“What names?”
“I wrote them down. Gary Fortune… Cameron Kitt… Dean Bradley.”
I perked up. Dean Bradley, aka David Spooner?
“I don’t recognize them either,” Dad said. “Are they suspects?”
“The detective wouldn’t say. And I don’t care as long as they can’t be connected to the Kemps.”
Uh-oh.
“Dad, if it turns out we can’t sue Keith Young for damages, how will Marigold’s medical bills be paid?”
“Thank goodness Sid has that covered. She and that Spooner guy hooked up with a company to fulfill all the T-shirts and mugs and whatever, and all the profit goes straight to the foundation they set up in Marigold’s name. Then the foundation pays the medical bills.”
“So the foundation is doing well?”
“Oh, yeah. The last time Sid showed me a statement, it had almost a half million dollars in it.”
My mind went to the phone call David Spooner had made. But for how long would the account have a half million dollars in it?
“Oh, Dad, by the way, I went back over the letters Marigold wrote to me to see if she mentioned any one guy in particular.”
“And?”
“There was the guy in the Peace Corps she mentioned a couple of times, but she said they were just friends.”
“Did she mention a name?”
“Yeah. His name is Duncan.”
October 16, Sunday
I WAS BARELY AWAKE when Detective Terry walked into my room. He’s wearing new boots, I register vaguely. For a few seconds, I thought I’d slept later than normal because of the mental tossing and turning all night. But then I realized church bells are still ringing around the city. I’m not late—he’s early. By several hours.
“Good morning, Marigold. It’s Jack Terry. I can’t stay long, I’m on my way to Vegas.”
Vegas? Jack doesn’t strike me as a Vegas guy, but maybe he’s a gambler. Or maybe he’s getting married!
“I have a murder case out there.”
Even better!
Hm. Out of his jurisdiction—normally. But from watching Forensics Files, I know that means either the victim is from Atlanta, or the perp, or the murder is related to a crime committed in Atlanta.
This is so exciting! Maybe it’s a real live serial killer.
“My girl—I mean, my friend Carlotta is in trouble.”
Carlotta again. Well, well, well. She’s from here, so I’m guessing she went to Vegas on vacation. But how does someone go on vacation and wind up involved in a murder?
I’ve obviously been playing it way too safe in life.
“It’s complicated,” Jack said, then added, “As always, where Carlotta is concerned,” almost to himself. “I just wanted to let you know I might be out of pocket for a while. But ADA Spence knows where I’ll be if something happens on your case.”
You mean, like finding out my sister was behind the wheel instead of me?
Or if I can connect David Spooner to the Dean Bradley you’re looking for in the assault on Keith Young?
Or if I suspect David Spooner is siphoning funds away from the foundation?
“I’ll drop in when I get back,” he said. “Stay out of trouble.”
I’m already in trouble, Detective. About four months. And so are you, remember?
And if you’re going to Vega to rescue a girl you can’t stop talking about, while another woman is having your baby, well, then you’re in something else altogether.
October 17, Monday
“GOOD MORNING, MARIGOLD. It’s Dr. Jarvis.”
While I have nothing but gratitude toward Dr. Jarvis, I’m also wary—and a little angry. I haven’t forgotten about Audrey’s outburst and I’m worried about what she was trying to tell me. Have all of my limbs been amputated and the reason I can’t feel anything is because there’s nothing to feel?
Am I some kind of medical experiment? Has my brain been placed in a robot and still trying to assimilate with my man-made body?
Okay, so deep down I know these conditions are impossible, but when left to wander, my mind tends to spin fantastic catastrophes.
“Today, I brought in a friend. Say hello, Tag.”
A cheerful bark sounded.
A dog in the hospital? Instantly my mood lifted.
“Tag is a Jack Russell Terrier, a certified therapy animal, and he’s been trained to diagnose certain diseases. But today I think he just wants to lick your face. I hope that’s okay, Marigold?”
I probably can’t feel it, but knowing he’s doing it will make me feel good.
