Coma Girl: Part 4 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  I’m worried about Joanna. I can’t see her, but I still don’t recognize this person I’m hearing. I can’t reconcile her to the happy, confident woman I knew in college. What happened to her?

  “I have a confession to make, Marigold.”

  Oh, please—no more. I can’t take it.

  She scooted the chair closer and whispered, “I slept with my father-in-law.”

  Oh, Joanna, just… yuck. What the hell were you thinking?

  “I know—I’m a horrible daughter-in-law, too.”

  Well, to your motherin-law, anyway. Your father-in-law would probably give you a thumbs’ up.

  “It only happened twice.”

  Stop.

  “Okay, two and a half times, but that’s all.”

  STOP. Wait—what constitutes half a screw? Never mind, all I can think about is Joanna’s father-in-law toasting his son at their wedding on his marvelous choice for a bride. Ew.

  “So now you know why Stuart has filed for divorce. Yes, he cheated, but I suppose I took revenge sex to the next level.”

  You think?

  “He’s filing for full custody,” she added in a barely audible voice. “I might not get to see my kids.”

  The kids she seems to resent, begrudge, and loathe? I have to admit, unless Joanna gets her act together, I think she needs a break from motherhood.

  Joanna sighed, then screwed the top back on her flask. “Whew, it feels good to get that out. Secrets will eat you alive.”

  But what about the damage to the person you puked them on?

  “You’re better than an AA meeting, Marigold. And way cheaper than a therapist.” She laughed, then trailed off into a wistful sigh. “I need a friend, Marigold. I wish you would wake up.”

  But for my sake… or for hers?

  October 5, Wednesday

  “YOU’RE HAVING A BABY, now isn’t that just grand?”

  My boss at the carpet place, Percy Palmer, has stopped by and his sweet greeting cheers my heart.

  “If that’s not a reason to wake up, I don’t know what is.”

  He has a point. What had Audrey Parks said? She’d needed something to latch onto. I confess this thing with Sidney lying about who was driving my car has me distracted. What I should be doing is focusing on my baby and how to get out of this bed.

  The door opened. “Hello… are you Mr. Palmer?” a woman asked.

  From the swishing noise, I knew he’d removed his hat.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  And from the dip in his voice, I gather she’s attractive.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your visit.”

  “I’m just saying howdy to Marigold. She works for me.”

  “How nice. Everyone in the hospital knows who Marigold is—she’s our celebrity patient.”

  “She’s just plain old Marigold to me, ma’am.”

  Ah, the adjectives every girl yearns to hear: Plain and old.

  “I’m Sophia from the Materials and Maintenance Department, and I wanted to thank you in person for the donation of new carpet in our waiting rooms. It’s a very generous gift, sir, and I don’t have the words to thank you properly.”

  Sophia’s voice is like honey dripping off a spoon. And my boss has a sweet tooth.

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said, and I pictured his ears turning red. “It’s the best commercial carpet money can buy… the pad, too. Most people don’t realize if you don’t put down a good pad, the carpet’s going to wear out no matter how good it is.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “There’s a lot of science behind carpet, ma’am. This one is antimicrobial. Figured that would be good with all the germs in this place.”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Tell your maintenance crew all it needs is a good vacuuming every day, and shampooing maybe once a year.”

  “I will.”

  “And I’m leaving a case of spray deodorizer—New Car smell. It’s my best seller.”

  “How thoughtful. You know, I’ve been thinking about recarpeting my house. I’m on my way to lunch. Maybe you’d like to join me and give me some advice?”

  “I’d… like that.”

  I’ll bet he’d turned his hat inside out.

  “Good. Why don’t I grab my purse and let you say goodbye to Marigold? I assume she’s the reason behind your donation. She must be special to you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d do anything for Marigold. I thought new carpet in the waiting rooms would be a nice tribute.”

  “It’s so kind of you to do something in her memory. Take your time, Mr. Palmer. I’ll wait for you in the hall.”

  “Okay, ma’am. But I ain’t dressed very nice.”

  “You look good to me,” she said.

