But when she walks directly to my bed, warning flags go up—more of them when I realize who she is.
Trina, Duncan’s ex-fiancée.
How did she get past my security guard?
“Remember me?” she asked. “I was the woman who was going to make Duncan happy. I was nice to you, Coma Girl, because I felt sorry for you. And I still feel sorry for you.”
I focus all my efforts on moving my fingers over, over, over until I touch the nurse call button. I depress it and, to my immense relief, a buzzer didn’t sound. Instead, behind Trina, a light came on over the door.
She stepped closer. “Because you don’t honestly think he’s going to stay with you forever, do you? Why would a man want a vegetable for a wife?”
She bent over my bed and put her face close to mine. “You’re just Duncan’s charity project du jour.”
The door opened and Teddy strode in. “Who are you?”
Trina straightened. “I’m… just leaving.”
“That’s a good idea. And don’t come back.”
Trina marched from the room. Teddy looked back to me and I imagine my expression reflects the whiplash I feel.
“Are you okay, Marigold?”
I nod.
“Should I call someone? Duncan?”
“No,” I croak. “I’m… good.”
Teddy nods, then leaves the room.
But I’m not good. I’m not good at all.
December 16, Friday
NORMALLY I would’ve been asleep when Dr. Tyson slipped into the dimly lit ward. It was the end of a long day of physical therapy sessions in a long week of successive days of physical therapy sessions. I know I’m gaining ground, but it is punishing to my weak body, and you’d think I’d be happy to close my eyes.
But tonight I’m fighting my old demon insomnia. My mind has been in a constant churn since Trina’s visit. I don’t blame her for being angry with me—in her eyes I’m the person who interfered with her life plan. If not for me, pitiful pregnant Coma Girl, she’d be well into the season of hosting holiday parties with her handsome husband Duncan by her side.
I watch Dr. Tyson walk to Karen Suh’s bed and check her position, her vitals, and the equipment around her bed. The doctor’s movements are purposeful and unhurried before she moves to Shondra Taylor’s bed. Since Shondra is on a wheezing ventilator, there are more items to check.
By the time she gets to my bed, I’m sure Dr. Tyson is tired and ready to go home, yet her movements seem just as methodical.
“Hi,” I croak.
“Oh, hello, Marigold. I’m sorry to wake you.”
“You… didn’t.”
“Ah, you can’t sleep either?”
“No.”
“You must be antsy to leave the hospital and get out of here. Dr. Jarvis says you are progressing at almost unbelievable rates. He’s been your champion all along.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more optimistic, more encouraging.”
I don’t know what to say, so I remain silent.
She gave a little laugh. “I used to be just like Dr. Jarvis, always the first person to try something new, to believe the impossible. You, Coma Girl, have been a wake-up call for me. Because you showed me just how much I’ve changed—and not for the better. I don’t know what happened to my life. Somewhere along the line, I traded in hope and curiosity for apathy and status quo.” She made a rueful noise in her throat. “And not just in my professional life.”
She leaned into the bed rail and steepled her hands. “Tell me, Marigold… do you remember any conversations that took place when you were comatose?”
She was probably referring to her confession that her husband had asked for an open marriage… or perhaps the phone call she unwittingly took from a call girl prompted by an ad her husband had taken out on an adult website.
I have a choice to make. As a doctor, Sigrid Tyson needs to know some comatose patients can hear everything happening around them. But as a woman, she needs to feel she can keep her private humiliation private.
“No. I don’t… remember… anything.”
Her relief is palpable. “Good to know. I want to say goodbye, Marigold. I’m leaving Brady and Atlanta to take a position on the West Coast. I’m going to start over. But I’ll leave you and my other patients in the very capable hands of Dr. Jarvis. He’s a fine physician. Good luck, Marigold. And thank you.”
Dr. Tyson slipped from the room and I sent good thoughts after her before turning back to my own fears.
What’s keeping me awake isn’t the fact that Trina came by to vent her anger on me. I rather wish she’d pointed out the obvious—that I’m not as pretty as she is, or as well-educated, or as well-employed, and those inadequacies would leave Duncan wanting.
Instead what she’d said about me being a project for Duncan had the awful ring of truth.
December 17, Saturday
“HEY, SIS! Look at you—I can’t believe you’re sitting up and talking to me.”
I’m Skyping with Alex on a touch screen computer in the physical therapy room. A helper is within sight in case I need assistance, but once the connection is made, there isn’t much to do except to keep the conversation going.
“I’m… making… headway.”
“I’ll say. It’s hard to believe a few weeks ago you were in a coma and unable to communicate. How’s the baby?”
I patted my rounded abdomen. “Active.”
He laughed. “That’s good. How’s Duncan?”
“Fine… good.” Obligated? Nursing a damsel in distress fixation?
“He seems like a great guy, Sis. I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.”
“He… likes you… too.”
“The important thing is that he likes you.”
I try to laugh, but the sound that emerges is more like a wounded bird.
Alex sobered. “Have you heard from Sidney?”
“No.”
