if my eyes were watering.

  Then I heard myself sneeze.

  Yes!

  October 4, Tuesday

  “I TOLD YOU NOT to have kids,” Joanna said, her voice accusing. “Dammit, Marigold, you were the person I looked to for hope that women could live fearlessly and independently.”

  Let that sink in for a minute… a woman who’s married to a doctor and is the mother of beatific twins is living vicariously through Coma Girl.

  Joanna sighed as if the world was sitting on her liver. It also gave me a good nose full of the bourbon she was nipping from the flask that has apparently become her go-to accessory. Knowing Joanna, it’s Dior.

  “But maybe you’ll be better suited to it than I am. I’m a terrible mother, as my husband often reminds me. And a terrible wife.” She laughed. “But I’m a good drinker.” She took another drink to prove her point.