Coma Girl: part 2 (5 page)

When he left, I wondered how things were at home between him and Mom. They hadn’t visited together in a while—were things strained?

If their relationship is strained, I’ll never know. We aren’t the kind of people who talk about our problems.

“IF YOUR MAIL KEEPS ROLLING IN AT THIS RATE, one of us is going to have to sleep with the super.”

Roberta heaved a sigh as she dropped into the chair next to my bed.

“And seeing as how you don’t seem inclined to get out of that bed, I guess I’m going to have to take one for the team.”

Her laugh cheered me considerably. I’d gotten so worked up over not being able to signal anyone about feeling my fingers and toes, every little thing set me off. I was angry at the unending classical music rotation, angry at the useless rosary hanging from my bed rail, angry at the machines beeping around me.

I totally understood my dad going off when he visited, because inside, I, too, was railing at God.
Why did this happen to me?

And like most of the men in my life, God is leaving me hanging.

“I brought a brownie cake milkshake for dinner,” she said, slurping. “Brought one for you, too. Want a sip?”

Since I can smell the rich chocolate, I assume she’s holding the straw near my mouth. I tried to make my lips move, but my brain was like sludge—maybe I’d fried it from all the internal tantrums.

“No? Okay, more for me.”

Another hearty slurp sounded, then she tore open an envelope and described the sweet card signed by a classroom in upstate New York. Their words of encouragement humbled me and made me regret my peevishness. As she continued reading notes from strangers (and counting cash), I softened more and more, especially when I heard the grief-stricken words from relatives of coma patients.

“I hope someone is reading these words to you and you are hearing them,” Roberta read. “Just as I read to my son Amos everyday with the hope he can hear me.” Roberta sniffed, then blew her nose. “That one got to me.”

It got to me, too. Because as hard as a coma is on the patient, it’s worse on family and friends because they don’t know what to do, and how long to hold out hope.

“Hm, this one seems personal—do you know a Joanna Fitz?”

Joanna! She and I had met in a college literature class and become fast friends. She lived with her doctor husband and twins in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t seen her in ages, but we stayed in touch through social media and the occasional phone call.

“She says she’s so sorry to hear about your accident and will come to visit when you wake up.”

Roberta went on to other cards and letters, but I confess I only half listened. I was too busy coveting Joanna’s life. She had made it all seem so effortless—attract a great, ambitious guy who wanted a true partner in life. Be so synergistic that instead of having one baby, you produce twins. Then immerse yourself in motherhood while your husband pulled in enough money to set you up in a country club mansion. Don’t get me wrong—Joanna deserved every bit of her good life. But why didn’t I? What made women like Joanna the kind of people who were most likely to succeed, and people like me most likely to wind up in a coma?

And just like that, the slow boil started again. I’m tired of everyone’s sympathy and good wishes. I resent the cash contributions, as if people are dropping money into a beggar’s cup to assuage their own guilt enough that they could go on living their coma-free lives feeling as if they’d done their duty.

I’ve never been an angry person, but now it seems like the only thing I have to hang on to.

“IF WE KEEP MEETING LIKE THIS,” Detective Jack Terry said, I’m going to have to give you my class ring.”

Ordinarily, his remark would make me smile, but I’m holding out, determined to stew over my predicament. Look where playing nice has gotten me in life.

Besides, I’m not going to become one more in what I suspect is a long line of women who think Jack Terry is all that.

“Braves versus Nationals, we need a win. So what do you think about the Braves moving to the burbs?”

What was it with men and sports? Personally, I think baseball is boring. The game needs some kind of wildcard, like drawing a name from the stadium spectators to play first base. That I would tune in for.

“I agree,” he said, “leaving Turner stadium is proof the entire world has gone completely insane.”

Assumption of agreement—so typical.

Although I sort of agree, if only from a practical standpoint.

“Tacos from Uncle Julio’s,” Jack said. “I didn’t know if you’d like chicken, beef, fish, or pork, so I brought one of each.” He sighed. “Please wake up, Marigold, and save me from myself.”

I know he’s referring to the fast food, but as always, it seems that Jack Terry says one thing and means another. Does he need to be saved from himself? He’s obviously beating himself up over something, but what?

Despite his proclivity for high-caloric food, I had a hard time picturing an overweight guy living on a boat. Darn, I wish Roberta had told me what he looks like. Roberta is the equivalent of the guy hanging out in front of the Marta station, giving the once-over to every female who walks by. The fact that she hadn’t described Jack Terry in precise feminist detail told me she had been scared witless at their brief encounter in my room. So I’m guessing he’s the kind of guy who walks into a room and owns it.

But those men come with a boatload of ego and emotional thorns. Woe to the girl who falls for Detective Jack Terry.

“So just a quick update before the game starts,” he said. “The re-creation of the crash was inconclusive, which sucks considering all the resources that went into it. Also, the phone records came back.”

He has my full attention.

“You were talking to your roommate Roberta either right before or at the time of the crash. Careless, but not illegal. And, hey, I can’t be a hypocrite—I’ve been known to talk and drive, too.”

He tore into the bags of food. I’m on pins and needles.

“So did you swerve into Young’s lane like he said? I guess we’ll never know… and fortunately for you, it doesn’t matter. Your and Young’s lab results are back. Yours were clean—good girl. And Young blew .1 over the legal limit, which isn’t much, but it’s enough to charge him with driving under the influence.”

