I can’t.
“How about speaking? Can you say the word ‘baby’?”
I wish.
“Think about making the B sound, Marigold. Buh… buh. You can do it with your mouth closed, just push air through your lips. Try it. Buh… buh.”
I try, but I can’t. Would they know if my vocal chords had been damaged in the accident?
“Gina, will you bend down to her mouth and listen while I apply pain stimulus. Tell me if you hear her make any noise at all. There—anything?”
“No.”
“How about now?”
“No, Wayne, nothing.”
“Okay, so she scores a one on the verbal section. One section left, Marigold, but the good news is motor response has been your strong suit.”
I ready myself.
“Patient previously respond to generalized pain stimulus, so let’s try that first. Anything?”
“No,” Gina said.
“And she doesn’t withdraw from pain stimulus to nailbeds. Okay, let’s see how she responds to commands. Take her hands, please.”
“Marigold, I need for you to move the fingers on your right hand, can you do that? Can you tell your brain to move your fingers, Marigold?”
I drew the little diagram in my head, where my brain tells my arm to tell my hand to tell my fingers to move.
“Nothing,” Gina said.
“How about your left hand, Marigold?”
Again, I try. Again, nothing.
He asked three more times, then moved to my toes. After several rounds of commands, none of which I responded to, he heaved a frustrated sigh. “That’s a one on the motor response section, for a total score of three.
In other words, I was just above a pumpkin.
“I’m sorry, Wayne,” Gina said.
“So am I,” he said. “But she’s only a week post op, and we’ll know more about the swelling in her brain after Dr. Tyson conducts more thorough tests.” He tried to sound cheerful, but was failing.
He was quiet as he and Gina changed the bandage. I imagined a black scar in my shaved, bristly head. “Looks normal,” he said finally. “Let’s apply antibacterial cream and rewrap.”
They finished and Gina left the room to discard supplies. Before he left, Dr. Jarvis turned the Russian music up a notch.
“Count the bells, Marigold.”
I’d been so sure I was getting better, the disappointment is keen. To keep the desperation at bay, I begin to count.
One… two… three, four… five…
November 10, Thursday
TWO THOUSAND THIRTEEN, two thousand fourteen… two thousand fifteen…
The door opened and from the banging and the bumping, I know it’s bath day.
“I heard Marigold didn’t do so well on the Glasgow test yesterday,” Teddy said.
“A three,” Gina said on a sigh. “Wayne was so disappointed.”
“Who’s Wayne?”
“I mean—Dr. Jarvis was so disappointed.”
“Since when are you and Dr. Jarvis on a first-name basis?”
“We’re not,” she said in a rush. “I slipped. Can you hand me the white sponge, please?”
“Here you go, Mrs. Jarvis.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
She laughed. “Stop. The soap, please?”
“Oh, come on, I can dream for you, can’t I?”
“I have a boyfriend, remember?”
“Is that what you’re calling Gabriel now?”
“I suppose,” she said lightly. “We have a date tonight.”
Ugh—I don’t like Gabriel a little bit.
“It’s got to be close to your no-nookie-for-ninety-days mark.”
“Yes, today, in fact. We were both looking forward to our date, I think.”
“Were?”
She sighed. “This morning Nature came calling.”
“Jesus, Gina, you’re a nurse, you can say you got your period.”
“Since you said it, I don’t have to.”
“Hey, it’s a new generation. Some guys are okay with period sex.”
“Well, I’m not. And what could it hurt to push things off a few more days?”
“How do you think Gabriel will react?”
“I guess I’ll see.”
Whew, a reprieve.
“I say end things now before you go there. If Dr. Jarvis is interested, you’d be crazy to go with Gabriel over him.”
“Because he’s an orderly?”
“Yeah. And…”
“And what?”
“And he has a reputation.”
“I know what people say,” Gina said. “But Gabriel has been a complete gentleman.”
“Okay, I’ll say no more.”
“Powder, please?”
