Coma Girl: part 1 Page 5

July 18, Monday

  ROBERTA HAD COME BACK to see me. This time she brought a bear claw for us to “share.”

  “Girlfriend, you are the biggest thing on the Internet since that whole is-the-dress-blue-or-white nonsense. Guess that accounts for all the watchdogs on this floor. I had to leave a dozen jelly doughnuts at the nurses’ station just to get in to see you. Yuck—who turned on this horrid music channel? Oh, my… I wish you could taste this bear claw.”

  So did I. Roberta practically hums when she eats, so even comatose foodies get to enjoy. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

  “Your mail at the apartment has piled up to the point that I had to do something. I mean, if I opened it on my own, that would be totally illegal, right? So I figured opening it here and reading it to you would be the next best thing to you doing it.”

  She licked her fingers noisily.

  “Okay, let’s see what we got. There must be fifty cards and letters here.”

  I heard the sound of paper ripping.

  “This one’s written on pretty rose-colored stationery. Dear Coma Girl…”

  She proceeded to read to me messages written from strangers all over the country—all over the globe. I was amazed at the outpouring of sympathy and kindness. Some of the letter writers had a relative who was in a coma, and my story had given them hope by bringing new awareness to their relative’s case.

  That was cool.

  “Oh my God, this one contains a ten-dollar bill! What am I supposed to do with it? Should I give it to your parents? By the way, I got a voice message from some guy named David Spooner. He wants to talk about the lease you and I signed, and he said your mother wants to come to the apartment and go through your things.”

  Ack.

  “Look, I know she’s your mother and all, but I also know y’all aren’t particularly close, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, if the roles were reversed, I don’t think I’d want my mom rifling through my stuff. It just seems like an invasion of your privacy, you know?” Roberta sighed. “I really wish you’d wake up, Marigold, and tell me what to do.”

  Being in a coma gave me a glimpse of what things would be like if I’d died in the accident—or if I died still: My parents and the media sifting through the remnants of my limited life, wondering why I’d bought a certain knick-knack or kept a certain photograph… judging me.

  “Oh, my God! This one is a marriage proposal—assuming you wake up, of course. Is that nice, or is that creepy?”

  More creepy than nice, I think. But not as creepy as the second marriage proposal a few cards later from a guy who didn’t mind if I never woke up. Now that’s accommodation… and a felony.

  “Hey, more cash! This woman sent twenty dollars… and a coupon for diapers. Wait—that’s a little mean.”

  I’m sure the woman meant well, but yeah… ouch.

  “That was the last one, but I’m sure they’ll start piling up again tomorrow. Let’s see, you have one hundred and twenty-five dollars in cash. Should I give it to your parents?”

  Probably.

  Roberta made a thought noise. “You know, I think I’ll just save this and give it to you when you wake up.”

  I love Roberta and she has a good heart, but I had a feeling the cash was headed for her perpetually overdrawn bank account. And I was okay with that.

  “By the way, Duncan and his woman came back to the bakery yesterday. He didn’t talk much—actually he didn’t even make eye contact. Now that he’s back and knows about the accident, I wonder if he thinks about visiting you?”

  Not anymore.

  “Anyway, forget about Duncan. You have admirers all over the world! Gotta run, I’ll be back soon with more mail!”

  Forget about Duncan. I was trying.

  July 19, Tuesday

  “HELLO, LADIES. It’s Sister Irene. How’s everything in here today?”

  Just peachy. I wonder if Sister Irene notices at a glance that her prayers from last time went unanswered?

  “Oh, my, Marigold, look at all these beautiful flowers! Aren’t you the lucky lady?”

  That’s me—lucky, lucky, lucky.

  Sister Irene made a wistful noise. “You know I used to get my fair share of flowers when I was young.”

  Really?

  “I’m sure that surprises you. But long ago, before I was a nun, I was a woman.”

  Academically, I knew that nuns didn’t come out of First Communion with a habit and vows, but it was difficult to think of sisters going through puberty, attending prom, and reading ’Teen magazine.

