The Girl in a Coma

by John Moss

“And,” said de Vere, “you’ll get to meet my older brother, William.”

  Edwina de Vere was full of surprises.

  She wondered what her brother Christian would think of her now!

  “William has been in the hospital in Virginia. He was wounded but he’s recovered nicely. Come along with Madge to the celebrations. She’ll make sure you meet him. He’s a handsome devil.”

  “I won’t meet the Devil, Captain de Vere, handsome or otherwise,” she snapped back, suddenly not at all shy.

  But after a morning’s work she was excited. She looked forward to joining Madge on the big field known as The Grand Parade.

  Eight

  Rebecca

  Madge de Vere had a small satchel which she kept tucked between her straw mattress and the log wall. She opened it. To Rebecca’s surprise she took out a carefully folded blue silk dress and some cotton petticoats.

  All the women in their cabin crowded around, standing on the mattresses spread over the floor. Everyone except Rebecca knew by the way she talked so properly that Madge was a fine lady from Boston. Rebecca thought everyone at the camp spoke English with an accent, but it was Rebecca who had the accent. The Mennonites of Lancaster County spoke German, which they called Deutsch or Pennsylvania Dutch. She had spoken English at school.

  Madge held the gown up against Rebecca. All the girls and women clapped. Rebecca blushed. She had never seen a fancy dress in all her life. She could not imagine anyone wearing it. She had never worn anything but plain, drab colors. But since God made the world full of color, she could not think why He would object to a shimmering blue dress.

  And the Mennonite elders were not there to tell her different.

  “Yes, I think that will do,” said Madge. “Let’s get to work, ladies.”

  No one asked Rebecca if she would like to wear the dress. They sent her down to the stream to clean up. When she got back, with her cheeks glowing from the cold water, they were already busy with needle and thread, taking the dress in to be a good fit.

  No one asked her when they drew the petticoats up around her waist or laced up the bodice. She was aghast when they dropped the dress over her head and settled it around her slender body. She could not believe this was happening to her.

  When they had finished with her hair and pinched her cheeks, she was led out into the sunlight.

  The rest of the women were in tattered clothes, some no more than rags. And they were so proud of her, some had tears running down their cheeks.

  “Now then, every one of us is a lady,” Madge announced. “But you are the champion of Cabin 27.”

  Cheers rang out all around them. A crowd had gathered. She was the champion of the entire women’s camp, George Washington’s Regimental Camp Followers. In all the excitement, Rebecca had entirely forgotten what the elders might think back in Warwick. She was a long way from home.

  Allison

  When I woke up, I knew something was wrong. Usually, I wake up fast and Rebecca’s world is very clear in my mind. But this time I became aware of the world very slowly. I had vague memories of a blue silk gown.

  I listened. I tried to sort out the voices. They sounded excited.

  “She’s coming back,” someone said.

  “We almost lost her,” said another.

  “Her heart and her lungs are working again. We can take her off life-support. She can breathe on her own.”

  Well, apparently I’ve had a setback and given everyone a good scare. I wonder why they didn’t let me die? Someone out there must believe I will someday jump up from my bed and get on with my life. Me, too. I’ve got to believe that.

  I don’t believe in God, at least not very much. I’ve got to believe in myself.

  I don’t really know what time of day it is. It must be afternoon because David is here. Unless it’s the weekend.

  My good glory, it gets confusing. If you let it, if you panic.

  Now everything’s quiet. It’s evening. David’s still here. He is telling me about his history class. The teacher assigned the students a project: They’re to imagine a way to get the treasure out of the Money Pit on Oak Island and write their plans as an essay. They’ll be marked for originality. And for grammar, of course.

  David’s gone. My mother came and cried for a while and went home. The midnight stalker is back. He never talks to anyone. No one talks to him. He just sits there. Or stands. Whatever.

  Wait!

  There was this one guy!

