Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  Sidney was the first to recover. “But what great news!” A few digital noises sounded. “And I just posted it to Facebook. Coma Girl’s followers will be thrilled!”

  Dr. Tyson cleared her throat. “Now… as for the fetus. I want to begin by telling you the ultrasound revealed a strong fetal heartbeat, and confirmed it’s fourteen weeks along.”

  “And is the baby okay?” my dad asked.

  “It’s impossible to say for sure, but for this stage, everything seems normal.”

  “Thank God,” he said.

  “So you’ve decided Marigold will carry the baby to full term?”

  “Of course we have,” my dad said.

  “We haven’t decided,” my mom said at the same time.

  Oh, no. More dissention.

  My dad sputtered. “What are you saying?”

  “Marigold is my first priority,” my mother said. “I want to know more about what this pregnancy will do to her.”

  It’s hard to be angry at her for feeling that way. Actually, it’s kind of touching.

  “That matters to me, too,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Why don’t we hear what the doctor has to say,” Sidney suggested.

  “It’s a valid point,” Dr. Tyson conceded. “The fetus will take whatever it needs. Our challenge will be to keep Marigold nourished to the point that there will be enough stores for them both to draw on.”

  “But the baby will tax her body,” my mother said.

  “Yes, the baby will consume resources.”

  My mother made a thoughtful noise. “Won’t that impede her own healing?”

  “It might,” Dr. Tyson agreed. “We were already facing an uncertain situation, and this development complicates things further. I can only assure you that we’ll have the best team possible looking after Marigold and the baby, if the decision is made to continue with the pregnancy.”

  “We want the pregnancy to continue,” my dad said.

  “No,” my mother said, her voice sounding robotic. “We will discuss this and get back to you, Dr. Tyson. If Marigold is showing signs of improving, I don’t want this to be a setback.”

  “There is one other thing to consider,” Dr. Tyson said. “Mr. and Mrs. Kemp, I’m sure you recall the information you passed to me about the experimental drug the physician at Walter Reed has had some good results with.”

  “Yes,” my mother said. “The military research doctor our son reached out to.”

  “Right.”

  “You said the drug wasn’t right for Marigold’s situation,” my father said.

  “There was a… reconsideration. And the window to administer the drug was narrow, so I made a decision to give it to Marigold.”

  Ah, she was covering for Dr. Jarvis.

  “Without consulting us?” my mother demanded.

  “I, um, left a message on your home phone to please call me as soon as possible,” Dr. Tyson said.

  Ooh, good one, Dr. Tyson, to turn their disinterest back on them, even if it was a fabrication.

  “When I didn’t hear back,” she continued in a rush, “I had to made a unilateral decision I thought was in the best interest of my patient. And since you were the ones to bring Dr. Oscar and his experiment to our attention, I assumed you would approve.”

  “When was this?” my father asked.

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “And this is the first we’ve heard of it?” Sidney asked, sounding litigious.

  “There was some miscommunication between me and Dr. Jarvis. I only just became aware that you weren’t informed. My sincere apologies.”

  “So the drug is the reason Marigold moved her fingers?” my father asked.

  “We believe so,” Dr. Tyson said.

  “I knew it would work,” my mother said. “My son Alex is brilliant.”

  “Our son,” my dad corrected.

  Oh, good grief.

  “Yes, well,” Dr. Tyson said, “what I’m trying to say is the drug was administered before we knew about the fetus.”

  “Will it cause problems for the baby?” Sidney asked.

  “We don’t know. The drug hasn’t been tested on a pregnant comatose patient.”

  “But it’s a drug for neural stimulation,” my dad said. “So for all you know, it could be good for the baby.”

  “That’s possible,” Dr. Tyson admitted. “But typically a fetus develops best in an unadulterated environment.”

  “What’s the window for terminating the pregnancy?” my mother asked.

