Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  “How many men fail the ninety-day test?”

  She sighed. “So far, all of them.”

  How very depressing.

  “But I think Gabriel is different,” she added.

  “I hope you’re right.”

  The door opened.

  “Dr. Jarvis,” Gina exclaimed. “You’re back.”

  My hero has returned from exile.

  “Were you away?” Teddy asked, sounding confused.

  “Um, just for a few days,” Dr. Jarvis said. “Teddy, would you mind to get me another lab coat?”

  “Okay,” Teddy said, his voice suspicious. “Be back in a jif.”

  When the door closed behind him, Gina said, “You’re not in trouble anymore?”

  “Tyson let me out of jail, but I’m still on probation. I understand the family wants to keep the baby?”

  “Yes. But the pregnancy is top secret, even from the rest of the staff, so the family can make the announcement when they’re ready.”

  “Mum’s the word.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Jarvis, for not mentioning that I helped administer the drug.”

  “I told you I’d take full responsibility.”

  “No offense, but people don’t always do what they say.”

  “You’re obviously spending time with the wrong people,” he said.

  I can’t feel anything, but even I detect electricity in the air.

  The door opened and Teddy returned. “One lab coat.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Jarvis said. “Have either of you asked Marigold to respond to commands this morning?”

  “Not yet,” Gina said. “We only just finished her bath. And fyi, Ms. Kemp hasn’t responded to Dr. Tyson’s commands in three days.”

  Jarvis made a concerned noise. “Okay, let’s test her. Marigold, it’s Dr. Jarvis. I need for you to do something for me. I need for you to blink. Can you blink?”

  I tried. How hard could it be to blink?

  “No? Then Gina, will you take her right hand, and Teddy, will you take her left? Hold her fingers lightly and let me know if you feel any movement, no matter how small.”

  I readied myself mentally.

  “Okay, Marigold, let’s repeat something you’ve already done. Move the fingers on your right hand. Can you move your fingers, Marigold?”

  I played the brain-bone-isconnected-to-the-finger-bone song in my head.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “No,” Gina said.

  “Marigold, now try to move the fingers on your left hand. Can you do it? Can you move the fingers on your left hand?”

  Again, I focused like a laser.

  “Anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Teddy said.

  Dr. Jarvis sighed. “Okay, we’ll try again tomorrow.”

  But the disappointment in his voice is loud and clear. I try not to let my lack of response bother me, but I remember the conversation between Dr. Tyson and my mother about the baby consuming resources. Was it the cause of my setback?

  September 13, Tuesday

  “GUESS WHO?”

  I recognize Aunt Winnie’s voice, and the slide of Faridee’s sandals. I guess that makes me psychic.

  “Your mother won’t return my calls,” Winnie said. “So I thought I’d come and check on you myself.”

  Mom is probably afraid she’ll inadvertently spill the beans about the baby ahead of Sidney’s TV appearance this Friday.

  “Faridee is with me,” my aunt said. “But I completed the workshop on communicating in the next dimension, so I’m going to try to make contact with you, too.”

  “Don’t forget to call on the power of the amulet,” Faridee whispered.

  “Oh, right,” my aunt said.

  Oh, brother.

  The sounds of hands clapping and rubbing filled the air, followed by the scent of sage and cloves. “Hello, Marigold,” Faridee said. “Move toward me and I will move toward you.”

  The previous attempts to send an empirical message to the woman had failed miserably, so this time I decided to just hang.

  “Where are you?” Faridee sang.

  Right here. See? I’m waving.

  “Oh, there you are,” Faridee said. “Have you made contact, Winnie?”

  “I don’t believe so,” my aunt said. “I don’t feel anything yet.”

  “It’s not a feeling—it’s a sensing.”

  “A sensing,” Winnie repeated.

  “Do you sense Marigold’s spirit? She’s reaching out to us.”

  “Reaching,” Winnie whispered.

  What, no sales pitch, Faridee?

