The Girl in a Coma

by John Moss

  “And he killed Noah Shantz.”

  The officer looked shocked. Then he offered a grim smile.

  “Well, he won’t be hanged,” said the officer.

  “And why not?” Rebecca’s mother seemed almost afraid to ask. She did not approve of hanging, but she believed in stern justice.

  “Private Panabaker tried to leave us. It was the day after the soldier with the scar on his face got away. Corporal Jonas.”

  “And what happened to Private Panabaker?” Rebecca demanded.

  Her mother had never heard a woman, never mind a girl, talk to a man as his equal. She gazed at her daughter with proud concern.

  “Private Panabaker cannot be hanged because he was shot for desertion,” said the captain.

  “Oh,” said Rebecca.

  “I will tell the elders that Jacob is innocent,” said her mother.

  “It is war. Mistakes are made. People die,” said the British officer. “I am sorry. If I live to see the end of it, I will join you in Canada.”

  “You are a Mennonite?” Rebecca couldn’t believe it.

  “No, I am a Loyalist from Connecticut. My family is already in Halifax. But I am a soldier first. I know my duty.”

  Rebecca and her mother exchanged looks of puzzlement. They excused themselves and walked close beside each other down Main Street and out of town. Jacob Shantz was redeemed.

  “I will tell his family,” said her mother. “Perhaps now that his father is gone, he will come back.”

  “Mutter. Jacob Shantz is dead.”

  “Ja,” she exclaimed. “Es ist so.”

  When they reached the gate of the Johannes Haun farm, Rebecca and her mother briefly touched hands. As Rebecca leaned forward, her mother looked down at the silver medallion on her bosom, with the amber gleaming at the center. Her eyes widened but she said nothing. She reached out and touched the medallion with her fingertips. She smiled shyly, then turned and walked slowly down the lane to help load the Conestoga wagons. She stopped suddenly and turned back.

  “Rebecca!”

  “Mutter?”

  They approached each other. They touched hands but did not embrace.

  Her mother whispered: “I am not permitted to talk about Christian. You must look out for him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He left Bible College last year. He is a soldier, an officer.”

  “For the British?”

  “No, meine liebchen, my little sweetheart. He is a Captain in Mr. Washington’s Army. He fought in the very first Battle at Concord. We do not talk of Christian, now. It breaks my heart.”

  Suddenly, her mother hugged her. She wrapped the gray shawl around Rebecca’s shoulders. Then she turned and walked briskly down the lane.

  Rebecca returned to the hotel.

  The next morning she set out for Philadelphia.

  Twelve

  Allison

  It is an exciting world for an intrepid potato! Certainly not boring. It’s exciting for a girl of sixteen walking back into a war. Rebecca has cleared the name of her friend, Jacob Shantz. She will find her Captain William de Vere.

  And I am still alive!

  Wait. You’re going to want to hear this.

  Jaimie Retzinger is sitting beside me, yapping away. He hardly used to say anything at all. Now he won’t stop talking. I want to go to sleep and finish the walk to Philadelphia with Rebecca. We’ve been through a lot together. And if she’s going to be my great great great, great great grandmother, I’d like to be there when she falls into her lover’s arms.

  But Jaimie Retzinger has a pretty good story about me and I nearly missed finding how it turned out. He saved my life.

  Here’s what happened, as far as I can tell.

  He has been visiting me almost every night since I was shot. He comes late because he’s going to night school. He wants to get his High School Equivalency. The smartphone I’d sometimes hear was a laptop. He was studying, and this is the quietest place he knows. Sometimes he’d just doze off. He wants to be a chef. Like me! He works in the daytime at Home Depot. He knows a little about everything. He moves around from section to section when the regular staff go on holidays. It’s all pretty exhausting, especially for Jaimie Retzinger.

  So, I guess it was him all along. My night stalker.

  Last night, Jaimie Retzinger was sitting here, reading his computer. Who knew Jaimie Retzinger could read? And he fell asleep, but he woke up real quick because in walks Russell Miller.

