Coma Girl: Part 5 (Kindle Single)

by Bond, Stephanie

  November 5, Saturday

  LAST NIGHT I was moved back to the long-term care ward and, I heard a nurse say, assumed my regular position in bed three. I wonder if over in bed two Karen Suh missed me, or even knew I was gone.

  Since I knew from Faridee’s bumbling psychic episodes that Karen was conscious to some degree, I wonder if she thought I’d died, like Jill Wheatley in bed four, or had woken up, like Audrey Parks in bed one. If being in a coma was lonely, being the only person in a four-bed coma unit had to be the bottom of lonely. I gave her a mental wave and tried to metaphysically make myself known to her.

  Before spending a couple of days in ICU, I hadn’t known it was possible for me to have a sense of place, but I realize now how accustomed I’d become to the sounds in the ward—the muffled sound of distant city noise from the lone window to my left, the frequent P.A. announcements in a muted monotone from the hallway, and the familiar swish of the door opening and closing, admitting an array of nurses, doctors, staff, and visitors to the vegetable patch, as we were fondly referred to.

  Oh, and my iPod playlist of classical music. Someone—Dr. Jarvis, I presumed, since the constant barrage of symphonious music was his idea—had hit the ‘scramble’ button, and I was enjoying the surprise of which song would be next. It occurs to me Karen probably knows I’m back from the crashing symbols of Tchaikovsky’s Symphony No. 4.

  It also occurs to me that my hearing seems more acute than prior to the surgery. Hooray!

  The door opened and since it’s still early, I assume it’s Gina coming to welcome me back. But even though the shoes are soft-soled, the footsteps are too heavy for Gina. Teddy, maybe?

  “Hi, Coma Girl.”

  It’s my poet volunteer with the satiny voice.

  “New bandages? Did they cut you open again? Hm… I didn’t hear anything about that on the news.”

  Meaning he wishes he’d had the scoop on my surgery, so he could’ve leaked it himself?

  “Still just the two of you, huh? I guess that’s good. This isn’t really a place anyone aspires to be, is it?”

  The chair creaked, indicating he’d settled himself.

  “I found this poem the other day and marked it because it made me think of what you two ladies must be going through. It’s Dickinson again, this one is called ‘Escape.’”

  The swish of pages sounded as he found his place.

  “I never hear the word ‘escape,’ without a quicker blood, a sudden expectation, a flying attitude. I never hear of prisons broad, by soldiers battered down, but I tug childish at my bars, only to fail again.”

  He closed the book with a soft thwack.

  “Is that how you feel, Coma Girl?”

  You nailed it. Or rather—Dickinson did.

  The chair creaked and I heard him creep closer to my bed, so close I could smell the minty aroma of something clean—the soap he used? Chloroform?

  After the episode with Sidney, I’m a little paranoid, and at this point, I hope the only thing he has in mind is snapping a picture for the tabloids. So when I hear the faint click, click of his phone camera, I actually relax.

  It was only after he stealthily opened and closed the door to make his exit that a realization hit me—my sense of smell has returned. Hooray!

  November 6, Sunday

  WHEN THE DOOR OPENED, I was hoping to hear the sound of Jack Terry’s boots on the floor. Instead it was the clackety-clack of ADA Spence. She was talking on the phone.

  “Dad, I’ll try to make it home for Thanksgiving, but I can’t make any promises.”

  Her voice was low and patient, but from her quick body movements, it was clear she was stressed.

  “I know. I miss her, too,” she murmured. “I want to visit, it’s just that right now my workload is overwhelming. Maybe we’d better shoot for Christmas instead.”

  I wondered if I’d be home for the holidays. Or alive.

  “Don’t get upset, Dad, please. I’ll see what I can do, okay? I’ll call you in a couple of days. Okay, bye.”

  She expelled a heavy sigh just as the door opened again to admit booted feet.

  “Hello, Detective Terry,” she said.

  “ADA Spence,” he said, and I imagined him giving her a courtesy nod.

  “Nice flowers. Black-eyed Susans?”

