Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  In fairness, she had agreed I would tell her, not me.

  “So that explains why your sister was asking all those questions about if you were seeing anyone right before the accident. They don’t know who the baby-daddy is.”

  Bingo.

  “Okay, you gotta wake up and tell me. Right now—wake the hell up.”

  She said it with such force, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t just snap out of it.

  Roberta heaved a sigh. “Now I have to speculate. Since you didn’t tell me you got some sausage, that means you’re embarrassed or ashamed. Is it your boss, Mr. Palmer? If it is, that’s gonna be one hairy baby.”

  Really, Roberta?

  “Is it someone you met online for a hookup? I think not, since you and I both watched the YouTube video about what you can catch from one unprotected date-site wiener—ugh. Herpes? MRSA? Zika?”

  Right. A girl might as well ride the door handle of a porta-john.

  “Is he married?”

  No, but you’re getting warmer.

  Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “It’s hat guy! I found that hat in the living room a week or so before your accident and you said you didn’t know whose it was. You little liar. You lie like the carpet you sell, Marigold Kemp.”

  She was right. I lied.

  “What was on that hat? Some NBA team logo. The Houston Rockets?”

  The San Antonio Spurs.

  “Golden State Warriors?”

  The San Antonio Spurs.

  “New York Knicks?’

  The San Antonio Spurs.

  “Well, anyway, it’s still hanging on the rack in the entryway. I bet if I can find a guy to claim the hat, he’s the one.”

  A big if.

  “I’m gonna get a cute detective outfit and get right on that case. Roberta Hazzard, P.I.—how does that sound?”

  Pretty good, actually.

  “And every detective needs a prop—Colombo had his cigar, and Kojak had his lollipop. Mine will be a bear claw. Grrrr. Okay, I gotta run.”

  Her footsteps headed toward the door, then she stopped.

  “By the way, remember that cute reporter I told you about? He contacted me again, wants to have lunch, said he would pay me a co-writing fee for a story about our friendship, said it might even lead to a book deal—imagine that. I told him I don’t think so. But it sure sounds exciting. Later, Coma Girl.”

  A story about our friendship? More likely, he wants the inside scoop on the father of my child. Which makes me wonder if this reporter is the driving force behind Roberta’s ‘detective’ work?

  September 18, Sunday

  “WELL, WELL, WELL,” Jack Terry said when he strolled in. “Marigold, you know how to keep a secret.”

  Inside I was squirming a little. I’m not sure why this man’s opinion of me mattered. If not for the accident, our lives wouldn’t have intersected. I didn’t mind what the world at large thought of me, but I didn’t want the detective to think ill of me, to think I was just another careless young woman who’d gotten liquored-up and slept with the first guy who crawled into her bed.

  Well… okay, so the liquored-up part is true… and Duncan is the first guy who’d crawled into my bed. But… but… but…

  Never mind. I have no moral ground to stand on.

  “So that’s why your sister wanted to go through your phone—your family doesn’t know who the father is. Your family doesn’t know much about your life, do they?”

  It doesn’t take a detective to figure that out, Detective.

  “I’ve never seen so many balloons and flowers… is one of them from the father?” He gave a little laugh. “This one is from Elton John, so I’m going to say no. I heard your sister made the announcement on a national show, so I guess this is what she wanted to happen.”

  He made a rueful noise.

  “I got a call from the A.D.A.—she feels a little blindsided. But maybe that was part of the plan, too? You at least got her attention.”

  It’s Sidney’s plan… and it sounds as if it’s working.

  “I brought you a bandana.”

  Really?

  “It has little teddy bears on it,” he said, sounding sheepish. “I’m not good at this stuff, but I thought it was cute. I’ll tie it on the bedrail next to the rosary. You don’t have to wear it, or even keep it. I’m sure you have nicer stuff.”

  But not from a nicer guy.

