The Girl in a Coma

by John Moss

  Allison

  I’m awake now. Reluctantly. It must be morning but I want to stay with my dream. I’ve got to figure this out. Who killed Noah Shantz? If her father won’t follow Rebecca to bring her back home, she had better find Jacob or she’ll be completely alone in the world. Except for me.

  And, yes, last night my watcher was back. If he was the guy who put a bullet in my brain, he is a sadist like Hannibal Lector and he’s getting his kicks seeing me suffer.

  Am I suffering? That is an interesting question. I don’t feel any pain. That’s a good thing. I don’t feel anything at all.

  And yet I have feelings. Just because I can’t cry doesn’t mean I don’t want to. When David tells me a joke, I wish I could laugh. I’d love to tell my mom it isn’t her fault. She thinks it is, because she’s my mom. I feel sorry for her.

  I feel like I’m walking through the starlit night into the dawn but the sun won’t ever come up.

  My days can seem long. I take imaginary trips to entertain myself. Today I tried to imagine I was in the fashion section of a department store. A really expensive one. Women were coming and going, trying on clothes that I’ve seen in magazines like Vogue. I’m more into People and Seventeen. Not Cosmo, I find it depressing. They’re obsessed with sex. I’m not.

  It’s time I work out who shot me.

  I realize I probably saw him do it. Have I blacked him out because of the horror? It was no fun being shot in the head. Is it amnesia? Is it temporary? Or did I black out because I knew him and don’t want to think about it?

  That night, I worked until midnight. It was still winter. I’ve been in the hospital for a few months. I haven’t bothered counting the days because I was in a complete coma for awhile. Maybe I should. I know it must be April by now. I could hear nurses talking about Easter.

  So, anyway, that night I worked late. Some Tim Hortons stay open all night but ours in East City, on Hunter Street, closes earlier. There’s not enough traffic passing through. We cleaned up. I was the last to leave except for the night manager—that means I wasn’t actually the last to leave, I suppose.

  Peterborough is a very safe town. Especially the East City area. And I can generally look after myself. I’m quite independent.

  After we broke up, Jaimie Retzinger would still walk me home sometimes. He’d ride over from his place and give me a lift. Mostly we’d walk and he’d leave the Harley in the parking lot. When the snow came, he stashed his Harley.

  Sometimes he’d show up and sometimes he wouldn’t.

  It was the kind of logic you can’t argue with.

  I was tired after a long shift and trudged along Hunter Street and turned right. A car came along. It was a dark blue Chevy. It parked ahead of me. No one got out. I crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side.

  I wasn’t afraid, but you might as well avoid trouble. If you can’t, then you fight. I mean, even David knows enough to stay out of my way if I get really focused on something. When we were little we used to wrestle. He’d pin me down and that would make me furious. But I wouldn’t cry. Then when I got to be about eleven, one time I pushed him off and before he knew what hit him, I was straddling him like a donkey and twisting both ears as hard as I could. His eyes filled with tears and his nose started to run. He whispered, “I give, I give,” which was like crying “Uncle.” He never tried to pin me down again.

  Still, he looks after me because he’s my older brother. But that night he wasn’t there. Jaimie Retzinger wasn’t there. I was alone. It was cold and dark.

  A guy got out of the car. The interior lights flashed on for a moment. That’s when I saw someone in the passenger seat. A bald-headed man.

  The guy who got out had his head down, away from the streetlight. I couldn’t see his face. Was it covered? I don’t think so. I can’t remember.

  I heard a shout, or was it the bald guy banging on the glass? Or was it the car door slamming shut? Or the crack of a bullet exploding.

  My hand in my coat pocket clutched at a can of bear spray. Every year or two you hear about someone being attacked by bears. I’ve read that ten times as many people die from dog attacks. I bought the spray at Wild Rock, where they sell camping gear. There are no bears in Peterborough. We’re probably too far south. But just the same, bear spray has other uses.

