As his heavy steps left the room, my mind raced. Mr. Palmer’s heart of gold was outweighed only by his sense of justice. Had he just threatened to do or have something done to Keith Young?
“DAVID BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, David…whoop, whoop, David… and then David boop boop be-doo.”
Sidney is doing our nails and talking about David Spooner so much, I’ve started substituting words, just to entertain myself.
“But it’s not like we’re having sex,” she said.
They were
so
having sex. She is super animated, talking a mile a minute.
“But David’s just so hidey hidey hoe.” She sighed. “And so shoobie doobie do.”
I’m sure he is.
“I’m putting baby blue polish on your fingernails, and orange on your toenails. Someone left a nasty note on your chart about no more makeup, but they didn’t say anything about nail polish.”
I have a feeling Dr. Downer will have plenty to say the next time she comes in to check my pupils. She might’ve downplayed my “sluggish” dilation to the nurse, but she’d been back in every few hours to give my eyeballs a lookey-loo. Since she’d ended each session with a disappointing click of her tongue, however, I assume my pupils haven’t picked up their pace.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you David boogie oogie oogie!”
I’m happy to have the company, but I’m getting really irritated with Sid for acting as if nothing is amiss. If from the beginning she’d been truthful about the fact that I was talking on the phone when the accident happened, I wouldn’t be lying here marinating in remorse. I know she did it out of love for me, and I appreciate the gesture, but I’m worried the lie is going to boomerang back and hit me in the face.
Then a sudden thought occurred to me—maybe she’d lied because she thought I’d die… and she was lying still because she thinks I won’t wake up… or wouldn’t remember what happened if I do wake up.
She had me there—I’ve played the scenes leading up to the accident over and over in my head just as Detective Jack Terry and Sid had discussed them, but I can’t remember them. I can picture pulling up curbside to Hartsfield-Jackson Airport and waving to Sidney as she emerged from baggage claim with some hapless stranger carrying her suitcases in the hopes she’d give him her number. And I can picture us driving north on I-85 to midtown, then jumping onto Northwind, her chattering like a magpie the entire time. I can even picture us stopping at the convenience store to buy a lottery ticket and maybe pick up a half gallon of chocolate milk for Dad. I can picture all these things because I’ve done them multiple times. But I can’t remember doing them Memorial Day.
Sid was blowing. “There. It’s not a perfect manicure, but it looks pretty good, if I do say so.” She gave a little laugh. “Remember Mom used to keep her nail polish in the refrigerator door? The bottles were lined up like pieces of candy, all different colors. When I was little, she would let me pick one and paint my nails, and I thought it was the greatest thing ever.”
I do remember that—I used to watch them, green with envy. Mom didn’t paint my nails because I chewed them to the quick, a nasty habit that made her crazy. And the more crazy it made her, the more nervous it made me and the more I gnawed on them. I’d stopped biting my nails about twenty minutes after I moved out of the house I grew up in.
A clinking noise sounded—Sid’s rosary.
“It was just a little lie,” she murmured, so low I could hardly hear her. “To protect us… to protect Mom and Dad. They were so distressed, I couldn’t bear to pile on. You understand, don’t you?”
I don’t know if she’s talking to me, or to God. But how could I be angry with her when she’d done something wrong for the right reason?
After all, if the tables were turned, I’d lie for her, too.
“GOOD MORNING, MARIGOLD. It’s Dr. Jarvis.”
He’s whispering. But then again, it’s very early in the morning because the hospital is quiet. At the sound of a click and a slight buzzing noise, I gathered he’d turned on a light over my bed.
“Marigold, I’m holding your right hand. Can you squeeze my fingers?”
I concentrated on his voice, could smell the lingering scent of shaving cream.
“Marigold, tell your brain to tell your fingers to move.”
I wondered if his hands were large or small, soft or callused, warm or cool.
“I felt that!” he said, his voice excited. “I felt you move your finger. I’ll be right back!”
Oh, thank God. Maybe some progress.
He exited noisily, then came back with someone else, his words tumbling out. “She squeezed my hand again. I need a witness so Dr. Tyson will believe me this time.”
“What do I do?” asked a woman whose voice I recognized as Gina.
“Take her right hand and be very still.”
“Marigold, I need for you to move your fingers again, like before.”
I’m trying… man, am I trying.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No,” Gina said.
He urged me several more times to move my fingers, but apparently, I can’t repeat my earlier feat.
“Thanks anyway, Gina,” he said, his voice dragging.
“If it’s any consolation, Dr. Tyson might not have taken my word for it either. She thinks both of us are being too hopeful.”
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing,” Dr. Jarvis said dryly.
Gina made a thoughtful noise. “Dr. Tyson can be a little negative, but she’s a good doctor, and I know she’s taken an interest in Ms. Kemp’s case.”
“She’s had to, Marigold is Coma Girl, the hospital’s most popular patient.”
“Maybe all the attention will convince the insurance company to reconsider approving the experimental drug.”
“Maybe,” he said.
The door opened and closed, but from Dr. Jarvis’s sigh, I realized he was still in the room. I heard the scratch of the curtain around my bed being closed and wondered if he was going to perform some kind of test on me.
Then I heard the muted chirping of a Skype call being made. Had Dr. Jarvis decided to take advantage of the quiet to chat with his girlfriend?
“This is Dr. Oscar,” a man’s voice came from a device.
It took me a few seconds to recognize the name as the neurosurgeon at Walter Reed Army Research Institute my brother Alex had mentioned to my parents. Dr. Jarvis had found a piece of paper where my mother had written the information.
