Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single)

by Stephanie Bond

  She was blowing, I assume on my nails to dry them faster.

  “I’m curious, too. I mean, you’ve never really had a serious boyfriend.”

  That she knows of.

  “And no one has come forward to say it’s his. I’m thinking it was just a one-night stand—at least that’s what I hope.”

  She hopes?

  “I mean, I hope it wasn’t an attack or something.”

  Ah. No, thank goodness.

  “There are all kinds of conspiracy theories floating around out there.”

  There are?

  “Some people are saying the baby belongs to Keith Young, and when he found out about the baby, he put you in a coma.”

  Okay, that’s… impossible.

  “And some people are saying it’s an alien baby.”

  Okay, that’s… more impossible.

  She yawned again. “And some people are saying it was immaculate conception and you’re carrying a messiah.”

  Okay, who are these people and are they wearing white jackets with sleeves that tie in back?

  The gonging ringtone sounded, stopping me mid-thought. By the time Sidney removed the phone from her bag, it had rung five times. Long enough to echo in my head again… and again… and again.

  “Hello? Yes. I told you the project is done, but I can’t give it to you all at once. Did you get the first part? Well, it’s going to have to do until I can make arrangements to get another segment to you. What?” She pushed up from the chair and walked toward the window, turning her back. “Don’t you dare threaten me.”

  Threaten? That sounds a bit extreme for a class project. On the other hand, we’re talking about lawyering. She might be working on a project for a firm where a lot of money is at stake.

  “Are you crazy? You can’t come here. You’ll ruin everything. No, don’t—hello? Hello?”

  Sidney cursed, then cursed again. She strode back to my bed, then started slamming things into her purse. “I have to go, Marigold. Mom and Dad are visiting tomorrow—good luck with that.”

  Good luck with that… Good luck with that… Good luck with that…

  Why was the phrase oddly familiar… and at the same time, repulsive? And strangely, I sensed it had something to do with the gonging sound.

  September 24, Saturday

  “SO CATCH ME UP,” Alex said. “Marigold is pregnant?”

  “I’m afraid so,” my mom said, somehow managing to marinate all three words with disapproval, condemnation, and dismay.

  “She doesn’t look pregnant from here.”

  “Really? Her cheeks don’t look puffy?”

  Thanks, Mom.

  “No, she looks great. Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “Nobody seems to know, except Marigold, and she isn’t talking. I don’t suppose she mentioned a boyfriend to you?”

  “No. She mentioned a guy in the Peace Corps a couple of times, but she said they were just friends.”

  “Do you remember his name?” Mom asked.

  “No, but I’ll look back through the letters I got from her and see if she mentioned a name.”

  Ack—I’d written a lot of letters to Alex—had I mentioned Duncan?

  “How is Sis doing?”

  My mom heaved a sigh. “At the beginning of the month, the doctors were optimistic she was improving with the experimental drug, but as the baby grows, she seems to be losing ground.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Should I ask for time off to come home?”

  “We’d love to see you, of course, but don’t come for Marigold’s sake, Alex. She probably won’t even know you’re here.”

  Thanks, Mom.

  “I’ll know I’m there,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, what’s going on with the case?”

  My parents hesitated.

  “No good news there either,” my dad finally said.

  This is the first I’m hearing of it.

  “The ADA called this morning.” My mom’s voice was tight. “Keith Young’s blood alcohol content test came back measuring less than before.”

  “It dropped from .01 to .00,” my dad bit out.

  “So he wasn’t drunk?”

  “So it would seem,” my dad said. “But there’s more. About an hour ago, a news blog reported they’d received an anonymous tip that the lab was paid off to return a lower result.”

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  “The ADA said they were looking into it, but unless they can track down the tipster, they don’t have much to go on.”

  “Unbelievable. And he’s starting in Monday night’s game against the Saints. It’s going to be beamed in for the entire base.” It sounded as if Alex slammed his fist down. “This isn’t over.”