“Oh, look, the baby is moving.”
My heart squeezed. It is?
“How sad she’s not awake to enjoy her pregnancy.”
At the moment, pregnancy is an abstract concept. Because I can’t feel my baby or see my body changing, I’m disconnected from the process.
“Wonder who the father is?” Ted asked.
“I don’t know. And I don’t think her family knows either.”
“So somewhere out there a guy is walking around without a clue he’s about to be a father.”
“Maybe it was a one-night stand, or a sperm donor,” Gina offered.
“Why do you say that?”
“If they were close, he’d know she’s in here, and he’d know about the baby, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Since he hasn’t come around, it stands to reason the father is someone who doesn’t care about Marigold.”
Teddy sighed. “Except for the kooky aunt who almost set her room on fire and her roommate with the donuts, it doesn’t seem as if Marigold has anyone who really cares about her.”
Two thousand sixteen… two thousand seventeen… two thousand eighteen…
November 11, Friday
THREE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED FOUR, three thousand six hundred five—
The knock that sounded was so timid, I thought I might have misheard. But a few seconds later, the door opened.
I don’t recognize the shoes (dress) or the gait (tentative), but I recognize the perfume from 2008: Deseo by Jennifer Lopez. If my college buddy Joanna had been wearing it on previous visits, it must’ve been overpowered by the stink of rum.
“Hi, Marigold.” She stepped closer. “It’s me, Joanna, and don’t worry, I’m not loaded.”
That’s a relief.
Her footsteps sounded and I realize she’d walked over to the window. “You have a nice view. I can’t believe how much Atlanta has changed since I left. It’s absolutely cosmopolitan compared to Allentown.” She made a noise that sounded like homesickness. “It’s such a pretty day. The leaves are changing in earnest now—all coppery and yellow.”
I appreciate her description. Fall is my favorite time of the year. I’m one of those solid girls who is happy when shorts and tank tops give way to corduroys and sweaters.
“Fall makes you recognize how quickly life can change,” she murmured.
She turned back toward my bed and settled into the chair quietly. I sensed something about her had changed since her previous visit.
“I’ve been a terrible friend, Marigold. Coming here and purging myself while you’re lying there, probably confused and terrified about what’s happening to you. I’ve been so wrapped up in my melodrama, I haven’t even considered how much pain you might be in.” She sighed. “If you can hear me, then I’m ashamed. And if you can’t, then I’m heartbroken. Because you don’t deserve this.”
That’s kind of Joanna to say, but I’m starting to realize that merit doesn’t always matter in the randomness of life. Despite all the evil in the world, good things happen. And despite all best intentions, bad things happen. Although Sidney had been driving when our accident occurred, who’s to say it wouldn’t have been the same outcome if I
’d been driving instead?
“I had an epiphany last night,” Joanna said. “I realized I could’ve easily been the person driving drunk who put you in that bed. I’ve been so, so lucky I haven’t hurt someone else or my kids.” Her voice broke. “The twins are beautiful, Marigold, and they deserve a better mother.” She sniffed. “Most of my misery is of my own making, and drinking has only led to more bad decisions, so I’m going to stop. I have a bag packed in the car. I’m on my way to a rehab center where I hope to start putting my life back together. I’m sorry I won’t be here for you, but I’ll be thinking of you every day.”
From the scuff of the chair legs, I know she’s standing.
“I’ve been so out of touch, I don’t even know who the father of your baby is. Whoever he is, I hope he’s a great guy, and I hope you’re as crazy about him as you were that guy—oh, what was his name?”
Duncan.
“Well, anyway, bye for now. I hope you wake up soon, Marigold.”
Three thousand six hundred six… three thousand six hundred seven…
November 12, Saturday
FIVE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN… Five thousand eight hundred thirty-eight—
“Dr. Jarvis, will you please turn down the volume of that so-called music?”
“Yes, Dr. Tyson.”
The bells were silenced so quickly, I would’ve blinked if I could’ve.