“Okay, Tag is resting on your chest. I’m going to let you two get acquainted while I check your vital signs.”
Tag barked a couple of times, as if he was trying to get me to respond.
Dr. Jarvis laughed. “He likes you. Can you feel him licking your face, Marigold?”
No… but something… is… happening. I heard myself sneeze.
“Excellent,” Jarvis said. “Go, Tag!”
The dog yapped happily, and I heard myself sneeze again.
“Very good,” Jarvis said. “And wow, I’m literally watching your blood pressure go down a couple of points.”
A pungent odor suddenly assailed me—the unmistakable scent of DOG. My sense of smell was back!
“Okay, Tag, that’s enough, boy. I’m setting Tag back on the floor, Marigold. He’ll visit another time. I’ll be back later, too.”
The door opened and closed and I was peaceful for a while, breathing in and enjoying the faint odors in the room—food, cleaning supplies, cologne… it was all heavenly.
But then as quickly as it came, it went away again, like the tide going out. And I started to feel blue again. Why couldn’t I seem to gain ground? What was it Dad had said? I had plateaued—no worse, no better.
Flatlining. And as far as I’m concerned, not getting better means I’m getting worse.
October 18, Tuesday
TODAY EVERY TIME the door opens, my hopes buoy. But when instead of hearing the voice of my mom or dad or Winnie, or even Roberta, I hear the shuffle and quick rapport of nurses, orderlies, and other staff, my heart squeezes again.
It’s my birthday, and as the day I turn twenty-nine slides away, it becomes clear no one remembers.
Granted, it’s also Tuesday and non-comatose people are busy. I’m sure my dad is on the road. My mom spends Tuesdays visiting new listings of other agents to scope out the best properties early in the week. I remember that Sid goes to the courthouse on Tuesdays, to observe trials. On the other side of the world, Alex is probably saving a village.
So I’m a Libra, which means I’m gracious (a pushover), diplomatic (a pleaser), and cooperative (malleable). I’m also indecisive, I avoid confrontation, and I’m prone to self-pity.
Not a bestselling singles profile.
And apparently, my biggest dilemma is when I have to choose sides because I choose all sides. Everyone in my household picked up on that fickle trait early on because I can’t count the times I felt as if I was being drawn and quartered by the other four people in the house who demanded I come over to their side and support their cause. While I ran around trying to please everyone, I pleased no one, and at the end of the day, the one thing they all seemed to have in common was a resentment toward me; as a result, I would often find myself standing alone while the four of them walked off, arm in arm.
Don’t get me wrong— our home wasn’t a constant state of warfare. Not overtly. But grudges were quick to cut and long to heal. And I felt as if I was always being punished for some unwitting transgression.
So being a Libra, I’m lying here feeling bad for expecting people to remember it’s my birthday and at the same time, indulging in a little pity-party. The argument could be made that it’s been my day every day since the accident.
Still, as visiting hours draw to a close, I’m secretly hoping my family is huddled out in the hallway with noisemakers and confetti to surprise me.
&nbs
p; The door opens, and I hope my breath.
“It’s just me, Marigold,” Gina says. “Dr. Jarvis asked me to take your blood pressure every two hours.
I fight disappointment, but honestly, why would anyone make a fuss? No one knows I know it’s my birthday. It’s like any other coma day.
“Okay,” Gina said. “Your blood pressure is on the high side of normal, but that’s common for expectant woman, especially when you’re not getting any exercise.”
I heard the scrape of her removing the chart at the foot of the bed to record the reading.
“Oh, my goodness, Marigold, I see on your chart that today is your birthday.”
She returned the chart, then left the room. A few minutes later, she was back. “I’m tying a Happy Birthday balloon to your bed. Happy Birthday, Coma Girl.”
Inside I’m smiling, if a teensy bit sad that I’m so forgettable. I mean, how does my Mom not remember the day she gave birth to me?
The door opened and I wondered if she or Dad had remembered at the last minute.
“Hello, lady.”
It’s my young friend Christina with the sick mother.