  “Don’t let it distract you from your duties,” my mom said. “We’ll keep you posted.”

  “Okay, bye. Bye, Marigold!”

  They disconnected the Skype call and I felt my parent’s anguish like a pungency in the air—sweats, tears, adrenaline. They sat completely still, as if they were too burdened to stand up. A minute… three minutes… five. Finally one of them moved, and the other followed.

  And they left the room without saying a word.

  September 25, Sunday

  “BRAVES AND MARLINS, in Miami,” Jack Terry said as he strode into the room. Then he stopped. “Oh—hello.”

  If I could’ve posted a flashing sign warning Jack to stay away, I would’ve. He has no idea what’s coming.

  “Hello, cowboy,” my aunt Winnie said haughtily. “And you are?”

  “Um… Detective Jack Terry, ma’am, Atlanta PD.”

  “So you’re a cop cowboy?”

  I only wish I could see this.

  “Er… no, ma’am. Just a plain old cop.”

  “Really? And how do you explain those boots?”

  “Um… I bought them? I’m sorry, are you a friend of Marigold’s?”

  “I’m her aunt, her mother’s sister, although Carrie and I are nothing alike.”

  “Okay,” he said carefully. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your visit. I sometimes stop by and watch the Braves games with your niece.”

  “And I understand that’s not all you do with my niece.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You gave her this scarf?”

  “Yes, that looks like the one I brought as a gift.”

  “It has teddy bears on it.”

  “Uh-huh.” He was talking slowly, like someone would speak to a child—or to someone who’s unstable. “Because of the baby.”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere,” Winnie said.

  “Huh? Listen, I thought it was cute, but I don’t know much about these things, so if it’s Godawful, you can toss it. My feelings won’t be hurt.”

  “So this is your first child?”

  Oh, God. (Sorry God, I’m not supposed to be taking your name in vain, but this is so good.)

  He grunted. “Yes. How did you find out about it?”

  What? Okay, now I’m confused.

  “A-ha!” Winnie shouted, and I’d heard her say it enough to know she added a flourish with her finger. “So you admit it!”

  “Yes. Believe me, it’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m not going to turn my back on my responsibilities.”

  Why is the girl in the coma the only one in the room making sense?

  “Well, it’s a good thing, cowboy, because her family expects it!”

  His feet shifted. “Do you know Liz?”

  “Who?” my aunt asked.

  “Liz… Fischer. The mother.”

  “I’m sorry, whose mother?”

  “The mother… of my child.”

  Oh, I get it—Jack got somebody knocked up, too!

  Winnie gasped. “You’re having two children with two different women?”

  “What? Wait—no.” I pictured him holding up his hands. “What woman are you talking about?”

  “Marigold, of course.”

  Please God, let me open
my eyes for this.

  A strangled noise sounded. “You think I’m the father of Marigold’s child?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  Jack scoffed. “No offense, ma’am, but where did you get a cockamamie idea like that?”

  “She… told me.”

  “Marigold told you?”

  “Actually, she told a friend, who then told me.”

  Did she wake up and start talking and no one told me?”

  “No. I have a friend who’s a psychic… and she… talked to Marigold.”

  “While she was comatose?”

  “That’s right. And my friend asked Marigold the identity of baby’s father, and she said…. spurs.”

  “Spurs? Is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Spurs—cowboy. And when I started asking around, you were the only cowboy type in her life.”

  “Seriously? That’s how you made the leap that I am the father of her baby?”

  “And the nurses said you come to visit every Sunday, and it just seems… strange.” She sighed. “It made sense at the time. Why do you come to visit Marigold?”

  “I investigated—am still investigating—her accident. I came in one Sunday and it was quiet and I put the Braves game on and… I don’t know, it just felt good being here. I’ve heard that having activity around is good for coma patients. I thought having the game on was better than the quiet. And that terrible music they always have playing. But I’ll leave you alone so you can visit with your niece.”

