Coma Girl: part 1 (2 page)

“How did you know I was here?”

My sister was going to make a great lawyer.

“I stopped by your parents’ home. They told me where I could find you.”

“You work on Sundays, Detective?”

“Is it Sunday? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“I suppose,” he said agreeably. “But since we’re both here, you’d do me a big favor by letting me tie up some loose ends. I’ll try to be brief.”

“Okay. Of course I’ll help any way I can. Has Keith Young been charged?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t speak for the district attorney’s office, but I’m told Young’s toxicology results aren’t yet available.”

“It’s been weeks, how is that possible?”

“This isn’t a TV show, ma’am… the state labs are so jammed up, we’ll be lucky to hear back within another month.”

“So much for the victim’s right to a speedy trial,” Sidney said dryly.

“Ah, yes, I read in the report that you’re a law student.”

“That’s right.”

“What year?”

“I start my third year at Boston U this fall.”

“So you’re almost done, good for you.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m really sorry about your sister.”

He had a handsome voice and I wondered if he looked the way he sounded.

“So am I,” Sidney said, her voice defiant. “What questions do you have about the accident?”

He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to start from the beginning. I understand your sister Marianne—”

“Marigold. Her name is Marigold.”

“Right—sorry. I understand Marigold picked you up from the airport Memorial Day weekend, on that Saturday?”

I didn’t remember any of this, so I was riveted.

“Yes. I came home for summer break.”

“What time did the two of you leave the airport?”

“Around nine that evening.”

“And your sister was driving a tan-colored 2010 Ford Escort?”

“That’s correct.”

“Okay. The report says you drove straight home?”

“Yes.”

“I found a receipt in the Escort from a convenience store with a timestamp around the time of the accident.”

“Oh, right. I forgot—Marigold wanted to stop and get a lottery ticket. It’s silly... a psychic once told her she was going to win the lottery, so she was a little obsessed with it.”

I wouldn’t have used the word “obsessed”…
dedicated
, maybe.

“Was any alcohol purchased?”

“No.”

“Did you make any other stops?”

“No. From the convenience store, we headed home.”

“To 558 Northwind Drive?”

“Yes. We were maybe five miles from my parents’ house when Keith Young hit us.”

“Did you notice his car before the accident?”

“What do you mean?”

“Keith Young drives a yellow Jaguar—it stands out. You must’ve seen it coming toward you?”

“I… wasn’t looking, I guess. Besides, it was dark.”

“About that—do you remember if your sister had her car lights on?”

“I… would assume so. Marigold is a very responsible driver.”

“I know. I ran her license—she’s never had a violation.”

“All the more reason to arrest Keith Young. He was driving drunk and he crossed the center line.”

“I thought you said you didn’t see his car.”

“I didn’t.”

“So you didn’t actually see him drive across the center line?”

“I saw the aftermath.”

“So someone told you he crossed the center line?”

“I suppose.”

“Or maybe you heard it on the news?”

“I don’t remember,” she said evenly.

“Okay. Do you know if your sister saw his car coming? Did she honk the horn or scream or try to swerve?”

“No… maybe… I can’t remember, but no, I don’t think so.”

“Was your sister distracted, maybe using her phone?”

“No. By the way, when do we get our phones back?”

“I’ll have to let you know. Unfortunately, confiscating phones at the scene of accidents is standard protocol now.”

“You don’t need our phones. The accident was Keith Young’s fault—he was drunk.”

“What makes you say Young was drunk?”

“I smelled alcohol on him.”

“This was when he tried to administer aid to your sister at the scene?”

“Yes. But if you think that makes up for what he did to my family, Detective, think again. Look at my sister—because of Keith Young she might never get out of this bed.”

“I’m very sorry for your family. And for your sister.”

“Are you finished with the questions? Visiting hours are almost over.”

“Yes, I’m done. I’ll leave you.” His footsteps sounded on the floor. “Ms. Kemp, I hope your sister wakes up soon.”

Sidney didn’t respond and after the door closed, I realized she was crying. I wanted to cry, too. I had been straining to remember, hoping some detail of the accident would open the floodgates of my memory, but nothing had changed. My mind was still like a giant blackboard that had been erased.

“AND AS SOON AS you wake up,” my mom said, “we’ll go to the laser light show at Stone Mountain. I know how much you enjoy watching it, and we haven’t been in a while.”

By my calculations, we hadn’t been in sixteen years. Hey—the math part of my brain was still working. Now if only that part would nudge the ‘lift your hand’ part.

“We hate to go to the fireworks in Centennial Park without you,” she continued, “but Sidney is devastated over your situation, and your father and I thought it would be nice for all of us to take a little break.”

From me. I was catatonic, and I was still too high-maintenance for my family.

But I knew what she meant. My family loves me, they’re just not used to worrying about me, accommodating me… dealing with me. And I understood they had their own lives. Since it was the Fourth of July, my dad had the day off from his job, so I was getting them both at once. Plus I remembered that the hospital is close to Centennial Park, so I was on the way. Like Starbucks.

“Sidney went down early with a group of friends,” my mother said. “After all, she’s supposed to be on summer vacation. She works so hard at her studies, she deserves to have some fun before she has to go back.”

I agreed, but I was desperate for company. Still, my family was probably getting fatigued. Who knew how many hours they’d already spent at my bedside during my “lost” month.

