Coma Girl: Part 6 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  “The nurses say you can understand me?” he asked.

  I blink twice.

  “That’s a yes, I’m told.”

  I blink twice.

  “Good. Has anyone told you what’s going on with your case?”

  I blink once.

  “I thought so. Okay, so your sister finally admitted she was driving your car the night of the accident, not you. I suspected as much, but the forensics hadn’t come back yet, and I was hoping Sidney would come clean first. And to her credit, she did.”

  I blink twice.

  “She could be charged with filing a false report and obstruction of justice, but I doubt the D.A. will prosecute. But the drugs…”

  My heart skipped a beat and he must’ve seen the alarm and question in my eyes.

  “Ah… you don’t know about that either?”

  I blink rapidly, so shocked, I can’t stop at a single blink.

  He sighed. “Sidney had a side business on campus selling amphetamines, in part to pay for her own addiction.”

  My mind raced, sorting through disparate pieces of information. Sidney’s phone had been confiscated after the accident, yet she’d had a phone all along—an extra, for her business? The call she hadn’t been able to ignore the night of the crash, the cryptic conversations I’d overheard about a “project,” her occasionally manic moods, the slurring of her speech the night she’d tried to smother me… and her remarks about feeling so much pressure to excel at school—at life in general. Apparently it had all been too much for her.

  “Sidney was arrested this morning with possession and intent to distribute. But I arranged for her to turn herself in to try to keep it as quiet as possible. Still, the media will know soon enough.”

  My heart squeezed for Sid. She must be humiliated and my parents, devastated. Tears gathered in my eyes and spilled over. Little whimpering noises came from my rusty vocal chords.

  “I know,” Jack said simply. Then he pulled a folded white handkerchief from a back pocket of his jeans and dabbed at my tears. “I’m sorry, too.”

  December 5, Monday

  “GATHER AROUND bed three,” Dr. Tyson said. “Move some flowers if you have to.”

  I’ve previously wondered about the faces of the eager young doctors on their rounds to discuss the more obscure cases. I’d even been perversely flattered to be one of the hospital’s more provocative patients. But I confess under the gaze of so many white lab-coated people, I feel a bit like a frog on a high school science table.

  A very pregnant frog.

  “Patient is a twenty-nine-year-old female brought to Brady approximately six months ago with a traumatic brain injury received in a car collision. The patient is approximately twenty-eight weeks pregnant. She underwent two surgeries to relieve pressure on her brain, but remained in a coma until last Wednesday. Questions? Statler, go.”

  “How is Coma Girl’s baby?”

  Dr. Tyson frowned. “Please don’t refer to the patient as Coma Girl.”

  “Why not? She’s famous.”

  Dr. Tyson frowned harder. “For one thing, as I said, she’s no longer in a coma. And as far as we can tell, the baby is normal. Kwan, do you have a question?”

  “Is Coma Girl’s baby a girl, or a boy?”

  Dr. Tyson pursed her lips. “Not that it’s particularly relevant, but it’s a girl.”

  A few aw’s sounded.

  “If she’s no longer in a coma, why is she back in the coma ward?” Kwan asked.

  Back with my previous roommates Karen Suh and Shondra Taylor.

  “For the record, it’s called the long-term care ward,” Tyson said. “And for the next phase of her care, I thought it would be better to keep her with nurses who are familiar with her circumstances. Goldberg?”

  “Why is a security guard posted outside the door?”

  Dr. Tyson looked irritated. “As Statler alluded, there’s intense media curiosity about the patient’s condition. For that reason, the family has requested limited access to the patient. Phillips?”

  “Coma Girl’s sister was arrested. Turns out she’s a drug dealer and she was driving the night of the accident, not Coma Girl.”

  Dr. Tyson arched an eyebrow. “Was there a medical question in there somewhere?”

  “No, just… fyi, it’s lit.”

  “Lit?”

  A few titters sounded.

  “Lit up on social media,” Kwan offered weakly to back up Phillips.

