Coma Girl: part 1 (6 page)

“How would you measure it?”

“EEG—an electroencephalogram.”

“Correct. An EEG showed she does have substantial brainwave activity. Sayna, go.”

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

“No. Goldberg, go.”

“Does the patient respond to pain?”

“Patient responds locally when external pain sources are applied. Is that good, Goldberg?”

“A general response to pain would be preferable.”

“Correct. Jarvis, go.”

“Is this Coma Girl?”

The room fell completely silent. I wondered if she knew what he meant, although with the influx of flowers and with David Spooner lobbying the hospital for tighter security, she must.

“Yes,” Dr. Tyson said finally. “This is the patient the media refers to as Coma Girl. Keep your phones stowed, people. And don’t even think about touching your Google Glasses. Anyone who takes a picture of the patient even for their own use and records, will forfeit their residency. Understood?”

A chorus of yeses sounded.

“Kwan, what test is used to determine the severity of a coma?”

“The Glasgow index.”

“Correct. And based on the answers to the previous questions, where would the patient land on the index?”

“In the ‘severe’ range.”

“Correct again. Statler, go.”

“Can the patient hear us?”

“I’ve told the family she can and encouraged them to keep trying to communicate with her.”

“But?” Statler prodded.

“But between us, I doubt very much Coma Girl has any awareness of what’s going on right now.”

Not only was I aware, but I was incensed. How dare the doctor just write me off like that.

“Jarvis, do you have a question?”

“But you don’t know for sure the patient can’t hear us?”

“It’s my opinion based on the results of the EEG that she cannot.”

“But you don’t
know
?” he pressed.

“No,” Dr. Tyson conceded. “I don’t know for sure. Let’s move on to the cardiac ward.”

Okay, I kind of like that Jarvis guy.

“GOOD MORNING, MARIGOLD. I’m Dr. Jarvis and I have a little something for you.”

Oh, God, please don’t let him be a pervert.

The door opened and from the bumping sounds and squeaking wheels, I got the impression of something sizable being wheeled into the room.

“Where do you want the TV, doc?” a man asked.

“Over there is good, let me move some of these flowers out of the way.”

“We’re supposed to take some of those with us,” another man said.

“Right. Why don’t you take a few to the maternity ward, and some to the chemo department?”

“Sure thing, doc.”

A television? Terrific! I was having withdrawal from late-night shows. And if the hospital got the Discovery ID channel, I’d be set. Spouses conspiring to murder each other never gets old.

After some shuffling and more bumping noises, the door closed to relative quiet. The whooshing and wheezing of various machines hooked up to us veggies had become white noise. From the sound of Dr. Jarvis’s footsteps and the rustle of fabric, I realized he was standing next to my bed.

“Marigold, can you open your eyes?”

No.

“Okay, then, can you wiggle your toes?”

Nope.

“Try again, please? Just one toe?”

Not happening.

“Okay, I’m holding your hand. Very soft, by the way.”

Really, doc? Flirting with Coma Girl?

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

I tried to visualize him holding my limp hand and sent impulses toward it.

“Concentrate, Marigold, and squeeze my hand.”

I was trying.

“No? Okay, we’ll try again later. Now then, just to let you know what’s going on— I’ve arranged for a television to be placed in the ward, for the stimulation of all the patients, of course, but especially you, Marigold. I’ve reviewed your EEG results and unlike Dr. Tyson, I believe you can hear me, and hear things around you, too. To that end, I’ve asked that the television remain on and at an audible volume during daylight hours to provided sensory input when people aren’t around.”

In my mind, I was hugging him.

“I’ve done some research into what types of sounds are most effective in stirring responses in the brain, especially in the area where your injury occurred.”

It was a full body hug.

“Fortunately, the hospital has an extensive lineup of channels, so I was able to find a few to experiment with.”

HBO? CNN? HGTV? I love me some
Property Brothers
.

“As it turns out, music is the sound that stimulates the most areas of the brain.”

Okay, that was a little disappointing, but I dig my CD collection and I’m down with Pandora. My tastes run the gamut from pop to blues to folksy acoustic stuff. I’ve been known to listen to country, although I prefer older country to the new. And I don’t turn off hip-hop when it crosses my earbuds. Actually, I pretty much listen to all kinds of music, except classical.

“And tests show the most stimulating music is classical.”

Crap.

With a couple of clicks, the strains of a violin-led symphony floated into the room, sucking all the joy out of the air.

“There. Now let’s see what a steady diet of Bach will do for that bruised brain of yours.”

I was officially rescinding the hug.

A RAP SOUNDED on the door, and from the sharpness and the force, I guessed the visitor to be a man. Sure enough, heavy footsteps sounded—the guy was wearing boots in the dead of summer in Atlanta. Whoever he was, he was alpha. The question was, which one of us turnips had he come to see?

“Hello, Marigold. It’s Jack Terry from the Atlanta Police Department.”

Oh, I remembered him. He was the one who’d pumped Sidney for details on the accident. If he’d come back hoping to run into her again, he would be disappointed. Sid had breezed by earlier to retrieve the cards from the newly delivered batch of flowers, and although she said she was working on a school project today, I smelled suntan lotion.