  Her footsteps moved away. “I had suitors and dreams,” Sister Irene said in a faraway voice. “I was going to travel to exotic places and write a novel.”

  She must’ve been standing at the window because her voice sounded a little echo-y. I imagined her using a finger to doodle in the condensation on the glass while she reminisced. Then she cleared her throat, as if bringing herself back to the present.

  “But I chose a life of service, and that’s the life I’ve lived.”

  She made her way around the room, from bed to bed as best as I could determine, murmuring private greetings. When she got to my bed, she was so close, I could smell the lemony scent of her laundry detergent, and starch—she must be wearing some parts of her habit, probably only a simple head covering since she wasn’t in church. It was the equivalent of Casual Friday dress code for nuns.

  “I saw a picture of you on the news, Marigold, and a clip of the young man they say caused the accident. There’s a great deal of animosity toward him… and standing here looking at you, I certainly can understand why people feel that way. You were innocent, with your whole life ahead of you. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  That’s me—lucky, lucky, lucky. “But at a time like this, it’s important to forgive this man. I don’t know him, but I’m quite sure he never meant for anyone to get hurt, and would relive that careless moment if he could.”

  Blah blah, forgiveness, blah blah. The thing is, I was plenty mad at Keith Young for driving recklessly, for putting me and Sidney in danger, and for smashing up my beloved little car, but I didn’t really feel as if there was anything to forgive. I’d be waking up soon, and then the star athlete would be off the hook. And the media would move on to the newest Kardashian kidlet or the latest politician who accidentally Tweeted his wiener to the world.

  “Let us pray,” Sister Irene said, and proceeded to ask Saint Aurelius of Riditio (the patron saint of head injuries, I recall obscurely from my Catholic indoctrination) to pray for us, to make a miracle out of our lives, then added ‘if it is God’s will.’

  Ah, the Catholic caveat. If the prayer is answered, it’s God’s will, and if the prayer isn’t answered, well, then, that’s also God’s will and we just have to suck it up.

  But I don’t believe my fate is in God’s hands… I believe my fate is in my own hands. It’s up to me to get out of this bed… and that’s what I’m going to do.

  If only someone would turn off that annoying classical music!

  July 20, Wednesday

  “HELLO, MARIGOLD. I’m Dr. Jarvis, remember me?”

  Of course I remembered him. He was the one responsible for the unending, nonstop, unrelenting trudge of chamber music that played in the ward ten to twelve hours a day. I know he said classical music is supposed to be the most stimulating to the brain, but I’m not so sure.

  Unless the incentive is that the patient is so sick of listening to classical music, it drives them to rally atrophied muscles and leap out of the hospital bed just to change the damn channel. A few more days of this and all four of us veggies were liable to rise up and turn this floor into an episode of The Walking Dead.

  “Okay, Marigold, I’m going to repeat some of the tests performed in your EEG, although this time you won’t have electrodes attached. I’ll be observing you for a physical response. Throughout the test I’ll let you know what I’m doing and you just try to respond in some way, okay? Can you nod your hea
d okay?”

  He was a sneaky one, slipping in a possible breakthrough before the test even started. Alas, I couldn’t nod.

  “Marigold, can you open your eyes? Open your eyes, Marigold.”

  Not today, apparently.

  “Okay then. I’m uncovering your feet. Ooh, nice feet.”

  I did have nice feet. I just dearly hoped someone had been clipping my toenails.

  “Okay, Marigold, can you wiggle your toes? Tell your brain to wiggle your toes, Marigold.”

  I was telling my brain, but apparently it wasn’t listening.

  “Okay, let’s try something else. I’m going to pull a brush across the bottom of your right foot. Can you feel it? Even if you can’t feel it, think about it hard and try to make your right foot move. I’m brushing… I’m brushing.”

  Nada.