  Dr. Tyson turned a lethal glare on the young doctors. “If the next question isn’t a legitimate medical question, you can all find somewhere else to do your residencies. Tosco, go.”

  “Um… how are the patient’s cognitive abilities?”

  “The patient is communicating yes and no through eye blinks, and appears to recognize family and friends.” She looked down at me. “Hello, Marigold. Am I Dr. Jarvis?”

  I blink once.

  “Good. Am I Dr. Phillips?’

  I blink once.

  “Good. And thank God,” she added to the chagrin of Phillips.

  Laughter chorused through the group.

  “Am I Dr. Tyson?”

  I blink twice.

  “Very good, Marigold. Thank you.” She looked back to her audience. “She can also identify common objects, colors, and shapes. What else would you test, Kwan?”

  “The patient’s senses.”

  “Good. Her senses have been tested and are functioning well. Goldberg, go.”

  “How is the patient’s mobility?”

  “There’s no paralysis, but her mobility is limited to moving fingers and toes and she can turn her head a few degrees. What do you suggest?”

  “Physical therapy, neuromuscular electrical stimulation, massage, acupuncture.”

  “Good. Dr. Jarvis is utilizing all those methods. Gaynor?”

  “Is Coma Girl—er, is the patient able to speak?”

  “Not yet. But we’re not pushing her until we remove the feeding tube, which should be soon. Phillips?” She gave him a warning look.

  “Why did she wake up after six months?”

  Dr. Tyson took her time responding. “Clinically, I would say the pressure in her brain was relieved after the second surgery to remove blood debris. But in truth, we don’t know exactly why she woke up. You’re bound to encounter situations in your medical training that defy clinical explanation.”

  “How are we supposed to handle something like that?” Kwan asked.

  “With humility and appreciation,” she said, her voice earnest. “Let’s move on….”

  As the group left, I tried to get a peek into the hallway through the opening and closing door, a glimpse into the world outside my room, the world that, according to Phillips, was abuzz with my family scandal. I dearly wish someone would put a television or radio in the ward… but I fear the reason no one has is to protect me from what’s being said about me and my family.

  I’m worried sick thinking about the tell-all manuscript my dotty therapy-writing teacher unwittingly gave to my volunteer poet whom I suspect has been leaking photos of me to TMZ. Now would be the perfect time to reveal dark details about how I felt about my dysfunctional family. And since the volunteer hasn’t been back, I suspect he cashed in on a big payday and made a hasty retreat.

  My intestines are in a knot… because over the past six months I’ve come to realize the way each of my family members treated me had little to nothing to do with me, and everything to do with secrets they each harbored. If I could, I’d set fire to the manuscript.

  But of course, I can’t. And even if I could talk, I can’t reveal its existence without causing more grief.

  December 6, Tuesday

  “GIRL, I DIDN’T think I’d ever see your eyeballs again. Let me get a good look at you.”

  I am so happy to see Roberta, I feel tears gathering in my eyes as she studies me.

  “Oh, no, no, no. No tears,” she said, shaking a finger. “We got too much talking to do, and since the nurses say y
ou can only blink yes or no, this could take a while.” She held up a white bakery box. “I brought a dozen chocolate chip muffins to keep us company, but I had to leave six at the nurses’ station and dole out two more to the security guard to get through your door, so that only leaves four for us. And since you’re still wearing a feeding tube, by ‘us’ I mean ‘me.’”

  She laughed heartily and I tried to smile.

  “First things first, do you know me?”

  I blink twice.

  “You do? Good.” She opened the box and removed a muffin. “Do you know what day it is?”

  I blink twice.

  “Good. It’s Tuesday, by the way. And Christmas is less than three weeks away. I mean, how did that happen?”

  It occurs to me I need a blink for “I don’t know.”

  She sighed. “I was really sorry to hear about Sidney being arrested and all. Did you know she had a drug problem?”

  I blink once.