  “Uh, yeah. These are for Marigold, but I see a lot of other people had the same idea—only nicer.”

  Since word had leaked that I’d had another surgery (thanks to my duplicitous poet, no doubt), more flowers had poured in. From my bed, I could smell the pungent scents of fall flowers, with herbs thrown in for greenery, I suppose—mums and sage and rosemary.

  “Did you pick these?”

  “They grow wild around my… place.”

  A new earthy scent reached me—the wildflowers smelled like freshly-cut hay.

  “Well, isn’t Liz Fischer the lucky one?”

  “Um, thanks. What’s the latest on Marigold’s case?”

  She made a regretful noise, as if she didn’t want to talk business, then dragged the chair away from my bed (and closer to Jack?) and from the sound of it, dropped into the seat.

  “Last week I met with Keith Young’s defense team and told them not only can Marigold communicate, but she already testified from her bed about the accident through a taped interview. I told them a pregnant coma patient reaching out from beyond along with the sister’s testimony that Young smelled like alcohol at the scene will probably be enough to convict him, even if he didn’t blow over the legal limit.”

  “That was a pretty bold lie.”

  “Bolstered by a DVD I placed in a clear, locked storage case on the table between us.”

  “Which did not contain an interview with Marigold.”

  “No, it was a recording of my niece’s ballet recital, but they didn’t know that. I told them if he pleads guilty to reckless driving and vehicular assault, we won’t go to trial.”

  “What was their response?”

  “They’re going to talk to their client. They called today and asked for sixty days to decide.”

  “Long enough for Young to finish the football season.”

  “Right. I gave them until the end of this month, but told them if Marigold’s condition changes, the deal could be withdrawn.”

  Meaning, if I croak before Turkey Day.

  “I assume you’re keeping the Kemps in the loop?”

  “As much as they want to be. They’re… ”

  “Disconnected?”

  “Yes. Family cuts both ways, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she said slyly, alluding to Jack’s baby on the way. “Anything new on your end of the investigation?”

  “No. But I might be getting close on a couple of things.”

  “Something you want to share?”

  “Not really—just following up on a couple of hunches.”

  The chair creaked and it sounded as if she was gathering her things. “Okay, keep me posted.”

  “I will.”

  “And say hi to Liz for me,” she added lightly.

  He didn’t respond, and she was gone in a clatter.

  Jack grunted, as if he was glad the encounter was over. He made his way back to my bed.

  “Hi, Marigold—it’s Jack Terry. I hear you did good in surgery.” He sounded pleased. “I knew you weren’t ready to give up.”

  The sound of ripping paper reached me, and the room filled with delicious smells.

  “I brought barbecue.”

  November 7, Monday

  “YOO-HOO, sweetheart, it’s Winnie. And I brought Faridee with me. She’s been busy because everyone wants her to tell them who will win the presidential election tomorrow!”

  Oh, right. Tomorrow is Election Day. I’m into politics, but I have to confess, this is one race I haven’t minded missing. Come on, friend, aren’t you a little envious I’ve been in a coma all this time and you had to endure campaign season?


  “But I’ve haven’t disclosed the name of the winner,” Faridee sang. “It would be unethical to say something that could change the outcome of history.”

  A convenient cover line for psychic hacks.

  “And Marigold,” Faridee said, suddenly sober, “I’m so glad when we were here last time, the whiff of death I sensed wasn’t you.”

  Yes, Faridee had freaked out a little and dragged Winnie out of here, leaving me to wonder if I was reeking of decomposition. Instead, the next morning, the nurses had found poor Jill dead in her bed. I think after Jill heard Audrey Parks deliver her grim prognosis if she lived, Jill had simply given up.

  So Faridee had called that one. And I do have to give the woman props for snagging the sock-in-my-brain thing out of thin air—I mean, that can’t be a coincidence. If her skills are growing sharper, maybe I’ll try to send her a for-real message to relay.

  But what, and to whom?

  I have so many secrets to share, I’m fairly bursting.

  “Your mom told me the surgery went beautifully,” Winnie said. “You’ll be awake soon, won’t she, Faridee?”

