Coma Girl: part 1

by Stephanie Bond

  “I know,” he soothed. “But it is happening, and the best way you can help your family is to keep your sister’s case in the spotlight.”

  “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  “By the way, what’s up with the incessant classical music?”

  “Beats me,” Sidney said.

  The door closed behind them.

  Don’t mind me… I’ll just be lying here building my brand.

  July 23, Saturday

  “HELLO, MARIGOLD. It’s Dr. Jarvis again. How are you enjoying the music?”

  I’ve memorized every note of all forty songs, but not out of love.

  “What do you say we try a few more tests?”

  I was game, although I kept thinking about Dr. Tyson’s declaration that I was not improving.

  “I’m going to be touching your face, Marigold. I hope that’s okay. Feel free to speak up now if you don’t like strange men getting so personal.” He chuckled.

  I didn’t speak up.

  “Okay, I’m using both hands to lightly touch your face, starting at your forehead and slowly moving down your nose… and out to your cheeks… do you feel that?”

  I didn’t, but I could smell the strong soap he’d used to wash his hands. I wondered if he had nice hands.

  “Okay, I’m moving down to your mouth. Do you feel that, Marigold? Do you feel me touching your mouth?”

  Again, no. But I kind of loved thinking about it.

  “And now to your chin. Do you feel my hands, Marigold?”

  No, but I was starting to feel panicky that I was running out of time and maybe running out of people who believed I could get out this bed.

  “Okay, I’m holding your right hand, Marigold. Do you feel my hand in yours? Can you squeeze my hand, Marigold? Can you? Marigold, tell your brain to tell your right hand to move. Do it, Marigold… please.”

  At the pleading note in his voice, I gave it all I had. I visualized my brain as a detached cartoonish image with arms and legs, looking down and wagging its finger at my hand, telling it what to do. And my hand meekly obeying.

  I heard his sharp intake of breath. “Marigold, you did it!” His voice was jubilant. “You squeezed my hand—I felt it!”

  Hooray! Inside I was having my own ticker tape parade. This was the beginning of the way back.

  “I have to find Dr. Tyson! Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back!”

  He ran from the room, calling Dr. Tyson’s name.

  My family was going to be so happy! Not to mention all my Facebook fans and Twitter minions and Instagram followers and Pinterest boarders and—

  The door burst open and footsteps rushed inside. “Which hand did she move?” Dr. Tyson asked.

  “Her right hand,” Dr. Jarvis said. “She squeezed my hand.”

  “Curb your excitement, Jarvis. You might not have felt what you think you felt.”

  “I didn’t imagine it, Dr. Tyson. I asked her to squeeze my hand and she did.”

  “It could’ve been an involuntary response, or a spasm.”

  “But she responded to my request.”

  “Which could be a coincidence. If she did it once, she can do it again.”

  I sensed her leaning over me, and I recognized the click from a penlight. She must be holding open my eyelids and shining a light over my green irises. The click sounded again.

  “Pupils are fixed. Ms. Kemp, can you move the fingers of your right hand?”

  I tried, but could feel my brain fogging. What image had I used before? I couldn’t recall.

  “Ms. Kemp, try again. Can you move the fingers of your right hand?”

  “Marigold, move your fingers,” Jarvis urged.

  “Jarvis, I’ve got this,” Dr. Tyson said in a stern voice. “Ms. Kemp, squeeze my hand. Use your right hand to squeeze mine.”

  From the silence, I assumed my hand was not responding.

  “Try again, Ms. Kemp,” Dr. Tyson said. “Squeeze my hand.”

  Nothing.

  Jarvis made an exasperated noise. “She squeezed my hand, I swear.”

  “Okay, first of all, what were you doing in here?”

  “I… had some free time and thought I would work with Marigold—er, with Ms. Kemp.”

  “Really? So you just decided you’re going to conduct your own little experiment?”

  “I… uh…”

  “Where did that TV come from?”

  “The doctor’s lounge,” he said sheepishly.