  “Well, now I feel horrible for giving her the papers I found where you gave her control of your healthcare decisions. I mean, what if she’d wanted to get rid of you so you wouldn’t wake up and tell everyone she was driving?”

  I fastidiously didn’t blink.

  Then Roberta laughed at herself. “Forget I said that. I think I’m letting this private investigator thing go to my head. I mean, Sidney might not be the squeaky clean girl everyone thought she was, but she wouldn’t want you dead, right?”

  I blink once.

  Roberta stopped mid-chew and leaned closer, her eyes as big as jelly-filled donuts. “Was that ‘no’? No, Sidney wouldn’t want you dead, or no, I’m not right?”

  I stared straight ahead, then up, down…

  “Marigold, did Sidney try to hurt you?”

  I blink once… and pondered a second blink.

  Roberta laughed on an exhale. “Of course she didn’t… I’m sorry I even brought it up. You have more important things to worry about—like who’s going to take care of your Coma Girl social media now?”

  Again, I need an “I don’t know” blink.

  “I can do that if you want me to.”

  I blink twice.

  “I’m on it like a pogo stick.”

  There’s a mental picture to enjoy.

  “You know, that reporter is still calling me about a book deal. We should think about it now that you’re awake and all.”

  Not that again.

  “At least let me tell him we’ll think about it.”

  I blink once… then relent and blink twice.

  “Oh, good! And the baby! Are you happy about the baby?”

  Relieved at the change in subject, I blink twice.

  “Of course you are. Do you know if it’s a girl or a boy?”

  I blink twice.

  “Is it a girl? Oh, it has to be a girl.”

  I blink twice.

  She clapped her hands, then reached for another muffin. “Do you have a name yet?”

  I blink twice.

  “You do? Okay, how do we do this? Blink twice when I get to the first letter. A? B? C?”

  I’m excited for a new way to communicate. I wait until she reaches the letter “L,” then blink twice.

  “It starts with an L—hm. Laken? Lottie? Lorelei? Lacey? Ladonna? Lola? Leslie? Lily? Liberty?”

  Damn—those are all good names. Maybe I settled too soon.

  “Okay, second letter. A?”

  I blink twice.

  “L-A. Laticia? Latoya? Lavender.”

  I squint.

  She shrugged. “Okay, third letter—A? B? C?”

  Getting all the way to “U” was painful, but we make it.

  “L-A-U… Laura? Laurel? Lauren?”

  I blink twice.

  “Lauren. That’s a pretty name, Marigold.” She sighed. “I’m so glad you woke up, girl. I’ve missed you.”

  I tear up again.

  “Okay, none of that,” she said, knuckling away her own tears. “If I start bawling I’ll never get through all these cards and letters I brought to read. You’re getting a dang bag of mail a day. You know how much mail I get? Past due notices from the cable company and postcards from Peter Glenn’s ski shop from when I entered a contest for a free trip to Aspen six years ago. Have never snow skied in my life and I don’t ever plan to, but man, they are persistent. You, on the other hand—”

  I was blinking like mad because right now there was something I wanted more than to hear from well-wishers.

  “What’s wrong?” Roberta asked. “Do you want to tell me something?”

  I blink twice.

  “Okay. Does it start with an A? B? C?”

  When Roberta got to “M,” I blink twice.

  “Okay, M. Second letter A? B? C?”

  I stop her at “I.” Then “R.”

  “M-I-R,” she murmured. “Are you trying to say ‘miracle’?”

  I blink once.

  “Not miracle… mir-something… mirror?”

  I blink twice.

  “You want to see a mirror?”

  I blink twice.

  “You haven’t seen yourself since you woke up, have you?”

  I blink once.

  “And of course you want to know what you look like. I’ve got a mirror in my purse.”

  She wiped chocolate off her fingers, then began to empty the contents of her purse on my bed. Phone, makeup bag, Kindle, brush, phone charger, bottle of water, another charger, toothbrush, nail polish, a tube of lotion, a condom, flip flops, a remote control—

  “Well, dang—I’ve been searching everywhere for that remote control.”

