Coma Girl: part 1 Read online

  But I knew what she meant. My family loves me, they’re just not used to worrying about me, accommodating me… dealing with me. And I understood they had their own lives. Since it was the Fourth of July, my dad had the day off from his job, so I was getting them both at once. Plus I remembered that the hospital is close to Centennial Park, so I was on the way. Like Starbucks.

  “Sidney went down early with a group of friends,” my mother said. “After all, she’s supposed to be on summer vacation. She works so hard at her studies, she deserves to have some fun before she has to go back.”

  I agreed, but I was desperate for company. Still, my family was probably getting fatigued. Who knew how many hours they’d already spent at my bedside during my “lost” month.

  “But before we leave,” my dad said. “We have a surprise for you.”

  There was some fumbling, then I hear a muted bleeping noise.

  “Go ahead,” my mom said loudly.

  “Hi, Sis.”

  Alex. His voice sounded tinny and distant, but it was my big brother, all right.

  “We’re Skyping,” my mother said, apparently to me. “Can you see Marigold, Alex?”

  “Yes, I can see her.”

  The anguished sound in his voice was jarring—nothing rattled my brilliant soldier brother. I could only assume I looked ghastly. He, on the other hand, would be sharp-featured and tanned, muscular and vibrant.

  “How’s it going, Sis? Will you open your pretty green eyes and talk to me?”

  My entire life I’d done anything and everything my brother asked just to please him. This time, I could not.

  “Okay, I’ll let you rest then. But I’ll be home soon and I expect you to be awake and giving me a hard time, you hear me?”

  In the silence that followed, I assumed my parents were scrutinizing me for movement or sound.

  “Did she respond?” Alex asked.

  “No,” my dad said woodenly. “She’s the same.”

  “Jesus, she looks so pale… and the scars.”

  I winced inwardly. Scars?

  “What are the doctors saying?” Alex asked.

  “Not much,” my mom said. “No one seems to have any answers.”

  “They’re going to run more tests soon,” my dad added. “Hopefully we’ll know more then.”

  A muffled horn sounded. “Sorry, that’s for me,” Alex said. “Gotta run. Happy Fourth!”

  “You too, son. We’re flying our flag at home.”

  “Bye, dear.”

  “Tell Sid hello for me. Bye, Marigold!” I pictured him waving his big hand.

  When they disconnected the video call, my parents’ disappointment was palpable in the room.

  “Well, I guess you’re not going to open your eyes today,” my mother said, as if I were lying here motionless out of spite. “So we’re going to leave.”

  “We’ll be back soon,” my dad promised.

  They left and all I could hear was the beeping and whooshing noises of the machines in the ward, keeping us vegetables alive. But later I realized the room must have a window because I could hear the distant pop-pop, pop-pop-pop of fireworks. I imagined the canisters shooting high, then bursting with spectacular wheels of color before falling and fading into the night sky. I suppose some people might see the fireworks as a metaphor for life, but I didn’t. Because I felt as if I’d missed out on the bursting-with-spectacular-color part.

  At one point, I heard a sound from the show that seemed a little off from the others—instead of a pop within a symphony of other pops, it made a thick, thudding noise. Fffp. A dud, I realized.

  Okay, there was my metaphor.

  July 5, Tuesday

  “GOOD MORNING, Coma Girl.”

  I slowly became aware of a nice male voice I didn’t recognize. The fact that I didn’t recognize the person speaking wasn’t unusual—the number of people moving around in a hospital on any given day is pretty remarkable. What struck me about this voice was the friendly familiarity, as if he did know me. But the volunteers—candy-stripers, retirees, students—had a way of making patients feel as if they were old friends. And for all I knew, this volunteer had been coming to see me regularly.

  “Do you like poetry? I brought a book by Emily Dickinson to read from that I thought you might enjoy. This poem is called ‘Dawn’.” He cleared his throat. “When night is almost done, and sunrise grows so near… that we can touch the spaces, it’s time to smooth the hair… and get the dimples ready, and wonder we could care… for that old faded midnight that frightened but an hour.”

