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

Last night was my mistake. I value your friendship, but I’m marrying Trina. Please don’t hate me.

I was crushed. And mortified that something that had meant so much to me, he considered to be a mistake. By the time I brushed my teeth, I realized how sadly unoriginal the whole story was and resolved to act as if it hadn’t happened. I deleted his text without responding, and I didn’t tell a soul, not even Roberta. When she found his San Antonio Spurs cap in the living room and demanded to know who it belonged to, I convinced her one of her sniffing admirers had left it behind. She had hung it on a peg in the entryway with a plethora of other hats and coats and umbrellas. Every morning before I left the apartment I touched the cap.

The morning-after text was the last time I’d heard from Duncan until he visited my room. I wonder if he’d stood there and congratulated himself for not ending his engagement and getting involved with me because then he’d feel obligated to the vegetable in bed 3.

Anyway, the bottom line is I’m fourteen weeks pregnant, and I have a laundry list of problems. The only person who knows who the father is can’t talk or move. The medicine Dr. Jarvis gave me might have harmed the baby. If I don’t wake up, who will raise the child? And if I do wake up, how well will I be, and what kind of mother would I make on my own?

I’m scared to death my family is going to take my baby. And I’m scared to death they won’t.

“I’VE ALWAYS FELT GUILTY for having Labor Day off,” my dad said. “I know my job contributes to the economy, but it’s not like I’m working a jackhammer every day.”

From his footsteps, I deduced he was pacing.

“But I do keep a mallet in my trunk in case I see a road sign that’s fallen over. Did I ever tell you that’s how I got the business for a country club in Peachtree City?”

Only a dozen times… but I’m happy to hear it again. And picture him acting it out.

“I was driving down the road and noticed a school sign was leaning way back. Those are reflective signs so they need to be standing straight or headlights can’t catch them, and then what’s the point? So I pulled over to straighten it, and a guy in a pickup truck stopped to help me. Looked like he didn’t have a hundred dollars to his name. Turns out, he was developing a big country club down the road—the guy was a millionaire. He said he drove by that crooked sign every day and had been meaning to fix it. When he found out I was in the sign business, he gave me the account for the project without so much as a quote, just on a handshake. Said I was the kind of man he wanted to do business with.”

He gave a happy little laugh at the memory, then he sighed. “I know most people don’t give signs a second thought, but signs are critical to everyday life… and to law and order. Without signs, how would people know where they are or what to do?”

It’s true when you think about it. Without signs, there would be total anarchy.

He walked back toward my bed and from the scrape of the chair, I knew he was sitting. “I wish I had a sign now to tell me what to do,” he whispered, his voice anguished.

It pains me to be putting him through this. My father is not built to deal with emotional conflict.

“Your mother says I should stay out of the decision… and maybe I should. Otherwise she might oppose my opinion just to spite me.” His voice broke off on a sob.

“What’s wrong, Mister?”

The presence of another voice threw me for a few seconds. A memory chord stirred, but I couldn’t place the child’s voice.

My dad sniffed. “My daughter won’t wake up.”

“The magic lady is your daughter?”

Oh—it’s the little girl who visited before.

“The magic lady?”

“See her pretty turban? She’s magic.”

He gave a little laugh. “You think she’s magic, huh?”

“Uh-huh. She’s going to make my mama better.”

“You mama is sick?”

“Uh-huh.” She sighed. “I’m scared sometimes.”

“I’m sorry. I’m scared sometimes, too.”

I’d never witnessed my dad interact with a child before. It bore no resemblance to his standoffishness when I was little. But it gave me a glimpse into how he would be with a grandchild.

“What are you scared about?” she asked, her voice solemn.

“That my daughter might not wake up.”

“Maybe that’s how she does the magic,” the little girl reasoned. “And then when the magic is all done, she’ll wake up.”

“I’ll bet you’re right,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his words.

“Christina!” came a booming voice from the hall.

“I gots to go,” she whispered. “Bye! Bye, Magic Lady!”

The patter of her departing footsteps blended with the rumble of Dad’s low chuckle, then he sighed.

“Marigold, can you hear me?”

The chair squeaked.

“Marigold, I’m holding your hand. If you want me to fight for the baby, squeeze my hand.”

I panicked. Did I want him to? Did I have the right?

“Sweetheart, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand if you want to keep the baby.”

What if I were responsible for bringing a fatherless, disabled child into the world, and my family would have two of us to deal with?

“I didn’t feel anything,” he said.

Good. This was not the time for my brain to be sending involuntary signals to my fingers.

“Okay, squeeze my hand if you
don’t
want to keep the baby.”

Because in truth, even if I were well, I might be struggling with the decision to keep the baby. The fact that Duncan was marrying someone else could make things pretty unpleasant for everyone involved.

To squeeze or not to squeeze? If I even could.

“I guess you can’t hear me,” he said. “Okay. Goodbye for now. Keep doing your magic, Marigold.”

“HEY, YOU’RE DOWN a roommate.”

Our poet volunteer is back.

“I heard one of you dream girls got up and walked out of this place. So it was Audrey, huh? Go, Audrey. Are the rest of you giving her a head start before you bounce out of here, too?”

He couldn’t know that Audrey’s post-escape visit had been a downer to the point that if her old bed had been setting there, she might’ve crawled back into it.

“I like the new head scarf, Coma Girl. Pink and yellow and orange flowers, kind of a seventies vibe. Nice.”