“Standby for Dr. Oscar.”
A couple of beeps sounded.
“Hello, Dr. Tyson, Dr. Jarvis. How’s our patient?”
“Ms. Kemp is recovering well from the surgery, sir,” Dr. Tyson said, “but her condition is unchanged. Did you receive the MRI and CT scans?”
“Yes, I’ve reviewed them. From what I can see, the surgery couldn’t have been more successful. Well done, Dr. Tyson. You too, Jarvis.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jarvis said. “But we expected her responses to have improved by now.”
“What’s Ms. Kemp’s Glasgow score?”
“Three,” Jarvis said.
Dr. Oscar grunted. “How’s her BP?”
“Perfect,” Tyson said.
“Temperature?”
“Normal.”
“White blood cell count elevated?”
“No.”
“So no infection. And the fetus?”
“Twenty-four and a half weeks. An ultrasound this morning showed all is normal.”
Far and away the best news of the day, in my opinion.
“So the fetus is viable.”
“Barely,” Tyson offered. “Survival rate at this stage is sixty percent. Another two and a half weeks will get us to ninety percent.”
“Then that should be the short-term goal.”
The blunt observation rendered my doctors silent: Keep me alive for two and half more weeks for my baby’s sake.
For the record, I totally agree. But it still sucks.
“From my point of view,” Dr. Oscar added, “you’ve done all you can do for Ms. Kemp. Keep her well-nourished and let her continue to heal. Maybe she will defy the odds.”
“So just wait and see?” Dr. Jarvis didn’t bother to hide his frustration.
“Yes,” Dr. Oscar said. “Sometimes the best course of action is no action.”
“Excuse me,” Dr. Jarvis said, then his footsteps retreated to the door, which opened and closed with punctuated force.
“You’ll have to forgive Dr. Jarvis,” Dr. Tyson said. “He’s become attached to the patient.”
“I understand,” Dr. Oscar said. “And it’s refreshing.”
“Thank you for your input, sir. We’ll keep you posted.”
“Please do. Signing off.”
A beep sounded, then Dr. Tyson exhaled and began to gather up equipment. When her phone rang, she answered it with a brusque, “Yes?” After a pause she said, “Excuse me? Who is this?” She made a sound of disgust. “Don’t ever call this number again.”
After she ended the call, more tapping sounded.
“It’s me,” she said, her voice low. “Tell me you didn’t take out a sleazy ad and list our home phone number? Have you lost your mind? I’m expecting a call on the landline, so I forwarded it to my cell. Imagine my surprise when someone named Champagne called.”
Sounds as if her husband had moved full-steam ahead with his plan to have an open marriage. Poor Dr. Tyson—she must be mortified.
“I don’t care. Fix it—now. And this evening, you and I are going to talk about the future.”
She ended the call and stifled a sob. I feel like an eavesdropper.
Dr. Tyson sniffed mightily, then finished gathering her things. Before she left, she turned up the volume on the iPod.
And since I’m endeavoring not to think about Dr. Oscar’s short-term outlook…
Five thousand eight hundred thirty-nine… five thousand eight hundred forty…
November 13, Sunday
“HI, MARIGOLD, it’s Jack—”
“Hello, Detective Terry,” Aunt Winnie said.
“Hello,” he said warily.
Rightfully so, because the last time he saw her, she accused him of being the father of my baby.
“I come in peace,” she said with a chuckle.
“If I’m interrupting family time, I can leave,” he offered.
“Actually, I have a message for you.”
“A message? Who is it from?”
“Um, it’s from Marigold.”
He made a strangled sound. “Not the psychic thing again.”
“Just hear me out, Detective. It’s a simple message and it doesn’t make much sense to me, but it might to you.”
I heard him sigh and rearrange his body. “I’m listening.” I envision him with arms crossed defiantly.
“I wrote it down,” Winnie said, then stepped toward him.
The crinkle of paper sounded.