  I was smiling inside. The words described how I’d always felt about the night. I was twenty-eight years old and every evening I still faced bedtime like a toddler—I would procrastinate and whine and get a drink of water and pee and adjust the thermostat and the shades and… well, basically, I dreaded closing my eyes and going to sleep. I looked it up once—it’s a thing, with an official name: hynophobia.

  The article I read said the thought of going to sleep made me anxious because I saw it as losing control or sacrificing time that could be spent accomplishing things. I’m not sure I buy either of those explanations because I don’t see myself as a controlling person, nor as someone who could set the world on fire if not for that pesky needing sleep thing. I confess as bedtime approaches, the more things I can think of that simply have to be done, but they fall a little short of what my mother would deem an accomplishment: tie-dyeing a skirt in the bathroom sink or organizing my CD collection alphabetically. (Yes, now you know the name of the one person in the world who still buys CDs.) And did you know if you stream Netflix at three in the morning, you pretty much have the service to yourself? No jerky interruptions just when you get to the good parts. But I digress.

  In short, I’ve always suffered from insomnia. Which kind of makes my current dilemma seem like some kind of sick karmic joke, huh?

  The nice volunteer reading to me couldn’t know that about me, but he probably knows if I can hear him, I might be a little afraid my dawn will never come.

  The truth is, I am afraid. None of this makes sense to me—how is my mind processing some sensory inputs, but not others? Did I have a big dent under the bandage on my head—was a chunk of my brain missing?

  On an episode of Forensic Files—which fyi, plays all night until 6:00 am—a woman killed her husband by injecting him with a drug that paralyzed him, then setting a fire. The poor man lay there, knowing he was going to die, and could do nothing about it. I remember thinking that must be the most helpless feeling in the world.

  Unfortunately, I can now confirm it is.

  As the volunteer slips from the room, he can’t know how grateful I am he took the time to read to me when, for all he knows, I’m already gone.

  I hope he comes back soon and brings another poem with him.

  July 6, Wednesday

  “THEY’RE CALLING her Coma Girl!” Sidney shrieked.

  My mom gasped. “Who is calling my daughter such a vile name?”

  A man named David Spooner who was apparently vying to be my attorney coughed lightly. “Actually… everyone. It started on social media and now the mainstream media is picking up on it. But if it’s any consolation, Mrs. Kemp, people seem to be using it as a term of endearment.”

  “It isn’t,” my mother chirped. “What am I looking at here?”

  “These are mentions of hashtag Coma Girl across Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, et cetera.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sidney said. “She’s trending on Twitter on the east coast!”

  “And gaining momentum,” he said.

  Wow… if I’d known a coma was the fast lane to popularity, I might’ve konked myself on the head in high school.

  “This is why the phone is ringing nonstop at home,” my dad said. “I finally unplugged it.”

  “You should change your phone number,” David Spooner said.

  A rap on the door sounded, then a man said, “Flower delivery for Coma Girl?”

  “He
r name is Marigold Kemp,” my mother corrected. “But you may bring them in.”

  “All of them?”

  “How many are there?” my father asked.

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Thirty-seven bouquets of flowers?” Sidney asked with a croak.

  “And eleven planters.”

  “See what I mean?” David Spooner said. “Yes, bring them in for now. We’ll sort them out later.”

  “But I don’t understand why anyone would be interested in Marigold,” my mom said. “She’s nobody.”

  Thanks, Mom.

  “Sometimes things in the media just catch fire,” Spooner said. “And the fact that a professional athlete is involved in this situation makes it more juicy.”

  “Look at these Facebook posts,” Sidney said. “A woman created a Coma Girl logo, and someone else created a Coma Girl cartoon character!”

  “Oh, well, now that’s just wrong,” my mother said.

  Actually, it sounded kind of cool to me.

  “They’re making a mockery of Marigold,” Sidney said. “What can we do to stop it?”

