“Gosh, Mom, it wasn’t much. I’m going a little crazy over here knowing she’s in this state.”
“Oh, don’t worry about her, sweetie. She has good care here. How are you?”
Wow… she’d skimmed right over me.
“I’m fine. Although I was pretty upset when I heard Keith Young was definitely driving drunk when he crashed into Marigold.”
“We were going to tell you,” my dad said, “but you already heard?”
“One of my Army buddies in Atlanta called me. He’s been following the case in the news. In fact, he offered to dispense a little street justice if I want him to.”
“What’s that, dear?”
“He’s offering to rough up Keith Young,” my dad said.
How chivalrous.
“You know how these athletes get away with murder,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him banged up a little.”
“Let’s leave it up to the police,” Dad said.
“Yes, we don’t want you to get in trouble over something that was Marigold’s fault.”
Wait—my fault?
“But it wasn’t Marigold’s fault, Mom.”
“She was late picking up Sidney at the airport. You know how slow she is. If she’d only gotten to the airport on time, none of this would’ve happened.”
Wow.
“Mom, you can’t blame this on Marigold.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve just had a long day and I’m tired.”
Translation: Her filter isn’t in place.
“Your mother is a full time real estate agent now,” Dad said, and I detected a little sarcasm in his voice.
“Really? Go, Mom.”
“Thanks,” she said, sounding pleased at Alex’s praise.
“She has a billboard on Georgia 400,” my dad said. “Her face is as big as a panel truck.”
Hostile much?
“Business must be good,” my brother said. “That’s great. Listen, I gotta run. Let’s do this again soon, okay?”
“Okay, bye, dear.”
“Bye, Marigold!”
My mother disconnected the Skype session, and my parents sat in charged silence.
Three, two, one…
“Did you have to make a dig at me in front of Alex?” my mother demanded.
“You mean the obnoxious billboard? It’s the truth, Carrie!”
“You’re just angry, Robert, because I didn’t go through you to get it made.”
“Well, it does beg the question why, if you needed a sign, you didn’t ask your husband, who sells signs for a living!”
“Because I wanted to do something on my own.” From the squeak of the chair, I could tell my mother had stood up. Hands on hips, I visualized. Her footsteps moved toward the door. “My world doesn’t revolve around you, Robert.”
My dad’s footsteps followed her. “You have a gift for stating the obvious, Carrie.”
The door opened and closed, and I heard their angry footsteps fading.
Bye… don’t forget to write.
August 25, Thursday
“HI.”
It was one of those rare times I was napping during the day. My sleep patterns were off lately, and I wondered if it had something to do with the drug Dr. Jarvis had administered.
“Are you dead?”
A child is standing next to my bed. I don’t know any children, so I’m confused.
“Hey, lady, are you dead?”
It’s a girl and if I had to guess, she’s about six years old.
“You look dead. But if you’re dead, why aren’t you in a casket?”
The little girl knows something about death if she knows about caskets.
“What happened to your face? Did someone hit you?”
And she knows something about being hit if that’s where her mind went first.
She sighed. “When someone hits you, you’re not supposed to hit them back… but I would anyway.”
Good girl.
“There’s a mean boy at school I’d like to hit. His name is Jeremy Hood. He calls me names like fattie and fatso and fathead and fatbutt. But my name is Christina Ann Wells. And one day I’m going to whomp him good… I’m just waiting for the right time.”
I’d buy a ticket to that show.
“Do you like ice cream?”
Who doesn’t?
“I love ice cream,” she said wistfully. “I love chocolate and strawberry the best. My mama gets the striped kind.”
Striped? Oh, neapolitan.
“But I eat the chocolate and strawberry first. Vanilla is the one I eat last, and it’s okay. Just not as good as chocolate and strawberry.”
The girl had her priorities straight.
“I have new shoes,” she announced. “They’re shiny with a bow.”
Then she proceeded to stomp and jump around the room in her hard sole shoes which I suspected were patent leather.
“I can’t run in them, though.”
We start hobbling our girls young in the South.
“I like your turban.”
Ha—she thinks my head bandage is a turban.
“Are you magic?” she asked, her voice awestruck.
If only.
“Can you make my mama better? She’s sick in her belly. She can’t eat, not even ice cream.”
I hope it’s something minor.
“She gots the cancer.”
Oh, no.
“I need for her to get better because I can’t tie my shoes.”
Kids are nothing if not practical.
“Can you try to make her better, lady? I’ll be good… after I whomp Jeremy Hood.”
The door opened and a man’s voice boomed, “Christina! I told you not to leave the waiting room. Come here and quit bothering sick people.”
“She’s not sick and she’s not dead. She’s a magic lady,” the little girl explained, breathless. “I asked her to make mama better.”
“Then I’m sure she will,” the man said, his voice more gentle. “Come on, baby.”
The door closed and I felt some of the anger that had built up over the past month subside. And for the first time in years, I prayed.