  “Twenty weeks, so there’s still time. You need to prepare yourselves for a range of outcomes regarding both Marigold and the fetus. If you like, I can recommend a therapist who will help you reach a decision that’s best for your family.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” my mother said briskly. “We’ve never needed a therapist to help us make family decisions before, and we’re not going to start now.”

  Right, I thought. Why ruin a winning streak?

  “We’ll get back to you,” my mother said, “as soon as we decide the best course of action. Meanwhile, I want your personal assurance that this information will be kept completely confidential.”

  “Don’t worry,” Dr. Tyson said evenly, “I don’t have a Facebook account.”

  September 4, Sunday

  WHEN THE THIRD SET of church bells rang, I realized Detective Jack Terry had forsaken me today.

  I hope it’s for something fun, like tickets to a Braves game or fishing, versus something gruesome, like a murder. Or maybe he’d decided to spend the day with a woman who walked and talked. He seemed to have a surplus of ambulatory females to choose from.

  Okay, so it’s just us. I guess now’s as good a time as any to tell you about the father of my fetus. I’m chagrined to tell you, it’s none other than the engaged Duncan who’s destined for a five-tier-pink-grapefruit-cake wedding in two short months.

  Here’s the way things went down:

  When Duncan returned from his tour in the Peace Corps, we got together for old times’ sake and tossed back a few too many brews—he because he was happy to see American beer again, me because I was happy to see him again. We picked up right where we left off, it was a great evening and neither one of us mentioned his fiancée. He was too drunk to drive, so he crashed at my apartment, and sometime during the night, had migrated from the sagging couch in the living room to my bed. Shame on me, I knew he was in love with Trina, but I reasoned she would have him for the rest of their lives, so having him for one little night didn’t seem so wrong. After all, I’d seen him first.

  But if you’re thinking the encounter was a drunken grabfest, you’d be wrong. Duncan’s lovemaking was sweet, but surprisingly intense and purposeful. It was such an emotional experience for me, I convinced myself he felt the same way about me and the engagement would be unwound. We fell asleep with our hands intertwined… and I woke up alone. While I was wiping the sleep from my eyes, I’d gotten a text from Duncan.

  Last night was my mistake. I value your friendship, but I’m marrying Trina. Please don’t hate me.

  I was crushed. And mortified that something that had meant so much to me, he considered to be a mistake. By the time I brushed my teeth, I realized how sadly unoriginal the whole story was and resolved to act as if it hadn’t happened. I deleted his text without responding, and I didn’t tell a soul, not even Roberta. When she found his San Antonio Spurs cap in the living room and demanded to know who it belonged to, I convinced her one of her sniffing admirers had left it behind. She had hung it on a peg in the entryway with a plethora of other hats and coats and umbrellas. Every morning before I left the apartment I touched the cap.

  The morning-after text was the last time I’d heard from Duncan until he visited my room. I wonder if he’d stood there and congratulated himself for not ending his engagement and getting involved with me because then he’d feel obligated to the vegetable in bed 3.

  Anyway, the bottom line is I’m fourteen weeks pregnant, an
d I have a laundry list of problems. The only person who knows who the father is can’t talk or move. The medicine Dr. Jarvis gave me might have harmed the baby. If I don’t wake up, who will raise the child? And if I do wake up, how well will I be, and what kind of mother would I make on my own?

  I’m scared to death my family is going to take my baby. And I’m scared to death they won’t.

  September 5, Monday

  “I’VE ALWAYS FELT GUILTY for having Labor Day off,” my dad said. “I know my job contributes to the economy, but it’s not like I’m working a jackhammer every day.”

  From his footsteps, I deduced he was pacing.

  “But I do keep a mallet in my trunk in case I see a road sign that’s fallen over. Did I ever tell you that’s how I got the business for a country club in Peachtree City?”

  Only a dozen times… but I’m happy to hear it again. And picture him acting it out.

