Coma Girl: part 3 (Kindle Single) (6 page)

Oh, my God—they’re not really going to have sex right in front of me.

Thirty seconds later, moans and groans sounded, then a distinctive rhythmic thump.

They really are having sex right in front of me.

I’m caught between fascination and horror, admiration and disgust. Having sex in a coma ward is akin to having sex in a cemetery. But worse, because we’re not dead yet.

Although I have to admit, it’s the best entertainment I’ve had all day. And it’s the closest thing to getting laid we veggies have experienced in months, and in some cases, years.

True to his word, Gabriel did not take long. I was hoping Gina would walk in at the event’s climax, but alas, it didn’t happen. The couple disengaged with a sucking noise of unknown origin, then quickly said goodbye “until later.” Donna left first, and Gabriel, the cad, took his time gathering linen and reorganizing the cart.

The door opened and I was afraid Donna had come back for another round.

“Oh, you’re still here,” Gina said.

“Guess I was daydreaming about you,” Gabriel gushed.

She laughed. “You’re making me impatient to see you tonight. Let me help you with that cart.”

After they left the room, I lay there marveling at how lopsided relationships can be. And how the person who cares the least always has the upper hand.

“DO YOURSELF A big, big favor,” Joanna Fitz said. “Don’t ever have kids.”

I wish I could tell her the ship has sailed on that one, but even if I could talk, she doesn’t seem to be in a mood to listen… only in a mood to drink.

“First, it wrecks your figure. Your ass gets wide and your boobs get long—it ain’t pretty. Then your hormones get out of whack and you have mood swings like a human pendulum. You want to bite the head off of everyone you meet, and wash it down with a bottle of wine.”

The mention of wine must’ve reminded her she’d brought a flask of rum, because she took a hearty drink. Joanna has been here for thirty minutes and she has to be near the bottom.

“And your husband starts seeing you as this mother-blob. He’s not attracted to you anymore because he’s seen what goes on behind the curtain, if you know what I mean. Not that you want to have sex anyway because you’re scared to death you’re going to get pregnant again.”

That’s nice.

“And then you start to hate your children,” she slurred. “The sound of them crying is like an icepick to your eardrums, and the only way hearing them yell
mommy
works is if you turn it into a drinking game.”

Which reminds her to take another drink.

“So you get together with all the other wide-assed, long-boobed mothers and start betting on the age of your husband’s next girlfriend. And when you win the pool, you buy yourself a diamond watch. See?”

I can’t see it, but I get the gist.

“And then you start fantasizing about ways to murder your husband, and how you could get away with it. I could smother him… shoot him… poison him… stab him… cut his brake line… or push him off our houseboat and run over him with the propeller and say it was an accident.”

Okay, that last one seems a bit more well-thought-out than the others.

“I could do it… I’ve seen every last episode of
Forensics Files
.”

Me, too! But I’ve never considered it a tutorial.

The door opened.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Gina said, “but visiting hours are over.”

“Okay,” Joanna slurred. “I’m leaving.” I heard her screw the top back on the metal flask, then the chair creaked, indicating she’d stood.

“Whoa, there.” Gina rushed over, presumably to steady Joanna. “Why don’t I call you a cab?”

“Probably a good idea, since I’m not supposed to be driving. My license was suspended over two lousy DUI’s, can you believe it? I should’ve driven over my husband’s dick.” She laughed at her own joke.

“Okay, steady,” Gina said. “One foot in front of the other. I’ll get you a cup of strong coffee while you wait.”

“Don’t have kids, Marigold,” Joanna shouted. “Don’t ever have kids!”

“THIS IS SO EXCITING,” my mom said.

She had convinced Teddy to filch a television from the doctors’ lounge and invited Aunt Winnie to watch Sidney’s live segment on
The Doctors
from my room.

“Except for the fact that Sidney’s TV debut is to talk about Marigold being in a coma,” Winnie added lightly.

“Well, yes,” my mother agreed sourly. “Sidney’s just trying to make the best out of a bad situation.”

“I guess I’m still not sure what this is supposed to accomplish,” Winnie said.

“If you’re going to talk the whole time, you can go.”

“Okay, I’m being quiet.”

The volume increased and I could hear applause.

“Welcome back to the show for a special live segment of
The Doctors
. In our studio today is Sidney Kemp, sister of the young woman many of you may know as Coma Girl. Please welcome, Sidney Kemp.”

Applause and cheers sounded.

“Oh, there she is!” my mom said. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”

“She does,” my aunt agreed.

“Thank you,” Sidney said, her voice modulated and pleasing.

“Sidney, your sister Coma Girl has been in a coma in an Atlanta hospital since a car accident over three months ago. How is she doing?”

“She’s doing well, considering the circumstances. She’s responding to commands to move her fingers, so we have reason to believe she’s getting better and will hopefully wake up soon.”

Applause sounded.

“And you were in the accident with your sister, is that right?”

“Yes,” Sidney said. “It could’ve just as easily been me in the coma and my sister sitting here talking to you.”

“Except Marigold would never go on TV to talk about her comatose sister,” Winnie said.

“Shhhh!”

“And on the large screen behind you, Sidney, are some pictures of Coma Girl before the coma, right?”

“Yes, this picture was taken of Coma Girl when she was singing karaoke with friends. She had a great singing voice.”

“And this picture?”

“That’s Coma Girl in her hospital bed, and me painting her fingernails. It’s one way I can interact with my sister.”

