Coma Girl: part 2 (8 page)

Yikes.

“That won’t be Ms. Kemp,” Gina said. “She’s going to wake up.”

“What makes you so sure?” Teddy asked suspiciously.

“I just am, that’s all.”

“I hope so, poor thing. Don’t you think it’s strange that her family doesn’t visit more often?”

He’d noticed that, too?

“You noticed too, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s like they don’t want to interact with her, but they’re happy to build this Coma Girl franchise around her.”

Yes, it’s kind of exactly like that.

“Shh,” Gina said.

“What?”

“She might be able to hear us, that’s what. And who wants to hear their family doesn’t want anything to do with them?”

Not me, that’s for sure.

“WE CAN SEE YOU,” my dad said.

“Speak up so Marigold can hear you,” my mother added.

“Hi, Sis!”

It was good to hear Alex’s voice, good to know he was safe.

“How are you doing, Marigold? You look good.”

Liar.

“You’ve got a big fan club over here. Someone ordered a bunch of Coma Girl T-shirts—I see them all the time. You’re famous!”

“Can you believe it?” my dad said. “Our little Marigold is known all over the world.”

“How is she?” Alex asked.

“The same,” my mom said. “We keep hoping to get a call that she’s up and walking around, but she’s still unresponsive.”

“What are the doctors saying?”

“More of the same,” my dad said. “Be patient, her brain is still healing.”

“We haven’t given up hope,” my Mom said.

Whew.

“Yet,” she added.

“I’m really sorry the medication Dr. Oscar suggested isn’t a good fit for Marigold’s case,” Alex said. “I’m going to send him a thank you card anyway.”

Hm… that could trigger questions…

“That’s nice,” Mom said. “It was good of you to take the time out of your busy schedule to do something for your sister.”

“Gosh, Mom, it wasn’t much. I’m going a little crazy over here knowing she’s in this state.”

“Oh, don’t worry about her, sweetie. She has good care here. How are you?”

Wow… she’d skimmed right over me.

“I’m fine. Although I was pretty upset when I heard Keith Young was definitely driving drunk when he crashed into Marigold.”

“We were going to tell you,” my dad said, “but you already heard?”

“One of my Army buddies in Atlanta called me. He’s been following the case in the news. In fact, he offered to dispense a little street justice if I want him to.”

“What’s that, dear?”

“He’s offering to rough up Keith Young,” my dad said.

How chivalrous.

“You know how these athletes get away with murder,” Alex said. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him banged up a little.”

“Let’s leave it up to the police,” Dad said.

“Yes, we don’t want you to get in trouble over something that was Marigold’s fault.”

Wait—my fault?

“But it wasn’t Marigold’s fault, Mom.”

“She was late picking up Sidney at the airport. You know how slow she is. If she’d only gotten to the airport on time, none of this would’ve happened.”

Wow.

“Mom, you can’t blame this on Marigold.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ve just had a long day and I’m tired.”

Translation: Her filter isn’t in place.

“Your mother is a full time real estate agent now,” Dad said, and I detected a little sarcasm in his voice.

“Really? Go, Mom.”

“Thanks,” she said, sounding pleased at Alex’s praise.

“She has a billboard on Georgia 400,” my dad said. “Her face is as big as a panel truck.”

Hostile much?

“Business must be good,” my brother said. “That’s great. Listen, I gotta run. Let’s do this again soon, okay?”

“Okay, bye, dear.”

“Bye, Marigold!”

My mother disconnected the Skype session, and my parents sat in charged silence.

Three, two, one…

“Did you have to make a dig at me in front of Alex?” my mother demanded.

“You mean the obnoxious billboard? It’s the truth, Carrie!”

“You’re just angry, Robert, because I didn’t go through you to get it made.”

“Well, it does beg the question why, if you needed a sign, you didn’t ask your husband, who sells signs for a living!”

“Because I wanted to do something on my own.” From the squeak of the chair, I could tell my mother had stood up. Hands on hips, I visualized. Her footsteps moved toward the door. “My world doesn’t revolve around you, Robert.”

My dad’s footsteps followed her. “You have a gift for stating the obvious, Carrie.”

The door opened and closed, and I heard their angry footsteps fading.

Bye… don’t forget to write.

“HI.”

It was one of those rare times I was napping during the day. My sleep patterns were off lately, and I wondered if it had something to do with the drug Dr. Jarvis had administered.

“Are you dead?”

A child is standing next to my bed. I don’t know any children, so I’m confused.

“Hey, lady, are you dead?”

It’s a girl and if I had to guess, she’s about six years old.

“You look dead. But if you’re dead, why aren’t you in a casket?”

The little girl knows something about death if she knows about caskets.

“What happened to your face? Did someone hit you?”

And she knows something about being hit if that’s where her mind went first.

She sighed. “When someone hits you, you’re not supposed to hit them back… but I would anyway.”

Good girl.

“There’s a mean boy at school I’d like to hit. His name is Jeremy Hood. He calls me names like fattie and fatso and fathead and fatbutt. But my name is Christina Ann Wells. And one day I’m going to whomp him good… I’m just waiting for the right time.”

I’d buy a ticket to that show.