It sounds nice. I’m grateful he described the scarf. Sidney had brought the first wrap to cover up my bandages for a picture, and after she posted the photo on social media, scarves started pouring in. Store bought, handmade, and hand-me-downs. Now once a week, nurses gather up the extras, launder them, and take them to the chemotherapy department. And although someone or another usually changes my scarf every day, they usually don’t think to describe it to me.

“If you ask me, women should wear scarves more often. It allows you to concentrate on a person’s face, you know?”

Except I know my face is a cross-hatch of scars. He’s being very kind… which makes me very suspicious. Because I suspect my kind visitor is the person who’s been leaking photos and other information to the tabloids. I’m worried he can tell I’m pregnant… that I have a tummy bump showing through my hospital gown, or a nurse had unwittingly written it on my chart.

I heard the sound of pages being turned.

“I think I’ll read this Dickinson poem. It’s called ‘A Charm Invests a Face.’”

He shifted in the chair—was he using the book of poetry to hide his phone in case someone walked in while he was taking pictures?

“A charm invests a face, imperfectly beheld, the lady dare not lift her veil, for fear it be dispelled. But peers beyond her mesh, and wishes, and denies, lest interview annul a want, that image satisfies.”

Damn… why does he have to pick such good poems, the ones that mean something?

“So are you hiding behind your veil, Coma Girl? Going to just lie there and be mysterious and pretty?”

According to Dickinson, it was better than opening one’s mouth and dispelling the fantasy. Or as my boss Percy Palmer would tell his guys, “If you’re an idiot, keep your dang mouth shut and no one will know for sure.”

I heard a clicking noise… a camera? Or the book closing?

Then the door handle jostled and a rap sounded. “This door isn’t supposed to be locked.” It was Nurse Teddy. “Is someone in there?” More jostling sounded. “Hello? I’m getting security.”

“I might not be able to visit again for a while,” the visitor whispered. “Take care of each other.”

Ah, so he
is
the source of the leak—why else would he lock the ward door when he came in? His hurried footsteps sounded and I heard the door open and close. But he must’ve locked the door behind him because when Teddy returned with someone I assumed was a security officer, they had to use a key. When they burst in, I could hear Teddy searching the room, pulling back curtains, and opening cabinets.

“Maybe one of the patients locked the door,” the officer said with a little laugh.

Teddy wasn’t amused. “Someone on staff must’ve accidentally locked the door as we left. But can you keep a closer eye on this room? We have a VIP in here and the press has been relentless.”

“Sure thing,” the guy said. “Hey, is this Coma Girl? My wife loves her. Can I take a selfie?”

“IT’S NOT TOO LATE to enroll for the semester,” my mom said.

“We’ve been over this, Mother,” Sidney said. “I’m needed here.”

“I don’t want this incident to derail your life. It’s bad enough that Marigold might never get out of that bed, but I don’t think I can bear it if this keeps you from graduating law school.”

“Mom, nothing is going to keep me from graduating law school. And you heard Dr. Tyson—Marigold is getting better.”

“She allegedly moved a finger, but we only have the doctors’ word for it. I’ve asked her to squeeze my hand every time I’ve been here since they told us, and she hasn’t squeezed my hand once. Watch.”

Mom walked to my bed. “Marigold, can you move your fingers? Can you squeeze my hand?”

I’m trying.

“See? Nothing. It makes me wonder if they made it up.”

“Why would they make it up?”

“To cover their butts and make it seem like the drug they gave her is working.”

“I don’t think—”

“And now on top of everything else, she’s pregnant? What on earth was that girl thinking?”

I was thinking I wanted all of this to happen, Mother.

“I’m sure Marigold didn’t mean to get pregnant,” Sidney chided.

“No, but she was being careless, just like the night of the crash.”

“Mother, Keith Young was driving drunk, remember?”

“Well, maybe if Marigold hadn’t been talking on the phone with that dreadful roommate of hers, she could’ve avoided the crash.”

So Sidney had told Mom I was distracted when the accident happened.

“Don’t repeat that, Mother. I lied to the police to protect Marigold, and they can’t prove otherwise.”

“I won’t. But the point is, Marigold isn’t the one dealing with the fallout of her poor choices—we are.”

Hello? I’m in a coma. That’s not punishment enough?

“Mom, Dad’s right—we can’t terminate the pregnancy. It’s wrong.”

I admire Sidney’s conviction. I don’t know if I could be so sure if I were making this decision for someone else… or even for myself.

“More wrong than bringing a possibly damaged baby into the world?” my mother asked. “I don’t mean to sound selfish, but I have to consider the worst-case scenario. What if Marigold doesn’t recover? I don’t know if I can deal with raising a child at this stage of my life, especially a child with special needs.”

She’s right. It’s not fair to expect her to take on that responsibility.

“I could take it,” Sidney offered.

My heart swelled.

“Absolutely not. You have to graduate law school and someday you’ll have babies of your own. I’m not going to let you ruin your life by taking on someone else’s problem.”

Okay, that stings. But neither can I argue with her points.

“Mother, I think the best thing to do is to let nature take its course. If the baby isn’t well, she’ll miscarry. Or if we learn in the next few weeks the baby has grievous defects and won’t survive, or is putting Marigold’s life in danger, then we can ask the doctors to intervene.”

“You’re right,” my mother said. “But we still haven’t addressed what to do with the child once it’s born if Marigold can’t take care of it.”

“We don’t have to make that decision right now,” Sidney soothed. “But in the short term, announcing Marigold is pregnant will help her case and put more pressure on the A.D.A. to prosecute once the result of Keith Young’s blood alcohol content test is confirmed. And we need to be ready to file a civil suit.”