Okay, that’s where she lost me. Despite my Catholic upbringing, I’m not a very religious person. I have problems with God—I think he should be more open to my suggestions. I know that’s a sacrilegious statement and some of you might think that’s why I’m here, that I was struck down and sentenced to lie here until I’ve paid penance for my wicked independence. But this can’t be my destiny.
If anything, my story and my ward mates’ stories tell me that life is so random, no one is in control… not even God.
If I could talk, I’d tell Sister Irene to save her prayers for me and spend them on someone else. Because I’m going to get out of here.
On my own.
“SO I WAS THINKING,” Sidney said. “If people want a picture of Coma Girl, let’s give them a good picture. I brought my makeup kit and a head scarf to cover up that hideous bandage. Then we’ll have something to push out into your social media streams. I ran this by David, and he thinks it’s a great idea.”
Wow, my sister had singlehandedly come up with a new genre: coma porn.
And why hadn’t she thought of this before Duncan came to visit me in all my bedridden unsightliness?
Yes, of course I’d been thinking about him almost nonstop since his short visit to my room. I desperately wanted to call Roberta and ask her what she thought about it, but that was out of the question. Plus I knew what she’d say:
Girl, you’re in a coma, and you’re wasting what few brain cells you have left thinking about a man who doesn’t want you? What are you, stupid?
And she would be right.
Meanwhile, from all the zips and thumps and snaps and taps, it sounded as if Sidney was unpacking an arsenal.
“I’ve always wanted to do this, but you would never let me.”
I don’t remember Sid ever offering to make me up, but she was doing it now, and that’s what mattered.
“I only wish you would open your eyes so I’d have more to work with.”
Except that would render the entire exercise moot.
“First I have to trim those eyebrows of yours. Honestly, sis, they look like mustaches.”
Now there’s an image that will stick with me.
“Okay, better. Next, a nice crystal scrub to remove all the dead skin cells. I’ll be careful around the scars.”
I couldn’t feel anything, but I know my sister knows what she’s doing.
“Now I’ll use a wipe to remove the crystals. There, that’s better already. I’m going to tell the nurses to exfoliate your skin at least once a week.”
And I’m sure they will put it on the top of their list.
“Now moisturizer—with luminescence so your skin will glow. Oh, sis, you really do have nice skin... you should play it up more.”
Duly noted.
“And you’re dreadfully pale, but I think this foundation color might work. Hm… yes, that looks nice. And concealer for this scar… and that one… and that one… and that one…”
Jesus, my face must look like a jigsaw puzzle.
“Okay, that’s the worst of it. Now a contouring stripe to minimize your nose.”
Apparently my too-big nose was still intact—
check
.
“And powder to set… good. And a little mascara…”
I still had eyelashes—
check
.
“A touch of blush on the cheeks and eyebrows…”
Check, check.
“And lip balm.”
Whew!
Check.
“Now let me see about covering that bandage in front.”
The muffled ring of a cell phone sounded. Sidney shifted in the creaky chair and fumbled while it rang a couple more times. The police must have returned our phones.
“Hello?” Sidney said. “No.”
Her footsteps sounded as she walked away, in the direction of the window.
“I told you not to call me.”
Her voice was lower, but I could still make it out. She sounded angry—was it a boyfriend? Sidney was never in want of male company, but neither had she mentioned one certain guy.
“My sister is in the hospital. I haven’t been able to work on our project as much as I had planned.”
Ah—it was obviously a fellow student.
“Can you cut me some slack? My sister is in a coma and my family is falling apart.”
I didn’t think that was the case but if Sid was late on a project, it was because of my predicament, so she could use whatever excuse she wanted.
“Don’t call me again. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” She ended the call and cursed under her breath. “This isn’t fair!”
I understood her frustration. She had arrived home from school anticipating a fun summer of partying with friends and instead was babysitting her comatose sister and holding my parents’ hands. She was right—none of this was fair.
Sid inhaled and exhaled audibly, as if searching for a Zen place, then she came padding back to my bed. “Okay, let me take a peek at my handiwork,” she said, her voice only slightly elevated. “Good. Now you don’t look dead.”
Always a plus.
“Say cheese, Coma Girl.”
“GOOD MORNING, Coma Girl.”
My toes curled… at least they wanted to. It was the silky-throated volunteer with a penchant for poetry. I had tried so hard to remember him, but I needed the live trigger of his voice to bring it all back. Just as Dr. Tyson said, forming new memories was harder than conjuring up old ones.
“Goodness, look at all these flowers… and balloons… and stuffed animals. Wow, you are one popular lady.”
The flowers kept coming every day. David Spooner had arranged for most of them to be distributed throughout the hospital so other patients could enjoy them. And as much as I appreciated the gesture, the cloying sweetness of the live flowers was getting to me… it reminded me of a funeral, and that cut a little too close for comfort.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” he said. “Sunny with a blueberry sky and a magnolia breeze. Can you see it?”
I could see it… smell it… taste it…
“I found this poem in the Emily Dickinson book, and it seemed right for today. I hope you think so, too. It’s called ‘Angels In The Early Morning.’ ” He cleared this throat politely. “Angels in the early morning may be seen the dews among, stooping, plucking, smiling, flying... Do the buds to them belong? Angels when the sun is hottest may be seen the sands among, stooping, plucking, sighing, flying… parched the flowers they bear along.”
Beautiful. I’d been lying here in the dark for so long, I’d almost forgotten how sunlight looked and what it felt like on my skin—with 50 SPF of course.