“Do you like ice cream?”

Who doesn’t?

“I love ice cream,” she said wistfully. “I love chocolate and strawberry the best. My mama gets the striped kind.”

Striped? Oh, neapolitan.

“But I eat the chocolate and strawberry first. Vanilla is the one I eat last, and it’s okay. Just not as good as chocolate and strawberry.”

The girl had her priorities straight.

“I have new shoes,” she announced. “They’re shiny with a bow.”

Then she proceeded to stomp and jump around the room in her hard sole shoes which I suspected were patent leather.

“I can’t run in them, though.”

We start hobbling our girls young in the South.

“I like your turban.”

Ha—she thinks my head bandage is a turban.

“Are you magic?” she asked, her voice awestruck.

If only.

“Can you make my mama better? She’s sick in her belly. She can’t eat, not even ice cream.”

I hope it’s something minor.

“She gots the cancer.”

Oh, no.

“I need for her to get better because I can’t tie my shoes.”

Kids are nothing if not practical.

“Can you try to make her better, lady? I’ll be good… after I whomp Jeremy Hood.”

The door opened and a man’s voice boomed, “Christina! I told you not to leave the waiting room. Come here and quit bothering sick people.”

“She’s not sick and she’s not dead. She’s a magic lady,” the little girl explained, breathless. “I asked her to make mama better.”

“Then I’m sure she will,” the man said, his voice more gentle. “Come on, baby.”

The door closed and I felt some of the anger that had built up over the past month subside. And for the first time in years, I prayed.

That Christina would have some magic in her life.

“THANK YOU. You won’t regret it. I’ll touch base again next week.”

David Spooner stabbed a button on his phone, then hooted. “We did it, Sid. You, pretty lady, are booked as a guest on
The Doctors
!”

She exclaimed her delight, then from the smacking and moaning, I assumed they were either licking each other or kissing.

“This will be huge exposure,” she said. “Nationwide!”

“The producers said they’d gotten more mail about comas and Coma Girl than any single subject in the past year.”

“This is so exciting! I’ve always wanted to go to L.A.”

Ditto. Send me a postcard.

“You’re going with me, aren’t you, David?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, my goodness—what am I going to wear?”

“Relax. We’ll get you something spectacular for your TV debut.”

More licking ensued.

“Okay,” ‘David said. “This has to be a homerun, so we need to get prepared. Let’s start thinking of things we’ll need to gather. They’ll want visuals, for sure.”

“We’ll take lots of pictures—maybe you can take some of me and Marigold together?”

“Sure.”

“And maybe one of us Skyping with Alex. That will appeal to the military families.”

“How about some family pictures of you all growing up? You know, Olan Mills type stuff?”

“Er, I’m sure I can find something,” Sidney said.

I’m sure she can’t. But there’s always Photoshop.

“And pictures of Marigold before the accident, you know happy and smiling.”

“Let me work on that,” she hedged.

“And maybe some pictures of you and your parents working with Marigold, reading to her, massaging her limbs, doing things to help her recover.”

Yes, let’s stage all those pictures of fake family rehab.

“Sure,” Sidney said. “Wait—I paint Marigold’s nails.”

“That’ll make a
great
picture.”

I couldn’t care less about the photo opp, but if that’s what it takes to get my nails painted again, terrific.

“What we really need is something exclusive for the show,” David said.

“Like what?”

“Some inside scoop on Marigold’s condition.”

“Yeah, that would be great,” Sid said. “But so far, her doctor just keeps saying there’s no change, no improvement.”

“With the other woman in her room waking up, we need to toss the producers a bone or Marigold will be upstaged.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, what if we arrange to live stream video of Marigold from her bed. And maybe have someone ask her to open her eyes. I mean, think of it—if she opened her eyes for the first time on a live stream, the ratings would go through the roof!”

This guy didn’t leave anything on the table.

“I’ll get Mom to do it,” Sid said. “In fact… who would question Mom if she said Marigold squeezed her hand?”

“I love the way you think,” David gushed.

I don’t even know how to respond to that. I want to say Mom would never go for it, but I’m sure Sid could convince her it was in the family’s best interests.

“Oh, and we need to talk about the money,” David said.

“What about the money?”

“The producers have already asked what’s being done with all the donations.”

“We’ll tell them they’re for Marigold’s medical bills.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be good enough. We might need to come up with a foundation of some kind to share some of the donations with other causes.”

Sid made a frustrated noise. “Do we have to?”

“Trust me, a foundation will bring in enough incremental donations to more than pay for itself. And you’ll be named the executor, of course.”

“Okay, then!”

“So we have everything we need to get started?”

“I think so, yes,” Sid said.

“Then let’s go.”

After the door closed behind them, I realized if I inconveniently croaked between now and the show, they would probably put me on ice and bring me out to thaw during the sound check.

No one would know the difference.

THE DOOR OPENED and from the banging and clanging, I assumed a new piece of equipment was being wheeled in.

Maybe it’s time for more tests. Dr. Jarvis has been stopping in regularly to check me for motor reactions, but so far, I haven’t been able to respond. And at some point I know Dr. Tyson will be checking my brainwaves to make sure they’re still flapping.