  —half a club sandwich, one glove, a pair of scissors, a bottle of perfume, a wine cork—

  “Aha! Here it is.”

  She pulled out a hand mirror and came to stand behind me. My heart raced as she held the mirror so I could see myself. It takes a few seconds to register the face looking back at me is mine. I’ve almost forgotten what I look like.

  I’m startled by the sheer starkness of my features—my brows and eyes and mouth stand out in relief against my pale skin. A thin white feeding tube is inserted in my right nostril. Across my left cheek is a crosshatch of fading scars. My regular nurses have resumed covering the head bandage with scarves—today’s headwrap is a holiday design of red, green, and gold. My dark hair peeks out where the scarf meets my forehead. I sigh in abject relief. I’m not horribly disfigured. Aside from the faint scars and the feeding tube, my reflection looks much like it ever did.

  “See?” Roberta said. “You’re still pretty, Coma Girl.”

  Not pretty… but what had my sweet brother Alex said when he visited? That my face is striking. I’ll take that.

  December 7, Wednesday

  “HELLO, MY DEAR.”

  Aunt Winnie floated into the room in a flowy garb of blue and yellow. I am so happy to see her, want to tell her how much I appreciated her visits over the past few months, Faridee’s garbled messages notwithstanding.

  But I can’t speak yet. Dr. Jarvis promised me during a particularly grueling physical therapy session this morning if I continued to improve, my feeding tube could be removed as early as Saturday. I am ecstatic because that means when and if Jack Terry visits Sunday, I can tell him about Sister Irene. After Roberta left yesterday, I kicked myself mentally for not telling her to contact Jack while we had the spelling communication thing going. But even if I had, it would be next to impossible to explain what I thought was going on one guessed letter at a time.

  Which was why I am so eager to see Faridee—she can “translate” my thoughts for me, and I can autocorrect her with yes or no affirmations.

  Winnie came to my bed and leaned over to hug me. I can’t hug her back, but it’s nice to feel her warmth around me.

  “I knew you would wake up,” she said. “And so did my psychic Faridee. Do you remember her?”

  I blink twice.

  “We came to see you several times while you were in the coma. Faridee connected with
you mentally, with some very accurate translations.”

  That’s not how I remember it.

  “Do you recall connecting with her telepathically, Marigold?”

  I blink once.

  “Oh, well, you probably just don’t remember. But look at you, awake and on the road to recovery.”

  She clasped my hands, then hugged me again.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. Faridee has been so ill, and I’ve had to stay with her, poor dear, and take her back and forth to the doctor. She has Psychic Syndrome.”

  Oh, brother.

  “She fell ill the very day you woke up, in fact. She’s bedridden, says it’s something all psychics get occasionally, and it just has to work its way through her system.”

  Like bad mental sushi?

  “But what’s all this about Sidney being arrested for selling pills? Carrie left a voicemail and said it was all a misunderstanding.”

  Mom and Faridee—the great spin doctors.

  “Goodness, it seems like there’s a lot happening all at once,” Winnie exclaimed.

  Agreed. And I’m so frustrated. I’m bursting with questions to ask and information to exchange. And the one time I truly need Faridee to intervene, she calls in sick.

  And then it hits me—it’s no coincidence that Faridee fell ill the same day I woke up—the old fraud doesn’t want to face me because she’s afraid I can debunk her claims.

  December 8, Thursday

  THE DOOR TO THE ward opened and a tall slender blonde walked in. I don’t recognize the face, but I do recognize the clackety-clack of the high heels.

  “Hello, Marigold. I’m ADA Spence. We haven’t met, but I’m handling your case.”

  So she assumes I can’t remember our previous encounters. Fair enough.

  She pulled a chair closer to my bed and sat heavily, resting her briefcase on her lap. “What a difference a few days makes. First, let me say how glad I am you’re awake. And I understand you can respond to questions by blinking twice for yes, once for no?”

  I blink twice.

  “Good.”

  She opened her briefcase and took out a thick file folder.