  “Oh, no,” Winnie said. I heard the familiar rustle of her humongous purse. “I’ve done enough damage here for one day.” She sighed. “I hope Marigold didn’t hear her aunt make a fool of herself. I’m sorry, Detective Terry. Enjoy your game.”

  When the door closed behind Aunt Winnie, Jack exhaled noisily.

  “Whew, Marigold, that was interesting.”

  He dragged a chair over and began setting up for the game. When he was settled, he popped open a can of soda. “Did you get that? I have a kid on the way, too.”

  I got that, Detective.

  “Scary as hell.”

  Yep.

  He sat and listened to the first few plays and when the game broke for a commercial he grunted. “Talked to the ADA yesterday. Tough break about Young’s results coming back lower. But if he wasn’t drunk, I don’t see him charged.”

  Neither do I.

  “I heard about the anonymous tip that the lab was paid off. I don’t put much stock in anonymous tips—it could be anyone who has a beef with Keith Young. But the DA’s office will look into it. Don’t worry about it. You just need to get well and be there for your baby.”

  Roger that, Detective. You’re going to be a good dad. I feel for the mother, but the kid’s got it made.

  He sat and listened to the game, occasionally offering commentary, but mostly just listening. In the top of the ninth inning, his phone rang.

  “Terry,” he said. “You don’t say… I’m at Brady now. Oh, just visiting a friend. I’ll find him and take his statement. Later.”

  He disconnected the call and stood up with a sigh. “Gotta cut it short. Someone assaulted Keith Young, beat him pretty bad from the sound of it. Ambulance brought him here, so I’m back on duty. Later, Coma Girl.”

  It sounds as if someone believed the rumor that the lab was paid off, and decided Keith Young was going to pay.

  My boss’s parting words during his last visit came back to me: That football player is going to get what he deserves for what he did to you, one way or another. Mr. Palmer had plenty of ex-cons on the payroll to do any side job he deemed necessary.

  And in a previous Skype call my brother Alex had mentioned an Army buddy of his in Atlanta had offered to “dispense a little street justice.” Had Alex called in a favor?

  Or maybe a vigilante had taken it upon himself to right what he considered to be a wrong?

  Except what if Jack Terry was right—what if Keith Young hadn’t been driving drunk, and the anonymous tipster was someone with a beef against him? Another player, for example, or a jealous ex? The person could’ve set things in motion with a phone call, then sat back and watched things happen.

  September 26, Monday

  THE SILKY-THROATED volunteer is back… but now he makes me nervous. I’m sure he’s the one who’s been leaking photos to the tabloids, and I feel betrayed. Because I want to enjoy the poetry without feeling like I’m being exploited in exchange.

  Sure enough, he locked the door before he came to sit beside our beds.

  “Summer’s fading,” he said. “The change in temperatures makes for some beautiful sunsets. I wish you could see them.”

  So do I. My and Roberta’s apartment isn’t all that, but we have a Juliet balcony facing Alabama that, if you overlook the dumpsters and the graffiti just below and beyond, afforded us spectacular sunset views. I took them for granted, assumed I had many sunsets left.

  Do me a favor, friend, and if you can get to a window this evening, watch the sun set for me?

  “So I picked this Dickinson poem for you ladies today. It’s called ‘I Know a Place Where Summer Strives.’”

  He shifted in the creaky chair.

  “I know a place where summer strives with such a practiced frost, she each year leads her daisies back recording briefly, ‘Lost.’ But when the south wind stirs the pools and struggles in the lanes, her heart misgives her for her vow, and she pours soft refrains.”

  He coughed lightly—to cover a succession of camera clicks?—then resumed.

  “Into the lap of adamant, and spices, and the dew, that stiffens quietly to quartz, upon her amber shoe.”

  See? That makes me hate him a little. Why can’t he just leave me with the visual of an amber shoe, instead of taking a piece of me with him?