“Me neither. I get the feeling she’s hunkered down with an attorney trying to hash through things. I had no idea she was hooked on uppers. Did you?”
He’s asking the girl who didn’t notice he couldn’t read. “No.”
“But looking back at some of her behavior when I visited at Thanksgiving, it makes sense. Sid was pretty manic at times. I just thought it was Sid being Sid—high strung and high maintenance.” He sighed. “How are the folks?”
“Okay, I… think.”
“Good to hear. You know having a family secret aired like this is Mom’s worst nightmare.”
“Uh-huh.” I try to tamp down the panic that rises a little every day the tell-all manuscript doesn’t come to light. Everyone would be scorched by it. I have a bad feeling whoever has it is biding their time for the perfect window of opportunity to use it.
Did I mention I’m not sleeping much these days?
December 18, Sunday
“AREN’T YOU A font of information?” Jack Terry said in a suspicious tone, flipping pages in a small notebook.
I’m on pins and needles to hear what he uncovered.
“I made a few phone calls about the parolee you said was in danger. I found a George Gilpin who was paroled a few months ago here in Atlanta. Was convicted of a pretty brutal murder of a young woman—the only reason he got parole is prison overcrowding and he’d served seventy-five percent of his sentence. Even this guy’s parole officer said he’s bad news—no way he’s in any kind of danger.”
Jack leveled his inquisitive gaze on me.
“So here’s where things get squirrely. Gilpin missed an appointment with his parole officer, so the P.O. puts out a warrant for his arrest. Imagine his surprise when Gilpin shows up two days later, looking like he’s been used as a target for knife-throwing practice. Begs to be put back in prison to finish out his term.”
I nod. “Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you’ve got to say? How did you find out about this?”
“Um… I, um… ”
He held up his hand.
“Don’t tell me it’s another one of you aunt’s kooky psychic encounters.”
“Okay. I… won’t tell you… that.”
Jack’s expression turned sour. “It sounds like Gilpin is back where he belongs, so how about let’s both forget it?”
“Forgotten.”
He ripped the page out of his notebook and crumpled it for trash. “Moving on. You were right that David Spooner uses the alias Dean Bradley. We can connect him to the Keith Young assault. How did you know that?”
“Overheard Spooner… talking on… the phone.”
Jack squinted. “When you were in the coma?”
I nod.
“Let me get this straight—when you were comatose, you could hear what was being said around you? Everything?”
Panic flashed in his eyes. Is he trying to recall all the personal information he’d shared with Coma Girl?
I’m enjoying this immensely.
But we’re interrupted by a knock at the door and the appearance of ADA Spence. She gave Jack a sardonic smile.
“I thought I might find you here, Detective.”
“What’s up?”
“David Spooner was arrested in Key West, trying to board a catamaran headed for the Bahamas.”
Jack gave a fist pump. “Yes.”
“He should back in Atlanta tomorrow morning. Good luck with it.” She walked back to the door.
“Wait—are you off the case?”
“Off the payroll actually. I quit the D.A.’s office. I’m moving to Minnesota to be closer to my father.”
Jack wrinkled his nose. “Minnesota?”
“Yep—where the weather is lousy, and you can’t buy liquor on Sunday. The things you do for family, right?” ADA Spence made pointed eye contact with me, then walked out.
Truer words were never spoken.
When the door closed, Jack linked his hands behind his head and leaned back in the guest chair. “Good work, Marigold. I owe you one for the lead on David Spooner.”
“Okay. I’d like… to collect.”
“Already?”
“Yes. Write down… this name: Jeremy… Hood.”
He whipped out his notebook and wrote in neat block letters. “Is he a criminal?”
“Sort of. He’s bullying a friend of mine.”
Jack frowned. “I’ll take care of it.”
December 19, Monday
“GOOD EVENING, Marigold.”
Dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, Dr. Jarvis looks handsome and approachable, but he’s walking and talking doctor-fast.
“The service said you needed to see me right away. I got here as quickly as I could.”
He pulled out his stethoscope.
“Are you feeling okay? Is there a problem with the baby?”
I give him my most apologetic smile. “I’m sorry… Dr. Jarvis. The service… misunderstood. This could’ve… waited until… tomorrow.” I nodded toward the silent iPod hanging on my bedrail. “The battery… is dead.”
His smile was good-natured, as usual. “No worries. Mine is charged up. I’ll just swap them out and swap them back tomorrow. How do you like the new playlist?”
“I do. Rap is… helping me… get back into… the rhythm of talking.”
“That’s the idea.” He clapped his hands together. “If there’s nothing else…”
I eased my hand toward the nurse call button and pressed it.
“Actually, while you’re here… I can’t think… of a better time… to say thank you… for all… you’ve done. You are… my hero.”
He blushed under my praise. “That’s very kind of you, Marigold, but I’m only doing my job.”
“More than… your job. The music therapy… saved me.”
He smiled. “It was more than the music therapy, but I’m glad you think it helped.”
“It did.”
“Good.”
“Immensely.”
“Well, you’re welcome. If that’s all, I’ll be going now.”
The door opened and Nurse Gina came in. “Oh, hello, Dr. Jarvis.”
