What was it with men and sports? Personally, I think baseball is boring. The game needs some kind of wildcard, like drawing a name from the stadium spectators to play first base. That I would tune in for.
“I agree,” he said, “leaving Turner stadium is proof the entire world has gone completely insane.”
Assumption of agreement—so typical.
Although I sort of agree, if only from a practical standpoint.
“Tacos from Uncle Julio’s,” Jack said. “I didn’t know if you’d like chicken, beef, fish, or pork, so I brought one of each.” He sighed. “Please wake up, Marigold, and save me from myself.”
I know he’s referring to the fast food, but as always, it seems that Jack Terry says one thing and means another. Does he need to be saved from himself? He’s obviously beating himself up over something, but what?
Despite his proclivity for high-caloric food, I had a hard time picturing an overweight guy living on a boat. Darn, I wish Roberta had told me what he looks like. Roberta is the equivalent of the guy hanging out in front of the Marta station, giving the once-over to every female who walks by. The fact that she hadn’t described Jack Terry in precise feminist detail told me she had been scared witless at their brief encounter in my room. So I’m guessing he’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and owns it.
But those men come with a boatload of ego and emotional thorns. Woe to the girl who falls for Detective Jack Terry.
“So just a quick update before the game starts,” he said. “The re-creation of the crash was inconclusive, which sucks considering all the resources that went into it. Also, the phone records came back.”
He has my full attention.
“You were talking to your roommate Roberta either right before or at the time of the crash. Careless, but not illegal. And, hey, I can’t be a hypocrite—I’ve been known to talk and drive, too.”
He tore into the bags of food. I’m on pins and needles.
“So did you swerve into Young’s lane like he said? I guess we’ll never know… and fortunately for you, it doesn’t matter. Your and Young’s lab results are back. Yours were clean—good girl. And Young blew .1 over the legal limit, which isn’t much, but it’s enough to charge him with driving under the influence.”
So without proof to the contrary, I can assume the accident wasn’t my fault. Phew.
“The press is going to have a field day when the results of his blood test are released. Your family will be told tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you first.” Then he made a rueful noise. “Although really, does it change anything for you?”
There he goes being philosophical again. But while he unwrapped tacos and brought up the game, I felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Because it’s good to have a confirmed, if faceless, target for my seething resentment: Keith Young.
August 15, Monday
“THIS ROOM MUST BE the most peaceful place on Earth,” the poet volunteer said with a sigh.
From his footsteps, I can tell he’s going from bed to bed. I can’t make out the words, but he’s greeting each of my roommates as if they are old friends. I wonder how long he’s been coming to the ward. He seems especially warm today, which makes me wonder if his own diagnosis has taken a turn for the better. Since he visits in the very early mornings, I’ve decided he makes his rounds before some sort of treatment. Chemotherapy? Kidney dialysis? Physical therapy?
Or perhaps his situation has taken a turn for the worse? I recalled his previous comment that some people would be happy to trade places with me. It seems clear he’s at some sort of crossroads. I’ve even wondered if he’s a doctor or hospital administrator who visits patients anonymously for his own insight.
If so, I wondered what he’s learning from reading to the vegetable patch?
“Hi, Coma Girl. How’s it going in there? Solving the world’s problems? I hope so.”
So if and when I wake up, I’m supposed to emerge with some kind of wisdom? Like people who are struck by lightning or who report being kidnapped by aliens?
The crackle of pages sounded. “This poem by Dickinson is titled simply ‘Life.’ I think it captures the uniqueness and fragility of our existence. ‘Each life converges to some center, expressed or still… exists in every human nature a goal. Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be too fair for credibility’s temerity to dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven to reach… were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment to touch. Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance… how high unto the saints’ slow diligence the sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture… but then, eternity enables the endeavoring. Again.”
The pages rustled, signaling he’d closed the book.
“Well, what did you think?”
My life is certainly “still.” But overall, I think Dickinson was saying if we don’t get to do everything in this life we want, we get an eternity to try other things. Which sounds appealing… but I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.
“Alright,” he said. “You think on it for a while, and so will I. Bye til next time.”
Darn it—now he had me thinking I should be lying here dwelling on something important, like how to measure the universe, or if a comatose state is some sort of dimension between life and the afterlife. Instead I’m whiling away the hours with thoughts equivalent to how many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll lollipop.
Jesus, can a girl not escape the pressure of expectation even when she’s in a coma?
August 16, Tuesday
“THE HOUSE HAS SIX BATHROOMS—six. It’s an amazing place and I’m so lucky to get the listing.”
Carrie Kemp, Real Estate Agent, is on a roll, it seems.
“My broker says if I sell half the listings I’ve picked up, I’ll make the Million Dollar Club for sure. They have their sales conferences in Hawaii! I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”
Ditto. Send me a postcard.
“It’s so exciting to see how the other half lives, Marigold. It’s a real eye-opener. All this time I’ve settled for run of the mill, but there’s a whole other level of luxury out there, and it’s within reach.”
Someone had kidnapped my mom and replaced her with Tony Robbins.
