Coma Girl: part 1 Page 4

  The muffled ring of a cell phone sounded. Sidney shifted in the creaky chair and fumbled while it rang a couple more times. The police must have returned our phones.

  “Hello?” Sidney said. “No.”

  Her footsteps sounded as she walked away, in the direction of the window.

  “I told you not to call me.”

  Her voice was lower, but I could still make it out. She sounded angry—was it a boyfriend? Sidney was never in want of male company, but neither had she mentioned one certain guy.

  “My sister is in the hospital. I haven’t been able to work on our project as much as I had planned.”

  Ah—it was obviously a fellow student.

  “Can you cut me some slack? My sister is in a coma and my family is falling apart.”

  I didn’t think that was the case but if Sid was late on a project, it was because of my predicament, so she could use whatever excuse she wanted.

  “Don’t call me again. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” She ended the call and cursed under her breath. “This isn’t fair!”

  I understood her frustration. She had arrived home from school anticipating a fun summer of partying with friends and instead was babysitting her comatose sister and holding my parents’ hands. She was right—none of this was fair.

  Sid inhaled and exhaled audibly, as if searching for a Zen place, then she came padding back to my bed. “Okay, let me take a peek at my handiwork,” she said, her voice only slightly elevated. “Good. Now you don’t look dead.”

  Always a plus.

  “Say cheese, Coma Girl.”

  July 13, Wednesday

  “GOOD MORNING, Coma Girl.”

  My toes curled… at least they wanted to. It was the silky-throated volunteer with a penchant for poetry. I had tried so hard to remember him, but I needed the live trigger of his voice to bring it all back. Just as Dr. Tyson said, forming new memories was harder than conjuring up old ones.

  “Goodness, look at all these flowers… and balloons… and stuffed animals. Wow, you are one popular lady.”

  The flowers kept coming every day. David Spooner had arranged for most of them to be distributed throughout the hospital so other patients could enjoy them. And as much as I appreciated the gesture, the cloying sweetness of the live flowers was getting to me… it reminded me of a funeral, and that cut a little too close for comfort.

  “It’s going to be a beautiful day,” he said. “Sunny with a blueberry sky and a magnolia breeze. Can you see it?”

  I could see it… smell it… taste it…

  “I found this poem in the Emily Dickinson book, and it seemed right for today. I hope you think so, too. It’s called ‘Angels In The Early Morning.’ ” He cleared this throat politely. “Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among, stooping, plucking, smiling, flying… Do the buds to them belong? Angels when the sun is hottest may be seen the sands among, stooping, plucking, sighing, flying… parched the flowers they bear along.”

  Beautiful. I’d been lying here in the dark for so long, I’d almost forgotten how sunlight looked and what it felt like on my skin—with 50 SPF of course.

  A soft thud indicated he’d closed the book. “What did you think? If you don’t give me something to go on here, I’m going to have to keep winging it.”

  Fine by me.

  “Okay. I appreciate a person of few words. I think everyone would benefit from talking a little less and listening a little more. It gives you leverage, you know—listening. As long as you really hear what the other person is saying.”

  I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that, but my position did put me in a unique position. Because even though people talked at me and to me and in front me, few people truly believed I could hear them. Which meant they usually relaxed their verbal filter.

  “Hey, I saw someone posted a new picture of you online… it looked nice. Everyone is happy to see you’re improving.”

  Was I improving? I thought so.

  The chair creaked, meaning he’d shifted… closer?

  “What’s going on in that bound up head of yours?” he asked softly. “You’re not dead, but you’re not alive. What’s it like to be in limbo?”

  Frustrating… maddening… scary… really scary. Which is why I had to find a way out.

  “One day I’m hoping to walk in here and find you sitting up and talking, and then you can tell me.”

  Deal.

  “Later, Coma Girl.”

  July 14, Thursday

  “I’M SORRY it’s been a few days since I’ve been by to visit you, sweetheart. I’ve taken off a lot of work since the accident, and my boss was leaning on me to get back on the road.”