  “Put it back,” she snapped. “And from now on when you have some free time, come and see me. I have a mountain of patient folders that need to be organized.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “And not a word about this to anyone,” she said, “including the family. I won’t have you giving them false hope over something you probably imagined.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Her irritation was evident from the way she stalked from the room. I imagined Dr. Jarvis standing there, alone and defeated.

  You said you wouldn’t give up on me, I implored. Don’t fail me now.

  He walked across the room. I hoped Jarvis would defy Dr. Tyson and once again take my hand. Instead, the volume of the TV went silent. Then I heard him gathering cords and roll it away, wheels squeaking. When the door closed, the silence was so… lonely. The sounds of the machines around our beds seemed louder now, more menacing.

  I never thought I’d miss the cello, but I did.

  July 24, Sunday

  WHEN THE DOOR OPENED, I recognized the sound of Detective Jack Terry’s boots. He stopped somewhere near the foot of my bed and I pictured him, hands on hips, looking down at me.

  “Hello there, Marigold.” He sighed. “Still not keen on coming back to this world? I don’t blame you. Get some rest. The whole mess will still be here when you wake up.”

  This was a man who had been worn down a little by life. As a police officer, he’d probably seen it all, the worst of the worst. I, for one, was grateful to men like him who stood between the dredges of humanity and the rest of us.

  “Hey, what happened to your TV? I thought we’d watch the Braves game again. They’re playing the Rockies again this weekend, this time in Denver.”

  I was really starting to miss that TV.

  “Well, I guess we’ll have to listen to it on my phone instead.” A few beeps and clicks later, the sounds of the baseball game came into the room. “Yeah… that’ll do in a pinch.”

  He dragged a chair across the floor. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my lunch—a burger from The Vortex.”

  I could smell it… heaven.

  “I brought you one, too, in case you pulled a Lazarus while I was sitting here.”

  A burger might just be worth waking up for.

  “Your parents and sister probably told you, but they’re meeting with the D.A. tomorrow.”

  They hadn’t said a word.

  “It’s more of a publicity ploy than anything—the D.A. can’t afford to look complacent even if all the evidence hasn’t landed yet. And he wants to get a good look at you, see how much of a sympathy card he has to play. He’s kind of an asshole, but he’ll do what needs to be done. And if he takes this to trial, he’ll take down Keith Young, no matter how many attorneys the guy has.”

  That would make my parents happy.

  Jack gave a little laugh. “Your social media mob has already found the man guilty. By the way, my girlfriend—I mean, a girl I know—has one of your T-shirts. And she’s a fashion diva, so it must be hip.”

  Hm… he had corrected himself pretty quickly on the girlfriend remark. Was she a former girlfriend? A friend who happened to be a girl? Or someone he wanted to be his girlfriend?

  “Oh, come on ump, that was a strike!”

  From the rustle of paper, I assumed he’d taken a bite out of his burger, and the rub of a straw against a cup cover indicated he’d brought a drink with him.

  “The thing is, Keith Young doesn’t have any traffic violations, and although he
admits to drinking earlier that evening, he and his witnesses say he didn’t drink enough to be drunk. Still waiting on lab results.”

  He took another bite and chewed.

  “And he swears your car came into his lane. Your sister has her own version of what happened and although her statement is helpful, I don’t think she was paying attention, and it’s always best when you can talk to the other driver.”

  He took a drink through the straw.

  “That’s why I wish I could talk to you about this, Marigold, to get your story. I want to make sure you didn’t swerve to avoid an animal, or drop a drink in your lap, or something that would mitigate the circumstances. Don’t get me wrong—if Keith Young’s bloodwork comes back and shows he was drunk, that’s the end of the story and I won’t mind seeing him go to jail. But if something else happened, I need to know.”

  He took another bite and chewed.

  “You weren’t texting and driving, were you Marigold? Your sister’s phone shows she wasn’t using it at the time of the accident, but your phone was destroyed, so we had to subpoena the phone company and we don’t have the records yet.”