  He made a noise that sounded like a cross between a cough and a giggle.

  The door closed and I could picture him rocking back and forth on his heels, nervous and pleased. But mostly nervous.

  Good for Mr. Palmer—he’s a swell guy and he deserves a good woman in his life. I hope Sophia isn’t schmoozing him just because of the donation he made.

  In my memory. Ack—as if I’m already dead.

  But if I do croak, it’s nice to know I’ll live on through the antimicrobial carpet in the Brady hospital waiting rooms that reek of New Car. I mean, who else has that?

  October 6, Thursday

  “PEACE BE WITH YOU, ladies.”

  And also with you.

  Sister Irene sounds more cheerful than usual as she stops to say a prayer over my ward mates Karen Suh and Jill Wheatley. I dearly hope it is the cheerfulness of a clear, forgiving mind versus the cheerfulness of a spider with a fly in its web.

  “Hello, Marigold. How are you today?”

  Maybe she won’t linger if I don’t make eye contact.

  Then I heard the sound of the chair being dragged closer to my bed. Darn.

  “What a pretty head wrap—pink smiley faces. Your family must be very attentive.”

  They’re not, but the nurses are good about changing my head scarf regularly. I had hoped to be rid of the bandages covering my surgery scar by now, but there was some concern about a skin infection blah, blah, blah, and more shaving and I still have the bandages.

  “And how is your baby? Now it’s clear why you survived, Marigold—to bring this child into the world.”

  It was a very nunly thing to say, and nicely meant, I’m sure. But I confess the feminist in me rails against the implication that I’m little more than an incubator. Is God going to pluck me up when the oven timer rings? On the other hand, for the baby’s sake, I’m grateful my uterus was spared in the accident. On the other hand…

  Sigh… I’m starting to comprehend the push-pull of being a mother. Is this how my mother felt when she was pregnant with each of us—happy a new life was starting, yet sad her life as she knew it was ending? Loving toward the baby growing inside her, yet resentful that it was literally consuming her?

  Sister Irene sighed. “Motherhood is one of the great joys of life a woman gives up when she becomes a nun. And sex.” Another sigh.

  TMI, Sister.

  “I’ve always wondered what sex would be like. I’ve read a thousand romance novels about it, and it sounds positively marvelous, all the moaning and the thrusting.”

  I can testify it’s not always marvelous—most of the time my post-coital assessment puts the act on the pleasure scale somewhere above painting my bathroom and somewhere below a sale at IKEA.

  “I once rented a porno movie.”

  I don’t want to hear this.

  “I figured it was the safest way to find out what really happens.”

  Uh-huh. Because UPS delivery guys, tow-truck drivers, and new next-door neighbors really look like that.

  “It was kind of awful, but maybe I got a bad one. I mean, sex has to be more like it is in books for people to want to keep doing it.”

  La, la, la, la, I can’t hear you, la, la, la, la.

  “But enough of tha
t. I thought you might want an update on my plan.”

  Now I’m riveted.

  “George Gilpin is supposed to come to my place next week to look at the repairs I described over the phone.”

  She sounds giddy. But at least she’s leaving a documentation trail so if something happens to him—

  “I didn’t call him on my phone, of course. I bought a throwaway cell phone for that—with cash. Anyone who watches Forensics Files knows that much.”

  I stand corrected. And apparently my friend Joanna isn’t the only one taking copious notes during the show.

  October 7, Friday

  “HI, KAREN. IT’S JONAS. How are you today?”

  When I realized Karen Suh’s ex-husband had come back to visit, my heart sank. I’d hoped he would return in time to see the note Faridee had transcribed from Karen to him about the pear tree, a message that would convey she could hear him. But the note had fallen off where it was pinned to her gown and discarded, with no comprehension of its significance.

  “You look pretty, like always.” He chuckled. “I’m wet. It’s pouring down rain and I couldn’t find a covered parking place. I drove your car over, I hope that’s okay. It’s been sitting in that dusty garage since—for a long time. It needed a new battery and spark plugs, so I thought driving it would be good for the alternator. It took me a while to get here. You know traffic is always bad on Friday, and when it’s raining…” He trailed off as if he suddenly realized he was rambling to someone who couldn’t respond.