  My dad, Robert Kemp, sells road signs… you know, the kind you see when you drive along the highway. He sells to local municipalities, county governments, state governments, and he even has some accounts on the federal level. If you’ve ever traveled throughout the Southeast, you’ve probably driven by one of my dad’s signs. It’s not a very glamorous job, but my dad is good at it, and he takes a lot of pride in his products. The garage, basement, and attic of the home I grew up in are stacked with samples and rejects—misprints and misspellings. Louisiana seems to give sign makers the most trouble, followed by Mississippi, although Tennessee is problematic, too.

  “Mr. Boxer isn’t a bad guy,” my dad said. “He asks about you all the time. But this is a busy time of the year since so many governments’ fiscal year ends in June, so new budgets are being set—and spent.”

  My dad has always travelled during the week and been home on the weekends, but there have been occasions when he’s had to be on-site for a big install and was away from home for a couple of weeks at a time. When Alex was old enough, he travelled with Dad during summer breaks. Ditto for Sidney. I’m not sure why I didn’t—maybe Dad was waiting for me to ask, and I was waiting to be asked. Anyway, Dad had always had an easy rapport with Alex and Sid, but he struggled more to talk to me.

  “And even though Mr. Spooner is working on the contingency that Keith Young’s insurance will pay for everything, there are still retainers and medical bills and—well, you don’t need to hear all that. Just know that I’m going to take care of everything.”

  But I never doubted my father’s love for me. And it pained me to think he would be working overtime to pay for expenses I’d incurred.

  “I checked with the police impound lot and they agreed to release your car. It’s a mess, but I think I know a guy who can fix it. I’m having it towed to his shop this week. Don’t worry, by the time you get out of here, it’ll be good as new and waiting for you.”

  Some people believe a person’s wellbeing is reflected in their teeth. My dad believes a person’s wellbeing is reflected in their vehicle. It made sense because he spent so much time in his SUV, which was always immaculate and in top running condition. There were plenty of times after I hit driving age when I’d missed a dental checkup, but my dad wouldn’t hear of me missing an oil change. So I couldn’t imagine what it did to him to see my little Ford Escort banged up.

  “Hey, I got a new grill,” he said as if it had just popped into his mind. “One of those nice egg ones. Sidney gave it to me for Father’s Day.”

  I’d missed Father’s Day, I realized. But I could never top Sidney’s and Alex’s gifts anyway.

  “And Alex sent me cufflinks made from lapis mined in Afghanistan.”

  See what I mean?

  “When you wake up, I’ll make you a big juicy steak,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I want to braid your hair.”

  Braid my hair? Maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “When you were a little girl, you came to me once and asked me to braid your hair. You were maybe six or seven. I was irritated, probably busy with something I thought was important. And I didn’t know how to braid your hair. So I snapped at you and sent you away. I’m so sorry, Marigold.”

  I remember when that happened—only because my father was generally
so sweet-natured, the few times he’d raised his voice to me had made an impression. But I hadn’t been traumatized by the incident. He’d obviously thought a lot more about it than I had. And now he seemed afraid he wasn’t going to have the chance to right what he perceived to be a grievous wrong. I wished I could reach out to my Daddy now and tell him it was fine, and I’m fine.

  But I’m not fine, of course. Else I could tell him I’m fine.

  July 15, Friday

  “GATHER AROUND bed three,” Dr. Tyson said. “Move some flowers if you have to.”

  From the number of footsteps that filed into the ward, I assumed the doctor was going to use me as some kind of show and tell segment.

  “Patient is a twenty-eight-year-old female with a traumatic brain injury from a car collision approximately eight weeks ago. She was unconscious when first responders arrived on the scene. Upon arriving at Brady, she underwent surgery to relieve bleeding on the brain. She has not yet regained consciousness. Questions? Phillips, go.”

  “What is the state of the brain bleed?”

  “Stable and healing, but considerable swelling remains. Gaynor, go.”