  “I don’t think you can stop it,” Spooner said. “I think it would be better to try to manage it. If you bring me on board, I’ll help you.”

  “How?” my dad asked.

  “First, you’ll need a family spokesperson.”

  “A spokesperson?” my mom said with a laugh. “Why?”

  “The public is clamoring for information about Marigold. Left to their own devices, they’ll simply make things up. A family spokesperson can help to manage public opinion, which will be especially important if Keith Young is brought up on charges and goes to trial.”

  “You mean when Keith Young goes to trial,” my sister corrected.

  “You’ve heard from the District Attorney?” Spooner asked.

  “Not yet,” Sidney admitted.

  “This case doesn’t seem to be a priority,” my dad added.

  “If you bring me on, I’ll apply as much professional pressure as I can to get things moving.”

  “You would be our spokesperson?” my mother asked.

  “If you wish, but it would be best if it’s a member of the family.”

  “Well, that would be Sidney, of course,” my dad said.

  “If she’s willing, I think Sidney would be an excellent choice,” Spooner said, and I could hear male appreciation in his voice.

  “What would that mean, exactly?” Sidney asked.

  “It means you’ll keep the media and public updated on Marigold’s condition, and let everyone know how much the family appreciates the concern and support. We’ll hold periodic press conferences and you’ll take control of Marigold’s social media… with my help, of course.”

  “We’re in over our heads,” my dad said. “I suppose we do need some guidance here.”

  “Would any of that help to light a fire under the D.A.?” my mother asked.

  “I believe so, yes,” Spooner said. “The D.A. has to be concerned about public perception, especially in an election year.”

  There was a pause in the conversation where I imagined my family was trying to decide what to do about me.

  “If at any time you want to suspend our relationship, that would be fine,” Spooner added. “Or if Marigold wakes up, of course she can make decisions for herself.”

  “If Marigold wakes up,” my mother said.

  “Hush, Carrie,” my dad said. “She’s going to wake up.”

  “But meanwhile,” Spooner said, “you need to take steps to protect her, and to protect your family. You can bet Keith Young has a dozen attorneys working on his behalf.”

  He was convincing, for sure. But I could sense my family’s reluctance, their bewildered resentment for having to deal with this.

  “Okay,” my dad said, sounding exasperated. “You’re hired.”

  “Good,” the man said, then clapped his hands. “I’ll need to know everything about Marigold, all about her job, where she lives, who her friends are.”

  A yawning silence descended—I visualized the expressions on my family’s faces because they didn’t know anything about my life. Not only had they never been to my apartment, but I was pretty sure they didn’t even know the physical address.

  “Okay, we’ll do that later,” Spooner said, obviously trying to cover the awkward moment. “The first thing I’m going to do is talk to the hospital administrator about tightening security for this room.”

  “Do you think Marigold is in danger?” my dad asked.

  “Not physically,” Spooner said, “but this morning someone posted this picture of her.”

  My mother gasped again.

  “That was taken in this room,” my dad said. “You can tell by the machine behind Marigold’s head.”

  “It’s a very unflattering photograph,” Sidney said.

  Oh, great.

  “Someone on staff probably took it,” Spooner said.

  A memory stirred, but lay there, quivering. Anxiety fogged my broken brain. All I knew was I had some idea of who might’ve done it, but I couldn’t conjure up their identity.

  July 7, Thursday

  “READY FOR A BATH?”

  Was I ever. Now that my sense of smell had returned, I was pretty aware of my own body odor. This vegetable was getting ripe.

  Despite my gratitude, the situation was more than a little awkward for me. Before I landed in the hospital, only a handful of people had seen me naked: my gynecologist, who had no other choice, my roommate Roberta, who had caught me a couple of times getting out of the shower, and two or three inept lovers—although in hindsight, I’m not sure they saw me entirely naked because various articles of clothing had been left on during our encounters.