“Dr. Oscar, good morning, this is Dr. Jarvis at Brady Hospital in Atlanta. I talked to your assistant yesterday.”
“Yes, he gave me the message. I understand you’re calling about the comatose patient Dr. Tyson is treating.”
“Th-that’s correct.”
“I understand the patient’s insurance denied the claim for the experimental cocktail.”
“Yes, sir, but we’ve filed an appeal.”
The man made a thoughtful noise. “That’s a longshot, unless the hospital board is behind you.”
“We’re optimistic,” Dr. Jarvis said, then cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about the treatment protocol so once we receive approval, we can administer the cocktail as soon as possible.”
“I already briefed Dr. Tyson.”
“My apologies, sir. Dr. Tyson asked me to step in, and considering what’s on the line, I wanted to get the information directly from you.”
“Alright then. For my own information, I’d like to see the patient’s updated Glasgow stats.”
“I’m with the patient now,” Dr. Jarvis said. “I can give them to you real time.”
“I’m ready,” Dr. Oscar said.
I listened as Dr. Jarvis moved around my bed, checking and reciting my vitals in response to the neurosurgeon’s questions. When the remote doctor asked if I responded to commands, Dr. Jarvis didn’t hesitate.
“Yes, the patient moves her fingers when I ask her to.”
“Pupils?”
“The pupils are dilating.”
He didn’t add “sluggishly.”
“The pupil dilation and response to commands shows improvement. I’ll work up a new protocol. Shall I email it to Dr. Tyson?”
“Er, no,” Dr. Jarvis said quickly. “Send it directly to me.”
While he gave the doctor his private contact information, I was smiling inside. Dr. Jarvis was going rogue.
“COMA GIRL, our little secret is really eating me.”
Roberta was back. And if our little secret was eating her, she obviously keeping pace by eating everything in the bakery case. Since she’d arrived, she’d wolfed down a vanilla bean cupcake, a butterscotch brownie bar, and was working on her second honey bun.
“But I’ve decided to keep my mouth shut,” she said, licking her fingers. “I looked it up online and you weren’t breaking the law, so it doesn’t matter. But did you know it’s against the law to text and drive in this state? How did I miss that? And how do they expect you to let your boss know you overslept and won’t make it in on the dot? I mean, if I stopped to do that before I got in the car, I’d be even more late.”
I can almost see her logic.
“I forgot to bring your mail, but it’s piling up again.” She sighed. “Marigold, when are you going to wake up? It’s so sad to see you like this. And it’s sad to see all your stuff around the apartment. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, but I borrowed your ladybug scarf to wear to a dinner party. I got a lot of compliments on it.”
I don’t mind.
“And um… there’s another thing. A reporter from a local TV station was waiting outside the apartment this morning. He asked me a lot of questions about you. I told him I was late for work—which was true—but he left me a card, asked me to call him.”
Uh-oh. Reporters have a way of weaseling info out of people.
“I don’t intend to call him, but girl, he was
cute
.”
Double uh-oh.
“Not that I’m interested. I’ve got my Marco, you know.” Then she sighed again. “Although he’s been scarce lately because he’s been busy moving things forward with the divorce and all.”
Uh-huh. Leopards don’t change their spots. My guess is Marco is bouncing back and forth between his wife’s bed and Roberta’s. But that’s for Roberta to figure out. And who am I to give out romantic advice? The only man I’ve ever cared about is happily planning his nuptials to someone else.
She cleared her throat. “Duncan came by the bakery today.”
Right on cue.
“He put down a deposit on the wedding cake and the groom’s cake.”
Blackberry, I’ll bet. It’s his favorite.
“The groom’s cake is blackberry, with caramel icing. I told him that was a good choice, and it wasn’t too late to change his mind about the pink grapefruit wedding cake. He said that was his fiancée’s idea, and I got the feeling that he’s completely whipped.”
That hurt. It’s hard to imagine Duncan being so mesmerized by someone that he’d just go along, but isn’t that the way love is supposed to be?
“In case you’re interested, the wedding is in November. Sounds like it’s going to be huge. The cake is five freaking tiers.”
Wow. Most of the wedding cakes on Pinterest wedding boards are three layers, sometimes four. Five is… impressive. Repeating, not that I’ve ever haunted the Pinterest wedding boards.
“I thought your name would come up,” she said. “But it didn’t.”
Of course it didn’t. Why would it?
“Gotta run. Later, Coma Girl.”
“ALEX SENDS HIS LOVE,” Mom said. “He’s hoping to get leave soon for a visit home, but he doesn’t know when that will be. I told him Dr. Tyson said the experimental drug isn’t going to work out for you, and he’s really disappointed.”
I wondered if Dr. Tyson had found out what Dr. Jarvis had done and shut him down. But if he’d been reassigned, he hadn’t come back to reclaim his iPod which still played classical music… and played… and played…
It’s to the point now where I can almost see the notes on a sheet of music. I learned the basics of reading music in middle school, but haven’t used it since. Still, those long-dormant lessons are coming back to me—the staff, the clef, the parts of a note, and acronyms to help remember the notes: Every Good Boy Does Fine, and FACE. I can recognize a C note, so I’m building from there.
“And Winnie calls every day to ask about you. She sent me the oddest gift—a pendant she found somewhere.”
Ah—the amulets the psychic had conned Winnie into buying to help “pull my spirit back through the tunnel.” Winnie had purchased one for my mom.
“Anyway, I suppose she meant well, but it’s too ugly to wear.”
So apparently my mom can’t even be tricked into faux helping me.