The Girl in a Coma

by John Moss

  Gordon who?

  “Gor’d on-ly knows what a jerk I’ve been. God only knows— d’you get it?”

  He paused. He seems embarrassed by his own awkwardness. Then he continues:

  “Allison, I’m really really sorry. I’ve been up all night. Thinking.”

  Did it hurt?

  “Thinking about you and what it must be like if you’re really in there.”

  If! But, okay, I’m listening.

  “In my line of work, we use our brains but sometimes we don’t think.”

  I’ve noticed.

  “Intellectuals aren’t always smart, Allison.”

  Do you actually call yourselves intellectuals? You and the colleagues!

  The poor guy is distressed. I wonder if it’s about me, or if he’s upset about Maddie. He likes her. He knows she’s bright. Maybe she’s not an intellectual, but she’s fearsomely smart. And she’s awesomely beautiful. And interesting, intriguing, amazing.

  Gordon is standing there, staring. He’s a blur.

  I concentrate.

  My eyes bring him into focus.

  I bring him into focus.

  He backs away a little.

  My head is totally still but my eyes follow him.

  I follow him with my eyes. Really!

  He gasps.

  “Holy good Lord,” he says. “Good God Almighty.”

  I’ve made Gordon’s day.

  Thirty-one

  Mary

  Two thoughts filled Mary’s mind as the water-soaked canvas pressed against her. Survival—she would not drown without a fight. Revenge—she would kill the killer of Amos Durfee.

  Mary had expected to be buried in a shallow grave in dry earth! Instead, she was twisting underwater, tied to a iron weight.

  How long could she hold her breath?

  Water flooded into her nose. She pushed her tongue against the roof of her mouth. She squeezed her lips shut. She wanted to cough, to gasp. She let a few bubbles flow through her lips.

  She had maybe a minute before she would drown.

  The canvas pushed at her face. She squirmed until her arms were free. She struggled to hold the canvas away. It was thick and heavy. She stabbed at the canvas with her scissors. The blunt ends slid away. She pushed hard at the canvas to get her hands up in front of her face. One finger caught at the thread where she had sewn the bag from the inside. She pulled at the thread, got a scissor blade under it. She squeezed and the thread broke.

  Her lungs ached like she was going to explode. She felt invisible fingers around her throat. They were strangling her.

  The canvas bag opened a few inches.

  She could see a sliver of murky sunlight. She pulled and cut at the thread until there was a hole big enough to crawl through. But her ankles were tied to the weight.

  She pushed the canvas away, peeling it down so she could get her hands on the rope. The knot was big but clumsy. Her fingers were numb, she saw clouds of black in her head, her lungs felt like she had swallowed hot steel. The knot came loose.

  She kicked frantically at the canvas shroud. With a powerful sweep of her arms, she rose upwards, blowing out air as she went.

  Just as the clouds in her head were turning to darkest night, she broke into the air.

  Dazzled by the light, she heaved until her lungs were filled, again and again. For a moment she forgot to swim and went under. She got a mouthful and came up coughing. She tried to stifle the cough. But there was no one around to hear her. The burial crew was far up the hill, trudging back to the gate in the wall.

  Her white muslin dress was pulling her down. She slipped out of the dress. Treading water, she folded it and tucked it under the drawstring at the top of her drawers. Her bloomers, as Agnes called them.

  She checked that her sewing bag with her thimbles, her thread, and her comb was still tied around her wrist. She slid the scissors into the bag. The water was cold. She was grateful for the camisole, although it only kept her warm in her mind. She began swimming.

  Mary swam close to the stone prison wall which rose up from the shore. Once she got past the prison, she realized there was no place to get out. The village of Cataraqui edged close to the prison wall. She turned around and wearily swam back toward Kingston.

  Not far past the prison, the shoreline was made of limestone slabs. Here and there, they had been pushed up by ice over many winters till they lay on top of each other. Mary found slabs that formed a cave big enough for her to crawl into. When the prison guards came looking for her, she would need to hide.