  In the silence, only the sounds of our machines could be heard, and the unending dirge of my classical music, which sounded especially somber today with rain pinging against the window.

  The vegetable patch is a pretty depressing place in general.

  Today, it’s purgatory.

  The crackling of paper sounded.

  “I received a letter yesterday,” he said, “from the hospital. It says it’s time to apply for a bed in a nursing home—they want to move you to a place where you’ll receive long-term care.”

  They’re giving up on her.

  “I’m still listed as your healthcare proxy, but I called your cousin Sonya in Alaska and asked her opinion. She said she would leave the decision to me… although I guess the decision has been made. The letter says it might take a while to find an available bed, but I think it’s time for me to do some things I’ve been putting off, like sell the house, and your car. The nursing home is going to be expensive, and in order to qualify for Medicaid, your assets have to be liquidated.”

  His wet shoes squeaked on the floor, as if he were pacing.

  “But I know how much you love that house, and all your mother’s antiques. The thought of them going to strangers….”

  More squeaking, more pacing.

  “There’s more.” He sighed. “I’ve been offered a job in London. Actually, it was offered to me before, but I didn’t take it because… I wanted to stay close by. But now…”

  Now he’s giving up on her, too.

  “I don’t know what to do, Karen. I feel like this is all my fault and I want to be here for you. But maybe you waking up is just wishful thinking on my part. What should I do?”

  His voice was hoarse with anguish and unshed tears. It gave me some insight into the decisions my parents might have to make for me someday, if I lingered here. And after a nursing home, then what? The decision to be kept alive through artificial means? Only to someday be forced to make another decision to pull the plug or withhold nourishment?

  Ack—if only Jonas had seen the note, he’d realize Karen is still here.

  Then a sobering thought hit me—just because I’m still here and Karen is still here doesn’t necessarily mean we will wake up. What if we simply can’t cross the barrier Audrey had managed to cross?

  October 8, Saturday

  ROBERTA WAS LICKING the remains of a pecan tart from her fingers and humming to emphasize its gooey goodness.

  “Girl, you have to wake up so you can help me eat the leftovers I bring home. I’m going to get fat.”

  Hm… does that mean Marco is no longer around to scarf up my half of the freebies?

  She sighed. “Marco split again.”

  Of course he did.

  “And I’m just sick about this, Marigold, but the money I was saving for you from your cards and letters that I kept in the freezer? About a thousand bucks. It’s gone, too.” She made a mournful noise. “I’m so sorry. I just can’t believe he’d steal from me.” She blew her nose. “I mean, from you.”

  Poor Roberta—she always falls for the wrong guy. She reminds me of me.

  “But I started saving all over again today when I sorted through your mail. Eighty dollars in the oven. Lord knows, Marco would never look there if he came back. And if he did, all he’d see are the sweaters I store in there.”

  That’s Roberta—after slaving over an oven all day at the bakery, she never cooks at home. And the closest I come to cooking is watching chef Alain Allegretti YouTube videos on a loop. (Do yourself a favor and Google “YouTube Alain Allegretti Cod.” I’m not ashamed to admit half of those Views are mine.)

  Suffice to say, the sweaters and the cash are safe in our oven.

  “But before I read your mail to you, I thought you’d want an update on The Case of the Mystery Hat Man. That’s what I’m calling it—kind of catchy, huh?”

  Roberta figured out the father of my baby left a San Antonia Spurs hat at our apartment, and is determined to find out who he is. You and I know it’s Duncan Wheeler, who is engaged to be married and conveniently out of the country, but Roberta has already dismissed Duncan as a candidate because his fiancée Trina said he doesn’t own a hat like that.

  Since Roberta doesn’t realize she already solved the case, she’s still chasing down leads.

  “Mr. Palmer called me back and said the hat doesn’t belong to anyone at your office, so coworkers are off the list. Then I decided to put an ad on Craigslist for the owner with the title ‘Did you leave this hat at my apartment?’”