“Your father simply doesn’t understand, but he’s always been an under-achiever.”
Okay, there’s my confirmation that all is not well on the Homefront. Something else to feel guilty about because I know my situation has introduced untold amounts of stress between my parents, and they appear to be dealing with the upheaval in their own way rather than together. Dad is on an extended business trip, and Mom has a whole new vocabulary with terms like “fee simple estate” and “deed-in-lieu.”
My coma had sparked my mother’s mid-life crisis.
“This is what he always does, you know. When things get tense, he goes on a business trip.”
He does? I’m not sure I want to know these things.
“I called him last night to tell him the blood tests prove Keith Young was driving drunk. I told him he should’ve been here.”
Well, in all fairness, we’ve been waiting for the results for a long time, and Dad couldn’t just hang around. On the other hand, Mom shouldn’t feel as if she’s holding down the fort single-handedly.
“Anyway, the District Attorney asked us not to make any public statements about what a lowlife that Keith Young is. But Sidney did write a special Facebook post to say the rumor you were talking on the phone when the accident happened isn’t true.” She sighed. “I hope you know your sister is really looking out for you.”
I do. And I hope Sidney’s telling the truth, I really do. Maybe Roberta got it wrong—maybe our call simply dropped because I’d driven through a dead zone.
The door opened.
“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Kemp?”
It’s Dr. Tyson.
“Yes,” my mother said, and from the creak of the chair, I knew she had pushed to her feet. “Someone has been sneaking more photos of Marigold to the pre
ss, and I want it stopped.”
They have?
“I apologize,” Dr. Tyson said. “Everyone on staff knows they will be terminated if they compromise the confidentiality of a patient. And the staff seems very fond of Marigold—I don’t believe the leak is anyone who works here.”
“Then who could it be?”
“It could be one of your daughter’s visitors, or a visitor of one of the other patients. We try to monitor traffic in and out of the ward, but short of a full-time security guard, we can’t watch the door twenty-four seven. Do you know when it happened?”
“The photos showed up on TMZ yesterday.”
“And you’re sure your other daughter wasn’t involved?”
Ooh, a direct hit.
“Yes, I’m sure,” my mother bit out. “Sidney would never let such an unflattering photo of her sister be released. She’s very protective of Marigold.”
“I’m sorry for the added stress this must be putting on your family.”
“If it happens again,” my mother said, “I’ll get the police involved.”
“I understand. I’ll remind the staff to keep a close eye on who comes in and out.”
But I can think of someone who isn’t on staff and technically, isn’t a visitor. And now that my brain is working more efficiently, I remember the first time a photo had been leaked, I suspected it was someone who’d recently been in the room, but I couldn’t remember their identity. But now I remember, and once again, the timing is right: the volunteer who reads to us.
I’d thought he was visiting to be a nice human being, but while I was soaking up the poetry, was he snapping photos of me to sell to the highest bidder?
Who was he, exactly?
August 17, Wednesday
“PEACE BE WITH YOU, ladies.”
And also with you.
Sister Irene stopped by each bed and murmured a prayer for my ward mates, and for me. But I confess I blocked out the words—God and I are not on the best terms of late. I’m pretty perturbed at being trapped like this, and to have glimpses of hope snatched away… it’s inhumane. And it goes against everything I was taught in school about a loving God. What possible good could come from me lying here? From all of us lying here? It’s starting to feel as if we’re being toyed with.
“I see the flowers are still coming in, Marigold.”
Yes, the scents I’d once found comforting were now cloying. But she made a show of sniffing and cooing over the arrangements.
“I heard on the news the young man involved in your accident is going to be charged with DUI. And it sounds as if other charges are pending related to your condition.”
Rightly so.
“I don’t know what God has in store for you, Marigold, but in the event he chooses to take you home, you should use this time to confess your sins, and offer forgiveness to your enemies so you will meet Him with a pure heart.”
Ack—I hadn’t thought of that. Am I so wicked that God is giving me a chance to come clean before taking the rest of me?
Leave it to a nun to put it all back on me.
“If you can hear me, Marigold, try to put yourself in this young man’s shoes—imagine the guilt he has to lie down with every night. This incident will taint the rest of his life.”
Sister, I’d love to put myself in Keith Young’s shoes—because he’s walking around, talking, and feeding himself. He wasn’t thinking of anyone but himself when he drank and then got behind the wheel, and now I’m going to be selfish, too.
“You will feel better if you forgive him.”
I’m not listening… la la la… la la la.
“At least that’s what they all told me,” she murmured.
I stopped. Huh?
“They all told me I’d feel better if I forgave the man who killed my sister,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “But actually, the only thing that made me feel better was imagining gouging out his eyeballs with a snail fork.”
Wow. Wait—there’s such a thing as a snail fork?
“So I told everyone—Mother Superior, the priest, and even the bishop that I forgave the murdering scumbag, but I didn’t. That would have been a betrayal to my dear sister, and to me, that was a bigger sin.”
I’m with you, Sister.
Then she made a rueful noise. “You want to know something?”