  Why didn’t I think of him? I guess because he doesn’t live in Peterborough. So, why does my killer have to live in Peterborough? Good question.

  Four of us from Tim’s went to Toronto to celebrate last New Year’s Eve. The others were older than me. We rented a hotel room right down town, just off Yonge Street. Party central.

  I knew I was in over my head, so I was wary.

  We went out for a light dinner. Sushi. Apparently, you always eat light before clubbing. Then we went back to our room for a few drinks. I don’t drink, but no one noticed. Then we went out.

  No trouble getting into Club Bizarro. I look older than I am if I want to. I danced mostly with my friend Helen. We laughed a lot. Helen drank a vile blue concoction. One was enough. Otherwise, we nursed Shirley Temples. With irony: kids pretending to be grown-ups pretending to be kids.

  A guy cut me out on the dance floor like a sports car swerving to cut off a bus. Not that I look like a bus. I was looking good.

  He said his name was Basset. Said he went to universe-itty. The way he said it, I knew he was lying. Said he was single. I knew he was lying about that, too. He was trying too hard to have fun.

  I dumped him. So he shifted his attention to Helen. Okay by me, except I had no one to dance with for a while.

  Helen went to the restroom. Basset followed her. I followed Basset. He was trying to make out with her but that’s not what Helen wanted. By the time I got through the door, she was crying.

  I grabbed Basset’s hand and twisted his arm around his back so hard I could hear his shoulder pop. He collapsed. Helen and I returned to the dance floor, but we figured it was time to leave.

  We didn’t pay any attention when Basset came out of the washroom. He was talking to a bouncer when we got to the front door. The bouncer was a big guy, of course. He stood in front of us. We weren’t going anywhere.

  Basset wanted to lay assault charges against both of us. We had to wait until the cops came.

  The cops knew exactly what had happened. They weren’t born yesterday. So, they had all of us give them our names and home addresses right there. Basset got scared, of course. He wanted to punish us, but he didn’t want his wife to find out that he had been in the ladies restroom in Club Bizarro.

  He dropped the complaint or whatever it was. But not before he wrote down our information. He said “for insurance purposes.” The cops gave him a ride to the hospital. I guess I hurt his shoulder pretty bad.

  About two weeks later, I got a letter by snail-mail. It had a note inside with one word: Cow!

  I was kind of proud of that note, although the message was pathetic. I mean, cow. I suppose, when everyone swears, a non-swearing insult is meant to really sting. It didn’t. I carried it around for a couple of weeks as a trophy. Then, when I was housecleaning my purse, I threw it in the garbage.

  But it wasn’t Basset who shot me. If he did, he would have come after Helen, too. And he didn’t.

  Then why bother thinking about him? Because the whole episode was an exciting action-packed adventure. That’s why.

  Helen came in to see me when I was in the first coma and still on life support. She hasn’t been back, but David would have told me if anything had happened to her. Like, if she’d been shot.

  Anyway, I’d know.

  I have a sixth sense for things like that.

  Nine

 
Rebecca

  A little girl of seven or eight disappeared under the folds of Rebecca’s petticoats, carrying her boots. With another girl holding her hand for balance, Rebecca stepped into one boot, then the other. The little girl laced them up. They were farm boots, but no one would see them.

  The girl emerged from under the dress and looked up. “When I get big, Miss Rebecca, I’m going to be beautiful just like you.”

  Rebecca blushed. Someone stepped in front of her with a fragment of mirror. She had never looked at herself in a mirror before. She was astonished. And a little embarrassed. She wished Jacob Shantz could have seen her now.

  She shuddered at the thought of poor Jacob.

  Madge de Vere reached under the thick braid of hair that hung down the back of her own neck. She undid a clasp and drew a thin silver necklace away from her shoulders, exposing a medallion of polished silver with a smooth piece of golden amber at the center. The silver was still warm from its nest between her breasts when she placed the chain around Rebecca’s neck and the medallion rested against her bosom. No one in the camp had seen it before, except Edwina.