  Now Jaimie didn’t know Russell Miller from Adam, but he didn’t look like a doctor. Jaimie was on the other side of my bed-light, so he was hidden by the glare.

  I guess Russell Miller stood there, staring at me. He leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I might have stirred but I can’t tell a kiss from a bag of jellybeans. I think he must have cried. I felt his tears, I think I did. I’m sure I did. Then he took out a Swiss Army knife.

  Jaimie Retzinger, my ex-boyfriend, watched. He couldn’t believe what he saw. And before he could do anything, Russell Miller used the knife to cut some of the tubes going in and out of my body. He then held the knife to his own throat. He was going to slit it and bleed to death, right there.

  That’s when Jaimie Retzinger, my ex-boyfriend, finally sprang up from his chair and dived right over my bed and knocked Russell Miller to the floor. I guess he knocked me out of bed, too. Russell didn’t fight. He just lay there. But Jaimie Retzinger held him down, anyway.

  There was a lot of noise. Nurses came running. Orderlies came running.

  Doctors were called.

  They got me back into bed and hooked me up again. I was still alive, not that they could see much difference from me being dead.

  My tumble from bed might have sent me back into a full coma. Jaimie Retzinger might have killed me. But he saved my life. And he saved Russell Miller from slitting his own throat.

  He told me this, himself, even if he didn’t think I could hear.

  Rebecca

  By the time Rebecca caught up with George Washington’s army near Philadelphia, the Battle of Monmouth was over. The British soldiers had been pushed back. Both Captains de Vere had fought with great courage.

  France and Germany were now officially part of the Revolution. The war had become international. With George Washington’s organization and Baron von Steuben’s training methods, the Continental Army was a powerful force. The conflict had become a war of professional soldiers fighting on both sides.

  The Regimental Camp Followers were disbanded, although many stayed around to do what they could. Madge de Vere made the decision to return home to Boston. From there, she could do good work by raising money. She could organize women to knit and to sew and to make bandages and to nurse the wounded. Her days in the battlefield were done.

  Madge insisted that Rebecca go with her to Boston. It was understood that Rebecca would one day be the bride of Captain William de Vere, if the war ever ended. And if he survived. Rebecca would sometimes sit for hours on the window seat at the front of the house, rubbing her fingers over the silver medallion. Madge had insisted she keep it. It reminded Rebecca of William’s bright amber eyes.

  “It was given to me by a very dear friend, Mr. Paul Revere,” Madge explained. “He is a silversmith and, after my husband was murdered, Paul made this medallion as a token of my love for the man I had lost. I had my portrait painted, a widow dressed in black with the medallion hanging proudly at my neck. It is in my bedroom. Paul made a silver bowl at the same time to honor the Sons of Liberty who continued to resist British tyranny over the colonial people—who are also British, I should remind you. Or were. We’ll see how this war turns out. Paul knew my husband was not a revolutionary but they were both Freemasons. That was very important, perhaps more important than politics or religion.”

  Rebecca was startled t
o think there might be something more important than religion. Even here, in Boston, her Mennonite God was a presence not to be taken lightly. Madge explained the Freemasons were an ancient secret society and George Washington belonged, as did Paul Revere and his obstreperous friend, Mr. Samuel Adams.

  After explaining that obstreperous meant “loud and unmanageable,” Madge smiled when Rebecca suggested she might better have said just that, rather than use such a bewildering word. Madge pointed out a small mark stamped on the back of the medallion which contained the word REVERE inside a rectangle etched into the silver.

  “It is a treasure,” she repeated. “I want you to keep it forever.”

  Soon after they had settled in, not long after discussing the origins and destiny of the medallion, Captain Edward de Vere turned up for a visit. His face was as smudged and his uniform was as grubby as ever. Edward, or Edwina, had another young officer with her.

  “Oh, mein Gott,” Rebecca declared when she saw who it was. She was not sure if she were swearing. “Christian, mein Gott, bis du es? Is it you?”