  “Why don’t we let Marigold tell us?” Faridee said, seizing the opening for her act to begin.

  “Shall I try to connect with her this time, too?”

  “You can try. If you don’t reach her this time, Winnie, you will definitely need to take another one of my classes.”

  Oh, brother.

  “To help you make contact, I brought one of my special Thoughtwave Candles.”

  Winnie, you can’t fall for that. She bought it at Bed, Bath & Beyond.

  “That’s nice of you, Faridee.”

  “Only twenty-nine ninety-five.”

  “I’ll settle up with you later.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. While I light the candle, close your eyes, Winnie, and rub the amulet.”

  “I noticed this morning the amulet chain is turning my neck green.”

  “That means it’s beginning to work.”

  “Oh, wonderful!”

  Mental eye-roll.

  “Rub it, Winnie, rub it hard.”

  “I’m rubbing, I’m rubbing.”

  The scent of burning wax reached me. This is starting to sound and smell pornographic.

  “Envision a path,” Faridee said. “A path to Marigold. Walk the path, Winnie.”

  “I’m walking, I’m walking.”

  “Walk toward us, Marigold.”

  Okay, so I’m doing my part, envisioning a path and at the end of it, two rotund women in colorful caftans. One woman is intensely rubbing her fake amulet while the other woman is stealing her purse.

  “Do you see Marigold, Winnie?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Yes. I see her at the end of the path. She’s waving. Hello, Marigold!”

  Howdy or whatever. I decide it’s time to bear down and try to send a message to Faridee. Tell Jack Sidney tried to kill me. She was driving the car. I can hear what everyone is saying. Help me.

  “She’s speaking,” Faridee said. “Do you hear her?”

  “No,” Winnie whispered. “What is she saying?”

  “She says to tell Sidney… no, tell Jack… Sidney is driving… her crazy.”

  “Well, that’s no surprise,” Winnie said, deadpan. “Sidney drives me crazy, too.”

  No! No! No!

  “Do you smell something burning?” Winnie asked.

  “Ack! My dress is on fire!”

  Much flapping ensued. But not enough to keep the smoke alarm from sounding. Did I mention my hearing is more acute? Ouch.

  The door flew open.

  “What’s going on in here?” Teddy shouted. “No candles in the hospital, ladies—out!”

  He ushered them out under protest, then returned with a fan, muttering under his breath. The smoke alarm fell silent, but I was despondent.

  My visitors had been bounced and once again, Faridee had gotten just enough of my message to make a bigger mess of things.

  November 8, Tuesday

  “COMA GIRL, you should be glad you’re missing this freak show of an election.”

  Apparently, Roberta is relieving the stress of voting day with a half dozen pumpkin spice crullers.

  “I mean, I took my lunch hour to go to the polls, and by the time I was through, I was so traumatized, I called my boss and said I’m taking a mental health day.”

  The crullers smell divine, down to the sugary glaze.

  “People cutting line and pushing and calling each other names. And that’s just in the parking lot. Inside my poll, it was like a rioting prison. And I vote in a church.” She sighed. “People have lost their dang minds.”

  She hummed her way through another cruller while I snorted the aromas she unleashed when she tore off little pieces and fed them to herself. (I’ve seen how Roberta eats.)

  “Girl, you’re slobbering all over yourself,” she said. “Let me wipe your mouth.”

  Hm, were the appetizing smells making my mouth water? That has to be a good sign. On the other hand, I’m turning into a drooling vegetable.

  “There, that’s better.”

  She downed another cruller before licking her fingers with some mm-mmm, good moans.

  “Okay, so I’m pissed off at myself for leaving the only clue I have to your baby-daddy, that daggone San Antonio Spurs hat, the last time I was here. And no one here knows what happened to it. I’ll tell you what happened to it—someone stole it, that’s what. Someone with a big old head or a big old head of hair. It’s my newest case, the Who Stole the Damn Hat Case.”

  Hm. Maybe I should’ve told Faridee the orderly Gabriel had stolen the hat right off my bed rail. But who knows how that message would’ve gotten garbled.

