Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single) (9 page)

It sounds as if someone believed the rumor that the lab was paid off, and decided Keith Young was going to pay.

My boss’s parting words during his last visit came back to me:
That football player is going to get what he deserves for what he did to you, one way or another.
Mr. Palmer had plenty of ex-cons on the payroll to do any side job he deemed necessary.

And in a previous Skype call my brother Alex had mentioned an Army buddy of his in Atlanta had offered to “dispense a little street justice.” Had Alex called in a favor?

Or maybe a vigilante had taken it upon himself to right what he considered to be a wrong?

Except what if Jack Terry was right—what if Keith Young hadn’t been driving drunk, and the anonymous tipster was someone with a beef against him? Another player, for example, or a jealous ex? The person could’ve set things in motion with a phone call, then sat back and watched things happen.

THE SILKY-THROATED volunteer is back… but now he makes me nervous. I’m sure he’s the one who’s been leaking photos to the tabloids, and I feel betrayed. Because I want to enjoy the poetry without feeling like I’m being exploited in exchange.

Sure enough, he locked the door before he came to sit beside our beds.

“Summer’s fading,” he said. “The change in temperatures makes for some beautiful sunsets. I wish you could see them.”

So do I. My and Roberta’s apartment isn’t all that, but we have a Juliet balcony facing Alabama that, if you overlook the dumpsters and the graffiti just below and beyond, afforded us spectacular sunset views. I took them for granted, assumed I had many sunsets left.

Do me a favor, friend, and if you can get to a window this evening, watch the sun set for me?

“So I picked this Dickinson poem for you ladies today. It’s called ‘I Know a Place Where Summer Strives.’”

He shifted in the creaky chair.

“I know a place where summer strives with such a practiced frost, she each year leads her daisies back recording briefly, ‘Lost.’ But when the south wind stirs the pools and struggles in the lanes, her heart misgives her for her vow, and she pours soft refrains.”

He coughed lightly—to cover a succession of camera clicks?—then resumed.

“Into the lap of adamant, and spices, and the dew, that stiffens quietly to quartz, upon her amber shoe.”

See? That makes me hate him a little. Why can’t he just leave me with the visual of an amber shoe, instead of taking a piece of me with him?

He coughed again and I distinctly heard the buzz of a mechanical gadget.

“Have a nice day, ladies.”

Then he unlocked the door and left.

“PEACE BE WITH YOU, ladies.”

And also with you.

But are you sure you don’t mean “pieces,” Sister Irene? Are you carrying around that big knife under your habit just waiting for the chance to gut someone who reminds you of the man who killed your sister?

“Let me count heads lest one of you decided to get up and walk out of here since the last time I visited—one, two, three. Yes, you’re all still here,” she said merrily. “Hello, Karen. Hello, Jill. Hello, Marigold.”

Then she exclaimed. “And Marigold, what’s all this I see? Balloons and flowers. You’re going to have a baby? That’s quite unexpected. But a baby is always a happy occasion. Children are our second chance at fulfilling our life’s promise to God.”

Uh-huh. That all sounds great, Sister, but it’s hard for me to relax when I know what you’re really thinking.

“I don’t fully understand why I’m so drawn to talk to you, Marigold. Maybe it’s because your face bears the mark of so much sacrifice.”

The scars again—ugh.

“Maybe it’s the sight of your lovely rosary. I’ve been praying the rosary with devotion to push through my crisis of faith, and I’ve finally reached a point of reconciliation. I know what I have to do, even though it’s going to be hard. I’ve invited the man we talked about, George Gilpin, to my home to perform some repairs. My sister had a different last name, so he doesn’t know who I am and really, it’s better that way. You’ll see. God has a plan for each of us, and I must follow mine.”

She walked between our beds and offered up a prayer to the patron saint of head injuries, Saint Aurelius of Riditio. As she uttered the words, however, I realized Sister Irene has her own head injuries that need to be addressed. She is basically planning to invite a man to her house so she can skin him.

She stopped at the door. “Peace be with you, ladies.”

And also with you. Seriously.

WHEN MY MOM WALKED into my room, I knew something was wrong.

Not wrong in the sense that something else had gone south with the case or that someone had died. But wrong in the sense that she needed to get something off her chest and she wasn’t going to hold back.

I was about to get a lecture, but good.

She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just paced and drank coffee. I could smell the caramel flavoring she liked, and hear the jangle of her bracelets. This pacing, silent treatment phase was part of the punishment. It was the part I’d hated most when I was young because you had to sit there and wait until she was good and ready to blast you. I was pretty sure what the topic would be and frankly, was a little surprised it had taken her this long to dole out my well-deserved tongue-lashing.

She was going to tell me I disrespected myself by lying down with a man who obviously doesn’t care about me and conceiving an unwanted child.

And that even if I get well, I barely make enough money to support myself, much less a baby and how am I going to do both?