“Hi, Gina. And it’s Wayne, remember?”
“Wayne.” She pulled her gaze away from his to face me. “You called, Marigold?”
I sighed. “I don’t know… what’s wrong… with me… this evening. I must… have pressed… the button… by accident. I’m sorry.”
“It’s no problem.” She smiled and reset the button.
“You’re working nights now?” Dr. Jarvis asked Gina.
“Double shifts, just through the holidays.”
“Makes for a long day.”
“Yes,” she said, massaging her neck. “I’m getting ready to clock out now.”
“I’ll walk you out,” he offered. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Sure,” Gina said.
I watched them walk out together and smiled, pleased with myself.
December 20, Tuesday
“THAT MAN NURSE almost didn’t let us in!” Aunt Winnie cried when she and Faridee fell into the room. “And he practically mauled us patting us down for contraband.”
“Did he… find any?” I asked brokenly from my bed.
“Those bath salts were for baths,” Faridee declared. “And I keep a can of spray paint with me at all times for protection.”
“Against rust?” I asked.
“Poor Faridee is just now recovering from her bout of Psychic Syndrome,” Winnie said.
Indeed, Faridee looks a little worse for wear. She’s obviously wearing a black bun wig because it’s askew. And she’s wearing her sandals on the wrong feet.
“But doesn’t Marigold look wonderful?” Winnie asked, preening. “She’s awake and talking, and the baby is getting big.”
“Yes,” Faridee gushed. “So beautiful.”
But she’s not making eye contact. In fact, she’s inching toward the door like she might make a run for it.
“Aunt Winnie… my throat is… so sore… would you… step out… and ask Teddy… for a cup of… warm broth?”
“I can do it,” Faridee offered.
“I’d rather… my aunt… handle it.”
“Of course.”
As soon as the door closed behind Winnie, I narrowed my gaze at Faridee. “Look… we both know… those gewgaws and classes… you peddle to my aunt… are worthless crap.”
Faridee tried to look outraged, but wound up cowering. “I’m just trying to pay the mortgage like everyone else.”
“You also have… some legitimate talent.”
Faridee brightened. “I do?”
“Yes—some. More often… than not… you get your… wires crossed… and things… come out garbled.”
“Such as?”
“When I… tried to tell you… the father… of my baby… you got… the ‘spurs’ part right… but the clue was… San Antonio Spurs… not a cowboy.”
She whooped. “But that’s close!”
“Sort of.”
“What else did I get right?”
“I asked… you to tell Jack… that Sidney… was driving.”
“We did! I told Winnie and she told Jack.”
“You said… Sidney was driving… me crazy.”
She winced, then shrugged. “That’s pretty darn close.”
“No… it isn’t. But you did… pull a random thought… about a lost sock… out of my head.”
“I remember that!”
“And you… sensed death… before my… roommate Jill died.”
“I did indeed.”
“Although… it’s a coma ward, so….”
She made a rueful noise. “I see your point.”
“But… you seem to… connect with… Karen Suh… my roommate… by the wall.”
“Yes, she’s talking to me now. She says I need to hurry, they are running out of time.”
“I want to… offer you… a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I won’t… expose you… as a fraud… if you will… translate bet
ween… Karen and Jonas Suh… for free.”
“How about thirty percent off?”
“Free.”
“Half off?”
“Free. And no more… taking advantage… of Winnie.”
Faridee sighed. “Okay.” Then she brightened. “But this is the best day of my life! I am the real deal—I’m psychic! Thank you, Marigold.”
She grasped my shoulders and kissed my forehead, then she pulled back.
“You’re a true lucky charm, Marigold. You improve everyone else’s good fortune.” Then her expression darkened. “But as far as your own luck…”
“What about my own luck?” I pressed.
Faridee loosened her grip, then gave a little wave. “It’s… fine.” Then she turned her head toward Karen Suh. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
December 21, Wednesday
THE DOOR OPENED SO QUIETLY, I wonder if my poet volunteer has returned to sneak in and out again.
Instead Joanna Fitz walks inside, her footsteps tentative. She’s dressed for warmth, not style. Her hair hasn’t been styled and her makeup looks pared down from what I remember.
“Hello, Jo,” I said from my bed. But I confess I’m worried she’s been drinking, or has brought alcohol with her. Or both.
“Hi, Marigold. So it’s true—you’re awake. And talking.”
“Awake… and getting better… at talking. But not… mobile yet. My doctor says… I can try… to walk soon.”
Fear crosses her face and I think she’s going to turn and run out of here.
“But I can raise my arms.”
I lifted my arms toward her and she gives me a gentle hug.
“You won’t… break me,” I said, laughing.
“I might. I’ve been working out.”
“You look good,” I hedge, unsure how much she thinks I know about her. Does she even remember the things she said when she visited?
“Lifting weights and running are part of my recovery program.”
I just nod. “Where are you in the process?”
“Fairly early, lots more to hash through.” She squinted. “Do you remember me visiting before?”
Coma Girl: Part 6 (Kindle Single) Page 4