  “I didn’t know you were going to have another surgery,” she said. “Since I gave your living will to Sidney, the least she could do was let me know you were going back under the knife. And to expect another flood of cards from all your nutty fans. I had to let the super cop a feel this time because he was so riled up over the bag of mail.” She laughed. “It wasn’t too bad, kind of reminded me of sixth grade.”

  When I was in sixth grade, I was still watching cartoons.

  “Anyway, let me read you some of the sweeter ones.” She dutifully described, opened, and read to me almost fifty cards that had arrived from all corners of the earth. “This one is from Pakistan. Now how did someone in Pakistan get your mailing address? And how did they know how many stamps to use? I don’t even know how many stamps to use on something that’s going across town, much less to Pakistan.”

  I missed Roberta, missed eating with her and laughing with her. She had her faults, but she was eminently good-natured and likable, and made life tolerable.

  “So besides the election, you know what else is happening this month, right?”

  Duncan is getting married.

  “Duncan is getting married.” She sighed. “On the Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. His fiancé came in again to check on the cakes for like the tenth time and she brought me an invitation to the wedding.”

  She shifted in the chair.

  “So should I go?”

  Of course you should go.

  “I don’t think I should go.”

  Of course you should go.

  “On the other hand, you’re carrying someone else’s baby, so I’m thinking you’re over Duncan, and maybe I should go.”

  Yes, go.

  “I mean, they have been good customers of the bakery.”

  Go.

  “And it would be a chance to wear the turquoise mohair cape.”

  Wait a minute—the turquoise mohair cape is mine. It’s vintage. And mine.

  “So maybe I’ll go.”

  Go, Roberta, go! I’ll be here, aching inside.

  November 9, Wednesday

  “GOOD MORNING, Marigold. It’s Dr. Jarvis. I came by to see how you’re doing and to check your responses. Gina’s coming in soon
to help me.”

  He came to stand by my bed and I could almost feel him studying me.

  “Marigold, I know you’re in there,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  The door opened and he stepped back.

  “Are you ready for me, Dr. Jarvis?” Gina asked.

  “Um, yes,” he said. “Dr. Tyson will be conducting an MRI on Ms. Kemp later this week, and other tests to see how the wound is healing inside. I believe an ultrasound has been scheduled as well, to check on the baby’s progress. Today I want to change the head bandage and see how Marigold scores on the Glasgow Index.”

  “I’ll get the charts and the supplies.”

  When she left, he checked the iPod hanging on my bedrail. “How about some new music?” he asked.

  Yes! Christina Perri, Jake Bugg, Bad Seed Rising—

  “I just downloaded a playlist of over one hundred songs.”

  American Top 40? The best of Motown? Disco?

  “The best of Russian classical music, distinctive for its tonal bell-ringing.”

  Gee, thanks.

  “While you’re listening to it, Marigold, I want you to count the bells. Got it? Count the bells.”

  Okay, but only because I don’t have anything else to do.

  Gina returned with the supplies. Dr. Jarvis began the Glasgow Index test by asking me to open my eyes.

  I couldn’t.

  “Gina, to your knowledge, has Ms. Kemp ever spontaneously opened her eyes?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, I’m going to check her eye response to pain stimulus. Can you watch her eyes while I press on her fingernails?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Wayne.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My first name is Wayne.”

  “Oh… it doesn’t seem right to call you by your first name.”

  “I call you by your first name.”

  “Well… okay, maybe when it’s just… us.”

  “Good. Okay, I’m squeezing the nailbed. Any blinking, twitching of the eyes?”

  “No, Dr.—er, no, Wayne.”

  “Okay, so she scores a one under the eye section.”

  I heard the click of a penlight. “Please note the pupils are fixed. Let’s move on to verbal responses. Have you ever heard Ms. Kemp made any verbal noises—grunts, moans, anything?”

  “No, none.”

  “Alright. Marigold, this is Dr. Jarvis. Can you make a noise for me? Any noise will do. Can you groan?”