  There were no houses nearby. She had shelter. The sun was shining and she soon stopped shivering.

  She squeezed water from her dress and laid it on a rock to dry. She took out her comb and combed her long hair until it fell into light brown waves across her bare shoulders.

  By the time the bells clanged and the sirens wailed to announce her escape, it was late afternoon. Mary was dizzy from hunger but she had all the water she could drink. It was lapping up almost to her cave.

  The guards must have left Lily’s body undisturbed all day in Mary’s bed. They thought it was Mary, asleep with a mysterious sickness. Once they found the body, they would blame Agnes and Apple. But Agnes and Apple would swear on the Bible that they thought it was Mary in her bed and that Lily had gone to her grave.

  Mary’s cellmates would say they were as surprised as the guards.

  Then who was in Lily’s grave?

  Well, if it wasn’t Lily, it had to be Mary. But the grave was empty! The warden would realize what the burial detail had done. Mary had tried to escape and was drowned.

  Then they would discover the brown canvas bag in ten feet of water with an iron weight tied around one end. The warden would know for sure that Mary had escaped.

  Meanwhile, Lily would have to be buried all over again. By a different burial crew, since Mike and his buddy would be behind bars themselves.

  Mary could see it all happening in her mind. She got dressed and settled into her cave.

  A search party walked right over her. The men stumbled on the limestone, as it was growing too dark to see. They were carrying torches made of dry reeds but the rocks were at all angles. The men swore a lot.

  A boat went by with a lantern, looking for Mary’s body along the shore.

  Later, Mary sat on the slab of rock above her cave and gazed out over Lake Ontario. In the bright moonlight, she could see Wolfe Island against the southern sky. It was named after General Wolfe, who fell in the Battle for Quebec. She had seen a copy of the painting by an American artist, Benjamin West, that showed his heroic death.

  Mary smiled. She had escaped death, herself. She was content.

  Allison

  For reasons known only to Gordon, he says nothing about my eye movement to the colleagues when they come in. It might have something to do with power. Maybe he wants to see if they’ll notice. Then Maddie comes in. They’ve brought her away from her work with flowers to help them. She clambers up on my bed. She leans over and smiles her warm open smile. She is not keeping secrets, she doesn’t know about my progress.

  She saw my eyes last night through the glistening tears. She didn’t see them move. Crying didn’t seem a breakthrough. It confirmed I was me.

  “Today,” says a man with an important voice. “We will test for intelligence, yes. So, Dr. Alstein, please proceed.”

  Dr. Alstein tells Maddie that he will ask questions and Maddie should pass them on to me. I wonder if he’s a medical doctor or a PhD?

  “She can hear them, herself,” explains Maddie with irritation. “Her hearing is excellent.”

  I decide not to show them my eyes can move when I want. Knowledge is power for Gordon. Keeping secrets is power for me.

  “I’m sorry,” says the man with an important voice, “Speak up, what did sh
e say?”

  Oh, for Glory’s sake, boys. Get it together.

  “Now, then,” says Dr. Alstein. “Who is the President, what is his name?”

  Maddie observes my eyes and gives my response:

  “The president of what?”

  “I see,” says Dr. Alstein. “She has difficulty with abstract concepts. Ask her what year it is.”

  “You just did,” snaps Maddie. Then after a few moments, Maddie says, speaking my words in quotation marks, “‘What year is when?’”

  “Uh, now. Never mind. Ask her who delivered the Gettysburg Address.”

  I give the first answer that comes to mind: “Fed-Ex.”

  I know it was Abe Lincoln, of course.

  “Ask her where Elvis came from.”

  That one I know: “Mississippi.”

  “No, no, no. He was from Tennessee, from Memphis.”

  I argue: “Born in Tupelo.”

  “That’s in Mississippi,” Maddie clarifies.

  “Ask her: 6 times 8?”