That this unplanned child is simply another in a long line of poor decisions and haphazard life design and when am I going to grow up and be as smart and mindful as my siblings?

She walked over and set down her coffee cup with a bang and I mentally steeled myself to be stripped down to my tendons with her acid tongue.

Instead, the bed creaked and moaned and I was suddenly beset by fragrances I didn’t even know I’d missed—my mother’s tea tree oil shampoo and lavender body lotion, and the fabric softener freshness of her blouses. She had crawled into the hospital bed with me and wrapped herself around me and my baby.

I can’t feel her, but I can smell her and hear her breath in my ear. I feel loved and I know my child will be loved, too.

“JARVIS, COME in and lock the door,” Dr. Tyson said.

“What’s going on?”

“You know Ms. Kemp’s progress continues to slide.”

“Yes.”

“At the rate she’s slipping, we’ll be lucky to get the fetus to a viable stage. And once the fetus is born, I’m afraid Marigold would be in a persistent vegetative state.”

I’m so terrified at her proclamation, I can’t think.

Jarvis expelled a frustrated sigh. “Are you going to ask the family to terminate the fetus?”

No, please…

“I considered it.”

“And?”

“And instead I acquired another vial of the experimental cocktail.”

“Acquired?”

“Don’t ask. Ms. Kemp’s responses and overall health were best right after you administered the first vial. I think we should try a second dose.”

“But that’s never been done.”

“No… but it’s never been tested on a pregnant patient. I figure we’re dealing with two neural patients—the mother and the child. I think the baby took most of the first dose and Marigold got what was left over. This second dose will be for her.”

“How much trouble can we get into?”

“No more than we’re already in,” she said. “If we don’t, we’re going to lose them both.”

“Are you going to ask the family?”

“I have a better idea,” she said. “Let’s ask Marigold.”

Oh, wow… no pressure.

“And since she seems to respond better to your voice, I need you to ask her.”

“Okay,” Jarvis said. “Do you have her hand?”

“Yes.”

“Marigold, I need to ask you a very important question and I need you to tell me yes or no. Dr. Tyson and I want to give you a second dose of the experimental drug. We think it’s the best chance for you and your baby. Do you want us to give you the second dose? No is default. If you don’t move your fingers, we won’t administer the dose. If yes, move the fingers on your right hand.”

I’m trying so hard.

“Marigold, your baby’s life depends on it. If you don’t move your fingers, we won’t administer the dose. If yes, move the fingers on your right hand.”

Ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhh.

“I felt that!” Dr. Tyson said. “She moved her fingers.”

He exhaled. “Thank God.”

“But I’m giving you a chance to walk out now, Jarvis, if you don’t want any part of this.”

“I’m staying,” he said evenly.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do this.”

I CAN ALMOST feel the experimental medicine they gave me filtering through my body. Last night I had the most vivid dreams I can remember since the accident. Everything seems louder, more colorful, more vivid.

But the dreams are more than dreams—they’re memories… things that actually happened. It’s been the one part of my brain that was chugging along more slowing—making new memories, and remembering things that happened around the time of the accident. They’re close to the surface, as if they’ve been lying dormant and are bursting to break through….

I pull up to the curb at the airport and see Sidney emerge like a beautiful flower. It’s hot, and the A/C in my car isn’t working. I feel like a wet sponge, but Sid always looks cool and collected.

On the drive home, we have the windows down. Sid is smoking a cigarette, which I’ve never seen her do before. She says she smokes occasionally to keep her anxiety at bay. I say I didn’t know she had anxiety, and she says I have no idea how hard law school is. She is right—I don’t.

When we get off the interstate, I ask if she minds if I stop to get a lottery ticket. She teases me about it, but we stop. I run in to get a ticket and a half-gallon of chocolate milk for Dad. As I come back out…

Sid pulls up in my car.
I’m driving… you’re too slow.

I climb into the passenger seat and hold up my lottery ticket.

Good luck with that…

I don’t need luck. Aunt Winnie’s psychic told me I’m going to win.

My phone rings and it’s Roberta. She wants to talk about a hot new guy at our apartment building. We’re laughing and talking.

Sid’s phone rings, a loud gonging ringtone. She reaches into her bag, rummaging for the phone. She’s all over the road. I try to help her so she can drive, but her purse spills and…

Watch out!

*****

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Coloring is all the craze!  Enthusiasts say it’s fun and even therapeutic—have you tried it yet?  This is the third of 6
coloring sheets to celebrate the one bit of color in COMA GIRL’s limited world—the scarves Sidney brings to cover Marigold’s head bandages. (I think the teddy bears are so cute!) Print the FREE coloring sheet at
 
ComaGirlColoring3
(if you can’t print from your ebook reader, type the link into a web browser from any computer) then add your own interpretation with colored pencils, crayons, markers, etc.