“Our hearts are breaking for you,” the host said. “I know we can’t talk about the accident that put your sister in a coma because it’s still an open case.”

“That’s right,” Sidney said. “And since I’m in law school, I can’t plead ignorance of the statutes.”

“Oh, you’re in law school?’

“Yes, third year at Boston. Well, I’m sitting out this semester to help with my family’s situation.”

“Well, she got in a good plug for herself,” Winnie said.

“Shhhh!”

The host made a mournful noise. “I can only imagine what you and your family have been going through.”

“And Marigold,” Winnie muttered.

“Shhhh!”

“We’re doing the best we can,” Sidney said. “All the great cards and social media posts to hashtag Coma Girl have been a real boon to our spirits.”

More applause sounded.

“But you’re here today,” the host said, “for a special update on Coma Girl exclusively for our viewers. What can you tell us?”

“Even in the darkest situation,” Sidney said, her voice wavering, “a beacon of light can appear.”

“What is she talking about?” Winnie asked.

“Shhhh!”

“And our beacon of light is finding out that Coma Girl is pregnant.”

Exclamations sounded from the TV, then the audience erupted into wild applause.

“Look, they’re giving her a standing ovation!” my mother said.

“Oh, poor Marigold,” Winnie murmured.

“A reminder,” the host said, “that Coma Girl T-shirts and scarves are available on the Coma Girl website and Facebook page. All proceeds will go toward medical expenses and to the Coma Girl Foundation.”

Aunt Winnie gasped. “The baby—that’s what the psychic meant by two Marigolds!”

“Psychic?” my mother asked. “What psychic?”

While the two of them bickered over the closing credits of the show, I contemplated the fallout of the announcement. I’d counted the number of times they’d said Coma Girl and the number of times they’d said my name.

Coma Girl: 11, Marigold Kemp: 0.

“I ALMOST SWALLOWED a biscuit,” Roberta said.

Roberta had been eating when she watched Sidney’s announcement—shocker.

“I called in sick to work so I could watch it. Then I was like, ‘Did she just say Coma Girl is
pregnant
?’ Last time I checked you have to have sex to get knocked up, and I thought we had an agreement that you would tell me if you ever got yourself laid.”

In fairness,
she
had agreed I would tell her, not me.

“So that explains why your sister was asking all those questions about if you were seeing anyone right before the accident. They don’t know who the baby-daddy is.”

Bingo.

“Okay, you gotta wake up and tell me. Right now—wake the hell
up
.”

She said it with such force, I’m kind of surprised I didn’t just snap out of it.

Roberta heaved a sigh. “Now I have to speculate. Since you didn’t tell me you got some sausage, that means you’re embarrassed or ashamed. Is it your boss, Mr. Palmer? If it is, that’s gonna be one hairy baby.”

Really, Roberta?

“Is it someone you met online for a hookup? I think not, since you and I both watched the YouTube video about what you can catch from one unprotected date-site wiener—ugh. Herpes? MRSA? Zika?”

Right. A girl might as well ride the door handle of a porta-john.

“Is he married?”

No, but you’re getting warmer.

Suddenly she snapped her fingers. “It’s hat guy! I found that hat in the living room a week or so before your accident and you said you didn’t know whose it was. You little liar. You lie like the carpet you sell, Marigold Kemp.”

She was right. I lied.

“What was on that hat? Some NBA team logo. The Houston Rockets?”

The San Antonio Spurs.

“Golden State Warriors?”

The San Antonio Spurs.

“New York Knicks?’

The San Antonio Spurs.

“Well, anyway, it’s still hanging on the rack in the entryway. I bet if I can find a guy to claim the hat, he’s the one.”

A big if.

“I’m gonna get a cute detective outfit and get right on that case. Roberta Hazzard, P.I.—how does that sound?”

Pretty good, actually.

“And every detective needs a prop—Colombo had his cigar, and Kojak had his lollipop. Mine will be a bear claw.
Grrrr
. Okay, I gotta run.”

Her footsteps headed toward the door, then she stopped.

“By the way, remember that cute reporter I told you about? He contacted me again, wants to have lunch, said he would pay me a co-writing fee for a story about our friendship, said it might even lead to a book deal—imagine that. I told him I don’t think so. But it sure sounds exciting. Later, Coma Girl.”

A story about our friendship? More likely, he wants the inside scoop on the father of my child. Which makes me wonder if this reporter is the driving force behind Roberta’s ‘detective’ work?

“WELL, WELL, WELL,” Jack Terry said when he strolled in. “Marigold, you know how to keep a secret.”

Inside I was squirming a little. I’m not sure why this man’s opinion of me mattered. If not for the accident, our lives wouldn’t have intersected. I didn’t mind what the world at large thought of me, but I didn’t want the detective to think ill of me, to think I was just another careless young woman who’d gotten liquored-up and slept with the first guy who crawled into her bed.

Well… okay, so the liquored-up part is true… and Duncan is the first guy who’d crawled into my bed. But… but… but…

Never mind. I have no moral ground to stand on.

“So that’s why your sister wanted to go through your phone—your family doesn’t know who the father is. Your family doesn’t know much about your life, do they?”

It doesn’t take a detective to figure that out, Detective.

“I’ve never seen so many balloons and flowers… is one of them from the father?” He gave a little laugh. “This one is from Elton John, so I’m going to say no. I heard your sister made the announcement on a national show, so I guess this is what she wanted to happen.”