Coma Girl: part 1 (9 page)

“Keith Young is as guilty as he can be,” my dad said, his voice rising. “All these professional athletes think they can get away with anything. And he doesn’t even have the decency to stay away from the cameras.”

“In all fairness, the press seems to be chasing him,” Lucas said. “The Falcons have to allow cameras in practices to drum up publicity for the season. And sure, the reporters are going to seek out Young because of this case.”

“But that can be to our advantage,” David Spooner said. “It keeps the public opinion on our side.”

“No offense, Mr. Spooner,” Lucas said, “but I need more than Facebook friends to win a case. I need solid evidence. So for now, we’re in a stall pattern.”

Welcome to my world.

YOU NEVER KNOW how much you love something until it’s gone. Without the deluge of opera and orchestrals, the ward seemed deathly quiet.

Silence can work on a person, can mess with your mind. Hardly anyone had been through the door today, and in fact, it had been hours since a nurse had walked in and made her rounds. I assumed she’d checked to make sure nothing had come unplugged, gone dry, or overflowed.

So as I lay there listening to the machines wheezing and whirring, paranoia crept in. What if something had happened—a deadly virus unleashed—and we were the only four people left alive in the hospital, protected by our immobility? And as days went by and we lay starving and withering, the virus finally made its way into our ward. (It would have be a stinky virus in order for me to know it was coming.) Trapped, we would all inhale the putrid pathogen, and just as I was prepared to die, a miracle happened—the virus had the opposite effect on us, stirring our sleeping limbs and not only pulling us from our comas, but making us more healthy and powerful than before. And it was up to the Super Vegetables to corral and destroy whatever evil faction had released the virus city-wide.

It could happen.

I lay there and spun stories of doom and gloom until I put myself into a funk.

So when the alarm first sounded, I actually thought it was only my imagination.

But no, it was the fire alarm, as sharp and shrill as an ice pick to the ears. It sounded three times, then paused, then three times again… and kept sounding.

So now I was sure a terrorist incident had occurred in the hospital, and a hostage had broken loose to pull the fire alarm and summon help.

Actually, I was pretty sure the hospital was on fire.

That notion was confirmed when the first tendril of smoke tickled my nose. Let me tell you, nothing is more frightening than knowing danger is near and not being able to move away from it. I thought about the man whose wife had injected him with a paralytic, then left him to die in a fire. This was how he felt, unable even to flop out of bed and lie in the floor hoping the smoke would rise.

We would be tomorrow’s headline:
Four Comatose Women Burned Alive in Brady Hospital Fire.
The orderlies would be making jokes about roasted vegetables.

The smoke was getting thicker and I wondered when my body would rebel. This wasn’t how I wanted to die, and frankly, it seemed extra cruel to heap this new indignity on top of our old one. Blue on black.

So this was it, then. I would die alone.

The door burst open and people rushed in—firefighters, I assumed from the sound of the heavy gear. From the noises around me, I had the sensation of my bed being pushed out of the smoke and into a clearer area. We were on an elevator, then some sort of underground space—a parking garage? It made sense if they were going to put us in ambulances and take us to another facility.

But they didn’t. By and by, the commotion died down and we were returned to the ward, accompanied by giant fans to blow away the lingering scent of smoke.

In the end, the source of the smoke wasn’t a terrorist attack or biological espionage—just a plain old unattended microwave fire in the nurses’ lounge compounded by a fire extinguisher that didn’t work.

But I have to get out of here. There are too many things in a hospital that can kill you.

“IS MARIGOLD OKAY?” my brother Alex asked from whatever device my folks had Skyped him on—my dad’s phone, I think.

“Her doctor checked her out and said she’s fine,” my mom said.

“But not better?” Alex asked.

“No, not better,” my dad said. “The same.”

“Does she have more color in her face?” Alex asked.

In the silence that followed, I assumed my parents were looking at me to check.

“No,” my mom said.

Great.

“Ah… maybe the scars have faded some.”

“No,” my mom confirmed. “Same.”

Great.

“Poor thing,” my brother said. “She must’ve been scared to death. We gotta get her out of there.”

“But it’s the best trauma center in the Southeast,” my dad said.

“And her doctor is world-renowned.”

“I don’t mean move her to another facility, I mean get her well.”

“No argument there,” my dad said.

“You said you had something to share that might be helpful?”

“Maybe,” Alex said. “You know, the Army deals with more traumatic brain injuries than all other hospitals combined.”

“Makes sense,” my dad said.

“My captain pulled a few strings and I got to talk to one of the top neuroscientists at Walter Reed, Dr. Al Oscar.” Alex laughed. “Believe it or not, he’d heard of Coma Girl. My sister is famous.”

“Is he going to help her?” my mom asked.

“He said he’d be happy to talk to Marigold’s doctor about some new treatments for TBI.”

“What kind of treatments?”

“I wrote it down. He calls them ‘multifunctional’ drugs—they’re a combination of hormones, statins, antibiotics, and heat shock proteins, among other things.”

“And this Dr. Oscar thinks it will help Marigold wake up?” my mom asked.

“No guarantees,” Alex said. “But he’s willing to talk to the doctors there about his ideas.”

“Repeat that,” my mom said. “I’m writing it all down.”

Alex, ever patient, did. It was so sweet of him to be thinking of me and doing things for me half a world away.

“I’ll give this to Marigold’s doctor before I leave today,” my mom said. “Thank you, Alex.”