There’s more?
“He’s out on parole, the animal. And ever since I found out, all I can think about is finding him and killing him.”
What? She couldn’t mean that.
“Not just killing him, but torturing him… filleting him like a fish, then cutting him up, piece by piece, like he did to my sister.”
Okay, maybe she did mean it.
“I know where he lives,” she whispered.
If I could feel anything, I’m pretty sure the hair would be standing up on my arms.
Then a mewling sound escaped her, like a wounded animal, grating against my ear drums. But in that one guttural noise I sensed a tiny bit of how she had suffered. Her footsteps sounded quickly in the direction of the door. She stopped suddenly.
“Peace be with you,” she said in a rush, then left.
And also with—wait… holy crap, had a nun just confessed to planning a murder?
August 18, Thursday
YOU MIGHT THINK ALL COMA patients sleep all the time, but that’s not true. I sleep mostly at night, when the hospital is quiet. But just as I was pre-coma, I fight sleep, because now I’m afraid I’ll never wake up again.
Eventually, though, my mind shuts down on its own, and then I sleep. And sometimes, I dream. So far, my dreams have all been about doing things I used to do—simple things, like brushing my teeth and walking up and down stairs. I’ve heard it’s common for people who are wheelchair bound to dream about running and jumping.
And sometimes I dream about people I know, most often Duncan, Roberta, and Mark Ruffalo.
Okay, I don’t know Mark Ruffalo, but I’d like to.
Anyway, I was having this nice dream about Mark Ruffalo when suddenly someone’s voice rudely cut in.
“Mom.”
Confused, I resisted leaving my dream, but the voice cut in again.
“Mom.”
So I left the dream behind and lifted myself to the most conscious state I could, where I was aware of what was happening in the ward.
“Mom.”
I don’t recognize the voice, but it’s female. My first thought is one of my ward mates has a visitor, a child I haven’t heard about. But from the sounds around us—or rather, the lack of sounds—I realize it’s the middle of the night, hardly the time for visitors.
“Mom… Mom… Mom…”
So the only other explanation is… one of my roomies is talking?
“Mom…. Mom… mom! MOM! MOM! MOM!”
The door burst open, admitting two sets of feet.
“What the heck?” said one voice.
“Oh, my, God,” said another. “One of them is awake!”
“Which one?”
“Let me check—Parks… Audrey Parks.”
Audrey had been hollering throughout and continued to yell, “Mom! Mom! Mom!”
“Call Dr. Tyson, stat. I’ll try to calm her down.”
But Audrey was still yelling for her mother when Dr. Tyson arrived twenty minutes later.
“Audrey,” Dr. Tyson said loudly, “I will get your mother, but first you have to quiet down.”
That shut her up—a good sign, I realize, because it means she hears and understands.
“My name is Dr. Tyson. I’m going to stay with you until your mother and father arrive. Let’s get her to a private room,” she directed in a lower voice, “where we can examine her. And contact her family immediately.”
“It’s a miracle,” one of the nurses said.
“I’m sure there’s a medical explanation,” Dr. Tyson was saying as they moved the bed out into the hall.
Then I remembered Audrey’s father’s visit last week a
nd his announcement that her mother has Alzheimer’s. I believe Audrey had heard him and somehow, internalized the realization she might never see her mother again if she didn’t get out of that bed. After two years of apathy, it had taken several days to get her brain synched up with her mouth, but there was no doubt in my mind, love had been the impetus, and sheer will had carried her out of her stupor.
So no matter what explanation Dr. Tyson manages to put on it, it is a miracle.
I’m in awe, and so happy for Audrey, even though she probably has a long road ahead of her.
And I’m also sick with jealousy. I wanted to be the one to spring up and startle the staff, make a fool out of Dr. Tyson. And I know the chances of two miracles happening back to back are nearly nil.
Audrey stole my miracle.
August 19, Friday
“DONNA SAID SHE JUST sat up like effing Lazarus and started talking.”
“Man, that would’ve freaked me out.”
Two orderlies, Nico and Gabriel, whose voices I now remember as being the first ones I heard when I became aware of my surroundings, were in the ward cleaning and removing equipment that had been adjacent to Audrey’s bed.
“Wonder what made her wake up after two years?” Nico asked.
“Who knows? Donna is convinced it’s a miracle. She said a nun was in here the day before.”
Little did they know, instead of asking God for a miracle, Sister Irene was plotting a thrill kill.
“How are things with you and Donna?”
Gabriel’s laugh was the kind guys share when they kiss and tell. “Great. She knows how to make me happy.”
Hm… wasn’t Gina dating Gabriel?
“Happier than Gina?” Nico asked.
Gabriel gave another laugh. “They both make me happy in different ways.”
“You’re playing with fire, dating two women who work here. One is bound to find out about the other.”
“Not if I’m careful, and I intend to be.”
“Man, I’m telling you, Gina’s going to want you to put a ring on it.”
“No way am I getting married again.”
Hadn’t Gina said he’d never been married?
“The third wife did me in,” he added.
Coma Girl: part 2 Page 4