  “Because Marigold’s spirit has ascended so high, you might need to take my advanced seminar in order to connect with her,” Faridee said.

  And there it is.

  “When are you next giving the advanced version?” my aunt asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  How convenient.

  “I’ll be there. Is Marigold any closer to coming back to us?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Is she still hanging out with the Pope?”

  Yes, Winnie. Pope John Paul and I are thick.

  “She’s—”

  “Faridee? What do you see?”

  “I see… two Marigolds.”

  Oh, here we go. More vague metaphors.

  “Two? You mean one here and one in the spirit world?”

  “No.”

  How about a good Marigold and a bad one? A fat Marigold and a thin one?

  “One Marigold is young, and one Marigold is old.”

  Wait—a big me and a mini me? Does Faridee see my baby?

  “What does that mean?” my aunt asked.

  “I don’t… know.” Faridee grunted. “I lost her.”

  “Darn it! I totally missed out.”

  “We’ll try again soon, after the seminar,” Faridee assured her.

  “Okay.”

  My aunt sounded like a disappointed child.

  “Goodbye, Marigold, my love. We’ll be back whenever I can sneak another visit past your mother.”

  “Wait,” Faridee said.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone else in the room is trying to reach me.”

  I listened as her sandals moved away from me.

  “Yes, Karen, I hear you,” she said in an odd voice. “Yes, I’ll write it down.” Then she whispered, “Winnie, do you have something to write with?”

  Winnie carries a huge bag of oddball stuff. She’d be the one in the audience of Let’s Make a Deal who could pull a gerbil out of her purse on command.

  “Here’s a pen… and a notepad.”

  “Okay, I’m ready,” Faridee said. “Okay…. okay…. okay… okay…. okay. Got it.”

  “What’s the message?” Winnie asked in a hushed voice.

  I’m skeptical, sure it’s a missive from “beyond” for Winnie to hand over the PIN number to her debit card.

  “Dear Jonas,” Faridee said. “I never liked that pear tree.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I have no idea. But I’ll pin it to her gown, and maybe it will make sense to someone.”

  Okay, y’all… I’m a believer.

  September 14, Wednesday

  “WHEW, NOW EVERYONE has clean sheets,” Gina said. “Thanks for helping me, Gabriel.”

  “You’re welcome, baby. I’m looking forward to seeing you tonight.”

  Gina gave a little laugh. “Same here. But it’s ‘Gina’ at work, okay?”

  “Sorry. You just look so beautiful today, I forgot myself. But I’ll save it for tonight.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice fading as she walked toward the door, “but you know my ninety-day rule. See you at seven.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  When the door closed, he grunted like a man denied a treasure. Then he walked around the ward gathering up discarded bedclothes, whistling under his breath.

  “What’s this?” he murmured.

  Paper crackled.


  “‘Dear Jonas, I never liked that pear tree.’ Huh?”

  Ack—the note Faridee had written for Karen Suh yesterday and pinned to her gown. It must’ve fallen off when they shuffled us around to change the sheets. I was hoping Jonas would be back to visit before it was lost.

  The sound of paper being crumpled into a ball tears at me. I wonder if Karen can hear it, too.

  The door opened.

  “Oh—hi, Gabriel.”

  “Hi, Donna,” he said, his voice rich with innuendo. “Just the person I was hoping to see.”

  What an indiscriminate flirt.

  “Are we still on for tonight?” she asked.

  “Yeah, but it’ll be nine before I can get to your place.”

  So an early date with Gina, then a late date with Donna?

  “I’ll make it worth the wait,” she promised.

  He gave a deep laugh. “How about a little preview now?”

  Kissing noises sounded.

  “Stop, Gabriel, we can’t.”

  “Why not? No one will be looking for me for another thirty minutes.”

  “What if someone comes in?”

  “Into the vegetable patch? No one comes in here. These patients don’t have to be fed, they never push a help button, and visitors are few and far between. It’s a pretty depressing place.”

  More kissing noises.

  “Still… it doesn’t feel right.”

