“Right.”
“So she could be trapped in there?”
“I guess anything is possible. The nurses tell me when it comes to the brain, it’s a crapshoot.”
Roberta has picked up some precise medical terminology since she started hanging out with me.
“Are you okay, Duncan?”
“Yeah… I mean, no, I’m not okay. I’m angry that something like this happened to someone like Marigold. She deserves… better.”
“Won’t get an argument from me,” Roberta said.
But at the same time, was he thinking how lucky he was not to have me as a ball and chain around his neck?
“I have to go,” Duncan said. “Trina is… I’m expected to be somewhere.”
“Go—you’ve got a busy week ahead of you.”
He stepped closer to my bed. “Bye, Marigold. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Can you be more precise? Thinking of me when you need someone to help you lift a piece of furniture, or while you’re walking down the aisle?
But as his footsteps retreated, I felt the life I’d dreamed of slip through my fingers.
“Duncan?” Roberta called.
“Yeah?”
“Just curious—how do you feel about professional basketball?”
Roberta, bless her, she had to be sure. This was my last chance to let Duncan know about the baby before he walked down the aisle.
“Total waste of time!” he called back.
Poof!
When the door closed behind him, a door in my heart closed, too.
November 20, Sunday
TWENTY-ONE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED FORTY-NINE… Twenty-one thousand six hundred fifty…
In between counting bells, I keep replaying Duncan’s conversation over and over in my head, reliving the wonder of him walking into my room, and the agony of him walking out.
It’s Sunday, so I’m waiting for Jack Terry to walk in and grouse about soccer and soggy pizza, but as the day wears on, it’s apparent he’s not coming. Maybe he’s out house-hunting again today, or maybe he had to shop for the baby, or a hundred other little domestic things that were all probably new to Jack.
When ADA Spence had baited him about Liz Fischer, the mother of his child, he hadn’t responded. She gathered the women knew each other professionally. And he hadn’t mentioned the other woman, Carlotta, for a while. But maybe he’d decided he’d never be able to build a relationship with Liz if Carlotta was uppermost in his mind.
The door opened, but instead of admitting Jack Terry, I realized Jonas Suh had returned to visit his ex-wife, Karen. Faridee had once “telegraphed” something from Karen onto a note for Jonas, proof she hears him and wants to communicate. But the note had been discarded before Jonas had seen it, so he’s flying blind trying to decide whether to hold out hope Karen will someday get better, or if he should move on with his life.
Karen and I are in the same boat—bursting to communicate with loved ones, but trapped inside a body that betrays the mind.
“Hi, Karen. It’s me, Jonas. How are you today? I brought you some mums I found at Pike’s Nursery. Remember how much we used to love to go there? The blooms are a bright lavender, so pretty. You have a lavender silk dress that looks so nice with your dark hair.”
But I can tell his small talk is forced. Underneath the false cheer, his voice is unsteady.
“I have some good news,” he said. “The nursing home bed they found for you will be ready in late-December. That gives me some time to liquidate the furniture and get the house on the market. The agent I spoke to said it’s a good time to sell, so you should get a nice price. And I start my new job in London January 1. So we have all kinds of reasons to celebrate, don’t we?”
Poor Karen. I know she’s listening and comprehending what he said, but she’s powerless to respond.
I can’t listen to him anymore. It’s too heartbreaking. I have enough heartbreak for the whole ward already.
Twenty-one thousand six hundred fifty-one… Twenty-one thousand six hundred fifty-two…
November 21, Monday
TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED SIX… Twenty-two thousand two hundred seven…
The door opened and someone made their way inside with a limp—no, a cane. At first I thought my dad had graduated from his crutches, then I caught a whiff of feminine scented soap.
“Anyone in the vegetable patch awake?”
