Coma Girl: part 2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

signed by a classroom in upstate New York. Their words of encouragement humbled me and made me regret my peevishness. As she continued reading notes from strangers (and counting cash), I softened more and more, especially when I heard the grief-stricken words from relatives of coma patients.
    “I hope someone is reading these words to you and you are hearing them,” Roberta read. “Just as I read to my son Amos everyday with the hope he can hear me.” Roberta sniffed, then blew her nose. “That one got to me.”
    It got to me, too. Because as hard as a coma is on the patient, it’s worse on family and friends because they don’t know what to do, and how long to hold out hope.
    “Hm, this one seems personal—do you know a Joanna Fitz?”
    Joanna! She and I had met in a college literature class and become fast friends. She lived with her doctor husband and twins in Pennsylvania. I hadn’t seen her in ages, but we stayed in touch through social media and the occasional phone call.
    “She says she’s so sorry to hear about your accident and will come to visit when you wake up.”
    Roberta went on to other cards and letters, but I confess I only half listened. I was too busy coveting Joanna’s life. She had made it all seem so effortless—attract a great, ambitious guy who wanted a true partner in life. Be so synergistic that instead of having one baby, you produce twins. Then immerse yourself in motherhood while your husband pulled in enough money to set you up in a country club mansion. Don’t get me wrong—Joanna deserved every bit of her good life. But why didn’t I? What made women like Joanna the kind of people who were most likely to succeed, and people like me most likely to wind up in a coma?
    And just like that, the slow boil started again. I’m tired of everyone’s sympathy and good wishes. I resent the cash contributions, as if people are dropping money into a beggar’s cup to assuage their own guilt enough that they could go on living their coma-free lives feeling as if they’d done their duty.
    I’ve never been an angry person, but now it seems like the only thing I have to hang on to.
     

August 14, Sunday
     
     
    “IF WE KEEP MEETING LIKE THIS,” Detective Jack Terry said, I’m going to have to give you my class ring.”
    Ordinarily, his remark would make me smile, but I’m holding out, determined to stew over my predicament. Look where playing nice has gotten me in life.
    Besides, I’m not going to become one more in what I suspect is a long line of women who think Jack Terry is all that.
    “Braves versus Nationals, we need a win. So what do you think about the Braves moving to the burbs?”
    What was it with men and sports? Personally, I think baseball is boring. The game needs some kind of wildcard, like drawing a name from the stadium spectators to play first base. That I would tune in for.
    “I agree,” he said, “leaving Turner stadium is proof the entire world has gone completely insane.”
    Assumption of agreement—so typical.
    Although I sort of agree, if only from a practical standpoint.
    “Tacos from Uncle Julio’s,” Jack said. “I didn’t know if you’d like chicken, beef, fish, or pork, so I brought one of each.” He sighed. “Please wake up, Marigold, and save me from myself.”
    I know he’s referring to the fast food, but as always, it seems that Jack Terry says one thing and means another. Does he need to be saved from himself? He’s obviously beating himself up over something, but what?
    Despite his proclivity for high-caloric food, I had a hard time picturing an overweight guy living on a boat. Darn, I wish Roberta had told me what he looks like. Roberta is the equivalent of the guy hanging out in front of the Marta station, giving the once-over to every female who walks by. The fact that she hadn’t described Jack Terry in precise feminist detail told me she had been scared witless at their brief encounter in my room. So I’m guessing he’s the kind