  “Let’s try a different instrument. I have a metal probe that’s not sharp enough to break the skin, but you should feel a pinch. I’m pressing right under the arch of your left foot, can you feel it? Concentrate hard and tell your brain to accept a message from your left foot.”

  But my brain was still pouting because it wasn’t doing anything I told it to do.

  “Okay, I’m moving to your hands, Marigold. First, I’m holding your right hand. Squeeze my hand if you can. Tell your brain to tell your hand to move, Marigold. Try again, squeeze your right hand.”

  I guess it still wasn’t working.

  “Okay, now I’m holding your left hand. Squeeze my hand, Marigold. Move your left hand. Try again, squeeze your left hand.”

  Again nothing.

  He sighed, unable to hide his disappointment. “Don’t worry, Marigold. I’m not giving up on you.”

  Before he left the room, Dr. Jarvis increased the volume of the television for good measure. The music channels on TV are apparently in a loop; they play a series of forty songs in three hours, then the whole thing starts over. And all commercial-free. I never thought I’d be starving to hear an insurance or dogfood commercial, but it would be a welcome break from the cello.

  I’m not a total rube, so I do recognize a few Mozart, Bach, and Beethoven tunes, although I couldn’t name them with any confidence. But after hearing the same songs over and over (and over), I’ve memorized the opening movements of each one and can predict which song is going to play next.

  It’s the only way I can keep from losing what little mind I have.

  July 21, Thursday

  “I’M VERY UPSET, MARIGOLD.”

  My mom is a part-time real estate agent. Actually, part-time might be a bit of an overstatement. In the decade or so since she took the exam, she’s sold a total of three houses, all of them for friends. I think my mom likes the idea of being a realtor more than the actual footwork. For all her organization and drive, my mother was never a career-oriented woman. In truth, my parents had a very traditional marriage. My dad brought home the bacon… and my mom wouldn’t let him eat it because of his high cholesterol.

  Seriously, my mom was always busy with us three kids and my dad was happy she wanted to manage our home life. For the record, I love my mother. But Carrie Kemp sees the world through the lens of a sheltered suburban housewife. And when something is not to her liking, she simply ignores it.

  Apparently I have not been to her liking since I was a toddler.

  “I went to your apartment to check on your personal belongings, but your roommate—Roberta, I believe she said her name is—wouldn’t invite me in. She said as long as you were still paying the rent, you were the only person she would let in. Which was a lie because a shady looking character named Marco answered the door. I told her I had a right to be there, but she slammed the door in my face.”

  I knew Roberta didn’t plan to let anyone go through my things, but I’d never known her to be rude. And was Marco living with her now? Eating my Costco barrel of Chex Mix and using my stockpiled toilet tissue?

  “And I have to say, Marigold, I was shocked at the state of the area of town you live in. People sleeping on the streets and graffiti everywhere. I suppose you never told me your address because you didn’t want me to worry about you.”

  I never told my mother my address because she never asked.

  “Your father and I have discussed it and we’ve decided that when you wake up, it would best if you come back home to live for a while. I know I turned your bedroom into a craft room, but you can stay in Sidney’s bedroom. Or if she hasn’t gone back to Boston yet, you can stay in Alex’s bedroom.”

  Did you get that? Mom turned my bedroom into a room for gourd painting and soap making, yet Sidney’s room and Alex’s room remain intact. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day with that one, but my mother would just say the lighting is best in my old bedroom.

  “Meanwhile, Mr. Spooner has been a great advocate… he’s going to see what he can do about getting a key to your apartment from management. He and Sidney are working together beautifully. He even got Sidney a membership to his gym at the country club so they can strategize while they’re running.”

  Uh-huh.

  “And he’s been urging the district attorney to stay on your case. He promised to set up a meeting with us soon. We’re determined to make sure that Keith Young pays for what he did to us.”

  Me. What he did to me. But whatever. I would let them fight that fight—I realized they needed something to focus on.

  My mother cleared her throat. “I, um, also talked to your boss Mr. Palmer.”