A soft thud indicated he’d closed the book. “What did you think? If you don’t give me something to go on here, I’m going to have to keep winging it.”
Fine by me.
“Okay. I appreciate a person of few words. I think everyone would benefit from talking a little less and listening a little more. It gives you leverage, you know—listening. As long as you really hear what the other person is saying.”
I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that, but my position did put me in a unique position. Because even though people talked at me and to me and in front me, few people truly believed I could hear them. Which meant they usually relaxed their verbal filter.
“Hey, I saw someone posted a new picture of you online… it looked nice. Everyone is happy to see you’re improving.”
Was I improving? I thought so.
The chair creaked, meaning he’d shifted… closer?
“What’s going on in that bound up head of yours?” he asked softly. “You’re not dead, but you’re not alive. What’s it like to be in limbo?”
Frustrating… maddening… scary… really scary. Which is why I had to find a way out.
“One day I’m hoping to walk in here and find you sitting up and talking, and then you can tell me.”
Deal.
“Later, Coma Girl.”
“I’M SORRY it’s been a few days since I’ve been by to visit you, sweetheart. I’ve taken off a lot of work since the accident, and my boss was leaning on me to get back on the road.”
My dad, Robert Kemp, sells road signs… you know, the kind you see when you drive along the highway. He sells to local municipalities, county governments, state governments, and he even has some accounts on the federal level. If you’ve ever traveled throughout the Southeast, you’ve probably driven by one of my dad’s signs. It’s not a very glamorous job, but my dad is good at it, and he takes a lot of pride in his products. The garage, basement, and attic of the home I grew up in are stacked with samples and rejects—misprints and misspellings. Louisiana seems to give sign makers the most trouble, followed by Mississippi, although Tennessee is problematic, too.
“Mr. Boxer isn’t a bad guy,” my dad said. “He asks about you all the time. But this is a busy time of the year since so many governments’ fiscal year ends in June, so new budgets are being set—and spent.”
My dad has always travelled during the week and been home on the weekends, but there have been occasions when he’s had to be on-site for a big install and was away from home for a couple of weeks at a time. When Alex was old enough, he travelled with Dad during summer breaks. Ditto for Sidney. I’m not sure why I didn’t—maybe Dad was waiting for me to ask, and I was waiting to be asked. Anyway, Dad had always had an easy rapport with Alex and Sid, but he struggled more to talk to me.
“And even though Mr. Spooner is working on the contingency that Keith Young’s insurance will pay for everything, there are still retainers and medical bills and—well, you don’t need to hear all that. Just know that I’m going to take care of everything.”
But I never doubted my father’s love for me. And it pained me to think he would be working overtime to pay for expenses I’d incurred.
“I checked with the police impound lot and they agreed to release your car. It’s a mess, but I think I know a guy who can fix it. I’m having it towed to his shop this week. Don’t worry, by the time you get out of here, it’ll be good as new and waiting for you.”
Some people believe a person’s wellbeing is reflected in their teeth. My dad believes a person’s wellbeing is reflected in their vehicle. It made sense because he spent so much time in his SUV, which was always immaculate and in top running condition. There were plenty of times after I hit driving age when I’d missed a dental checkup, but my dad wouldn’t hear of me missing an oil change. So I couldn’t imagine what it did to him to see my little Ford Escort banged up.
“Hey, I got a new grill,” he said as if it had just popped into his mind. “One of those nice egg ones. Sidney gave it to me for Father’s Day.”
I’d missed Father’s Day, I realized. But I could never top Sidney’s and Alex’s gifts anyway.
“And Alex sent me cufflinks made from lapis mined in Afghanistan.”
See what I mean?
“When you wake up, I’ll make you a big juicy steak,” he said, his voice cracking. “And I want to braid your hair.”
Braid my hair? Maybe I hadn’t heard him correctly.
“When you were a little girl, you came to me once and asked me to braid your hair. You were maybe six or seven. I was irritated, probably busy with something I thought was important. And I didn’t know
how
to braid your hair. So I snapped at you and sent you away. I’m so sorry, Marigold.”
I remember when that happened—only because my father was generally so sweet-natured, the few times he’d raised his voice to me had made an impression. But I hadn’t been traumatized by the incident. He’d obviously thought a lot more about it than I had. And now he seemed afraid he wasn’t going to have the chance to right what he perceived to be a grievous wrong. I wished I could reach out to my Daddy now and tell him it was fine, and I’m fine.
But I’m not fine, of course. Else I could tell him I’m fine.
“GATHER AROUND bed three,” Dr. Tyson said. “Move some flowers if you have to.”
From the number of footsteps that filed into the ward, I assumed the doctor was going to use me as some kind of show and tell segment.
“Patient is a twenty-eight-year-old female with a traumatic brain injury from a car collision approximately eight weeks ago. She was unconscious when first responders arrived on the scene. Upon arriving at Brady, she underwent surgery to relieve bleeding on the brain. She has not yet regained consciousness. Questions? Phillips, go.”
“What is the state of the brain bleed?”
“Stable and healing, but considerable swelling remains. Gaynor, go.”
“Did the patient have a brain incident before the crash, or was the bleed caused by the crash?”
“Patient was healthy before the crash, the brain damage is an impact injury. Tosco, go.”
“Is the patient verbal?”
“No. Streeter, go.”
“Does the patient exhibit brainwave activity?”