“Is it your birthday? It must be, you have a pretty balloon. Did you have cake and ice cream?” She sighed. “I love ice cream.”
I remember.
She cleared her throat, then began singing in a sweet, pure voice. “Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you… happy birthday, dear la-dee! Happy birthday to you.”
She clapped for herself and for me. I’ve never been so touched by any gesture my whole stinking life. She’s such a giving little thing.
“If you had a cake, this is when we’d blow out the candles and cut a big piece to eat. With ice cream.”
“Christina!” boomed her father’s voice from the hall.
“Don’t forgets to do the magic for my sick mama,” she said in a rush. “Happy birthday!” Then she scampered out of the room.
How can I possibly feel sorry for myself after that?
October 19, Wednesday
“HELLO, DEAR, it’s Winnie, and I brought Faridee with me.”
“Hello, M-Marigold.”
Faridee sounded tense. I wonder if she’s getting tired of my aunt dragging her all the way from Savannah to Atlanta to see me. I strained to smell the smoky herbs that always clung to Faridee, but alas, my olfactory apparatus still isn’t cooperating.
“I’m sorry I missed your birthday, dear, but your mother is on the warpath with me, and I was afraid I’d run in to her here.”
No chance of that, as it turned out. But I was pleased to know that Winnie remembered.
“I brought you a new scarf in all your colors—aqua, green, and turquoise. Let me tie it around your head. Sweetie, your hair is growing in nicely where they haven’t shaved your head.”
That’s quite a caveat.
“Oh, yes, she looks lovely, doesn’t she, Faridee?”
“Uh-huh.”
The woman’s voice sounded far away.
“Faridee, are you okay?”
Something crashed to the floor—a tray?
“Sorry,” Faridee said. “Winnie, we have to go.”
“Why? We can stay a few more minutes before we get in the car to drive all the way back home.”
“We have to go now!” Faridee’s sandals slapped against the floor as she beat a retreat to the door.
But my aunt must’ve caught up with her before she fled. “What on earth is wrong?”
“Death is in this room,” Faridee whispered. “Say goodbye to Marigold.”
“Wait—is Marigold okay?”
“Say your goodbyes, Winnie. Say your goodbyes.”
The door opened and closed in a whoosh.
Holy crap—what was that all about? Am I dying? Is my baby okay?
“Goodbye, my dear,” Winnie’s voice sounded tremulous. She gave me a boisterous kiss somewhere close to my ear. “Don’t be afraid. Just do whatever you need to do whenever you need to do it.”
And with that bit of potty-training advice, she left.
I feel as if I’ve been sideswiped, until I remember that Faridee’s readings are hit or miss at best.
“Death in this room” could mean an unfortunate fly in the window.
I have nothing to worry about. Probably.
October 20, Thursday
I WAS AWAKE when the morning nurse came in to check charts and get the day’s routine underway.
“Rise and shine,” she said.
It’s Donna, Gabriel’s other girlfriend.
I don’t dislike her, but it’s hard to respect someone you heard climax against a hospital laundry cart.
She went around the room hitting wall switches that set off small hums in the room. Lights for the people who aren’t vegetables. Suddenly she gasped and came up short.
“Shit! Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!”
She sprinted to the door and flung it open.
“Help! Get a doctor!”
Feet stampeded into the room, but it was apparent from the mournful noises and gasps of recoil, they were already too late.
“Oh, she’s been dead for a while.”
“Yeah, probably gave it up right after midnight.”
Who? Who’s dead? Karen? Jill?
Me?
If I’m dead, would I know it?
The noises in the room sounded the same—the bubble of I.V.’s the rackety noise of Jill’s ventilator.
“You just don’t know, do you?” someone said. “One day a vegetable sits up and starts talking, and the next day the vegetable right beside them up and dies.”
Who? Will someone please tell me who’s dead?
“Step aside,” Dr. Tyson said. “Donna and Gina, stay, please. The rest of you, get back to work. Teddy, will you call the morgue and let them know?”