  Since Friday I’ve been thinking about Duncan nonstop. Sidney said the ratings for the show were through the roof, and the segment has been viewed online almost ten million times. I have a new hashtag, ComaGirlBaby, and my story is on the top fold of every national newspaper, next to election coverage. Everyone is rooting for me, and I’m being held up as a victim of a drunk driver, a victim of pro athlete elitism, even a victim of a healthcare system that has no good place for long-term care patients with short-term needs. Coma Girl seems to have captured the imagination and the heart of most Americans… except for Duncan Wheeler. Unless he’s been living under a rock, he has to know about the baby, has to have done the math in his head and know it’s his. The fact that he’s staying away sends a message loud and clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with me, or the baby.

  “Braves and Nationals at home today,” Jack said, but he sounded distant and distracted.

  I was thinking about a baby and how my life is forever changed. I wonder what has his mind occupied?

  September 19, Monday

  “I WOULD’VE APPRECIATED a heads up,” ADA Spence said, “before you made the announcement on national television.”

  “It wasn’t my idea,” my father said.

  “Everyone knows that,” my mother said, and not as a compliment.

  “You know about the baby now,” David Spooner said. “So what are you doing to do?”

  “I can’t do anything until Young’s blood alcohol content lab results are confirmed.”

  “And if they come back again at .01 above the legal limit?” Sidney asked.

  “If the results are the same, or higher, then we have two victims instead of one, and we’ll go after him with all the might of the D.A.’s office.”

  “Good,” my mother said. “All we want is justice for Marigold and the baby.”

  “How will the Falcons play into this?” my dad asked. “Keith Young is having a great season so far. I can’t turn on the news without seeing his face.”

  “It’ll be touchy, but the owners and coaching staff want to do the right thing. Just keep in mind that allowing Young to play might be the best thing for Marigold and the baby.”

  “How’s that?” my dad demanded.

  David Spooner coughed politely. “If Keith Young continues to play, his net worth will be higher.”

  “Which means,” Sidney added, “the monetary award from a civil case would be higher.”

  “But only if the criminal case is successful?”

  “We can still file a civil suit regardless of the outcome of the criminal trial, or even if charges don’t go forward,” Spooner said. “But it’ll be stronger going in with a conviction on our side.”

  I noticed his sly insertion of “we” and “our.”

  A gonging noise sounded, sending a strange vibration through my brain.

  “Sorry,” Sidney said, rummaging noisily through her bag. “I need to take this call.”

  “Now?” David asked.

  “It concerns school,” Sidney said evenly. “I’ll take it in the hall.”

  She left the room, and the discussion resumed, but I tuned it out.

  Something about the gonging ringtone had seemed familiar, but the memory that went along with it remained tantalizingly out of reach. And the more I chased it, the farther it receded.

  September 20, Tuesday

  “CROWD IN AROUND bed three,” Dr. Tyson said. “Move the balloons aside.”

  Ah, time for show and tell.

  “Patient is a twenty-eight-year-old female recovering from a traumatic brain injury received i
n a car accident approximately sixteen weeks ago. She was unconscious when she arrived at Brady. She underwent surgery to relieve bleeding on the brain. She has not yet regained consciousness. Also, the patient is sixteen weeks pregnant. Questions? Gaynor, go.”

  “What is the state of the brain bleed?”

  “Stable and healing, some swelling remains. Streeter, go.”

  “Is the patient verbal?”

  “No. Sayna, go.”

  “Does the patient still exhibit brainwave activity?”

  “Yes. Goldberg, go.”

  “Does the patient respond to commands to blink or to move her extremities?”

  Tyson hesitated.

  “Sometimes,” a voice piped up.

  Dr. Jarvis, my hero.

  “I’ve got this, Jarvis,” Dr. Tyson said. “Sometimes,” she repeated.

  “More often than not?”

  She didn’t respond at first. “Go ahead, Jarvis. She’s your patient as much as mine.”

  “The answer is… no,” Dr. Jarvis said, speaking more slowly. “More often the patient doesn’t respond, and in fact, her responses are declining.”