  “What about them?” I ask right back.

  “Ask again.”

  Maddie smiles, then gives my response: “5 times 10 minus 2.”

  “Enough,” says the man with the important voice. “She is not so smart, I think.”

  I can’t see him but I’m sure he has a beard. He sounds like a regular at Tim Hortons who had a greay beard and used to order a double-double every Saturday with a honey cruller and a plastic knife. He would cut the cruller precisely in half and leave half on the plate, but he’d drain his coffee to the bottom.

  Dr. Alstein says: “She was maybe not so smart before the accident.”

  Accident! If I could speak, I’d give him a piece of my mind.

  Wrong expression. I wouldn’t give him squat.

  After the researchers leave, Gordon explains: “Those were psychologists, except for the boss, he’s Dr. Arthur Ellis, a neurobiologist. They deal with minds, not brains.”

  “What’s the difference?” asks Maddie.

  “Good question. If I had a mind to, I’d answer you. And if I had a brain, I would have been nicer to Allison last night.”

  “Not just last night, you imbecile.”

  “Okay. But listen, Maddie, just watch. Allison and I need to show you something. Look over here.”

  Maddie looks.

  “No, Maddie no! I’m speaking to Allison.”

  Long tall Gordon stands by the side of my bed. I slowly shift my eyes and draw him into focus. Then I look back at Maddie. She’s beaming like the light is coming from inside her head.

  I tell Maddie I can smell coffee, I can make my mouth all watery by thinking of Dutch apple pie. I show her. She tells me I’m drooling.

  Hot damn! I can drool.

  My lips move, I smile. I actually smile.

  Thirty-two

  Mary

  Mary woke up stiff and chilled from sleeping on the limestone slabs. She was happy. She was free. But her escape wasn’t over until she got far away from Kingston.

  The sun was already high above Wolfe Island and ships were moving with the wind out into the open lake. Mostly they were under sail but there were several steamboats among them. That’s what she needed, a steamboat to take her home.

  Suddenly, Mary wanted to cry. She had not thought of home as anywhere but the Kingston Pen for the last three years. She had refused to think of her family back in Niagara-on-the-Lake.

  She had not lived at her actual home since the Rebellion, when she was fifteen. She was no longer welcome in her father’s house after the Rebellion was over.

  For one month, while the Republic of Canada existed, Mary was proud of being a citizen. Her father, Hugh Cameron, was outraged. Victoria was Queen. Canada was British. Period. He had been born in Scotland. Mary couldn’t understand why he liked the Queen, if he was a Scot.

  And he couldn’t understand her. His beloved Mary was nearly an American! Under General Brock and his successors, he had fought against the Americans. His lovely daughter with golden-brown hair and hazel eyes, rode horses like a boy and smiled like an angel—she was a traitor.

  It broke his heart. He disowned her. And that broke Mary’s heart.

  Mary was the youngest of three children. She had two brothers who left home when she was still a baby. Her mother, Lizzie, had died when she was born. Mary’s middle name was in honor of her mother’s family. She was Mary Erb Cameron. Her father mourned Lizzie for the rest of his life. He kept on working as a blacksmith but he never took another wife. He raised Mary with love as if she were an only child.

  Mary knew, no matter how much he hated her politics, her father would never have believed she was a killer. But when her trial for treason was held in Fort Erie, he did not attend.

  She wrote him one letter from jail. He did not answer.

  Mary removed two of the four gold coins from the pocket she had sewn into the top of her bloomers. She smoothed out her white dress and brushed off her slippers with some dried seaweed. She pushed back her hair and pulled her silver medallion up from between her breasts and let it hang down in the open. The amber at the center glistened in the sun.

  Then she climbed up over the limestone slabs and walked through the woods until she reached the main road into town. She stepped out boldly onto the road and walked with her head held high, like she owned the whole world.

  It would never have occurred to anyone that she was a convict. Not this beautiful young woman in a beautiful white dress wearing a beautiful medallion and black slippers, almost like new. She must be a lady.

