Coma Girl: Part 4 (Kindle Single) Read online

  With dismay I realized one of the senses I’ve come to rely upon so heavily to take in the world around me has abandoned me.

  This can’t be good.

  October 10, Monday

  BY THE TIME DR. TYSON and Gina arrived the next morning with a handheld ultrasound device, I was a nervous wreck. I didn’t sleep well, worrying about losing my sense of smell. I’m scared it means my health is deteriorating, that perhaps something is wrong with the baby.

  “There it is,” Dr. Tyson said. “Strong heartbeat… correct size…. everything looks normal.”

  Thank you, God.

  “Can you tell the sex?” Gina asked.

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I want a girl—no, a boy. No—a girl. Or a boy.

  “Not the way the baby is angled. Maybe next time.”

  Oh, good. I don’t want to be one of those mothers who already has a name picked out before the baby takes its first breath.

  Although I’ve always liked the name Lauren. And maybe Kyle if it’s a boy.

  Ack—I guess I am one of those mothers.

  “This never gets old,” Gina said. “I remember how excited I was to see my first sonogram.”

  “I can imagine,” Dr. Tyson said.

  “You don’t have children?”

  “Um… no.”

  “I’m sorry, Doctor, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s okay. My husband and I have talked about it… it’s just never seemed like the right time.”

  “I understand—you’re so busy. What does your husband do?”

  “He’s a professor at Georgia Tech.”

  “Oh, nice.”

  “Uh-hm. Gina, why don’t you print a picture of the sonogram for Ms. Kemp’s family? Maybe it will help to… maybe it will help.”

  “Sure thing, Dr. Tyson. I’ll be right back.”

  The door opened and closed and I was aware of Dr. Tyson hovering near my bed. I wondered what she was doing when I heard a sniffle, then a gulping noise. She was… crying?

  My first thought is something is wrong with me or the baby after all… but I quickly registered Dr. Tyson wouldn’t have told Gina everything is okay if it isn’t, and wouldn’t get emotional over a patient. It must be personal.

  “You have to get a grip,” she murmured, and I realized she was talking to herself. Then she gave a laugh. “Look at me, Marigold. I’m the most senior female physician on staff, and my colleagues look up to me. As far as my career is concerned, the sky’s the limit.”

  I sensed a “but” coming on.

  “But my husband of seven years just announced he wants an open marriage.”

  Yikes.

  “Can you believe it? I thought we were going to talk about starting a family. Instead, he wanted to talk about starting a harem.” She made a sound of disgust.

  The door opened and she sniffed hard to regain her composure.

  “Here you go, Dr. Tyson. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I think someone just cleaned back here. My eyes are watering.”

  “I’ll take the ultrasound machine back,” Gina offered. “Why don’t you get some drops?”

  “Good idea. You’ll get that sonogram to Ms. Kemp’s family?”

  “Absolutely. As soon as they… come back.”

  Hanging unsaid in the air was the sentiment of when that might be.

  “Maybe you should call the family,” Dr. Tyson suggested.

  “Good idea,” Gina said.

  October 11, Tuesday

  “WHAT ARE THOSE?” my aunt Winnie asked.

  “I brought the kids’ baby albums, to reminisce. I thought it would be fun to look at their sonograms next to the sonogram of Marigold’s baby.”

  It is a sweet gesture. Especially since I didn’t even know I had a baby album.

  “Yes, here’s Alex’s first sonogram,” my mother said.

  “Wow, it was pretty clear you were having a boy,” Winnie said.

  “I know. Alex came out well-endowed.”

  “I so did not need to know that, Carrie.”

  Ditto, Mom.

  “Well, it’s true. Oh, and here’s Sidney’s sonogram.” She hummed with affection. “She was such a good baby, even in the womb. She hardly kicked. And her birth was the easiest.”

  “By the third one, you were stretched out,” Winnie said.

  “That’s not how it works,” my mother said hotly.