  “When was the peak response time?”

  “Two weeks ago,” Jarvis said.

  “Could the fetus be negatively affecting the patient’s neural recovery?”

  Dr. Jarvis didn’t answer.

  “Yes, indirectly,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice dragging. “We believe the increased volume of fluids and more circulatory demands could be stalling the brain heal… or even eroding it.”

  Eroding? That’s not good.

  “Tosco, go.”

  “What are the chances the baby will be brought to full term?”

  “Good to very good.”

  Whew.

  “Gaynor, go.”

  “And what is the prognosis of the patient?”

  I’m waiting… and waiting…

  “Um… let’s move on to the maternity ward.”

  Is she running late, or avoiding the question?

  “But before we leave I’d like to remind everyone this patient is receiving a lot of media attention and as such, you might be approached by reporters or others for information on her condition, or the baby’s. If that happens, keep your mouth shut and call the police. Are there any questions?”

  “I have a question.”

  “Go, Tosco.”

  “Can you address the rumor going around that this patient is receiving special treatment?”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as experimental drugs?”

  I held my breath.

  “Since you brought it up, yes, Dr. Jarvis has administered an experimental treatment to this patient that was completely unauthorized. Dr. Jarvis, please step forward.”

  His footsteps sounded as if he were headed to the gallows.

  “Please take a few minutes to explain the idea behind the iPod’s continuous loop of some of the worst music ever perpetrated on the human ear.”

  Rounds of laughter sounded, then Dr. Jarvis launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his research on the effects of classical music on the brain.

  I silently applauded Dr. Tyson. But at the same time I realized she’d had time to answer the question about my prognosis, but had deftly dodged it.

  September 21, Wednesday

  “HELLO, MY DEAR.”

  It’s Aunt Winnie. But why is she whispering?

  “I know it’s early, but I had to bring Faridee when I was sure your mother wouldn’t be around.”

  “Good morning, Marigold.”

  Faridee sounds groggy.

  “Carrie fairly threatened me the other day, refuses to believe in the power of the mind, nearly blew a gasket when I told her the amulet I gave her is to help pull you back to this world.”

  I’m with Mom on that one.

  “Anyway, after I thought about her distress that no one knows the identity of the baby’s father, I realized this is the perfect time to call in Faridee! She can connect with you and then you can tell her who the father is, and then we’ll find him. It’s brilliant, and I can finally convince Carrie there are more things in the world to explore than shopping malls.”

  Because, of course, if two crazily dressed women go to Duncan and tell him they communed with his comatose non-girlfriend on another dimension and I told them he is the father of my baby, he will totally believe them, end his engagement, and devote his life to a vegetable and our child.

  Besides, I’ve already gone over this in my head a thousand times. If Duncan simply read a newspaper, he knows about the baby, and if he were remotely interested in being involved, he would’ve already come forward. And he hasn’t.

  “Do your thing, Faridee. We don’t have time for a lot of ceremony.”

  “I forgot to bring the sage.”

  “Let me see what I’ve got in my purse. Here’s a packet of vanilla flavored Stevia—will that do?”

  “I can try.”

  Great—a bad idea magnified by a half-assed psychic. This can’t go wrong at all.

  “Are you ready, Marigold?” Faridee asked.

  Someone tore open the paper packet, then gasps sounded.

  “Aggggg—it went up my nose!”

  “You threw it in my eyes!”

  Fits of sneezing ensued, and much slapping of clothes. I waited until Lucy and Ethel composed themselves.

  “Okay, Marigold, can you meet me halfway?” Faridee asked.

  Sure. Let me coma right over there.

  “I’m coming toward you,” she said. “Closer… closer…”

  The thing is, I’m still not sure how to play this because with Faridee’s hit or miss “powers,” she might interpret Duncan Wheeler as Dunkin’ Donuts. Then some poor shmuck at the corner shop would be assaulted by these two loons.

  “There you are, Marigold. Congratulations on being a mother! Now, what can you tell me about the father of your child?”

