Coma Girl: part 1

by Stephanie Bond

  So if the time came for my family to order me to be starved to death, I had only myself to blame.

  “What are the results of the tests?” Sidney asked. She was taking the role of my spokesperson seriously.

  “Let’s start with the good news,” Dr. Tyson began. “Marigold is breathing on her own, and all her organs seem to be functioning well.”

  “Except for her brain,” my mother prompted.

  “Yes,” the doctor agreed. “But today’s tests indicated there is still substantial brainwave activity.”

  “Oh, thank God,” my mother said.

  “And Marigold exhibits localized response to pain, which is good… but not great.”

  “So she can feel pain?” my dad asked.

  “Your daughter had an involuntary, localized response to pain. What we’re hoping for is a more general response—a full-body response—to pain stimuli. That tells us more parts of the brain are communicating.”

  “I’m confused,” my mother said. “Marigold is in pain, or she’s not in pain?”

  “The test involved external stimulus… we don’t believe she’s in pain on an ongoing basis.”

  “But you don’t know?” my dad asked.

  “We can’t say for certain.”

  Sidney made a frustrated noise. “Doctor, is my sister going to wake up?”

  “We just don’t know. The brain activity isn’t as vigorous as I had hoped, but there’s still some swelling from the injury she sustained, so we won’t know for sure until it’s completely healed.”

  “And how long might that take?” my dad asked.

  “Again, we don’t know. You’re going to have to be patient. Meanwhile, when you talk to Marigold, you might try talking about childhood routines and memories.”

  “Why?” my mother asked.

  “It has to do with how the brain establishes and stores new and recent memories. It takes time for new memories to be recorded and hard-wired into the brain. Older memories are sometimes easier to recall simply because we’ve recalled them more often.”

  So that explained why I couldn’t remember the events around the accident yet… and if my brain had been traumatized during the “recording” of the accident, maybe I never would.

  “With that in mind,” the doctor continued, “you might try calling to Marigold to wake her up the way you did when she was little.”

  “Okay,” my mom said, although I had a feeling she would not want to reenact her trips to the bottom of the stairs where she would yell, “Marigold, get up already! Don’t make me come up there!”

  My poor detached family… the attorney had charged them with learning about my current life, and now the doctor wanted them to relive my childhood, too.

  July 9, Saturday

  I SMELLED MY ROOMMATE Roberta Hazzard before she announced her arrival. Roberta works at a bakery, so the scents of cinnamon and cocoa cling to her like DNA. I think this adds to her sex appeal because despite the fact that Roberta is a large woman, she has her pick of men. They literally follow her home. I kid you not—there have been times when I’ve left the apartment and found some lovesick guy lingering in the hall, hoping for a whiff of Roberta.

  “Hi, Marigold, it’s me, Roberta.” Then she laughed. “Or should I call you Coma Girl? Girlfriend, you’re a dang celebrity. I can’t go online without seeing some mention of you.”

  The chair creaked as she settled into it.

  “I brought one of the apple fritters you like. But since you’re not awake,” she continued thickly through a mouthful, “I guess I’m going to have to eat it myself.”

  As if she needed a reason.

  “New room, huh? Well, this is better than ICU, I guess. They only let me step inside once to get a look at you, then shooed me right out again.”

  The sound of fingers being licked enthusiastically filled the ward. I could smell the glazed icing on the fritters. It was like a little sniff of heaven.

  “They thought they were going to lose you, you know. Guess you showed them.”

  No one had told Roberta that being moved to a long-term care ward wasn’t really an improvement over ICU—it was only an improvement over death.

  “Between you and me,” she said, her voice sounding closer and lower, “you’re the best-looking one in here. Your roomies seem a little… stale. Coma Girl, you gotta get out of here.”

  I was working on it.

  “Guess who came into the bakery today? Go on—guess. Okay, you’ll never guess so I’ll tell you—Marco. Remember Marco? The guy I dated last spring until I found out he was married? Well, he says he’s left his wife for real, this time, and he wants to get back together. What do you think I should do?”

  Run like the wind.

  “I know you never liked Marco, but I think he’s changed.”

  He hadn’t… people don’t change, not for the better anyway.

  “Guess who else came in this week? Go on—guess. Okay, you’ll never guess so I’ll tell you—Duncan.”

  Duncan. The mere mention of his name nearly sent me back under—I could feel the fingers of deep unconsciousness pulling at me—the equivalent, I supposed, of a person in a coma almost passing out. I hated that even in this state of near-nothingness, he could still affect me.

  “He’s back in town, and get this—his fiancé is friends with the owner of the bakery. They came in to taste test cakes for their wedding. I mean, what are the chances they’d walk into the bakery where I work? If you ask me, it’s kind of freaky.”

  Welcome to my life.

  “He didn’t know about the accident. When I told him you’d been injured, he was really upset.”

  I guess that made me feel a little better, but not less comatose.

  “I wasn’t nice to him, in case you’re wondering. I wasn’t rude, but I wasn’t nice because no matter what you say, I think he treated you pretty shabbily.”

  And that’s why I love Roberta.