  “I was driving down the road and noticed a school sign was leaning way back. Those are reflective signs so they need to be standing straight or headlights can’t catch them, and then what’s the point? So I pulled over to straighten it, and a guy in a pickup truck stopped to help me. Looked like he didn’t have a hundred dollars to his name. Turns out, he was developing a big country club down the road—the guy was a millionaire. He said he drove by that crooked sign every day and had been meaning to fix it. When he found out I was in the sign business, he gave me the account for the project without so much as a quote, just on a handshake. Said I was the kind of man he wanted to do business with.”

  He gave a happy little laugh at the memory, then he sighed. “I know most people don’t give signs a second thought, but signs are critical to everyday life… and to law and order. Without signs, how would people know where they are or what to do?”

  It’s true when you think about it. Without signs, there would be total anarchy.

  He walked back toward my bed and from the scrape of the chair, I knew he was sitting. “I wish I had a sign now to tell me what to do,” he whispered, his voice anguished.

  It pains me to be putting him through this. My father is not built to deal with emotional conflict.

  “Your mother says I should stay out of the decision… and maybe I should. Otherwise she might oppose my opinion just to spite me.” His voice broke off on a sob.

  “What’s wrong, Mister?”

  The presence of another voice threw me for a few seconds. A memory chord stirred, but I couldn’t place the child’s voice.

  My dad sniffed. “My daughter won’t wake up.”

  “The magic lady is your daughter?”

  Oh—it’s the little girl who visited before.

  “The magic lady?”

  “See her pretty turban? She’s magic.”

  He gave a little laugh. “You think she’s magic, huh?”

  “Uh-huh. She’s going to make my mama better.”

  “You mama is sick?”

  “Uh-huh.” She sighed. “I’m scared sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m scared sometimes, too.”

  I’d never witnessed my dad interact with a child before. It bore no resemblance to his standoffishness when I was little. But it gave me a glimpse into how he would be with a grandchild.

  “What are you scared about?” she asked, her voice solemn.

  “That my daughter might not wake up.”

  “Maybe that’s how she does the magic,” the little girl reasoned. “And then when the magic is all done, she’ll wake up.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words.

  “Christina!” came a booming voice from the hall.

  “I gots to go,” she whispered. “Bye! Bye, Magic Lady!”

  The patter of her departing footsteps blended with the rumble of Dad’s low chuckle, then he sighed.

  “Marigold, can you hear me?”

  The chair squeaked.

  “Marigold, I’m holding your hand. If you want me to fight for the baby, squeeze my hand.”

  I panicked. Did I want him to? Did I have the right?

  “Sweetheart, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand if you want to keep the baby.”

  What if I were responsible for bringing a fatherless, disabled child into the world, and my family would have two of us to deal with?

  “I didn’t feel anything,” he said.

  Good. This was not the time for my brain to be sending involuntary signals to my fingers.

  “Okay, squeeze my hand if you don’t want to keep the baby.”

  Because in truth, even if I were well, I might be struggling with the decision to keep the baby. The fact that Duncan was marrying someone else could make things pretty unpleasant for everyone involved.

  To squeeze or not to squeeze? If I even could.

  “I guess you can’t hear me,” he said. “Okay. Goodbye for now. Keep doing your magic, Marigold.”

  September 6, Tuesday

  “HEY, YOU’RE DOWN a roommate.”

  Our poet volunteer is back.

  “I heard one of you dream girls got up and walked out of this place. So it was Audrey, huh? Go, Audrey. Are the rest of you giving her a head start before you bounce out of here, too?”

  He couldn’t know that Audrey’s post-escape visit had been a downer to the point that if her old bed had been setting there, she might’ve crawled back into it.

  “I like the new head scarf, Coma Girl. Pink and yellow and orange flowers, kind of a seventies vibe. Nice.”

  It sounds nice. I’m grateful he described the scarf. Sidney had brought the first wrap to cover up my bandages for a picture, and after she posted the photo on social media, scarves started pouring in. Store bought, handmade, and hand-me-downs. Now once a week, nurses gather up the extras, launder them, and take them to the chemotherapy department. And although someone or another usually changes my scarf every day, they usually don’t think to describe it to me.