It’s Audrey Parks, our former wardmate who had awoken up from her coma only to find life outside even more harrowing. Our two previous reunions had not gone well. During the last visit Audrey had urged Jill Wheatley to give up and die, and Jill had done just that. Audrey had been so adversarial and cruel, hinting we each had serious ailments our doctors were keeping from us, that she had to be forcibly removed. I’m a little surprised Teddy had let her come in… but perhaps he wasn’t working, or she had slipped by him.
“We have a newbie, I see,” Audrey said, walking to stand between my bed and Shondra’s. “I heard you did this to yourself playing a video game?” She gave a harsh laugh. “And I thought wrecking on water skis was lame.”
Gosh, Audrey, give the girl a break. If she’s semi-aware, she probably hasn’t yet grasped the gravity of her situation.
She limped to the other side of the room.
“And Karen, you’re still lying there curled up like an animal. Even if you woke up, they’d have to break your bones to straighten you out.”
What, you couldn’t find disabled kittens to kick across the room?
“And Marigold—or should I call you ‘Coma Girl’? Our own little celebrity vegetable, like a Muppet. And you’re pregnant with another little vegetable. Because you don’t honestly think this kid is going to come out normal, do you?”
I strained to lift my foot for one good kick… just one… but no. Besides, bizarrely, it seems as if that’s what Audrey wants—a physical altercation. To hit and get hit back. To feel pain.
“Well, not that I think any of you turnips are getting out of here,” Audrey said, “but if you do, just know you’re going to spend most of your life right back here in the hospital to fix all the little things they didn’t even know went wrong until you wake up and tell them. Between not being able to work and all my medical bills, I’ll be in debt the rest of my life. I have no friends, no social life, and I’m not allowed to drive because I could have a seizure at any time.”
Why are you here, Audrey? Because you feel picked on by God, and you want to pick on someone, too?
“Anyway,” she said, her tone and mood changing as if someone had turned off a switch. “I really just came to say… goodbye.”
Okay, that was odd… maybe she’s on medication?
She dragged the chair across the room to the little-used bathroom. I wondered if she planned to sit and glare at us all evening.
Suddenly I heard the chair squeak, then topple over, and the scrape of shoes and hands, then the grunts of Audrey gasping for breath.
With dawning horror, I realize she’s trying to hang herself from the bathroom door.
And from the choking sounds she’s making, if someone doesn’t intervene soon, she’s going to succeed.
I try to rally my resources to move or scream or anything I can do to raise an alarm, but my mind is racing, distracted by the noises of the gruesome scene playing out mere feet away, and I’m paralyzed.
The door opened.
Thank God—the cavalry!
“There were three empty parking places next to elevator,” my dad said, stumping in on his crutches. “Three!”
“Lazy people park next to the elevator,” my mom said. “And lazy people ding other people’s cars.”
“Carrie, for God’s sake, sooner or later, your car’s gonna get dinged!”
“Well, it won’t be today.”
It wasn’t until they’d both fallen into a sullen silence that the throes of death noises could be heard.
“What the—?”
My mother screame
d as if her hair was on fire, then ran back to the hall.
My dad stumped over and from what I could tell, held Audrey up with his crutches until help arrived to cut her down.
So, my Dad finally gets to be a hero, and Audrey will live to hate another day.
But I’m horrified that this far along into my “recovery,” I couldn’t rouse myself from my deep sleep even when another person’s life was in imminent danger an arm’s length away. And if a life or death crisis won’t jar my body out of its fugue state, then I’m afraid nothing will.
November 22, Tuesday
TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED THIRTEEN… Twenty-two thousand seven hundred fourteen…
The door opened, and it took me a minute to realize my Mom had walked inside because she’s not talking on her phone or walking fast, or nursing the cup of coffee that has become her power accessory.
“Hello, Marigold.”
She sounds wistful and tired and a little buzzed. I can smell the faint scent of the red wine she buys from Trader Joe’s, so that means she drove here from home. Without my dad. The fact that she settled into the guest chair Audrey had used last night to climb to her suicide attempt without insisting on a replacement tells me she’s on a mission. I can tell from her subdued mood that she wants to tell me something, and my first thought goes to what the doctors had said about keeping me alive until the end of the month, which was fast approaching. Is she going to tell me I’m dying?