  “Oh, baby, it feels right to me. Come on. You got me so hot and bothered, it’s not going to take long.”

  “Okay,” she relented. “But hurry.”

  Oh, my God—they’re not really going to have sex right in front of me.

  Thirty seconds later, moans and groans sounded, then a distinctive rhythmic thump.

  They really are having sex right in front of me.

  I’m caught between fascination and horror, admiration and disgust. Having sex in a coma ward is akin to having sex in a cemetery. But worse, because we’re not dead yet.

  Although I have to admit, it’s the best entertainment I’ve had all day. And it’s the closest thing to getting laid we veggies have experienced in months, and in some cases, years.

  True to his word, Gabriel did not take long. I was hoping Gina would walk in at the event’s climax, but alas, it didn’t happen. The couple disengaged with a sucking noise of unknown origin, then quickly said goodbye “until later.” Donna left first, and Gabriel, the cad, took his time gathering linen and reorganizing the cart.

  The door opened and I was afraid Donna had come back for another round.

  “Oh, you’re still here,” Gina said.

  “Guess I was daydreaming about you,” Gabriel gushed.

  She laughed. “You’re making me impatient to see you tonight. Let me help you with that cart.”

  After they left the room, I lay there marveling at how lopsided relationships can be. And how the person who cares the least always has the upper hand.

  September 15, Thursday

  “DO YOURSELF A big, big favor,” Joanna Fitz said. “Don’t ever have kids.”

  I wish I could tell her the ship has sailed on that one, but even if I could talk, she doesn’t seem to be in a mood to listen… only in a mood to drink.

  “First, it wrecks your figure. Your ass gets wide and your boobs get long—it ain’t pretty. Then your hormones get out of whack and you have mood swings like a human pendulum. You want to bite the head off of everyone you meet, and wash it down with a bottle of wine.”

  The mention of wine must’ve reminded her she’d brought a flask of rum, because she took a hearty drink. Joanna has been here for thirty minutes and she has to be near the bottom.

  “And your husband starts seeing you as this mother-blob. He’s not attracted to you anymore because he’s seen what goes on behind the curtain, if you know what I mean. Not that you want to have sex anyway because you’re scared to death you’re going to get pregnant again.”

  That’s nice.

  “And then you start to hate your children,” she slurred. “The sound of them crying is like an icepick to your eardrums, and the only way hearing them yell mommy works is if you turn it into a drinking game.”

  Which reminds her to take another drink.

  “So you get together with all the other wide-assed, long-boobed mothers and start betting on the age of your husband’s next girlfriend. And when you win the pool, you buy yourself a diamond watch. See?”

  I can’t see it, but I get the gist.

  “And then you start fantasizing about ways to murder your husband, and how you could get away with it. I could smother him… shoot him… poison him… stab him… cut his brake line… or push him off our houseboat and run over him with the propeller and say it was an accident.”

  Okay, that last one seems a bit more well-thought-out than the others.

  “I could do it… I’ve seen every last episode of Forensics Files.”

  Me, too! But I’ve never considered it a tutorial.

  The door opened.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Gina said, “but visiting hours are over.”

  “Okay,” Joanna slurred. “I’m leaving.” I heard her screw the top back on the metal flask, then the chair creaked, indicating she’d stood.

  “Whoa, there.” Gina rushed over, presumably to steady Joanna. “Why don’t I call you a cab?”

  “Probably a good idea, since I’m not supposed to be driving. My license was suspended over two lousy DUI’s, can you believe it? I should’ve driven over my husband’s dick.” She laughed at her own joke.

  “Okay, steady,” Gina said. “One foot in front of the other. I’ll get you a cup of strong coffee while you wait.”

  “Don’t have kids, Marigold,” Joanna shouted. “Don’t ever have kids!”

  September 16, Friday

  “THIS IS SO EXCITING,” my mom said.

  She had convinced Teddy to filch a television from the doctors’ lounge and invited Aunt Winnie to watch Sidney’s live segment on The Doctors from my room.