  “If you ask me, women should wear scarves more often. It allows you to concentrate on a person’s face, you know?”

  Except I know my face is a cross-hatch of scars. He’s being very kind… which makes me very suspicious. Because I suspect my kind visitor is the person who’s been leaking photos and other information to the tabloids. I’m worried he can tell I’m pregnant… that I have a tummy bump showing through my hospital gown, or a nurse had unwittingly written it on my chart.

  I heard the sound of pages being turned.

  “I think I’ll read this Dickinson poem. It’s called ‘A Charm Invests a Face.’”

  He shifted in the chair—was he using the book of poetry to hide his phone in case someone walked in while he was taking pictures?

  “A charm invests a face, imperfectly beheld, the lady dare not lift her veil, for fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, and wishes, and denies, lest interview annul a want, that image satisfies.”

  Damn… why does he have to pick such good poems, the ones that mean something?

  “So are you hiding behind your veil, Coma Girl? Going to just lie there and be mysterious and pretty?”

  According to Dickinson, it was better than opening one’s mouth and dispelling the fantasy. Or as my boss Percy Palmer would tell his guys, “If you’re an idiot, keep your dang mouth shut and no one will know for sure.”

  I heard a clicking noise… a camera? Or the book closing?

  Then the door handle jostled and a rap sounded. “This door isn’t supposed to be locked.” It was Nurse Teddy. “Is someone in there?” More jostling sounded. “Hello? I’m getting security.”

  “I might not be able to visit again for a while,” the visitor whispered. “Take care of each other.”

  Ah, so he is the source of the leak—why else would he lock the ward door when he came in? His hurried footsteps sounded and I heard the door open and close. But he must’ve locked the door behind him because when Teddy returned with someone I assumed was a security officer, they had to use a key. When they bu
rst in, I could hear Teddy searching the room, pulling back curtains, and opening cabinets.

  “Maybe one of the patients locked the door,” the officer said with a little laugh.

  Teddy wasn’t amused. “Someone on staff must’ve accidentally locked the door as we left. But can you keep a closer eye on this room? We have a VIP in here and the press has been relentless.”

  “Sure thing,” the guy said. “Hey, is this Coma Girl? My wife loves her. Can I take a selfie?”

  September 7, Wednesday

  “IT’S NOT TOO LATE to enroll for the semester,” my mom said.

  “We’ve been over this, Mother,” Sidney said. “I’m needed here.”

  “I don’t want this incident to derail your life. It’s bad enough that Marigold might never get out of that bed, but I don’t think I can bear it if this keeps you from graduating law school.”

  “Mom, nothing is going to keep me from graduating law school. And you heard Dr. Tyson—Marigold is getting better.”

  “She allegedly moved a finger, but we only have the doctors’ word for it. I’ve asked her to squeeze my hand every time I’ve been here since they told us, and she hasn’t squeezed my hand once. Watch.”

  Mom walked to my bed. “Marigold, can you move your fingers? Can you squeeze my hand?”

  I’m trying.

  “See? Nothing. It makes me wonder if they made it up.”

  “Why would they make it up?”

  “To cover their butts and make it seem like the drug they gave her is working.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “And now on top of everything else, she’s pregnant? What on earth was that girl thinking?”

  I was thinking I wanted all of this to happen, Mother.

  “I’m sure Marigold didn’t mean to get pregnant,” Sidney chided.

  “No, but she was being careless, just like the night of the crash.”

  “Mother, Keith Young was driving drunk, remember?”

  “Well, maybe if Marigold hadn’t been talking on the phone with that dreadful roommate of hers, she could’ve avoided the crash.”

  So Sidney had told Mom I was distracted when the accident happened.

  “Don’t repeat that, Mother. I lied to the police to protect Marigold, and they can’t prove otherwise.”