  “Where’s Marigold’s sonogram?”

  “I’m looking… I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

  “It’s not as if there are that many pages to flip through,” Winnie noted. “Marigold’s album looks a little skimpy.”

  My mother made an exasperated noise. “With the first baby, you’re excited and you take tons of pictures and document everything. And when the second one comes around, you’re just too tired.”

  “I see you rebounded by the time Sidney was born,” Winnie added dryly.

  “By that time, I’d learned how to juggle everything. Plus we’d just gotten a digital camera… and Sidney was such a little doll, you couldn’t help but take her picture.”

  “Uh-hm,” my aunt said.

  “Wait—here’s Marigold’s sonogram.”

  “No. That’s another one of Alex’s.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Did Marigold have a penis in utero?”

  “Oh. You’re right. That’s Alex. Here’s Marigold’s.”

  “No… that one’s for Sidney. Look at the year.”

  “Hm. Maybe I wasn’t given a copy of Marigold’s sonogram.”

  “Maybe. What else is in here?”

  “Oh, the usual stuff, when they started crawling, their first word. Alex’s first word was ‘da-da,’ naturally. And Sidney’s first word was “ma-ma.”

  “Hm… do you remember Marigold’s first word?”

  “I didn’t write it down?”

  “No. It’s blank.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “Carrie, don’t you see a pattern here?”

  “Of what?’

  “Of ignoring Marigold!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Marigold got more attention than anyone because she was in the middle. And she was needy.”

  “No, she wasn’t.”

  “Yes, she was. She always needed attention. I remember once I told her not to bother me unless she was bleeding. So she took a red marker and made marks all over her leg, then told me she was bleeding.”

  Ha—I remember doing that.

  “That’s sad!”

  “No, it’s not… it’s manipulative.”

  “Carrie, you need help.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say!”

  “But it needs to be said. How are things at home?”

  My mother made a dismissive noise. “Robert is off doing his own thing, as usual.”

  “And from the looks of that obnoxious billboard I saw driving into the town, so are you.”

  “I finally have a career—so sue me.”

  “You and Robert had better get your act together.”

  “You can leave now.”

  “Fine,” Winnie bit out. The chair squeaked, then her footsteps sounded in retreat. “Carrie?”

  “What?”

  “Marigold needs you right now more than she’s ever needed you.”

  “Did your whackadoodle psychic tell you that?”

  “No,” Winnie said, her voice even. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to see your entire family is in crisis.”

  The door opened and closed. My mother sat in huffy silence and turned the crackly pages of a baby album.

  Not mine, I assume.

  October 12, Wednesday

  IT’S BATH DAY and while I’m sorely missing my sense of smell, I’m happy to have the nurses in the room and listen to their easy banter as they give us vegetables a good scrubbing.

  “Nice haircut,” Teddy said.

  “Thanks,” Gina said, a little nonchalantly.

  “Did you get highlights
?”

  “Some… is it too much?”

  “Not at all. It’s a nice pick-me-up for fall. Is it for Gabriel?”

  “It’s for me,” Gina said defensively. “Oh, look—Marigold is starting to show.”

  “Oh, poor Coma Girl. Wish she would wake up.”

  “Dr. Jarvis is working on it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean… nothing. Just that he’s working with Marigold a lot, doing physical therapy, talking to her a lot. He even had the television brought in.”

  “Still the classical music channel—ugh.”

  “Dr. Jarvis says it’s the best stimulation.”

  “Well, if Dr. Jarvis says so, it must be right.”

  “I believe her scars are finally starting to fade, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I can tell a big difference lately.”

  Finally, some good news.

  “The prenatal vitamins are helping her skin and nails,” Gina said. “I’m going to start filing down her nails every day.”

  “Are we changing her head bandage?”

  “Yes, let’s do.”

  “So… by my estimation, it’s getting close to the ninety-day mark with Gabriel.”