  I wanted to tell the detective to relax, but I couldn’t. Because as much as I’d like to say I never text and drive, that’s not true. I’ve been known to dash off a quick message if the traffic is light and I feel safe, although I realize it’s never safe. And although I can’t imagine texting or talking on the phone after dark while Sidney was in the car with me, maybe I did. I just can’t remember.

  Was Sidney covering for me?

  July 25, Monday

  “YOUR DAUGHTER’S DOCTOR said she hasn’t shown any signs of waking up.”

  The District Attorney, Kelvin Lucas, sounded stooped and frowny. He must be intimidating since my parents had barely said anything, leaving most of the talking to David Spooner.

  “That’s correct,” David said. “There’s been no change in Marigold’s condition for several weeks now.”

  I wanted to scream. Dr. Tyson should’ve told him and my family I allegedly squeezed Dr. Jarvis’s hand, even if she didn’t believe it happened.

  Lucas made a mournful sound. “Unfortunately, even if the evidence points to Keith Young as the driver at fault, that leaves me in an awkward position. With your daughter in limbo, so are the charges.”

  “What do you mean?” my dad asked.

  “It means,” Sidney said, “they need to know if Marigold is dead or alive before they file charges. Am I right, Mr. Lucas?”

  “As awful as it sounds, yes. Before a judge can pass sentence, we have to spell out what the damages are. And right now, no one really knows.”

  “You can’t look at my daughter and see how she’s been damaged?” my mom asked.

  Go, Mom.

  “Mrs. Kemp, I’m very sorry about your daughter,” Lucas said, gentling his tone. “But if a jury thinks she might get up and walk tomorrow, they’re not going to convict on a higher count. I’m not saying I won’t file charges, I’m just trying to explain how tough the road ahead might be.”

  “I heard on the news,” my dad said, “that Keith Young wouldn’t submit to a blood test at the scene.”

  “That’s correct. His blood was drawn when he arrived at the police station.”

  “After how much time passed?” David Spooner asked.

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “So unless he blows over the legal limit, there’s no case,” Sidney said.

  “Not necessarily, but it does complicate matters.”

  “When will you get the phone records?” Sidney asked.

  Oh, no… she sounded worried. Did she have a reason to be worried?

  “We should get your sister’s and Keith Young’s phone records any day now.”

  “Why is everything taking so long?” my mother asked.

  “Laws regarding data on phones and car electronics are complicated,” Lucas said, “and when we get the information, it has to be processed by experts to ensure the accuracy. These days, cases are won and lost in the evidence-collecting and processing phase. We have to do everything by the book to make sure we have a strong case if and when we get to that point.”

  “Keith Young is as guilty as he can be,” my dad said, his voice rising. “All these professional athletes think they can get away with anything. And he doesn’t even have the decency to stay away from the cameras.”

  “In all fairness, the press seems to be chasing him,” Lucas said. “The Falcons have to allow cameras in practices to drum up publicity for the season. And sure, the reporters are going to seek out Young because of this case.”

  “But that can be to our advantage,” David Spooner said. “It keeps the public opinion on our side.”

  “No offense, Mr. Spooner,” Lucas said, “but I need more than Facebook friends to win a case. I need solid evidence. So for now, we’re in a stall pattern.”

  Welcome to my world.

  July 26, Tuesday

  YOU NEVER KNOW how much you love something until it’s gone. Without the deluge of opera and orchestrals, the ward seemed deathly quiet.

  Silence can work on a person, can mess with your mind. Hardly anyone had been through the door today, and in fact, it had been hours since a nurse had walked in and made her rounds. I assumed she’d checked to make sure nothing had come unplugged, gone dry, or overflowed.