  Together, the women of Cabin 27 walked over to The Grand Parade where thousands of soldiers were assembling in formations for the feu de joie. The women crowded around the edges of the vast field. They watched officers riding on horseback. They watched canons being pulled into position. Then they watched in awe as George Washington rode on his huge brown horse right around the parade field.

  The soldiers cheered him, the women and children of the Camp Followers Brigade cheered him. When he was opposite Rebecca and her friends, he pulled up his horse. She was a vision in blue, even for the Commander of the Continental Army.

  General Washington touched his large black hat, which seemed to Rebecca to be on sideways. He bowed his head. His sad eyes caught hers for a moment and the great man smiled. He took his hat off and bowed again. The breeze caught his white hair and made it glimmer. Then he sat up abruptly and trotted away.

  Rebecca was confused.

  “Ah, my dear Becky,” Madge whispered in her ear. “You remind the general of all that we are fighting for. We, Becky. You and me and the girls of Cabin 27 and the rest of us. God bless you, Rebecca Haun.”

  Allison

  My silver medallion! I’m sure it’s the same one Mr. Washington must have seen on Rebecca at The Grand Parade. It’s nice to think it connects me with him. It’s at home, now. David told me the ambulance woman gave it to him when they brought me here. I hope he’ll bring it in. My Nana Friesen gave it to me. The silver is old and worn but the amber is like new. It shines as if there was a light inside.

  Amber is very old pine gum, like millions of years old, after it has turned into stone. And silver, well it’s silver from a silver mine.

  I’ve never been into jewelry. I got my ears pierced, of course. I think I was thirteen. I once had a stud in my belly button. Not in it, beside it. But I took it out. No reason, I just got bored with it.

  The adventure was having it done.

  Helen Fielder and I had belly buttons done at the same time. I think she’s still got hers. It became infected but she kept it. That’s a different Helen from Tim’s Helen at the Bizarro.

  When I get out of here, I’m going to get a tattoo. Maybe. But not a cartoon, no way.

  Or maybe I won’t. A sweater I like today I might hate tomorrow. Imagine a tattoo, a lifetime from now.

  Meanwhile, who tried to shoot me?

  I’ve still got a thinking mind. So, think.

  The guy got out of his car. He had a gun behind the seat. It was a rifle. He held it up to his shoulder and stared down the sights. It was a .22. There was a shout, Stop! He pulled the trigger. It was cold that night. He must have taken off his gloves. He knew what he was doing. He was an experienced shooter.

  It was a rifle, for sure, not a handgun. But it was a .22. If he had been a hunter, it would have been a bigger gun. Nobody hunts with a .22.

  So, who keeps a .22 rifle around? A farmer, not a hunter. Nobody from the city. A farmer needs it to shoot rodents. Groundhogs and rats and things.

  It wouldn’t be for target shooting. Anyone in the city who shoots at targets would use a pistol. Or a cowboy revolver.

  So, we’re back to the farmer.

  I was shot by a farm boy.

  About my own age. You can always tell the age of a guy by the way he stands. Most of the time. Sometimes you’ll be wrong.

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Rebecca

  The feu de joie was terrifying. If there were British spies, they would have been shaking in their boots. The American Revolution might not be over for several more years and many thousands would likely die, but Rebecca believed the outcome was determined right there, on The Grand Parade at Valley Forge!

  Cannons blasted down a long line, one after the other, in a furious wave of sound and fury. Then the muskets were fired in wave after wave of explosions, one after another, up and down the lines.

  General Washington might have worried about wasting ammunition. He had been a British officer himself, before the Revolution. He worried about running out of gunpowder. But Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, the friend of Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia, insisted. It was necessary to impress their new friends, the French. It was necessary to frighten the British. And it was necessary to make the soldiers of the new nation proud.

  And proud they were.

  Near the end of the military display, officers rode right around The Grand Parade at a full gallop, with their swords drawn.