  The last time she had seen her oldest brother, he had been wearing a coarse black woolen suit. His hair was cut like a skinned badger. He had a scowl etched into his face. That was three years ago.

  Now, he looked dashing and handsome. There was a war on, and he was a soldier. He looked absurdly happy!

  He gave his sister a big hug. They had never touched before, not since they were very small.

  And then he did the most unusual thing.

  He took Captain Edward de Vere’s hand and held it. He leaned over and kissed Edwina’s cheek, even though it was dirty. Then Christian turned to Madge and to Rebecca.

  “When this war is over, Edwina and I shall be married. With your permission, Mrs. de Vere. And, Miss Rebecca Haun, you are my only family now. We would like your blessing, as well.”

  The two officers stood side by side. One in a clean blue uniform with light brown pants and polished boots, and the other in a tattered uniform covered with mud and dust.

  “Until the fighting is done,” Christian announced, “we will be fellow officers and the best of friends.”

  Rebecca smiled. She longed to see her own Captain de Vere. It seems the de Veres and the Hauns were going to join together, one way or another.

  Madge de Vere smiled. She had lost her husband. A war was raging that would change the world. But she, too, seemed content.

  Allison

  And that is how Madge de Vere became my great great great, great great great grandmother. Six greats, one grand.

  David is here. Last night was disturbing but I’m feeling fine. Well, I don’t feel anything exactly. Not so I can pin it down. But there’s feeling and there’s feelings. There are feelings! I am feeling wonderful.

  We’ve solved the murder of Noah Shantz. We’ve given Jacob back his good name. Sort of. He left Warwick and his Mennonite community so he’s still an outlaw. But he died a renegade hero in the service of a great Revolution.

  When I say we solved the murder, I mean Rebecca and me. I think I’ll leave her to live out her life, I think my dreams will move on.

  And we solved who shot me.

  When I say we, I mean the cops who explained things to David and my mom. I’d mostly figured it out for myself.

  I feel sorry for Russell. The police determined he only visited me that last time and that was to put me out of my misery. That’s why he was crying. I knew it, I knew I felt tears. David tells me they’ve sent him to a special hospital for treatment. I hope something can be done to help him. He sort of confessed to the shooting. At first, he raved about a sinister man who made him do it, a stranger who wanted something mysterious from me. Russell didn’t understand what it was. A key of some sort. And he talked about Sharon. No one seems to know that Sharon was his little sister, the one who died in Grade Three. Then he got all quiet, and now he says nothing.

  As for the mystery man, no one has turned up. Echoes of yelling, of banging on the car window, resound in my head, as if the bald man in the car was trying to prevent Russell from shooting. But if there was a witness, whether he tried to save me or rob me or wanted me dead, he has disappeared.

  If he ever existed.

  Russell is in a hospital cell. He’s locked inside a tiny world as much as I am. Since his mind has collapsed, his is even smaller.

  And we, meaning me, we’ve saved Jaimie Retzinger from a wasted life. Maybe.

  He told my brother that when he saw me in the hospital he fell for me all over again. He can’t say “love.” He never could. But, get serious, Jaimie Retzinger, what kind of person falls for a potato!

  That’s what he said, though. And it changed him forever—he promised.

  David is not his biggest fan.

  Before I drifted off to sleep last night, I tried to remember what Nana Friesen told me about where I came from. I never used to pay much attention. I’d listen because it made Nana feel good. But the past before I was born, well it didn’t interest me very much. That was before I got shot in the head, before I ended up here, before I remembered the life of Rebecca Haun.

  Nana was my mom’s mom. She once told me the family brains skipped a generation, then she apologized for telling me that and said my mom was just one of those people in life who is always distracted. I’m not sure what that means but that’s Mom, for sure. She’s never completely in the moment; she’s distracted.

  Nana is proud to be Pennsylvania Dutch. And to be from Boston, back when it was British, more than two centuries ago.