  Okay, that’s only the setup of every slasher movie.

  “But that turned out to be a bad idea because I got ninety-four pingbacks, including two from the Philippines.”

  Only ninety-four?

  “So I’m kind of back to the drawing board. But I’ll think of something. No baby daddy is going to outsmart Roberta Hazzard, P.I.”

  Which is kind of what I’m afraid of. Because honestly, what good could come from Duncan knowing he’s the father? Enough lives have been plowed through.

  “So here’s my favorite letter of the week. Get ready to laugh. Dear Coma Girl, my name is Otto. I want to spread Dijon mustard all over you and lick it off… ”

  October 9, Sunday

  WHEN JACK TERRY WALKED into the room, his bootsteps were slower than usual.

  “I’m depressed, Marigold.”

  Really, Detective? Let’s review—I’m in a coma, and you’re the one who’s depressed?

  “Baseball season is over—for us anyway. And the Braves are leaving Turner Field. It just seems like an end to an era, you know?”

  Why do I get the feeling he’s talking about something other than baseball?

  “And I know there’s always next season, but by the time spring training rolls around, everything will be different.”

  Ah. The end of an era for Jack—bachelorhood?

  He sighed. “I guess I don’t have to tell you that life can turn on a dime.”

  Don’t I know it. If I hadn’t stopped at the convenience store that night for a lousy lottery ticket and jug of chocolate milk. If I’d insisted on driving the rest of the way to our parents’ house. If Keith Young hadn’t been traveling along the same stretch of road at the same time. If Sid’s phone hadn’t rung at that precise moment. And if she’d resisted the urge to answer.

  A thought ribboned through my mind… who had been calling Sid? Not that it really mattered. It could’ve been Mom or Dad, wondering if we were getting close. Bu
t she had seemed so frantic to answer. In hindsight, it wasn’t like Sid to behave so irresponsibly. Was the gonging ringtone specific to a particular acquaintance?

  “I’m not supposed to tell you this,” Jack said in a lowered voice, “but the DA is considering charging Keith Young anyway, even with a blood alcohol level below the legal limit. He thinks he can make a case that if Young had been tested on the scene instead of later at the station, he would’ve blown over the limit. But only if we can find out who’s behind the assault on Young. Your brother seems clean, but the DA wants to make sure your family wasn’t involved. Juries don’t usually find in favor of people who take the law into their own hands.”

  Oh, no… here we go again, except this time I know even if Keith Young had been drinking, Sidney had some culpability, too, and wasn’t being truthful. If I could speak to Jack, I’d tell him to drop the case before things went sideways. What if the convenience store cameras had caught us on video, with Sidney driving away? Or what if someone at the scene remembered? I’m no attorney, but even I know she could be charged with reckless driving, filing a false report and obstruction, and maybe a lot more.

  And with that in mind, why had Sidney persisted with the lie, knowing it could be revealed by a random video on a passerby’s phone?

  “But you didn’t hear it from me,” the Detective said. “Got it?”

  Got it.

  “Hey, they brought the television back.”

  It was Dr. Tyson’s concession to Dr. Jarvis’s plan to expose me to as much stimuli as possible. Unfortunately, no one had turned it on today.

  Jack was already flipping through the channels. “With baseball season over, how do you feel about Nascar?”

  Ugh, Detective. Cars going round and round in a circle? If I wasn’t already in a coma—

  But he’d already found what he wanted on a channel and zoomed up the volume. Loud vroom, vroom noises filled the ward.

  “And since everyone was so excited about your sneeze last week, I brought more wings.”

  The sound of paper ripping rent the air, and I waited for the spicy scent of the hot sauce to waft my way, hoping it would indeed trigger a sneeze or two.

  Instead, I smelled… nothing.

  And it dawned on me I hadn’t smelled anything this morning when nurses had come and gone from the room—not the faint scent of lotion on their skin, or the odors of food or fabric softener that normally clung to their scrubs.