That Christina would have some magic in her life.
August 26, Friday
“THANK YOU. You won’t regret it. I’ll touch base again next week.”
David Spooner stabbed a button on his phone, then hooted. “We did it, Sid. You, pretty lady, are booked as a guest on The Doctors!”
She exclaimed her delight, then from the smacking and moaning, I assumed they were either licking each other or kissing.
“This will be huge exposure,” she said. “Nationwide!”
“The producers said they’d gotten more mail about comas and Coma Girl than any single subject in the past year.”
“This is so exciting! I’ve always wanted to go to L.A.”
Ditto. Send me a postcard.
“You’re going with me, aren’t you, David?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, my goodness—what am I going to wear?”
“Relax. We’ll get you something spectacular for your TV debut.”
More licking ensued.
“Okay,” ‘David said. “This has to be a homerun, so we need to get prepared. Let’s start thinking of things we’ll need to gather. They’ll want visuals, for sure.”
“We’ll take lots of pictures—maybe you can take some of me and Marigold together?”
“Sure.”
“And maybe one of us Skyping with Alex. That will appeal to the military families.”
“How about some family pictures of you all growing up? You know, Olan Mills type stuff?”
“Er, I’m sure I can find something,” Sidney said.
I’m sure she can’t. But there’s always Photoshop.
“And pictures of Marigold before the accident, you know happy and smiling.”
“Let me work on that,” she hedged.
“And maybe some pict
ures of you and your parents working with Marigold, reading to her, massaging her limbs, doing things to help her recover.”
Yes, let’s stage all those pictures of fake family rehab.
“Sure,” Sidney said. “Wait—I paint Marigold’s nails.”
“That’ll make a great picture.”
I couldn’t care less about the photo opp, but if that’s what it takes to get my nails painted again, terrific.
“What we really need is something exclusive for the show,” David said.
“Like what?”
“Some inside scoop on Marigold’s condition.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” Sid said. “But so far, her doctor just keeps saying there’s no change, no improvement.”
“With the other woman in her room waking up, we need to toss the producers a bone or Marigold will be upstaged.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, what if we arrange to live stream video of Marigold from her bed. And maybe have someone ask her to open her eyes. I mean, think of it—if she opened her eyes for the first time on a live stream, the ratings would go through the roof!”
This guy didn’t leave anything on the table.
“I’ll get Mom to do it,” Sid said. “In fact… who would question Mom if she said Marigold squeezed her hand?”
“I love the way you think,” David gushed.
I don’t even know how to respond to that. I want to say Mom would never go for it, but I’m sure Sid could convince her it was in the family’s best interests.
“Oh, and we need to talk about the money,” David said.
“What about the money?”
“The producers have already asked what’s being done with all the donations.”
“We’ll tell them they’re for Marigold’s medical bills.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be good enough. We might need to come up with a foundation of some kind to share some of the donations with other causes.”
Sid made a frustrated noise. “Do we have to?”
“Trust me, a foundation will bring in enough incremental donations to more than pay for itself. And you’ll be named the executor, of course.”
“Okay, then!”
“So we have everything we need to get started?”
“I think so, yes,” Sid said.
“Then let’s go.”
After the door closed behind them, I realized if I inconveniently croaked between now and the show, they would probably put me on ice and bring me out to thaw during the sound check.
No one would know the difference.
August 27, Saturday
THE DOOR OPENED and from the banging and clanging, I assumed a new piece of equipment was being wheeled in.
Maybe it’s time for more tests. Dr. Jarvis has been stopping in regularly to check me for motor reactions, but so far, I haven’t been able to respond. And at some point I know Dr. Tyson will be checking my brainwaves to make sure they’re still flapping.
“Hello, r-roomies.”
It took me a few seconds to realize the slow female voice belongs to Audrey Parks.
My heart took flight. For all the grousing I’ve done about Audrey getting what I want, I’m so happy for her.
“They tell me I was in this room for two years,” she slurred, obviously still working on her speech, “but I don’t remember very much.”
The wheels squeaked on the floor.
“I never knew there was a window… nice view, too. I can’t believe how things have changed in two years. You can watch anything on TV anytime you want. I’ve been watching the news nonstop. Crazy election, and all the things going on in the world are a little scary.”
Her voice trailed off, as if she’s worried about re-entry. That makes sense, I guess. You miss good things when you’re in a coma, but on the flipside, you don’t have to experience the bad things. She’s been sheltered from the world for over two years.
“My mom doesn’t recognize me.” She heaved a sigh. “I finally wake up, and now I’m losing my mother to dementia. It’s not fair.”
She wheeled closer to our beds.
“I had a sense of other patients in the room, but I didn’t know your names.”
I heard the scrape of clipboards being removed from the footboards.
“Karen Suh… Jill Wheatley… and Marigold Kemp.” She gave a little laugh. “So you’re Coma Girl… everyone is talking about you. And I see you’re the source of that awful classical music.”