  When Captain Edward de Vere rode by, Rebecca was astonished. She was used to seeing him in tattered uniform, covered with mud. But standing in his stirrups, raging with his sword cutting through the air, he was dazzling. And splendid. And frightening.

  After the riders had charged around the edge of the field, two horsemen approached Rebecca and Madge and the other women from Cabin 27. The men walked, leading their horses behind them. The horses were in a lather and looked fierce. Nothing at all like Old Bess or the workhorses of Warwick.

  One of the officers was Captain Edward de Vere. Rebecca knew in an instant that the other must be his brother, Captain William de Vere. Edward was smiling. William looked stern, but there was fire in his eyes. They were like amber in sunlight.

  Rebecca fell instantly in love.

  Ten

  Allison

  I’ve been thinking about why I deserved to be shot. I keep wondering if it was my fault. I know it’s ridiculous, but that’s what I keep thinking.

  It’s not always about you, Allison.

  That’s what Mrs. Muratori said when I told her history was boring. Maybe history isn’t boring, maybe it’s you. I objected. It isn’t always about you, Allison. She said that.

  And I swore I’d never be bored, ever again in my life.

  Well, maybe this case isn’t about me. Maybe it’s about him, the guy who did the crime.

  Maybe I didn’t deserve it.

  So far, I’ve figured he probably lives on a farm. He’s a good shot. He got me right in the head and that’s what he was aiming for.

  Now, the problem is, I’ve never been on a farm in my life. I don’t know any farmers. I’ve talked to a few at the Saturday Market down by the hockey arena. But who would try to kill me because I didn’t buy their green beans?

  Some of my customers at Tim Hortons might have been farmers. East City is an older section of Peterborough and there’s not a lot of through traffic. Farmers would more likely go to Saint Tim’s out on Ashburnham or up north on Chemong.

  So, let’s move backwards.

  High school? Lots of boys. Lots of farm kids but no one I really knew.

  Public school? I remember a few kids would come in by bus from the country. I don’t think I talked to a single one of them in over eight years. I
didn’t avoid them. They just weren’t my friends.

  I still remember the name of every kid in my room from back then. The name Russell Miller springs into my mind. Why do I remember him? He wasn’t in my grade. But he had a little sister, Sharon. They were farm kids. She was in my room in Grade Three then she died. She was killed in a car accident. No, she was drowned. Or in a house fire.

  Anyway, it was a horrible death and everyone in the school was upset.

  Russell Miller was in Grade Five. His sister’s funeral was on a weekend. He came to school on Monday, as usual.

  No one talked to him. We were all scared. We didn’t know what to say. The teachers treated him special. His sister had just been killed; he should have been at home with his parents. We all knew that.

  On Tuesday, he didn’t come to school.

  On Wednesday, a policeman came and asked if we had seen Russell.

  He told us to keep our eyes open.

  Well, we did. I found him in a shed beside the school where the janitors kept snow shovels and stuff. I don’t know why I looked there. It just seemed like a place where I’d hide from the world if my sister had died.

  He was crouched in the shadows at the back and I went in without saying anything and we sat together in the gloomy light of that shed for an hour. Then I found a teacher who was out in the yard, looking for me.

  I don’t think Russell and I talked but we might have. He held my hand. I clearly remember that he held my hand.

  I don’t remember much about Russell Miller after that. He was two years older. Sometimes, he would just stare at me. I don’t think I was cruel but I ignored him.

  What if he saw me as his only friend in the world?

  Oh, for glory’s sake!

  He went to Thomas A. Stewart Secondary School, same as me. He came in by bus. Half way through Grade Nine I began to notice him. There were a lot more kids there than in my public school. By then he was only one year ahead of me.

  What if I was still his only friend? And I didn’t pay any attention. He had sad brown eyes. He had light brown hair. It was always matted, like a clump of dried grass. I don’t know about his teeth. He never smiled.