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she began, “but the doctors say to speak as if you can. I need to tell you something, and even though this probably isn’t the best timing, I want to tell you before I lose my nerve.”
Okay, now I’m worried.
“Before you were born, your father and I were having some problems—mostly money problems, but other things, too.”
Around the time Dad had taken twenty-five grand from the safe to pay off gambling debts, and blamed the missing money on a burglar.
“Anyway, like I said, we were having some problems and… there was this man I met… and liked.”
My mind is jumping all around and ahead, and I don’t like where it’s landing.
“We had an affair.”
Holy chastity belt—my mother had an affair. I no longer believe the world is round, and I’m throwing that whole gravity thing out the window, too.
“And I became pregnant.”
Wait—that would be me.
“Shortly after that, the man was killed in a tragic amusement ride accident.”
What? How horrible. And… random.
“Your father never knew about the other man, and that’s the way I’d like to keep it.” She sighed. “But I look back at your childhood, Marigold, and I realize I might have taken my guilt out on you, and that was wrong.”
So, those elusive feelings I had when I was young about being at the center of my family’s discontent were valid. I felt like the outside because I was the outsider.
“I want you to know I’ve always loved you just as much as Alex and Sidney—maybe more because you remind me of him. He was an independent thinker and marched to the beat of his own drum, and so do you. And if I ever made you feel less than Alex or Sidney, I’m so sorry. You should never feel inferior to anyone. You’re as unique and special as the name I gave you, and I…” Her voice broke. “I love you so much.”
I don’t what to think, or feel, except to marvel over her revelations and try to let them sink in.
Mom made an anguished noise. “I wish you could talk to me. I wish I knew what you were thinking. If you can hear me, I want you to remember how much your father adores you and loves you. Robert would be wounded if he thought you didn’t consider him to be your father.”
Of course he’s my father. Dad is… Dad.
“Robert is such a dear man.” She was crying again. “I haven’t been fair to him. I blamed him all these years for being distant and driving me into the arms of another man, but I made that choice. I’m going to make things better at home, for all of us, including your baby.”
A mental weight rolled off me because I’ve been feeling like the straw that was going to break my parents’ marriage, when in truth, they’d both harbored corrosive secrets that had eaten away at their relationship. Maybe things could be better now.
But there’s still Sidney to contend with.
And I’m so conflicted over everything that’s happened, I just don’t know how this is going to turn out.
November 23, Wednesday
TWENTY-TWO THOUSAND NINE HUNDRED FIFTY-EIGHT… Twenty-two thousand nine hundred fifty-nine… Twenty-two thousand nine hundred sixty…
The door opened to small hard-soled shoes tapping and stomping on the floor to a tune in the head of the dancer.
Christina is back.
“Hi, Magic Lady.”
She did another little dance punctuated by jumps I can only assume are spectacular.
“I came to say thank you.”
More dancing, and some humming as a bonus.
“My mommy is all better and she’s coming home tomorrow for Thankgiving!” She clapped and jumped up and down.
Oh, the best news ever. Which I cannot take credit for, but will celebrate.
“We’re going to have turkey and ice cream and cranberries and ice cream and gravy and ice cream and—”
She stopped.
“What will you eat for Thanksgiving? Will the doctors bring you turkey? And ice cream?”
It was sweet of her to be so concerned.
Cristina gasped. “Is that a baby in your tummy?”
She dragged the chair over and climbed up, I presumed, to get a better look.
“Yep, it’s a baby, alright. It’s wriggling all over.”
Oh, I wish I could see it… I wish I could feel it. I’m starting to feel like a floating head, disembodied and listening from a dark corner.
“Is it a magic baby?” Christina asked in awe.