  “Did the patient have a brain incident before the crash, or was the bleed caused by the crash?”

  “Patient was healthy before the crash, the brain damage is an impact injury. Tosco, go.”

  “Is the patient verbal?”

  “No. Streeter, go.”

  “Does the patient exhibit brainwave activity?”

  “How would you measure it?”

  “EEG—an electroencephalogram.”

  “Correct. An EEG showed she does have substantial brainwave activity. Sayna, go.”

  “Does the patient respond to commands to blink or to move her extremities?”

  “No. Goldberg, go.”

  “Does the patient respond to pain?”

  “Patient responds locally when external pain sources are applied. Is that good, Goldberg?”

  “A general response to pain would be preferable.”

  “Correct. Jarvis, go.”

  “Is this Coma Girl?”

  The room fell completely silent. I wondered if she knew what he meant, although with the influx of flowers and with David Spooner lobbying the hospital for tighter security, she must.

  “Yes,” Dr. Tyson said finally. “This is the patient the media refers to as Coma Girl. Keep your phones stowed, people. And don’t even think about touching your Google Glasses. Anyone who takes a picture of the patient even for their own use and records, will forfeit their residency. Understood?”

  A chorus of yeses sounded.

  “Kwan, what test is used to determine the severity of a coma?”

  “The Glasgow index.”

  “Correct. And based on the answers to the previous questions, where would the patient land on the index?”

  “In the ‘severe’ range.”

  “Correct again. Statler, go.”

  “Can the patient hear us?”

  “I’ve told the family she can and encouraged them to keep trying to communicate with her.”

  “But?” Statler prodded.

  “But between us, I doubt very much Coma Girl has any awareness of what’s going on right now.”

  Not only was I aware, but I was incensed. How dare the doctor just write me off like that.

  “Jarvis, do you have a question?”

  “But you don’t know for sure the patient can’t hear us?”

  “It’s my opinion based on the results of the EEG that she cannot.”

  “But you don’t know?” he pressed.

  “No,” Dr. Tyson conceded. “I don’t know for sure. Let’s move on to the cardiac ward.”

  Okay, I kind of like that Jarvis guy.

  July 16, Saturday

  “GOOD MORNING, MARIGOLD. I’m Dr. Jarvis and I have a little something for you.”

  Oh, God, please don’t let him be a pervert.

  The door opened and from the bumping sounds and squeaking wheels, I got the impression of something sizable being wheeled into the room.

  “Where do you want the TV, doc?” a man asked.

  “Over there is good, let me move some of these flowers out of the way.”

  “We’re supposed to take some of those with us,” another man said.

  “Right. Why don’t you take a few to the maternity ward, and some to the chemo department?”

  “Sure thing, doc.”

  A television? Terrific! I was having withdrawal from late-night shows. And if the hospital got the Discovery ID channel, I’d be set. Spouses conspiring to murder each other never gets old.

  After some shuffling and more bumping noises, the door closed to relative quiet. The whooshing and wheezing of various machines hooked up to us veggies had become white noise. From the sound of Dr. Jarvis’s footsteps and the rustle of fabric, I realized he was standing next to my bed.

  “Marigold, can you open your eyes?”

  No.

  “Okay, then, can you wiggle your toes?”

  Nope.

  “Try again, please? Just one toe?”

  Not happening.

  “Okay, I’m holding your hand. Very soft, by the way.”

  Really, doc? Flirting with Coma Girl?

  “Can you squeeze my hand?”

  I tried to visualize him holding my limp hand and sent impulses toward it.

  “Concentrate, Marigold, and squeeze my hand.”

  I was trying.

  “No? Okay, we’ll try again later. Now then, just to let you know what’s going on— I’ve arranged for a television to be placed in the ward, for the stimulation of all the patients, of course, but especially you, Marigold. I’ve reviewed your EEG results and unlike Dr. Tyson, I believe you can hear me, and hear things around you, too. To that end, I’ve asked that the television remain on and at an audible volume during daylight hours to provided sensory input when people aren’t around.”

