Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single) (8 page)

It’s true, he prefers college basketball. He’d told me there was a story behind the hat, but he never got around to telling me, was too busy impregnating me.

“So that’s that, Duncan is not the father of your child.” She sighed. “Pity though, I bet the two of you would have decent-looking kids. Not gorgeous, mind you, but really decent-looking. And sturdy.”

Aww. I hope she’s right.

So Duncan is traveling overseas. Which means he might not know I’m pregnant, or if he does know, he might not be able to reach me.

Women do that—we make excuses for our men… it blunts the pain.

Because the more likely scenario is Duncan left the country to get away from me.

IT’S BEEN A WHILE since Sidney came to visit by herself. I’m happy to hear her jabber on about the Coma Girl brand, but I’m really excited that she’s painting my nails again. I know Dr. Tyson and Dr. Jarvis are worried I’m losing ground, and I want to prove to myself I still have working connections to the tips of my fingers and toes.

“Peacock blue for your fingers,” Sid says. “And sunshine yellow for your toes.” She yawned noisily. “Ack, I need a nap.”

She does seem tired today, but I know she’s been working nonstop on building a support system for Coma Girl fans and followers.

“Do you know that some newspapers are offering a bounty for the name of your baby’s father?”

No, I hadn’t heard. That’s… weird.

“Everyone wants to know who is the father of the Coma Girl baby.”

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.

“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.

“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.”