“But before we leave,” my dad said. “We have a surprise for you.”

There was some fumbling, then I hear a muted bleeping noise.

“Go ahead,” my mom said loudly.

“Hi, Sis.”

Alex.
His voice sounded tinny and distant, but it was my big brother, all right.

“We’re Skyping,” my mother said, apparently to me. “Can you see Marigold, Alex?”

“Yes, I can see her.”

The anguished sound in his voice was jarring—nothing rattled my brilliant soldier brother. I could only assume I looked ghastly. He, on the other hand, would be sharp-featured and tanned, muscular and vibrant.

“How’s it going, Sis? Will you open your pretty green eyes and talk to me?”

My entire life I’d done anything and everything my brother asked just to please him. This time, I could not.

“Okay, I’ll let you rest then. But I’ll be home soon and I expect you to be awake and giving me a hard time, you hear me?”

In the silence that followed, I assumed my parents were scrutinizing me for movement or sound.

“Did she respond?” Alex asked.

“No,” my dad said woodenly. “She’s the same.”

“Jesus, she looks so pale… and the scars.”

I winced inwardly. Scars?

“What are the doctors saying?” Alex asked.

“Not much,” my mom said. “No one seems to have any answers.”

“They’re going to run more tests soon,” my dad added. “Hopefully we’ll know more then.”

A muffled horn sounded. “Sorry, that’s for me,” Alex said. “Gotta run. Happy Fourth!”

“You too, son. We’re flying our flag at home.”

“Bye, dear.”

“Tell Sid hello for me. Bye, Marigold!” I pictured him waving his big hand.

When they disconnected the video call, my parents’ disappointment was palpable in the room.

“Well, I guess you’re not going to open your eyes today,” my mother said, as if I were lying here motionless out of spite. “So we’re going to leave.”

“We’ll be back soon,” my dad promised.

They left and all I could hear was the beeping and whooshing noises of the machines in the ward, keeping us vegetables alive. But later I realized the room must have a window because I could hear the distant
pop-pop, pop-pop-pop
of fireworks. I imagined the canisters shooting high, then bursting with spectacular wheels of color before falling and fading into the night sky. I suppose some people might see the fireworks as a metaphor for life, but I didn’t. Because I felt as if I’d missed out on the bursting-with-spectacular-color part.

At one point, I heard a sound from the show that seemed a little off from the others—instead of a
pop
within a symphony of other pops, it made a thick, thudding noise.
Fffp.
A dud, I realized.

Okay, there was my metaphor.

“GOOD MORNING, Coma Girl.”

I slowly became aware of a nice male voice I didn’t recognize. The fact that I didn’t recognize the person speaking wasn’t unusual—the number of people moving around in a hospital on any given day is pretty remarkable. What struck me about this voice was the friendly familiarity, as if he did know me. But the volunteers—candy-stripers, retirees, students—had a way of making patients feel as if they were old friends. And for all I knew, this volunteer had been coming to see me regularly.

“Do you like poetry? I brought a book by Emily Dickinson to read from that I thought you might enjoy. This poem is called ‘Dawn’.” He cleared his throat. “
When night is almost done, and sunrise grows so near… that we can touch the spaces, it's time to smooth the hair… and get the dimples ready, and wonder we could care… for that old faded midnight that frightened but an hour.”

I was smiling inside. The words described how I’d always felt about the night. I was twenty-eight years old and every evening I still faced bedtime like a toddler—I would procrastinate and whine and get a drink of water and pee and adjust the thermostat and the shades and… well, basically, I dreaded closing my eyes and going to sleep. I looked it up once—it’s a thing, with an official name:
hynophobia
.

The article I read said the thought of going to sleep made me anxious because I saw it as losing control or sacrificing time that could be spent accomplishing things. I’m not sure I buy either of those explanations because I don’t see myself as a controlling person, nor as someone who could set the world on fire if not for that pesky needing sleep thing. I confess as bedtime approaches, the more things I can think of that simply have to be done, but they fall a little short of what my mother would deem an accomplishment: tie-dyeing a skirt in the bathroom sink or organizing my CD collection alphabetically. (Yes, now you know the name of the one person in the world who still buys CDs.) And did you know if you stream Netflix at three in the morning, you pretty much have the service to yourself? No jerky interruptions just when you get to the good parts. But I digress.

In short, I’ve always suffered from insomnia. Which kind of makes my current dilemma seem like some kind of sick karmic joke, huh?

The nice volunteer reading to me couldn’t know that about me, but he probably knows if I can hear him, I might be a little afraid my dawn will never come.

The truth is, I
am
afraid. None of this makes sense to me—how is my mind processing some sensory inputs, but not others? Did I have a big dent under the bandage on my head—was a chunk of my brain missing?

On an episode of
Forensic Files
—which fyi, plays all night until 6:00 am—a woman killed her husband by injecting him with a drug that paralyzed him, then setting a fire. The poor man lay there, knowing he was going to die, and could do nothing about it. I remember thinking that must be the most helpless feeling in the world.

Unfortunately, I can now confirm it is.

As the volunteer slips from the room, he can’t know how grateful I am he took the time to read to me when, for all he knows, I’m already gone.

I hope he comes back soon and brings another poem with him.