  “Twenty-five more days,” Gina said.

  He laughed. “Not that you’re counting. So he’s been a good boy all this time?”

  “Yep.”

  Because he’s been a bad boy all this time with Donna.

  “The skin around the incision still looks irritated,” Teddy said.

  “Dr. Jarvis said the swelling is keeping the incision from healing. It’s just going to take a while.”

  “Shouldn’t the swelling in her brain have gone down by now?”

  “Dr. Jarvis says it’s residue blood from the brain hematoma, and it has to be reabsorbed by her body. He says it’s a positive sign.”

  “How so?”

  “In Marigold’s case, the doctors think the swelling in her brain is causing the coma, and when the swelling finally subsides, she might recover.”

  “Might?”

  “Dr. Jarvis says for a coma patient, ‘might’ is the best-case scenario.”

  “I’m sorry, but this is like a horror movie to me. I mean, what if right now, Marigold can hear everything we’re saying, but she can’t let us know—how awful would that be?”

  Pretty awful.

  “Even Dr. Jarvis doesn’t believe she’s that fully aware.”

  I hope I get the chance to set him straight.

  “But she still responds to commands to move her fingers, doesn’t she?”

  “Intermittently… and only for Dr. Jarvis.”

  “Maybe Marigold has a crush on Dr. Jarvis, too.”

  “Stop it,” Gina said, then she groaned. “Is it that obvious?”

  “I was talking about me,” Teddy said. “But you’re so busted.”

  October 13, Thursday

  LIKE A BLIND PERSON, my hearing has become acute. So when an unfamiliar set of shoes and footsteps enter the room, I’m on alert. These feet are male, shod in stiff dress shoes, and the footsteps are heavy and pronounced—almost arrogant.

  David Spooner.

  “Hello, Marigold,” he shouted. “How are you?”

  Still in a coma, thanks. But not deaf.

  “Are you awake?” he yelled.

  Coma. Still.

  I heard a few tapping noises. “Sid? Yeah, I’m here. She looks the same to me. Scarf? Looks like some kind of Aztec design. Damn, it’s depressing in here. Yeah. Security is good, which is probably why we haven’t seen any leaked pictures lately.”

  My poet volunteer hasn’t visited in a long while. Maybe someone was on to him and he’d been banned from the ward.

  “Sure, let me take one of her to send you.” He repositioned himself. “Say ‘comatose’!” A click sounded.

  What an asshole.

  “Sid? Yeah… I just sent it to you. How are things there? You gotta hang in there, Babe. Just get through this, then we’ll be home free. Okay, talk soon.”

  Since he’d ended the call, I expected him to leave. Instead, he sat in the chair and placed another phone call.

  “Hello, my name is Dean Bradley. B-R-A-D-L-E-Y.”

  Hm… a family name?

  I need to arrange a wire transfer, please. From one of my accounts here in Atlanta to another bank account of mine in Panama.” He rattled off the bank account numbers, then a long alphanumeric password. “Yes. One hundred thousand. I’ll hold until you confirm.”

  He stood and turned the TV from my classical music to channel surf, stopping on a reality show about bungled plastic surgery procedures. From the rather explicit audio, I gathered a woman with gigantic knockers wanted to bump up another cup size, and from his snickers and guffaws, I assumed there were lots of visuals to go with the audio.

  After several minutes of language that would singe a whore’s ears, he said, “Yes, I’m here. Confirmation number, please? Okay, thank you.”

  He ended the call, then left the room, leaving the television on the embarrassing channel.

  And why do I have the feeling that what I’m listening to on the television is less slimy than what I’d just overheard on the phone?

  October 14, Friday

  THE LAST TIME Audrey Parks, our former ward mate, had come to visit, she’d been in a wheelchair, and she was not a rolling ball of sunshine. This time, she was on what sounded like metal crutches, and I hoped she was in a better place.

  “Hello, veggies,” she said, sounding cheerful enough, but I was wary.