  The guy didn’t cross over to my side of the street. My hand relaxed on the bear spray. Then I saw him raise what looked like a big stick. Only he wasn’t lifting it up like a club. He was aiming it at me. It was a rifle. Turns out it was only a .22, but even a .22 can kill if the bullet hits the right place. Like your brain.

  Next thing I knew, I was here in my hospital room. And more alive in Pennsylvania in the spring of 1778 than I am in Peterborough today. I know what year it was back then because I was good in history. Before I left school, we studied about the United States and the American Revolution and the winter encampment at Valley Forge.

  I learned most of my own family’s history from what my Nana Friesen used to tell me. She wouldn’t want to see me like this.

  Five

  Rebecca

  On the evening of her third long day of walking, Rebecca approached the outskirts of George Washington’s Continental Army camp. Except for the two apples and the brown bread she had packed, she had not eaten since she left home. She did not want to beg for food, in case the British soldiers were following her. She didn’t want anyone to know she had been there.

  She had slept by the roadside, huddled in her thick woolen shawl, with leaves piled up like a nest all around her.

  In the mornings, she combed and braided her hair. She used the cloth from her bundle to scrub her face in the streams she crossed along the way.

  When the road came out alongside the Schuykill River, she could see where the bush above Valley Creek opened up into fields. She could see the small hills whimsically called Mount Joy and Mount Misery and she knew she was almost there. She grinned from ear to ear and forgot about how hungry and tired she was.

  But her heart sank when she came into the open and saw a city of over one thousand identical log cabins. Each had a log chimney lined with mud and stones, a small door, and no windows. Each was the home of a dozen soldiers. Most of the soldiers were outside in the brisk spring weather, having a smoke by an open fire.

  The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and burning wood and twelve thousand men who needed soap and a bath. She was surprised at how many women and children were among them.

  “I am looking for Jacob Shantz,” she said to the first soldiers who paid her any attention.

  A pleasant looking young man, wearing a uniform covered in soot and mud, got up from the log he was sitting on and held out his hand to take hers.

  Her own clothes were muddy after the long walk, but her face was gleaming clean, while the soldier’s face was smeared with grime.

  “Here,” he said in a soft voice. “Won’t you join us for a bit of late supper?”

  No one had ever treated her like a lady before.

  “No, thank you,” she said shyly, drawing her hand away. “My name is Rebecca Haun. I am looking for my friend, Jacob Shantz, if you please.”

  “It would please me, of course.” He smiled. “My name is Edward de Vere. I would be happy to assist. But first, before our search begins, you must eat.”

  Since it would be bad manners to refuse twice, she sat down and ate a plate of Boston baked beans. She chewed on a small square of cake. They called it fire cake and, true to its name, it tasted like a piece of burnt wood. She drank a pint of ale from a clay pitcher and some water from a wooden bucket. She had never tasted alcohol before, except for her mother’s medicine, but she liked the ale. The beans were sweetened with maple syrup and flavored with small bits of salted pork and almost as good as her mother’s.

  The men were not much older than her. They were boys, really, dressed in t
attered uniforms. Some wore several layers, one over the other. Their jackets were blue and their pants were light brown where the mud allowed the color to show through. Some wore boots without laces and some wore farm boots and a few had only rags wrapped around their feet.

  They were surprisingly cheerful. And they were surprisingly polite.

  “Now,” said Edward de Vere, when she had finished eating, “it will be dark very soon, Rebecca Haun. We will get you settled in for the night and I’ll help you search for your friend in the morning.”

  “He is a Mennonite,” she declared, looking around her. “He should not be difficult to find.”

  “He isn’t a Mennonite, no more,” said a boy with curly red hair.

  “Well, he has not killed anyone,” she argued.

  “Not yet,” said one of the men and they all laughed.

  Edward de Vere looked annoyed.

  “Sorry, Captain,” said the boy with red hair. “Sorry Miss.”

  “You will please come with me to the women’s cabins,” Captain Edward de Vere said to her. “I’ll see that you’re comfortable. They will help you clean up and bed down. Tomorrow, I will find your lucky young man who has killed no one.”