Technically, I’m a reluctant third-party distributor.
“It’s annoying, but it was one of the few things that cut through the fog, gave me something to concentrate on, like a beacon.”
Dr. Jarvis will be happy to know his scheme worked. Although it doesn’t make the music less maddening.
“Except now that I’m awake,” she said softly, “I don’t even recognize myself. My body is different. My personality is different. This isn’t me.”
Silence fell in the room, then suddenly I realized Audrey was sobbing.
The door opened. “Audrey?” Gina asked. “How good to see you. I was your nurse when you were in the ward. Are you okay?”
Audrey is clearly not okay.
“My therapist thought it would be good for me to come back here,” Audrey said between gulps of air. “But I wish I’d never come, because I don’t want to see what I used to be.” She was wailing now. “Get me out of here, please.”
After a noisy exit, I lay there thinking I’d been jealous of Audrey for no good reason. Her brain injury and two years of isolation had left her melancholy and emotionally fragile and a shell of her former self.
I hadn’t considered that if I ever wake up, I might not be the same person I was before.
August 28, Sunday
“THANKS FOR MEETING me here, Detective Terry.”
“No problem, Ms. Spence. Since Lucas handed you the Kemp case, I thought it would be good for you to meet Marigold.”
“You sound as if you know her,” she said in a silky voice.
And you sound as if you’re flirting. Assistant District Attorney Spence also sounds skinny. And blonde.
“Never met Marigold,” Jack said. “But I’m starting to feel as if I know more about her and her family. They’re eager for Keith Young to be prosecuted. Where do things stand?”
“Well, since his blood alcohol level was over the legal limit, we could get him on DUI.”
“And?”
“And technically, you know he can be charged with reckless driving, driving to endanger, and assault.”
“So why hasn’t he?”
“Can she hear us?”
“She” meaning me.
“I honestly don’t know,” Jack said.
Her footsteps moved toward the window, and he followed.
“Well, between you and me,” she said, her voice lower but perfectly audible. “Lucas has consulted with several neurosurgeons on this case. And they told him most patients with this type of brain injury will expire within a few months.”
Expire… like a Walgreen’s coupon.
“So he wants to wait to see if she dies so he can up the charges to murder?”
“Or see if she wakes up.” The ADA sighed. “Look, Lucas already explained to the family why proving damages in a coma case is difficult. And Young’s blood alcohol level was barely above the limit. His attorney has already insisted on retesting. And even if the results are verified, no jury is going to find Young guilty if they think she’s going to wake up. And frankly, this Coma Girl social media blitz is doing just that—people are convinced she’s Sleeping Beauty and she’s going to open her eyes any minute.”
Jack made a frustrated noise. “So everything is on hold.”
“For now. Unless there’s a change in her condition one way or another. If she doesn’t improve within a few months, the hubbub will have died down and it’ll be easier to convince a jury that she’s not going to wake up. Trust me, it’s in the best interests of her family to wait.”
“An
d meanwhile, the Falcons get to start their season with their hotshot receiver.”
“I know Keith Young is cocky, but I talked to him, and he’s not a bad guy.”
“I thought the same thing when I saw his interview. But it just seems so unjust for that young woman to be lying in that bed, and no one is held accountable.”
I don’t know what I’ve done to gain a champion in Jack Terry, but I’m grateful.
“I understand,” ADA Spence said. “But just because a situation is tragic doesn’t mean it’s criminal. That why it’s called an accident, Detective.”
I’m tragic?
“Say, didn’t you used to date Liz Fischer?”
He coughed. “Liz and I go way back.”
Aha—and the plot thickens with yet another woman.
“You know she’s pregnant?”
“I’d heard that, yes. Are we through here?”
“Yes. Actually, I was just on my way to get a drink if you’d like to join me.”
Ooh, smooth.
“Sorry,” Jack said. “I have another commitment.”
“Okay, maybe another time.”
“Maybe.”
The woman’s heels clacked on the floor as she left the room. I’m disappointed Jack has somewhere else to be.
Then he dragged a chair closer to my bed. “It’s Braves versus the Giants in San Francisco. We really need this one, Coma Girl. Are you with me?”
I’m with you, Detective.
August 29, Monday
“YOU’RE STILL RUNNING a temperature,” Gina said to me. “But Dr. Jarvis assures me that’s okay.” She sighed. “I hope he’s as good a doctor as I think he is.”
That makes two of us.
A knock on the door sounded, then it opened.
“May I help you?” Gina asked.
“I’m here to visit Marigold Kemp,” the woman said. “I’m an old friend of hers.”
The voice tickled a memory chord.
“Did you leave your name at the desk?”
“Yes. I’m Joanna Fitz.”
Joanna—my college friend who now lives in Pennsylvania. After receiving a card from her, I never dreamed she’d visit in person.
“Visiting hours are over, but you can have fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you. Can she hear me?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Gina said. “But assume she can.”
Coma Girl: part 2 Page 6