  He coughed again and I distinctly heard the buzz of a mechanical gadget.

  “Have a nice day, ladies.”

  Then he unlocked the door and left.

  September 27, Tuesday

  “PEACE BE WITH YOU, ladies.”

  And also with you.

  But are you sure you don’t mean “pieces,” Sister Irene? Are you carrying around that big knife under your habit just waiting for the chance to gut someone who reminds you of the man who killed your sister?

  “Let me count heads lest one of you decided to get up and walk out of here since the last time I visited—one, two, three. Yes, you’re all still here,” she said merrily. “Hello, Karen. Hello, Jill. Hello, Marigold.”

  Then she exclaimed. “And Marigold, what’s all this I see? Balloons and flowers. You’re going to have a baby? That’s quite unexpected. But a baby is always a happy occasion. Children are our second chance at fulfilling our life’s promise to God.”

  Uh-huh. That all sounds great, Sister, but it’s hard for me to relax when I know what you’re really thinking.

  “I don’t fully understand why I’m so drawn to talk to you, Marigold. Maybe it’s because your face bears the mark of so much sacrifice.”

  The scars again—ugh.

  “Maybe it’s the sight of your lovely rosary. I’ve been praying the rosary with devotion to push through my crisis of faith, and I’ve finally reached a point of reconciliation. I know what I have to do, even though it’s going to be hard. I’ve invited the man we talked about, George Gilpin, to my home to perform some repairs. My sister had a different last name, so he doesn’t know who I am and really, it’s better that way. You’ll see. God has a plan for each of us, and I must follow mine.”

  She walked between our beds and offered up a prayer to the patron saint of head injuries, Saint Aurelius of Riditio. As she uttered the words, however, I realized Sister Irene has her own head injuries that need to be addressed. She is basically planning to invite a man to her house so she can skin him.

  She stopped at the door. “Peace be with you, ladies.”

  And also with you. Seriously.

  September 28, Wednesday

  WHEN MY MOM WALKED into
my room, I knew something was wrong.

  Not wrong in the sense that something else had gone south with the case or that someone had died. But wrong in the sense that she needed to get something off her chest and she wasn’t going to hold back.

  I was about to get a lecture, but good.

  She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just paced and drank coffee. I could smell the caramel flavoring she liked, and hear the jangle of her bracelets. This pacing, silent treatment phase was part of the punishment. It was the part I’d hated most when I was young because you had to sit there and wait until she was good and ready to blast you. I was pretty sure what the topic would be and frankly, was a little surprised it had taken her this long to dole out my well-deserved tongue-lashing.

  She was going to tell me I disrespected myself by lying down with a man who obviously doesn’t care about me and conceiving an unwanted child.

  And that even if I get well, I barely make enough money to support myself, much less a baby and how am I going to do both?

  That this unplanned child is simply another in a long line of poor decisions and haphazard life design and when am I going to grow up and be as smart and mindful as my siblings?

  She walked over and set down her coffee cup with a bang and I mentally steeled myself to be stripped down to my tendons with her acid tongue.

  Instead, the bed creaked and moaned and I was suddenly beset by fragrances I didn’t even know I’d missed—my mother’s tea tree oil shampoo and lavender body lotion, and the fabric softener freshness of her blouses. She had crawled into the hospital bed with me and wrapped herself around me and my baby.

  I can’t feel her, but I can smell her and hear her breath in my ear. I feel loved and I know my child will be loved, too.

  September 29, Thursday

  “JARVIS, COME in and lock the door,” Dr. Tyson said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “You know Ms. Kemp’s progress continues to slide.”

  “Yes.”

  “At the rate she’s slipping, we’ll be lucky to get the fetus to a viable stage. And once the fetus is born, I’m afraid Marigold would be in a persistent vegetative state.”

  I’m so terrified at her proclamation, I can’t think.

  Jarvis expelled a frustrated sigh. “Are you going to ask the family to terminate the fetus?”