Which was fine… good even. Sid deserved to enjoy a Sunday afternoon at the lake. She was spending lots of hours fielding questions about me and organizing our family “message,” as David Spooner called it. I received occasional eye-popping (if my eyes could pop) updates: My Coma Girl Facebook page had over 250,000 likes, and Coma Girl Pinterest boards were the quirky trend of the moment—Things You Can Do While Bedridden, How to Jazz up a Hospital Bed with Throw Pillows. And Coma Girl T-shirts were all the rage.

Who knew comas were cool?

So Sid deserved a day off from me and my trappings.

“All alone today?” he asked.

Ha—just as I suspected.

“Me, too,” he said. “I was told you hadn’t woken up yet, but since I’m a detective and all, I thought I’d come and check for myself. I brought flowers.”

He brought flowers?

“But I see you have a few dozen bouquets already…. and all nicer than mine, I might add. I only brought a handful of black-eyed susans that were growing around the dock where I live.”

So the man who wore boots lived on a boat? Interesting. But if he had a boat, wasn’t the weekend the best time to be out on it?

“Someone told me you’re an Internet sensation. I’m not really into all that, I must be the only person alive who doesn’t have a Faceprint account.”

LOL, Detective.

“I don’t really like people that much in person, can’t imagine taking the time to like them online.”

Fair enough.

“I’m still investigating your case, by the way. The D.A. found some extra resources somewhere to get priority on the lab work, and they’re going to recreate the accident—which isn’t cheap. You, Coma Girl, are causing quite a ruckus.”

He seemed impressed.

“I see you got a TV—nice. But what goober put on this awful music for you to listen to?”

He must’ve found the remote control because the music went away mid-note, thank God. He channel-surfed for a while, then stopped.

“Hey, the Braves are playing the Rockies. This could be a good game.”

I heard a chair being dragged across the floor. “Mind if I hang out here for a while?”

I didn’t mind—the man had picked flowers for me, after all. But I had to wonder… what was going on in Detective Jack Terry’s life that he preferred to spend the afternoon with Coma Girl instead of going home?

ROBERTA HAD COME BACK to see me. This time she brought a bear claw for us to “share.”

“Girlfriend, you are the biggest thing on the Internet since that whole is-the-dress-blue-or-white nonsense. Guess that accounts for all the watchdogs on this floor. I had to leave a dozen jelly doughnuts at the nurses’ station just to get in to see you. Yuck—who turned on this horrid music channel? Oh, my… I wish you could taste this bear claw.”

So did I. Roberta practically hums when she eats, so even comatose foodies get to enjoy. I hoped I wasn’t drooling.

“Your mail at the apartment has piled up to the point that I had to do something. I mean, if I opened it on my own, that would be totally illegal, right? So I figured opening it here and reading it to you would be the next best thing to you doing it.”

She licked her fingers noisily.

“Okay, let’s see what we got. There must be fifty cards and letters here.”

I heard the sound of paper ripping.

“This one’s written on pretty rose-colored stationery. Dear Coma Girl…”

She proceeded to read to me messages written from strangers all over the country—all over the globe. I was amazed at the outpouring of sympathy and kindness. Some of the letter writers had a relative who was in a coma, and my story had given them hope by bringing new awareness to their relative’s case.

That was cool.

“Oh my God, this one contains a ten-dollar bill! What am I supposed to do with it? Should I give it to your parents? By the way, I got a voice message from some guy named David Spooner. He wants to talk about the lease you and I signed, and he said your mother wants to come to the apartment and go through your things.”

Ack.

“Look, I know she’s your mother and all, but I also know y’all aren’t particularly close, and I don’t know what to do. I mean, if the roles were reversed, I don’t think I’d want my mom rifling through my stuff. It just seems like an invasion of your privacy, you know?” Roberta sighed. “I really wish you’d wake up, Marigold, and tell me what to do.”

Being in a coma gave me a glimpse of what things would be like if I’d died in the accident—or if I died still: My parents and the media sifting through the remnants of my limited life, wondering why I’d bought a certain knick-knack or kept a certain photograph… judging me.

“Oh, my God! This one is a marriage proposal—assuming you wake up, of course. Is that nice, or is that creepy?”

More creepy than nice, I think. But not as creepy as the second marriage proposal a few cards later from a guy who didn’t mind if I never woke up. Now that’s accommodation… and a felony.

“Hey, more cash! This woman sent twenty dollars… and a coupon for diapers. Wait—that’s a little mean.”

I’m sure the woman meant well, but yeah…
ouch
.

“That was the last one, but I’m sure they’ll start piling up again tomorrow. Let’s see, you have one hundred and twenty-five dollars in cash. Should I give it to your parents?”

Probably.

Roberta made a thought noise. “You know, I think I’ll just save this and give it to you when you wake up.”

I love Roberta and she has a good heart, but I had a feeling the cash was headed for her perpetually overdrawn bank account. And I was okay with that.

“By the way, Duncan and his woman came back to the bakery yesterday. He didn’t talk much—actually he didn’t even make eye contact. Now that he’s back and knows about the accident, I wonder if he thinks about visiting you?”

Not anymore.

“Anyway, forget about Duncan. You have admirers all over the world! Gotta run, I’ll be back soon with more mail!”

Forget about Duncan.
I was trying.

“HELLO, LADIES. It’s Sister Irene. How’s everything in here today?”

Just peachy. I wonder if Sister Irene notices at a glance that her prayers from last time went unanswered?

“Oh, my, Marigold, look at all these beautiful flowers! Aren’t you the lucky lady?”