  I try to blank my mind or think about something else, but my mind keeps bouncing back to Duncan and the night he crashed at my apartment.

  “I’m getting something,” Faridee said.

  “What is it?” Winnie whispered. “What is she telling you?”

  “Wait for it… Wait for it…. Yes… He’s a cowboy.”

  Oh, brother.

  “Hm, that doesn’t seem like Marigold’s type. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m going to snort Stevia more often because this is the clearest signal I’ve ever received. No question—I see spurs.”

  Sigh. Spurs… as in San Antonio Spurs.

  September 22, Thursday

  “I CAN’T STAY LONG,” Roberta said. “Just came by to read you some mail—it is flooding in again. I guess everyone and their neighbor saw your story on television.”

  She tore open the first envelope. “Dear Coma Girl, You’re going to burn in a pit of hellfire—wait, that one’s not very nice.”

  A thick ripping sound filled the air.

  “Goodbye, Creepy Jesus Freak,” she sang.

  She tore open another envelope. “Let’s see, Coma Girl, ba, ba, ba… illegitimate devil spawn… okay, goodbye.”

  Another hearty rip sounded.

  “What is wrong with people?”

  She tore open a third one. “Okay, here’s a sane person… Dear Coma Girl, I saw your story on The Doctors, and… no, wait—this lady wants to buy your baby for three hundred dollars. Goodbye. Oh, wait—she sent a ten dollar deposit. That, we will keep.” She heaved a sigh. “I don’t like opening your mail, Marigold, but maybe I should go through them at home and weed out the perverts, lunatics, and devil worshippers. What do you think?”

  I think that sounds good.

  “By the way, I’ve started my detective work. I called your office and told your boss I found a man’s San Antonio Spurs hat at the apartment and did it belong to anyone there? I have to say, I was very relieved when Mr. Palmer didn’t lay claim to it. He said he’d ask around the office and call me back.”

>   Then she cleared her throat. “Actually, Marigold, it crossed my mind that it could be Duncan, although to my knowledge, you two never did the nasty. But just in case, this morning I looked up his phone number from the cake order and called.”

  I’m in agony. I want to know what he said, but I don’t want to know what he said. I need closure, but I don’t want it.

  “Anyway, his fiancée answered. Duncan left the States over a month ago to work in refugee camps and won’t be back until the wedding. I made up some lame excuse about the order. But while I had her on the phone, I told her someone had left a San Antonio Spurs hat at the bakery, and I wondered if it belongs to Duncan. She said no, that Duncan is notorious for dissing professional basketball.”

  It’s true, he prefers college basketball. He’d told me there was a story behind the hat, but he never got around to telling me, was too busy impregnating me.

  “So that’s that, Duncan is not the father of your child.” She sighed. “Pity though, I bet the two of you would have decent-looking kids. Not gorgeous, mind you, but really decent-looking. And sturdy.”

  Aww. I hope she’s right.

  So Duncan is traveling overseas. Which means he might not know I’m pregnant, or if he does know, he might not be able to reach me.

  Women do that—we make excuses for our men… it blunts the pain.

  Because the more likely scenario is Duncan left the country to get away from me.

  September 23, Friday

  IT’S BEEN A WHILE since Sidney came to visit by herself. I’m happy to hear her jabber on about the Coma Girl brand, but I’m really excited that she’s painting my nails again. I know Dr. Tyson and Dr. Jarvis are worried I’m losing ground, and I want to prove to myself I still have working connections to the tips of my fingers and toes.

  “Peacock blue for your fingers,” Sid says. “And sunshine yellow for your toes.” She yawned noisily. “Ack, I need a nap.”

  She does seem tired today, but I know she’s been working nonstop on building a support system for Coma Girl fans and followers.

  “Do you know that some newspapers are offering a bounty for the name of your baby’s father?”

  No, I hadn’t heard. That’s… weird.

  “Everyone wants to know who is the father of the Coma Girl baby.”