  In my mind, I was hugging him.

  “I’ve done some research into what types of sounds are most effective in stirring responses in the brain, especially in the area where your injury occurred.”

  It was a full body hug.

  “Fortunately, the hospital has an extensive lineup of channels, so I was able to find a few to experiment with.”

  HBO? CNN? HGTV? I love me some Property Brothers.

  “As it turns out, music is the sound that stimulates the most areas of the brain.”

  Okay, that was a little disappointing, but I dig my CD collection and I’m down with Pandora. My tastes run the gamut from pop to blues to folksy acoustic stuff. I’ve been known to listen to country, although I prefer older country to the new. And I don’t turn off hip-hop when it crosses my earbuds. Actually, I pretty much listen to all kinds of music, except classical.

  “And tests show the most stimulating music is classical.”

  Crap.

  With a couple of clicks, the strains of a violin-led symphony floated into the room, sucking all the joy out of the air.

  “There. Now let’s see what a steady diet of Bach will do for that bruised brain of yours.”

  I was officially rescinding the hug.

  July 17, Sunday

  A RAP SOUNDED on the door, and from the sharpness and the force, I guessed the visitor to be a man. Sure enough, heavy footsteps sounded—the guy was wearing boots in the dead of summer in Atlanta. Whoever he was, he was alpha. The question was, which one of us turnips had he come to see?

  “Hello, Marigold. It’s Jack Terry from the Atlanta Police Department.”

  Oh, I remembered him. He was the one who’d pumped Sidney for details on the accident. If he’d come back hoping to run into her again, he would be disappointed. Sid had breezed by earlier to retrieve the cards from the newly delivered batch of flowers, and although she said she was working on a school project today, I smelled suntan lotion.

  Which was fine… good even. Sid deserved to enjoy a Sunday afternoon at the lake. She was spending
lots of hours fielding questions about me and organizing our family “message,” as David Spooner called it. I received occasional eye-popping (if my eyes could pop) updates: My Coma Girl Facebook page had over 250,000 likes, and Coma Girl Pinterest boards were the quirky trend of the moment—Things You Can Do While Bedridden, How to Jazz up a Hospital Bed with Throw Pillows. And Coma Girl T-shirts were all the rage.

  Who knew comas were cool?

  So Sid deserved a day off from me and my trappings.

  “All alone today?” he asked.

  Ha—just as I suspected.

  “Me, too,” he said. “I was told you hadn’t woken up yet, but since I’m a detective and all, I thought I’d come and check for myself. I brought flowers.”

  He brought flowers?

  “But I see you have a few dozen bouquets already…. and all nicer than mine, I might add. I only brought a handful of black-eyed susans that were growing around the dock where I live.”

  So the man who wore boots lived on a boat? Interesting. But if he had a boat, wasn’t the weekend the best time to be out on it?

  “Someone told me you’re an Internet sensation. I’m not really into all that, I must be the only person alive who doesn’t have a Faceprint account.”

  LOL, Detective.

  “I don’t really like people that much in person, can’t imagine taking the time to like them online.”

  Fair enough.

  “I’m still investigating your case, by the way. The D.A. found some extra resources somewhere to get priority on the lab work, and they’re going to recreate the accident—which isn’t cheap. You, Coma Girl, are causing quite a ruckus.”

  He seemed impressed.

  “I see you got a TV—nice. But what goober put on this awful music for you to listen to?”

  He must’ve found the remote control because the music went away mid-note, thank God. He channel-surfed for a while, then stopped.

  “Hey, the Braves are playing the Rockies. This could be a good game.”

  I heard a chair being dragged across the floor. “Mind if I hang out here for a while?”

  I didn’t mind—the man had picked flowers for me, after all. But I had to wonder… what was going on in Detective Jack Terry’s life that he preferred to spend the afternoon with Coma Girl instead of going home?