  He smiled gently and in the firelight she thought he was the handsomest man she had ever seen in her life. She had not actually seen many men. He was the handsomest man she could imagine ever seeing.

  Allison

  In the fall of Grade 10 we took Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare. I tried to transfer into the Applied Stream. I really liked the teacher, Mrs. Muratori. And I’m not saying Shakespeare is a bad writer. People still read his work and he’s been dead since God-knows-when. But Juliet was only thirteen, for glory’s sake.

  And it turns out they take the same play in Applied, and anyway Mrs. Muratori convinced me I should stay in the Academic Stream. Then I met Jaimie and got sidetracked. That was what you might call a temporary aberration.

  Rebecca is my age. Jacob is nearly sixteen, which means he’s really fifteen, too. Rebecca thinks if she finds Jacob she’ll discover whether or not they’re in love. But it doesn’t work like that. I mean Romeo and Juliet hardly knew each other and they fell for each other instantly. With me and Jaimie Retzinger, it was more like Rebecca’s situation. We decided we were in love and then waited to see if we were. And it turns out we weren’t.

  At fifteen there’s no way I would have walked three days for a guy who might have murdered his father. Even if I was sure that he didn’t.

  Or maybe I would have. My own father walked out when I was seven. I haven’t seen him since I was eight. He moved to Vancouver and has another family. I don’t actually want him dead, though. I just don’t care one way or another. Rebecca believes Jacob is innocent. Since I figure she’s family, it’s up to me to prove that she’s right, or, if she’s wrong, it’s up to me to expose him.

  Potato detective. That’s me. Fearless, feisty, intrepid potato detective. And who am I going to prove anything to? No one, except myself. But if we’re related, then that’s important, too. Like, for me to know. We’re part of the same story.

  I’ve got to laugh at myself. No one else does. Except David, and it’s not because he’s cruel. He believes I’m in here. He believes I can hear him. He’s a good guy and I love him to pieces.

  I haven’t said that in a long time. Love you to pieces. I don’t know what it means. I don’t think it means anything. But I used to tell Jaimie Retzinger, “I like you to pieces.” That was before the pieces fell apart.

  He didn’t make me feel good about myself. Whatever else love is, if it doesn’t do that it’s not the real thing.

  That much I know.

  Love has to make you feel good about yourself.

  I wonder if someday I’ll get out from inside my head and be somebody again.

  Stop! No tears.

  No crying.

  The story of Jaimie Retzinger and Allison Briscoe is this:

  I was in a bad relationship.

  A guy whose name I will never say to myself decided we were in love. I had turned fifteen. He had a car. He was good looking, with a cartoon tattoo on the side of his neck. He wore a gold earring. He had eyes like Johnny Depp. Then one day he hit me. Not too hard, just enough to scare me without leaving marks.

  Only he didn’t scare me. He made me angry.

  He swore a lot. I used to swear a lot. After him, I stopped swearing. What’s the point? I mean, I’m not perfect. I fall off the wagon when I get really mad. But I try not to get really mad. What’s the point?

  Anyway, over near the old Quaker Oats factory one night, this guy decided I needed a lesson. I had mouthed off, I guess. So we got out of the car and he slapped me hard.

  I got up from the ground. I didn’t back away. He was a lot bigger than me. I stood right in his face. He sneered. I punched him between the eyes. I could hear his nose crack.

  Oh, glory, my fingers hurt.

  Blood sprayed, he staggered, I punched him again. This time, in the gut.

  He doubled over and went down. I jumped on top of him. The hell with getting blood on my clothes. He was the one who needed a lesson.

  He started crying. Can you believe it?

  And Jaimie Retzinger, who was walking his family’s golden retriever along the Hunter Street Bridge, he saw us. He rushed over to where the action was.

  “Okay, girl. You’ve done enough damage,” he said, dropping his dog’s leash.