“Sure thing,” he said.
I’m going to die if you don’t tell me who’s dead!
“Time of death, between midnight and three a.m. Gina, will you read the name on the wristband to crosscheck with the patient’s chart?”
“Jill R. Wheatley, date of birth… ”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I’m so giddy with relief I’m not dead, it takes me a few seconds to feel sad for Jill.
A heavy switch was thrown, and Jill’s ventilator stopped.
“What do think happened?” Donna asked.
“Probably her heart,” Dr. Tyson said. “Her body has been so weak for so long, I’m surprised she lived as long as she did. She must’ve just given in.”
Audrey’s hurt words of less than a week ago came back to me.
The doctors say your body is already gone, and you need to just give up your mind, too, and die already.
And Faridee, bless her crooked heart, had actually sensed something real and terrible in the room last night.
Dr. Tyson and the nurses left, gloves snapping and paper scrubs being torn away. A few minutes later, Gabriel and Nico arrived to transport the body to the morgue.
“Ugh, this one’s ripe,” Gabriel said.
At the moment I was very glad my sense of smell was absent.
“Poor lady,” Nico said. “Lying in this bed for years and then just dies, all alone.”
“She wasn’t alone,” Gabriel said as they banged and clanged their way out the door. “The other vegetables were here.”
The door closed on his mean chuckle.
And then there were two.
October 21, Friday
“WELL, IT DANG NEAR scared the poop out of me,” Roberta said. “My reporter friend called at five-freaking-o’clock in the morning, wanted to know if Coma Girl had died.” She made a dismissive noise. “I told him, you had good manners—no way you’d die at such an indecent hour.”
Going forward, I will try to time my demise for a lady-like time of day. If it’s a weekday—ten a.m., when everyone is already out of bed. And for weekends—noon at the earliest.
Roberta sighed. “I gotta tell you, I’m runni
ng out of ideas on how to find the guy who belongs to this San Antonio Spurs hat. And can I just say, it’s an ugly-ass hat.” She made a thoughtful noise. “It’s a large, so I’m trying to think of the guys you know who have a big old head. Or a lot of hair.”
Duncan had neither an enormous head nor a lot of hair. It had been big on him, but he’d worn the hat anyway. I gathered someone must have given it to him for it to mean so much that he’d wear a too-big hat for a franchise he didn’t even follow.
“Well, I’m going to have eat a bear claw and think on it more.”
The chair creaked.
“Meanwhile, I want to talk about something serious. The other day I was in your desk looking for a stamp—”
Uh-huh.
“When I came across this big important looking envelope, and I decided to take a look inside.”
From the rustle of papers, I realized she’d brought it with her.
“It’s your will, and an advance healthcare directive. I assumed your family had a copy, but after that scare this morning, I thought I’d better get in touch with your sister and find out. She said no, she’d never seen it.”
True. I’d had the documents drawn up through a benefit on my job close to a year ago, and I thought I had all the time in the world to tell my family about it. Since I’d made Sidney my healthcare agent, I should’ve at least told her.
Although knowing what I know now about Sid, I’m not sure I’d make the same choice. I wish I could wake up and yank those documents out of Roberta’s hands.
And if I wake up, I won’t need the documents anymore. Win-win.
I zeroed in on Roberta’s voice and tried to move toward it.
“….so that’s what I’m going to do.”
Wait—what is Roberta going to do?
“I’ll come back soon and bring you some more freaky mail from those freaky freaks who want to dress you up like a doll and put you in a giant cradle. Bye, Coma Girl.”
Wait! Come back!
October 22, Saturday
“HI, SWEETHEART, it’s Dad.”
Yeah, Dad… after twenty-nine years, I recognize the voice.
Something pinged against my bedrail.
“Did someone bring you a San Antonio Spurs hat?”
Ah… Roberta must’ve forgotten Duncan’s hat.
“He sighed. “I’ve been out of touch… for a long time. But that’s going to change. I’m going to change.”
Coma Girl: Part 4 (Kindle Single) Page 4