“Wish I could do more. How’s Sid?”

“She’s a trooper, taking care of all the of media stuff and still working on a project for school.”

“Sounds like Sid.”

“When are you coming home?”

“Soon, I hope. Gotta get back to work. Talk to you soon. Bye, Marigold!”

They disconnected the call and I could hear my parents breathing into the silence, as if they were sitting, staring. Staring at me? Staring at each other? I could sense their mental and physical fatigue.

“I want to go home,” my mom said.

“Okay,” my dad said. “We’ll call the doctor tomorrow.”

When the door closed, I was despondent. I wanted to go home, too. Maybe Alex’s Army doctor would be able to help me.

But what I really needed was a mind-reader.

“WE’LL KEEP this visit just between us,” my Aunt Winnie said. “Your mother doesn’t have to know.”

My lips were sealed.

“Marigold, I brought someone with me. Do you remember my friend Faridee?”

The psychic who told me I was going to win the lottery! Six years ago. It hadn’t happened yet, but I’d played every day up until the accident. Darn—wouldn’t it be a bummer to get out and find my numbers had come up while I’d been lying here?

No wonder Winnie didn’t want Mom to know she was here—my mother thought psychics were bullshit
and
evil. I told her they couldn’t be both, but that had not gone over well.

“Hello, Miss Marigold,” Faridee said in a smooth, smoky voice. She smelled like incense. “Your Aunt Winnie thought you and I might have a chat.”

I was so excited! I could tell Faridee what I wanted my family to know!

“As long as it’s a short chat,” my aunt said. “We have to get back to Savannah tonight. And if your mother finds us here, I’m toast.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” Faridee suggested. “I’m going to apply some special oils to your hands, Marigold. There now, doesn’t that feel good?”

The scents of sandalwood and sage permeated the air. I couldn’t feel her hands, but while she was holding mine, I try to squeeze. Apparently, though, nothing happened.

“I’m going to simply hold your hands for a while, Marigold, until I feel our minds connect. You’ll feel it, too, and when you do, know that everything you think will be apparent to me.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I just let my mind float, and tried to be ready to experience the mind connection she’d described. A minute passed, then another.

“There!” she exclaimed.

I’d felt nothing, sensed nothing… but I was open to going along for the ride.

Tell them I’m in here… that I can hear things… and smell things… tell them I’m in here… that I can hear things… and smell things…

“Marigold has a message,” Faridee said.

“What is it?” my aunt asked in a hushed voice.

“She wants you to know… that she visited the spirit world.”

“Oh, my,” my aunt said.

What the freak?

“And she was taken in by a great androgynous spirit and given the secrets of traveling between the two worlds.”

“I knew she’d been somewhere special!”

Aunt Winnie, I was upstairs in the ICU unit.

“Her dilemma, she says, is whether to go back to that magical place, or come back here to the people she loves, that’s why she’s in the coma.”

“Oh, of course, that makes perfect sense,” my aunt said in awe.

Mom was right—this was total bullshit.

“Is there anything we can do to help her come back?” my aunt asked.

“I’ll ask her,” Faridee said.

I was mentally whistling.

“Here it comes… Marigold said if you want to help her come back… ”

“Yes?” my aunt asked, breathless.

“You should buy one of my scroll amulets to help pull her spirit back through the tunnel.”

Oh, my God—really? That was the best she could come up with? My aunt would never fall for that.

“How much are they?”

“Two hundred fifty, so precious.”

“I’ll take two and sneak one to my sister as a gift—she’ll never know and that way we can both pull at Marigold’s spirit.”

The only thing being pulled here was my aunt’s chain. What a crock.

From the rustling and clinking sounds, I assumed my aunt was trading cold hard cash for cold hard trash. While Winnie exclaimed over the powerful amulet—she could feel it warming in her hand—I heard Faridee’s sandals slap on her feet as she walked.

“What is it, Faridee?”

“One of these other women is calling to me.”

Oh, brother.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know yet. Hello… hello… talk to me. Hi, Karen.”

Don’t get excited—I’m sure she read the name on Karen Suh’s wristband.

“You’re lonely? For as long as you’ve been in here, I’m sure you are. But don’t despair—he’ll be here tomorrow.”

An act for my aunt’s sake. I was so angry Faridee would use helpless ill people to make a quick buck.

“Goodbye, dear,” my aunt whispered in my ear. “I’ll wear the amulet all the time.”

I hope it didn’t turn her neck green.

The women started to leave, but at the door, I heard Faridee’s feet falter. “Marigold, something’s coming to me.”

Fraud charges?

“I’m supposed to tell you your message will be delivered.”

Let me guess—by a winged creature from the spirit world? Right. May the force be with you, Crazypants.

WHEN DR. TYSON came in, I was sure she was going to announce she’d been in touch with the neuroscientist at Walter Reed and I’d been approved to receive the concoction of drugs my brother Alex had mentioned.

Instead, it appeared to be a routine check of my vital signs, probably for insurance purposes. I was weighed (how is possible that I’m in a coma and I gained a pound?) and inspected for bed sores—delightful. My nails were clipped, my head bandage was changed, and I got a head to toe rub down with moist wipes. To complete the day spa treatment, I was dressed in a clean hospital gown.

All dressed up and nowhere to go.

“Everyone is rooting for her,” a nurse said.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Tyson said.

“She’s famous, Coma Girl. People all over the world are praying for her. That has to count for something.”