  She used to talk about our Mennonite ancestors from Lancaster County. But Rebecca Haun wasn’t a Mennonite anymore, and William de Vere was a Boston Protestant, so, I’m confused. My good glory!

  Of course.

  My direct Haun ancestor was Christian, it wasn’t Rebecca.

  I have to stop for a moment, I need to think. I have a horrible feeling that her beloved William died in the war. I’ll have to check when I get out of here. But there are some things you just know.

  I wonder if she ever married.

  I don’t think so.

  I don’t think she had children of her own. If she did, the silver medallion would have gone to them.

  Rebecca was Christian’s sister and my ancestral aunt but I am actually the great great great, great great granddaughter of Christian Haun and Edwina de Vere. Five greats and a grand.

  Rebecca and I are like blood sisters.

  Just when I’m getting really upset, thinking about Rebecca and William, David leans close. Then I feel something cool. I can’t tell where. I feel a weight. I know what it is. David is talking to me, he’s whispering.

  “I thought you’d like this, I brought it from home,” he says. “As potatoes go, you’re the best.” And he fastens the silver medallion around my neck. I know he does. It’s a gift from my Great Aunt Rebecca, from Becky. It’s a gift from Nana Friesen. It’s a gift from my brother.

  Well, angels couldn’t ask for more. That’s what Nana says. I never knew what it meant until now. It means, it doesn’t get any better than this!

  Jaimie Retzinger has come in while David’s here. That’s unusual. He’s always tried to avoid my family. He’s leaning right over my face. I can feel his breath. I can feel the medallion. Last night I could feel Russell Miller’s breath, I know I could.

  What’s Jaimie Retzinger doing? Is he showing affection? No, just curiosity.

  Still, I’ve got to start thinking of him as Jaimie. Not Jaimie Retzinger. I mean, we’re not a couple but it’s kind of nice, having him here. Even if it’s just because my room is a good place to study and snooze. Peace and quiet, that’s the best I can offer.

  But, oh glory, His voice is trembling. He’s saying something important.

  Listen!

  “Her eyelid moved! She opened an eye.” He takes a deep breath. “O
nly one eye but she’s in there! I knew it!”

  Me, too, Jaimie Retzinger. I knew it all along.

  I can see the light.

  Book Two: Execution

  Thirteen

  Allison

  It’s not an ideal situation, my relationship with Jaimie. I mean, the walking dead don’t know they’re dead. And that’s what I am, even though I’m not walking. I know how he thinks. He likes me better undead than alive. It’s not an ideal situation, my relationship with Jaimie Retzinger. He used to be my boyfriend. We broke up before I was shot. We get along better now.

  And like it or not, I’m still here! Even though things have changed.

  They’ve moved me into a home for the hopeless. They call it Shady Nook Hospice, which is meant to be comforting. Sounds more like a cemetery. They think the only way I’m going to leave is feet-first, flat on my back, very dead. But they are wrong. For the last few months they thought I was only a vegetable, a corpse with a pulse. Then I shocked them. I opened my eyes. I’ll shock them again, just give me time.

  Okay, I opened one eye. My left. Not exactly like I’m running the Boston Marathon. Still, I’m making progress.

  My eye opens and closes very slowly when it wants to. I can’t control it. It droops and gets moist and opens again. I can see out of it, straight ahead. Everything is kind of fuzzy, but I’m learning to focus a little. Right now, I only see where the wall meets the ceiling on the far side of the room. It’s not exactly like watching The Wizard of Oz.

  Sometimes a nurse or an orderly will lean close but they never stay still long enough to be more than a blur. Jaimie Retzinger avoids getting in front of me. My brother, David, is the only one who looks me straight in the eye.

  Even my mother avoids what David calls my “glassy gaze” as she ducks in to kiss me hello and goodbye and to drop a few tears. David picked up that phrase, glassy gaze, in school. We didn’t read much at home. The only writers I remember at all are Stephen King and William Shakespeare, and the Twilight writer and whoever wrote The Hunger Games and, of course, the Harry Potter writer. I can’t recall all their names.