  “Oh, and his fiancé—who laughs like a barking seal, by the way—chose the pink grapefruit cake for the reception. I mean, yuck. Am I right?”

  She was right. But pink grapefruit was trendy and sounded hip on Pinterest wedding boards. Not that I’d ever haunted Pinterest wedding boards. What reason did I have to look at Pinterest wedding boards? I could count on one hand the number of proposals I’d received in my life—if I put my finger and thumb together to make a big, fat “zero.” If I could lift my hand.

  “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know he was back in town.”

  And planning his wedding. To someone else.

  The sound of wax paper being wadded up reached my ears and the chair creaked, indicating Roberta had stood. “Listen, Marigold, I hate to be a downer, but I have to know what to do about the apartment. I mean, your half of the rent is still being drafted out of your checking account, but I feel bad that you’re paying and you’re not even there. On the other hand, I don’t want to find another roommate if you’re going to wake up tomorrow.”

  I would do my best to oblige.

  She sighed. “Okay, I gotta run. Marco is waiting for me in the lobby. Bye, Coma Girl.”

  July 10, Sunday

  “I LIT A CANDLE for you this morning,” my mother said.

  “So did I,” my aunt Winnie said, “although I don’t have as much clout with the saints as your mom.”

  My colorful Aunt Winnie is my favorite relative, but because she lives four hours away in Savannah and she and my mom don’t see eye to eye on pretty much anything, I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like.

  My mother made a disapproving noise, then said, “Marigold, remember the time you and Winnie and I went to see the show at the Center for Puppetry Arts?”

  “She won’t remember, Carrie.”

  She was right—I didn’t remember.

  “The doctor said it would be easier for her to recall older memories than new ones, so we’re supposed to talk about things we did when she was a child.”

  “Okay… except w
e didn’t take Marigold, we took Sidney.”

  “No, we didn’t.”

  “Trust me, we did.”

  “Oh… well, maybe so. Hm. Well, there was the time we went to the Swan House for tea.”

  “Also Sidney.”

  “What? No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive. Marigold was already in school. But you and I once took Marigold to the Botanical Gardens.”

  “We did? I don’t remember that.”

  I remembered it. I’d loved the butterfly center.

  “She loved the butterfly center,” Winnie said.

  “I think you must be thinking of someone else,” my mom said.

  “And I think you’ve blocked out your middle child’s childhood.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” my mother sputtered.

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  I could picture my mother’s face turning red, her pretty mouth puckering.

  “Let’s go,” she bit out. “Visiting hours are almost over anyway.”

  “Go ahead. I want to have a private moment with Coma Girl.”

  “Don’t call her that.”

  “Okay, okay—sorry. I’ll be right out.”

  The clickety-clack of my mother’s shoes told of her supreme irritation. When the door closed, my aunt chuckled.

  “Listen, Marigold, my love, I totally understand why you wouldn’t want to come back to those people—they haven’t always done right by you. But they do love you in their own way, and I love you more than I love myself, so please wake up.”

  I tried so hard to open my eyes… but it didn’t happen.

  “Okay, then,” she said. “You’re on your own timeline. I can respect that. I’ll come back soon by myself so we can visit. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

  When the door closed, I felt lighter. Aunt Winnie was a force of nature, so if she believed I was still viable, that had to be good.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and closed again. I thought either my mother or aunt had forgotten something.

  “Hi, Marigold.”

  Holy pink grapefruit cake.

  “It’s me… Duncan.”

  As if he’d have to tell me. As if I hadn’t memorized every creamy nuance of his caramel voice. And he still wore that smoky cloves cologne I loved.

  He stepped close enough to my bed to ping the metal, and the pained noise he made was proof of how grim I must look with my bandaged head and scars apparently crisscrossing my face. And admittedly, when it came to grooming, I did the bare minimum. So my basic routine would be undone after a few weeks of neglect—my eyebrows were probably bushy, and my breath probably reeked. And was someone keeping the crusties out of my eyes and nose?

  “I didn’t know this had happened,” he murmured. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, Marigold.”

  Sorry for the condition I was in, or sorry for breaking my heart?

  Okay, technically, that last part wasn’t fair because he didn’t know he’d broken my heart. But he’d lost his chance to be with me forever, so if he was having regrets, he was just going to have to live with himself. Oh, and Trina.

  “The nurse said I could only stay for a couple of minutes, but I just wanted to see you in person and tell you…”

  Yes? I’m waiting. I have nothing but time.

  “Goodbye.”

  After the door closed, I lay there and just… lay there. Duncan apparently had his closure. This coma thing wasn’t as satisfyingly vengeful as I’d hoped.

  July 11, Monday

  I KNEW THE NAMES of my unwitting ward roomies because the nurses often called out patient names to each other—I assume they were checking charts against wristbands—before they administered medication. Which I found amusing—did they think we were all playing possum and in the middle of the night, we switched beds just to mess with the staff?

  Although that could be funny.