  So as I lay there listening to the machines wheezing and whirring, paranoia crept in. What if something had happened—a deadly virus unleashed—and we were the only four people left alive in the hospital, protected by our immobility? And as days went by and we lay starving and withering, the virus finally made its way into our ward. (It would have be a stinky virus in order for me to know it was coming.) Trapped, we would all inhale the putrid pathogen, and just as I was prepared to die, a miracle happened—the virus had the opposite effect on us, stirring our sleeping limbs and not only pulling us from our comas, but making us more healthy and powerful than before. And it was up to the Super Vegetables to corral and destroy whatever evil faction had released the virus city-wide.

  It could happen.

  I lay there and spun stories of doom and gloom until I put myself into a funk.

  So when the alarm first sounded, I actually thought it was only my imagination.

  But no, it was the fire alarm, as sharp and shrill as an ice pick to the ears. It sounded three times, then paused, then three times again… and kept sounding.

  So now I was sure a terrorist incident had occurred in the hospital, and a hostage had broken loose to pull the fire alarm and summon help.

  Actually, I was pretty sure the hospital was on fire.

  That notion was confirmed when the first tendril of smoke tickled my nose. Let me tell you, nothing is more frightening than knowing danger is near and not being able to move away from it. I thought about the man whose wife had injected him with a paralytic, then left him to die in a fire. This was how he felt, unable even to flop out of bed and lie in the floor hoping the smoke would rise.

  We would be tomorrow’s headline: Four Comatose Women Burned Alive in Brady Hospital Fire. The orderlies would be making jokes about roasted vegetables.

  The smoke was getting thicker and I wondered when my body would rebel. This wasn’t how I wanted to die, and frankly, it seemed extra cruel to heap this new indignity on top of our old one. Blue on black.

  So this was it, then. I would die alone.

  The door burst open and people rushed in—firefighters, I assumed from the sound of the heavy gear. From the noises around me, I had the sensation of my bed being pushed out of the smoke and into a clearer area. We were on an elevator, then some sort of underground space—a parking garage? It made sense if they were going to put us in ambulances and take us to another facility.

  But they didn’t. By and by, the commotion died down and we were returned to the ward, accompanied by giant fans to blow away the lingering scent of smoke.

  In the end, the source of the smoke wasn�
�t a terrorist attack or biological espionage—just a plain old unattended microwave fire in the nurses’ lounge compounded by a fire extinguisher that didn’t work.

  But I have to get out of here. There are too many things in a hospital that can kill you.

  July 27, Wednesday

  “IS MARIGOLD OKAY?” my brother Alex asked from whatever device my folks had Skyped him on—my dad’s phone, I think.

  “Her doctor checked her out and said she’s fine,” my mom said.

  “But not better?” Alex asked.

  “No, not better,” my dad said. “The same.”

  “Does she have more color in her face?” Alex asked.

  In the silence that followed, I assumed my parents were looking at me to check.

  “No,” my mom said.

  Great.

  “Ah… maybe the scars have faded some.”

  “No,” my mom confirmed. “Same.”

  Great.

  “Poor thing,” my brother said. “She must’ve been scared to death. We gotta get her out of there.”

  “But it’s the best trauma center in the Southeast,” my dad said.

  “And her doctor is world-renowned.”

  “I don’t mean move her to another facility, I mean get her well.”

  “No argument there,” my dad said.

  “You said you had something to share that might be helpful?”

  “Maybe,” Alex said. “You know, the Army deals with more traumatic brain injuries than all other hospitals combined.”

  “Makes sense,” my dad said.

  “My captain pulled a few strings and I got to talk to one of the top neuroscientists at Walter Reed, Dr. Al Oscar.” Alex laughed. “Believe it or not, he’d heard of Coma Girl. My sister is famous.”

  “Is he going to help her?” my mom asked.

  “He said he’d be happy to talk to Marigold’s doctor about some new treatments for TBI.”

  “What kind of treatments?”

  “I wrote it down. He calls them ‘multifunctional’ drugs—they’re a combination of hormones, statins, antibiotics, and heat shock proteins, among other things.”

  “And this Dr. Oscar thinks it will help Marigold wake up?” my mom asked.

  “No guarantees,” Alex said. “But he’s willing to talk to the doctors there about his ideas.”