  “No new roomie to take my place yet? Don’t worry… I saw a couple of goners in ICU that looked like good candidates for the patch—if they make it.”

  I see she had moved from depressed to depressed and snarky.

  “You’ll be happy to know that traffic still sucks, the weather still sucks, and the economy is in the crapper. The company I used to work for went out of business. Not that I could get my old job as a bookkeeper back anyway—apparently my I.Q. has dropped fifty points.”

  Her speech had improved a bit, but her breathing sounded labored as she made her way around the room. “But I’m still smart enough to know to keep my ears open when I made the rounds in physical therapy, speech therapy, and head therapy. And guess what? I know more about each of you than you probably do. You know the doctors and nurses are never straight with you or your families.”

  “Karen, do you want to know what you have ahead of you? If you ever wake up, you’ll probably never walk again. Did anyone tell you your spinal cord was crushed when you fell? No? Well, now you know.”

  That seemed unnecessarily cruel.

  The crutches scraped across the floor as she moved to Jill’s bed next. “Jill, if you ever wake up, you’ll be on a ventilator the rest of your miserable life. And it will be miserable because you need a kidney transplant and a heart transplant, which you’re never going to get because your lungs don’t work. The doctors say your body is already gone, and you need to just give up your mind, too, and die already.”

  She was getting louder now, and breathing harder as she clunked over to my bed.

  “And you, Coma Girl. I saw your picture on TMZ today—aren’t you special with your baby and your headscarves? But you know what they’re not telling you?”

  What?

  The door banged open. “Audrey,” Teddy said in a calm voice, “you shouldn’t be in here. Come with me.”

  “You know what they’re not telling you, Coma Girl?” she shouted.

  WHAT?

  “That’s it,” Teddy said.

  “If you ever wake up—”

  The rest of her words were muffled with a large hand. And from the sound of it, Teddy had picked her up, crutches and all, and carried her from the room. The door banged closed, leaving the echo of her verbal assault.

  And leaving me to wonder if there is some horrific thing the doctors and nurses aren’t telling me.

  October 15, Saturday

 
“I CAN HEAR YOU, Dad, but I can’t see you and Marigold.”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not as good at this as your mother.”

  “Where is Mom?” Alex asked.

  “She had to work.”

  The way he said it, I suspect he added air quotes that neither Alex nor I could see.

  “Well, it’s the weekend, Dad. That when real estate agents are supposed to be busy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Still can’t see you.”

  Dad sighed. “What do I do?”

  “Tap the bottom of the screen until a group of icons show up, then tap the video camera with the line through it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now I can see you. Hi, Marigold! Good to see you, Dad.”

  “Good to see you, son.”

  “Any change in Marigold?”

  “Not that we can see. The doctors say she’s plateaued.”

  “So no better, no worse?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Dad, are you talking to the doctors? Are you asking questions?”

  If they are, they’re doing it out of my earshot.

  “Of course we are. But all they say is ‘we don’t know’ or ‘we can’t say for sure’ or ‘time will tell.’”

  “After we hang up, I’ll call Dr. Oscar to see if he can shed any light on the situation.”

  “Great,” my dad said, happy to offload the responsibility.

  “How’s the baby?”

  “Fine, as far as we know.”

  “That’s good. Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

  “If your mom knows, she didn’t say anything to me.”

  “Dad, this is your grandson or your granddaughter, you can be involved, too.”

  “Well, you know how your mother is.”

  My parents communicate in soundbites and one-liners.

  “Any news on the county’s criminal case against Young?” Alex asked.

  “Some. The DA is considering charging Young anyway, even with him blowing below the legal limit, but they want to clear up the assault on Young first.”

  “Ah, so that’s why the detective contacted me again.”

  “What did he want this time?”

  “He rattled off some phone numbers, wanted to know if I recognized any of them, which I didn’t. Then he asked me if I recognized a couple of names.”