  Now there was a surprise. And I would pay for that video—to see my prim, pristine mother have a conversation with my sweaty, hairy boss.

  “He’s hired a temp for your position until you are well again. He said you’re the best employee he has ever had. He said there are two keys to his business and that he has one and you have the other. I confess I was surprised and proud at how much your coworkers think of you, Marigold. You’ve never really talked about your job.”

  Again—don’t ask, don’t tell.

  “He gave me a collection that had been taken up among the employees—it’s almost five thousand dollars.”

  Five thousand dollars? Most of the people who worked at the carpet business made barely above living wage. The fact that they had dug so deep into their pockets for me was both stunning and touching.

  “I just want to say, Marigold, that I was doubtful about your job choice at first but it seems as though you made a good decision after all.”

  Mark this day on the calendar, people. My mother just said out loud I had made a good decision. Of course, the only witnesses to her statement were four comatose women.

  “So you can see how upset everyone is. It’s time to wake up, young lady, and stop worrying everyone to death.” Her voice cracked. “If you’re doing this to hurt me, Marigold, you win.”

  Then she left.

  July 22, Friday

  “YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA stats are improving every day,” Sidney said. “David knows an online marketing whiz who offered to work with your brand pro bono.”

  I have a brand?

  “He thinks Coma Girl has the potential to be a huge entertainment franchise—books, television, movies… maybe even a Broadway musical.”

  A musical about a girl in a coma?

  “He’s interviewing agents now. This is so exciting! Maybe I should consider going into entertainment law.”

  A cell phone rang. I heard Sid rummaging through her bag, then connect the call with a click. “Hello?”

  From the sound of her footsteps, I could tell she’d walked away from my bed.

  “I told you not to call me.” Her voice sounded low and serious. “I’m busy. Yes, I’m working on the project, but I don’t have enough to send you. I need more time.” She made an exasperated noise. “I don’t know when I’m coming back. This situation with my sister is taking longer than I thought.”

  I could hear her foot tapping in irritation, then it stopped.

  “What? No, you can’t come here. I’ll call you wh
en I’ve made some progress.” The way she stabbed the phone to end the call told me she really wanted to throw it. “Dammit,” she muttered.

  I felt terrible Sid was so behind on a school project, but she’d been spending more time with David Spooner than with me.

  The door opened and I recognized the sound of the hard soles of Spooner’s shoes before he even spoke.

  “I just gave the local networks a thirty-minute warning for the update on Marigold’s condition. Dr. Tyson is standing by; she said she can’t say Marigold is improving, but she can say she’s not declining.”

  Not declining. That was supposed to be positive?

  “So,” David said, “I suggested to Dr. Tyson that instead she say Marigold is holding her own.”

  “Oh, that sounds much better.”

  “Doesn’t it?”

  It did, I conceded. The man could spin a phrase.

  “Okay,” Sidney said. “How do I look?”

  “Amazing, as always,” he gushed. “Wait—take a flower from one of the arrangements and put it in your jacket pocket.”

  “How about this pink rose?”

  “That will look perfect. Touch it occasionally and if you have a chance, mention it’s there to remind you of Marigold.”

  Oh, brother.

  “Do you have my notes?” she asked.

  “Right here, but try not to use them unless you have to. People want to see you speaking from your heart.”

  “But what if I mess up?”

  “You won’t, but if you do, just apologize and say you haven’t had much sleep and the situation with your sister is wearing on you.”

  Not a stretch, but really?

  “That’s good. What if someone asks a question I don’t know how to answer?”

  “Just look at me. If it’s appropriate, I’ll step in. Or if I give you this ‘cut’ sign, tell them you’re sorry, but you’ve just been called back to your sister’s bedside.”

  Okay, that’s a bit much.

  “Hey, are you okay?” he asked. “You seem a little anxious.”

  “Just nervous, I guess. I just wish all of this wasn’t happening.”

  When I heard the plaintive note in Sidney’s voice, I forgave her for her earlier enthusiasm.