  I stopped punching the guy. I refuse to say his name.

  “Aren’t you a tiger,” Jaimie Retzinger said.

  My skirt was around my waist, my T-shirt was splattered with blood. I could hardly breathe and I was trembling. When Jaimie Retzinger hauled me off the guy, I didn’t know if it was to protect me or to save the creep before I killed him. It didn’t matter, it was turning out to be one of the best days in my life.

  “I promise,” Jaimie Retzinger whispered, “I will never get you angry.”

  “And I promise,” I told him, “I will never beat you up.”

  We actually helped the creep to get into his car. He wasn’t hurt very badly, except for his nose, but he was confused. When he drove away, he didn’t squeal his tires. He drove very carefully. He must have had enough excitement for one night.

  Jaimie Retzinger walked me home. I told him the only person I had ever hit before was my brother. He didn’t believe me. He waited while my mom cleaned me up. Then we went out for a couple of cherry Cokes and some really greasy poutine.

  Six

  Rebecca

  The very handsome Edward de Vere called on Rebecca in the morning at Cabin 27. He had washed up and brushed so much dirt off his uniform it looked almost clean. Rebecca had already eaten a breakfast of bread and beans. She was sitting with some women and a few kids by the fire outside, watching the tea water boil and chatting.

  “You’ve settled right in,” he said when she stood up to greet him.

  She smiled shyly as he walked over to one of the older women and leaned down to kiss her on the cheek. She was the same woman he had left her with the previous night. Her name was Madge. She had helped Rebecca get cleaned up.

  “What do you think?” the young man asked Rebecca. He spread his arms slowly in front of him to take in the whole camp. It was a city of sticks and mud. He was proud of it.

  “There are more than twelve thousand of us,” he said. “Nearly a thousand women. You look surprised. They are known as the Camp Follower Brigade.”

  He winked at Madge.

  Rebecca blushed.

  “Yes,” he said, responding to Rebecca’s embarrassment. “Some of the women are prostitutes.”

  Rebecca was not very worldly. She wasn’t exactly sure what prostitutes were, but she thought they must be like whores in the Bible.

  “And there are scavengers,” he continued
. “Women who crawl out into the battlefield and bring back valuable weapons from the dead.”

  She couldn’t imagine a more terrible job.

  “There are cooks and the women who mend clothes. There are sisters and wives and daughters. There are mothers.”

  Edward de Vere stopped talking and walked back over to Madge, a handsome woman dressed in clothes that had been worn and washed so often they were little more than rags. He put his hand on her shoulder and said proudly:

  “Madge de Vere is my mother.”

  Rebecca was stunned. Madge looked poorer than a beggar woman. But she had a broad smile, good teeth, and her eyes flashed when she talked.

  “Now then,” said Edward,“here comes my boss. I’ll have to be going to do drills and practice fighting but I’ll come back early this evening. We’ll walk about the camp and find your lost young fellow.”

  A man of medium build wearing a strange gray uniform came over to them and bowed formally.

  After Edward de Vere presented Rebecca, the man bowed again.

  “I am Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, acting inspector general of the Continental Army. I am German, like you, Fräulein Rebecca Haun, and it is much my honor your acquaintance to make.”

  Rebecca had not ever thought of herself as German. She had been born in Lancaster County. She was British and she was Mennonite. She was what they called “Pennsylvania Dutch.”

  The man in the unusual uniform bowed to her a third time and turned away.

  “Come, Edward, we must to work, to work. Good day to you, Fräulein Haun, good day, Frau de Vere.” He gave Madge an informal salute.

  When Edward and Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben disappeared among the rows of cabins, Rebecca turned to Madge.

  “And just who is he, when he’s not being a very fine gentleman?”

  “Oh, a gentleman, he is, Fräulein Haun. He is the second most powerful man among us and a good friend of Frederick the Great, the King of Prussia. He’s here to make soldiers of farm boys and storekeepers. He doesn’t mind getting down in the mud, unlike some other officers I could name.”