  Bed one was occupied by Audrey Parks. She landed in the hospital two years ago because of a water skiing accident. The fact that she was having fun a split second before the injury seems especially cruel to me. I don’t know how old she is, but I assign some youth to her just because she was on water skies. I tried to water ski once and the way I face-plowed into the wake, it’s a wonder I didn’t wind up in here then. So I have sympathy for Audrey and how quickly things can go bad going twenty-five miles an hour standing on two slivers of wood in deep water.

  Karen Suh is in bed two. She fell off a ladder trying to clean gutters at her house. I find it terrifically sad that a woman who was attempting to do something for herself would take a tumble and is now in this place. For the record, if I ever get out of here, I will never climb any higher than a curb. Like Audrey, Karen has been here for two years.

  Jill Wheatley is in bed four. She suffered a stroke while in surgery and never gained consciousness. I gather she’s the oldest patient in the ward and has also been here the longest—going on four years.

  I’m in bed three and the fact that I’m the new gal but my bed is out of sequence isn’t lost on me. I wonder who was in bed three before me, and the circumstances of her exit. The fact that Nurse Gina said she’d never seen anyone in this ward wake up tells me the former bed three patient exited the ward either into the hereafter or into a nursing home… which, in my mind, is one and the same.

  I’m wondering if Audrey, Karen, and Jill are each lying there trapped in their bodies like I am, slowly going mad as the days, weeks, months, and years crawl by.

  The saddest part of my roomies’ situation is none of them have gotten a single visitor since I entered the ward.

  Until today.

  “Hello, ladies, it’s Sister Irene. Peace be with you.”

  And also with you. The response was automatic, like breathing. Sister Irene was, obviously, a Catholic nun.

  “How are you Audrey? Karen? Jill?”

  She paused after each name, out of courtesy, I suppose… or to leave room for a miracle should one of them decide to spontaneous respond.

  “And who do we have here?” From the noise at the foot of my bed, I assumed Sister Irene was checking my chart. “Marigold Kemp. What a nice name.”

  I confess my experiences with nuns at my private high school had not been entirely positive, but I was inclined to like this one. From the authoritative edge to her voice, I deduced Sister Irene had been around the block a time or two and was perhaps in her sixties.

  “And I see, Miss Marigold, that you are a Believer, considering the lovely rosary hanging on your bed. Very good. What should we pray about today?”

  Okay, that’s where she lost me. Despite my Catholic upbringing, I’m not a very religious person. I have problems with God—I think he should be more open to my suggestions. I know that’s a sacrilegious statement and some of you might think that’s why I’m here, that I was struck down and sentenced to lie here until I’ve paid penance for my wicked independence. But this can’t be my destiny.

  If anything, my story and my ward mates’ stories tell me that life is so random, no one is in control… not even God.

  If I could talk, I’d tell Sister Irene to save her prayers for me and spend them on someone else. Because I’m going to get out of here.

  On my own.

  July 12, Tuesday

  “SO I WAS THINKING,” Sidney said. “If people want a picture of Coma Girl, let’s give them a good picture. I brought my makeup kit and a head scarf to cover up that hideous bandage. Then we’ll have something to push out into your social media streams. I ran this by David, and he thinks it’s a great idea.”

  Wow, my sister had singlehandedly come up with a new genre: coma porn.

  And why hadn’t she thought of this before Duncan came to visit me in all my bedridden unsightliness?

  Yes, of course I’d been thinking about him almost nonstop since his short visit to my room. I desperately wanted to call Roberta and ask her what she thought about it, but that was out of the question. Pl
us I knew what she’d say: Girl, you’re in a coma, and you’re wasting what few brain cells you have left thinking about a man who doesn’t want you? What are you, stupid?

  And she would be right.

  Meanwhile, from all the zips and thumps and snaps and taps, it sounded as if Sidney was unpacking an arsenal.

  “I’ve always wanted to do this, but you would never let me.”

  I don’t remember Sid ever offering to make me up, but she was doing it now, and that’s what mattered.

  “I only wish you would open your eyes so I’d have more to work with.”

  Except that would render the entire exercise moot.

  “First I have to trim those eyebrows of yours. Honestly, sis, they look like mustaches.”

  Now there’s an image that will stick with me.

  “Okay, better. Next, a nice crystal scrub to remove all the dead skin cells. I’ll be careful around the scars.”

  I couldn’t feel anything, but I know my sister knows what she’s doing.

  “Now I’ll use a wipe to remove the crystals. There, that’s better already. I’m going to tell the nurses to exfoliate your skin at least once a week.”

  And I’m sure they will put it on the top of their list.

  “Now moisturizer—with luminescence so your skin will glow. Oh, sis, you really do have nice skin… you should play it up more.”

  Duly noted.

  “And you’re dreadfully pale, but I think this foundation color might work. Hm… yes, that looks nice. And concealer for this scar… and that one… and that one… and that one…”

  Jesus, my face must look like a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Okay, that’s the worst of it. Now a contouring stripe to minimize your nose.”

  Apparently my too-big nose was still intact—check.

  “And powder to set… good. And a little mascara…”

  I still had eyelashes—check.

  “A touch of blush on the cheeks and eyebrows…”

  Check, check.

  “And lip balm.”

  Whew! Check.

  “Now let me see about covering that bandage in front.”