  “Except for the fact that Sidney’s TV debut is to talk about Marigold being in a coma,” Winnie added lightly.

  “Well, yes,” my mother agreed sourly. “Sidney’s just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.”

  “I guess I’m still not sure what this is supposed to accomplish,” Winnie said.

  “If you’re going to talk the whole time, you can go.”

  “Okay, I’m being quiet.”

  The volume increased and I could hear applause.

  “Welcome back to the show for a special live segment of The Doctors. In our studio today is Sidney Kemp, sister of the young woman many of you may know as Coma Girl. Please welcome, Sidney Kemp.”

  Applause and cheers sounded.

  “Oh, there she is!” my mom said. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

  “She does,” my aunt agreed.

  “Thank you,” Sidney said, her voice modulated and pleasing.

  “Sidney, your sister Coma Girl has been in a coma in an Atlanta hospital since a car accident over three months ago. How is she doing?”

  “She’s doing well, considering the circumstances. She’s responding to commands to move her fingers, so we have reason to believe she’s getting better and will hopefully wake up soon.”

  Applause sounded.

  “And you were in the accident with your sister, is that right?”

  “Yes,” Sidney said. “It could’ve just as easily been me in the coma and my sister sitting here talking to you.”

  “Except Marigold would never go on TV to talk about her comatose sister,” Winnie said.

  “Shhhh!”

  “And on the large screen behind you, Sidney, are some pictures of Coma Girl before the coma, right?”

  “Yes, this picture was taken of Coma Girl when she was singing karaoke with friends. She had a great singing voice.”

  “And this picture?”

  “That’s Coma Girl in her hospital bed, and me painting her f
ingernails. It’s one way I can interact with my sister.”

  “Our hearts are breaking for you,” the host said. “I know we can’t talk about the accident that put your sister in a coma because it’s still an open case.”

  “That’s right,” Sidney said. “And since I’m in law school, I can’t plead ignorance of the statutes.”

  “Oh, you’re in law school?’

  “Yes, third year at Boston. Well, I’m sitting out this semester to help with my family’s situation.”

  “Well, she got in a good plug for herself,” Winnie said.

  “Shhhh!”

  The host made a mournful noise. “I can only imagine what you and your family have been going through.”

  “And Marigold,” Winnie muttered.

  “Shhhh!”

  “We’re doing the best we can,” Sidney said. “All the great cards and social media posts to hashtag Coma Girl have been a real boon to our spirits.”

  More applause sounded.

  “But you’re here today,” the host said, “for a special update on Coma Girl exclusively for our viewers. What can you tell us?”

  “Even in the darkest situation,” Sidney said, her voice wavering, “a beacon of light can appear.”

  “What is she talking about?” Winnie asked.

  “Shhhh!”

  “And our beacon of light is finding out that Coma Girl is pregnant.”

  Exclamations sounded from the TV, then the audience erupted into wild applause.

  “Look, they’re giving her a standing ovation!” my mother said.

  “Oh, poor Marigold,” Winnie murmured.

  “A reminder,” the host said, “that Coma Girl T-shirts and scarves are available on the Coma Girl website and Facebook page. All proceeds will go toward medical expenses and to the Coma Girl Foundation.”

  Aunt Winnie gasped. “The baby—that’s what the psychic meant by two Marigolds!”

  “Psychic?” my mother asked. “What psychic?”

  While the two of them bickered over the closing credits of the show, I contemplated the fallout of the announcement. I’d counted the number of times they’d said Coma Girl and the number of times they’d said my name.

  Coma Girl: 11, Marigold Kemp: 0.

  September 17, Saturday

  “I ALMOST SWALLOWED a biscuit,” Roberta said.

  Roberta had been eating when she watched Sidney’s announcement—shocker.

  “I called in sick to work so I could watch it. Then I was like, ‘Did she just say Coma Girl is pregnant?’ Last time I checked you have to have sex to get knocked up, and I thought we had an agreement that you would tell me if you ever got yourself laid.”