  And then there was Duncan, the love of my life. We met at some random party and it was love at first sight… at least for me. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t attracted to me physically, but we had so much fun together and liked the same things that he eventually started hanging around. We had a few great months together before he left for the Peace Corps for two years, a commitment he’d already made before we met.

  I was despondent because I had a bad feeling Duncan would meet someone else while he was abroad, and he did. Early in his tour we texted or Skyped constantly. But when he got more involved in his duties, the contact became more sporadic. And when we did talk, the name of a particular girl in the Corps kept popping over and over: Trina. She was also from Atlanta and they had bonded over being so far away from home.

  Here’s where I should say Duncan and I had only engaged in heavy petting and only when we were drunk, so in his mind, we weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend and he was free to fall in love with Trina, which he proceeded to do, oblivious to the pain it caused me. Occasionally when he Skyped me, she would nudge her prettier face into the screen and wave as if we were old pals. Then one day she held up her hand and announced, “Surprise, we’re engaged!” I tried to be happy for Duncan like the good friend he considered me to be, but between you and me, I was positively heartbroken.

  Suddenly I wondered if Duncan knew about my accident and just as quickly realized there was no reason he would. He’d never met my parents or my sister and they had no reason to believe he was any more important to me than anyone else in my address book. If Duncan had tried to Skype me recently, he would just assume I was busy. One upside of being in this bed is I wouldn’t have to go to his wedding. When I didn’t RSVP, would he think I was angry with him?

  If so, good. How’s that for passive-aggressive behavior?

  “She has great skin,” Nurse Teddy said. “It’s a shame about the scars.”

  The scars again—was I a monster?

  “I have some cocoa butter that will help them fade,” Nurse Gina said. “She’ll be pretty again when she wakes up.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone in this ward wake up?”

  “No,” Gina admitted. “But it’s the least I can do.”

  “Poor thing,” Teddy said.
<
br />   “Yes, poor thing,” Gina said.

  “What did you bring for lunch today?”

  “Tuna salad—you?”

  “Leftover lasagna.”

  They moved away, and I was already forgotten. But at least they had left me smelling like cocoa butter. It was a gift.

  July 8, Friday

  TODAY IS TEST DAY. Early this morning my bed and I were wheeled to another part of the hospital. Sidney’s rosary clicked against the bed in a rhythm that seemed to say, I’m with you… I’m with you… I’m with you…

  I was psyched—at first. But ugh, the delays. Over what seemed like hours, I was put in an MRI machine and given a CT scan—both passive tests that simply look at the state of my brain. I heard Dr. Tyson say she wanted to assess the swelling. Then I was hooked up to an EEG—an electroencephalogram, a fancy name for a machine to measure what, if anything, was happening in my head. I heard Dr. Tyson talk to others about electrodes, so I assume they were attached to my head in some way, although I couldn’t feel them. I tried to concentrate on what was going on around me, but I confess all the voices and noises and scents made for sensory overload… I could almost feel my brain misfiring. When the doctor addressed me directly, presenting me with words and phrases that were meant, I assume, to trigger a sensory response, I was fading in and out.

  In school, I was known as someone who studied diligently, but who didn’t test well. And here I went again.

  From the snatches of conversation around me, I realized someone was touching different areas of my body with instruments ranging from brushes to sharp probes to see if I responded, ditto for heat and cold. I didn’t feel anything at all, but I hoped my body was sending signals to another part of my brain that was responding, and I just didn’t know about it yet. I was also subjected to a series of sounds ranging from soft buzzing to shrill sirens. And finally, scents of evergreen and ammonia and other chemical smells I didn’t recognize were passed close to my nose. If I ever wake up, I’m going to suggest they add the scent of a cheeseburger to the lineup.

  By the time they had wheeled me back to my room where my family waited, I was pretty sure I had failed the brainwave tests, and I was terrified of what that might mean. Would they remove my feeding tube? I had filled out a healthcare directive stating I didn’t want to be kept alive by artificial means. What I should’ve checked on the form was the box for “Don’t ever give up on me.”