  And like a lady she walked past great stone houses on King Street, right into the steamship office near the capital building, and demanded passage on the next boat bound for Niagara-on-the-Lake. In a private cabin. The agent looked at her oddly. A young woman traveling alone was unusual.

  Mary plunked down a gold coin on his desk.

  “Yes, Ma’am. Of course. The Frontenac leaves at noon.”

  “Thank you,” said Mary.

  “And you’ll be paying with this Spanish doubloon, Ma’am?”

  “Is that what they are?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Yes, of course. But I’d like my change in English money. Or American. It doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s the full fare, Ma’am. One Spanish doubloon.”

  “Then give me proper change in real money for this one.” Mary dropped a second gold coin on the desk.

  “Yes, Ma’am, of course.”

  “It’s Miss,” Mary corrected him.

  “Yes, Miss. One moment.”

  Mary smiled to herself. The great Charles Dickens had given her four very fancy coins. Spanish doubloons, indeed!

  She gave the agent her name as Agnes Apple.

  The agent smiled up at Mary like she was a royal princess or a pirate queen.

  “Thank you, Miss Apple.”

  Mary smiled back. She was a citizen of the Republic of Canada. A convict on the run, perhaps, but not a pirate and not a princess, not even a subject of the Empress, Victoria.

  For Mary, the Rebellion was not over, not until she had cleared her name and avenged her friend, Amos Durfee.

  And she knew just where she would find his killer.

  Allison

  Being underwater with Mary was awesome. Like, being shot in the head all over again, only without passing out. I can still feel my pulse as the blood races through my veins.

  But Mary, Mary. I’ve been hoping, now that she’s free, she will forget about killing. I think she’s confusing her outrage at being accused of murder with sadness over her father’s anger. She thinks the only way she can make things right is through murder.

  Well, no. That will simply mean her father can never forgive her all over again. It means she will be hanged by the n
eck until dead. Even if the killer of her friend Amos deserves to die, he has the right to a trial. You can’t just go around executing people.

  And what about me? I’m confused. It’s confusing. When I woke up this morning, I realized I can feel my blood in my veins. I can create spit on demand, I can smile a little and I’m getting control of my eyes. It’s great, wonderful, thrilling. And I’m depressed.

  When Maddie and Gordon left last night, I was relieved they had gone. After I did my tricks a few times and they had exclaimed their delight, then we all needed time to absorb what was happening.

  So, I lay there in the dark, feeling low. I guess, when it seems I might be improving, it makes me realize how bad things have been. Like, being a potato is okay when there is no alternative. A potato who can think, who can dream. That’s better than being dead.

  But the possibility of returning to normal is overwhelming. Being normal is like a place that’s too far to reach.

  Imagine swimming in the ocean and you can’t see the shore. You look up. There’s a bird carrying a twig. There must be land somewhere ahead. It’s almost enough to make you stop swimming. It’s heartbreaking. You realize how far you are from solid earth.

  Enough, already! Hope isn’t defeating, you ridiculous person. It’s exhilarating. You are Allison Briscoe. And let’s not forget it.

  Suddenly the lights go on. It isn’t Maddie and Gordon but someone approaches. He speaks. It is the colleague with no accent.

  “Hello, Allison,” he says.

  So the guy who arranged to get me to Harvard knows I am actually a person. He moves close to my bed. It is hard to see him against the light but he looks vaguely familiar.

  “I’m just going to peek at your silver locket,” he says.

  It’s a medallion! A locket would have something precious inside. It’s a pendant. It’s not a locket.

  He leans down—he doesn’t undo the chain. I can see him holding my treasure up to the light, I can see the glimmer of amber, the gleam of polished silver.

  “I will have to get a closer look. There is something written behind the gemstone.” By the way he casts shadows over me, I can tell he is trying to open the clasp. But it is his voice I really notice. Good glory, his voice!