“‘Tell Jack Sidney is driving me crazy.’” He grunted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Other than the obvious, I don’t know,” Winnie said. “Sidney gets on my nerves, too.”
I heard the sound of the piece of paper being stuffed somewhere—hopefully not in Winnie’s mouth.
“I’ll hang on to it,” he said in a mollifying voice.
“Then my job here is done,” Winnie said. “I’ll leave you to… do whatever it is you do when you visit Marigold. Toodle-loo.”
The door opened and closed.
Jack chuckled. “Interesting gal, your aunt.”
Winnie means well. And Faridee almost got the message right.
“Funny she should bring up Sidney. Your sister sure spends a lot of money for someone who doesn’t have a job.”
Jack is tracking Sidney’s spending habits? That’s curious. But I’d heard her tell David she’d put diamond earrings on her credit card. Sid probably reasoned she’d be making a lot of money when she graduated law school, and could afford to go into debt now.
“The Falcons are playing today,” Jack said mildly. “They’re having a great season, thanks to Keith Young. Since he recovered from that beating, he’s been playing better than ever.”
The beating David Spooner, aka Dean Bradley, had something to do with.
“His image will take a big hit if he pleads guilty to the charges ADA Spence put in front of him. He has a lot to lose.”
Although if Keith Young doesn’t sign the papers and I check out, he’ll be on the hook for much more serious charges… unless Sidney comes forward.
But if I’m gone, why would she?
And it hurts my feelings a little that Jack thinks I want to listen to the football game knowing how my life is entangled with Keith Young’s.
“Which is why I thought with the announcement of the new MSL franchise of Atlanta United, now might be a good time to learn the rules of soccer.” Jack groaned. “I can take it if you can, Coma Girl.”
Inside I’m smiling.
November 14, Monday
TEN THOUSAND TWO HUNDRED TWENTY-ONE�
�� Ten thousand two hundred twenty-two—
The door opened. “Peace be with you, ladies.”
Oh, no. No, no, no. What I do not need today is a visit from Sister Irene, the sadist nun.
“It’s rainy and cold,” she sang. “A great day to be cooped up inside.”
In a cage, perhaps? That’s probably where she had stowed her sister’s killer, George Gilpin, whom she’d lured to her gingerbread house with the promise of easy handyman work. Or had she already skinned him and made slippers out of this hide?
“Hello, Marigold. I heard you had another surgery. I’ve been praying for you.”
Thanks, Sister. Beggars cannot be choosers.
“What happened to your rosary?”
I’m pretty sure my sister used it to almost smother me. The two of you should meet for tea sometime and compare M.O.’s.
“I thought you might like an update on my houseguest.”
Nope. Nada. Nein.
“Mr. Gilpin was recuperating nicely from his previous injuries, but he attempted to leave the bed too soon and I had to give him a shot.”
Let me guess—with a nail gun?
“Just a little something to make him sleep.”
Weed killer?
“And now he’s back on the mend.”
So you can dissect him again?
“I have to admit, I’m getting used to having companionship.”
That will come in handy when you share a cell at San Quentin.
Sister Irene laughed. “He still doesn’t know who I am. I told him my name is Ginger. It’s my real name, you know. When I took my vows, I was given a more appropriate name to live by. So it only makes sense that I’d revert to Ginger for this task.”
Is that how she’s able to compartmentalize her actions, the praying and the slaying? Maybe she has a split personality.
Then she made a pensive noise. “Although, this undertaking has sorely cut into my time for visiting the sick, and for that I apologize, Marigold. As soon as I take care of Mr. Gilpin, I’ll come around more often.”
And with that cheery thought…
Ten thousand two hundred twenty-three… Ten thousand two hundred twenty-four…
November 15, Tuesday
TWELVE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED ELEVEN… Twelve thousand seven hundred twelve—
The door burst open.
“All I’m saying is you could’ve parked closer to the elevator,” my dad said, thumping inside on his crutches.
Coma Girl: Part 5 (Kindle Single) Page 3