I guess you could say that, considering all the baby had survived.
“Can I come back and see it sometime when it’s out of your stomach?”
I love how kids need no interaction to carry on a conversation. They can talk all day to a doll, or a dog, or a coma patient.
“Christina!”
“Gots to go,” she said, then jumped down and pushed the chair back.
“Hey, Magic Lady, if you ever get sad in there, just think about dancing—that always makes me happy. Dancing and ice cream. Bye!”
She bounded out of the room and I shot a thank you to the Powers That Be for arranging for Christina’s mother to be home on Thanksgiving with her family.
Mom and Dad are having a big dinner at home for Sid and some neighbors and some of their coworkers. I believe even Mom and Winnie have buried the hatchet long enough to slice a turkey and break bread. They’re stopping by after dinner on their way to the Macy’s tree lighting ceremony at Lenox Mall.
The weekend will be full of celebrations—sales, fireworks, the Turkey Trot run, riding the Pink Pig, Santa, festivals, lights, music, parties, brunches, dinners…
And a wedding.
Twenty-two thousand nine hundred sixty-one… Twenty-two thousand nine hundred sixty-two…
November 24, Thursday
TWENTY-THREE THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED SIXTY-ONE… Twenty-three thousand two hundred sixty-two… Twenty-three thousand two hundred sixty-three…
Dr. Jarvis came by this morning to wish all the staff and patients a Happy Thanksgiving, and while he was here, gave me a quick motor response test.
I failed.
So while I’m still counting bells, I confess I’m losing hope. Because no one can put their finger on why I’m not getting better. And at what point do I simply accept where I am? Is acceptance giving up, or is it acknowledging a plateau?
The door opened and at the sound of bootsteps, I first thought Jack Terry was making holiday rounds.
“Hi, Sis.”
Alex. My hero brother. What a wonderfu
l surprise!
“I thought I’d sneak in for a few days to surprise the folks. And I wanted to see you, too. I’ve been so worried. You look pale, but good. Your scars are almost gone, I see. And we both have buzzcuts now.”
He could always make me laugh.
“You’re so pretty, Marigold. I don’t tell you often enough. You stand in Sid’s shadow, and we both know she casts a long one, but in your own way, you’re just as striking as she is.”
I’m preening under his praise, even though I know he’s being kind.
He chuckled. “Pregnancy obviously becomes you. Did anyone ever figure out who the lucky guy is? I gave Dad the name of a dude you mentioned in your letters, some guy who was in the Peace Corps… I think his name is Duncan. Hope that’s okay. In your letters you said you were just friends but I kind of got the idea it might be more than that for you. Which reminds me.”
He pulled the guest chair over and sat down. “I’ve been keeping something from you, Marigold, and the whole family, in fact.”
Inside I scoffed. The only secrets Alex could have would be concerning his work with top-secret agencies, in and out of the military.
“After the accident and when I couldn’t talk to you, I started thinking about all the things I didn’t tell you, and one in particular stuck out. It’s about your letters.”
My letters?
“As soon as I was shipped overseas, you started sending me letters.”
Almost every day—I remember.
“And I loved getting them in mail call—all the other guys were jealous. So I let my buddies read them… to me. Because I couldn’t.”
I’m confused. What was it Alex couldn’t do?
“What I’m trying to say, Sis, is I couldn’t read.”
I froze. What? That’s impossible. Alex is and always has been the smartest most accomplished man I know—he went to college, for heaven’s sake. Of course he can read.
“I know what you’re probably thinking—how can that be? But it’s true. I got by on listening in class and standardized tests and oral exams. Same thing in every job I’ve ever had. It wasn’t until I started getting your letters that I wanted to get better. And I did. I worked with a couple of great tutors and did a lot of stuff online, and some of guys in my unit helped, too. Now I’m almost where I want to be… and it’s all thanks to your letters.”
Coma Girl: Part 5 (Kindle Single) Page 5