So without proof to the contrary, I can assume the accident wasn’t my fault.
Phew.

“The press is going to have a field day when the results of his blood test are released. Your family will be told tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you first.” Then he made a rueful noise. “Although really, does it change anything for you?”

There he goes being philosophical again. But while he unwrapped tacos and brought up the game, I felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Because it’s good to have a confirmed, if faceless, target for my seething resentment: Keith Young.

“THIS ROOM MUST BE the most peaceful place on Earth,” the poet volunteer said with a sigh.

From his footsteps, I can tell he’s going from bed to bed. I can’t make out the words, but he’s greeting each of my roommates as if they are old friends. I wonder how long he’s been coming to the ward. He seems especially warm today, which makes me wonder if his own diagnosis has taken a turn for the better. Since he visits in the very early mornings, I’ve decided he makes his rounds before some sort of treatment. Chemotherapy? Kidney dialysis? Physical therapy?

Or perhaps his situation has taken a turn for the worse? I recalled his previous comment that some people would be happy to trade places with me. It seems clear he’s at some sort of crossroads. I’ve even wondered if he’s a doctor or hospital administrator who visits patients anonymously for his own insight.

If so, I wondered what he’s learning from reading to the vegetable patch?

“Hi, Coma Girl. How’s it going in there? Solving the world’s problems? I hope so.”

So if and when I wake up, I’m supposed to emerge with some kind of wisdom? Like people who are struck by lightning or who report being kidnapped by aliens?

The crackle of pages sounded. “This poem by Dickinson is titled simply ‘Life.’ I think it captures the uniqueness and fragility of our existence. ‘Each life converges to some center, expressed or still… exists in every human nature a goal. Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be too fair for credibility’s temerity to dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven to reach… were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment to touch. Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance… how high unto the saints’ slow diligence the sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture… but then, eternity enables the endeavoring. Again.”

The pages rustled, signaling he’d closed the book.

“Well, what did you think?”

My life is certainly “still.” But overall, I think Dickinson was saying if we don’t get to do everything in this life we want, we get an eternity to try other things. Which sounds appealing… but I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.

“Alright,” he said. “You think on it for a while, and so will I. Bye til next time.”

Darn it—now he had me thinking I should be lying here dwelling on something important, like how to measure the universe, or if a comatose state is some sort of dimension between life and the afterlife. Instead I’m whiling away the hours with thoughts equivalent to how many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll lollipop.

Jesus, can a girl not escape the pressure of expectation even when she’s in a coma?

“THE HOUSE HAS SIX BATHROOMS—six. It’s an amazing place and I’m so lucky to get the listing.”

Carrie Kemp, Real Estate Agent, is on a roll, it seems.

“My broker says if I sell half the listings I’ve picked up, I’ll make the Million Dollar Club for sure. They have their sales conferences in Hawaii! I’ve always wanted to go to Hawaii.”

Ditto. Send me a postcard.

“It’s so exciting to see how the other half lives, Marigold. It’s a real eye-opener. All this time I’ve settled for run of the mill, but there’s a whole other level of luxury out there, and it’s within reach.”

Someone had kidnapped my mom and replaced her with Tony Robbins.

“Your father simply doesn’t understand, but he’s always been an under-achiever.”

Okay, there’s my confirmation that all is not well on the Homefront. Something else to feel guilty about because I know my situation has introduced untold amounts of stress between my parents, and they appear to be dealing with the upheaval in their own way rather than together. Dad is on an extended business trip, and Mom has a whole new vocabulary with terms like “fee simple estate” and “deed-in-lieu.”

My coma had sparked my mother’s mid-life crisis.

“This is what he always does, you know. When things get tense, he goes on a business trip.”

He does? I’m not sure I want to know these things.

“I called him last night to tell him the blood tests prove Keith Young was driving drunk. I told him he should’ve been here.”

Well, in all fairness, we’ve been waiting for the results for a long time, and Dad couldn’t just hang around. On the other hand, Mom shouldn’t feel as if she’s holding down the fort single-handedly.

“Anyway, the District Attorney asked us not to make any public statements about what a lowlife that Keith Young is. But Sidney did write a special Facebook post to say the rumor you were talking on the phone when the accident happened isn’t true.” She sighed. “I hope you know your sister is really looking out for you.”

I do. And I hope Sidney’s telling the truth, I really do. Maybe Roberta got it wrong—maybe our call simply dropped because I’d driven through a dead zone.

The door opened.

“You wanted to see me, Mrs. Kemp?”

It’s Dr. Tyson.

“Yes,” my mother said, and from the creak of the chair, I knew she had pushed to her feet. “Someone has been sneaking more photos of Marigold to the press, and I want it stopped.”

They have?

“I apologize,” Dr. Tyson said. “Everyone on staff knows they will be terminated if they compromise the confidentiality of a patient. And the staff seems very fond of Marigold—I don’t believe the leak is anyone who works here.”

“Then who could it be?”

“It could be one of your daughter’s visitors, or a visitor of one of the other patients. We try to monitor traffic in and out of the ward, but short of a full-time security guard, we can’t watch the door twenty-four seven. Do you know when it happened?”

“The photos showed up on TMZ yesterday.”

“And you’re sure your other daughter wasn’t involved?”

Ooh, a direct hit.

“Yes, I’m sure,” my mother bit out. “Sidney would never let such an unflattering photo of her sister be released. She’s very protective of Marigold.”