Marigold would improve to the point that we didn’t have to move her into this long-term care ward. The longer it takes for her to come out of the coma, the better the chance she won’t.”
I willed myself to open my eyes then and there, just to say, “Boo!” and freak her out.
But I didn’t… I couldn’t. And it scared the hell out of me because ever since my parents and Sidney had come into the room, I’d been trying to move, whimper, blink—something to let them know I’m in here and I’m aware of what’s happening around me. And hearing I might never wake up, well, that’s just impossible.
This cannot be my life.
I mean, no one has to tell me my life isn’t all that. Especially compared to my remarkable older brother who passed on a career in Silicon Valley to become a decorated soldier. Or compared to my bombshell younger sister who’s in law school and could seriously be president of the world someday. They are both splendid specimens of their gender and the Kemp name, and I… am not. I’ve always pictured my starchy mother looking at the three of us and wondering what happened to her middle fetus. And my sweet, practical dad saying, “Two out of three isn’t bad, Carrie.”
In hindsight, I assumed the only role in my family I could. There simply wasn’t room on the Kemp stage for three stars, so I became the stagehand and audience for my siblings. In between, I graduated from a tiny state college with a generic degree and landed a job managing a carpet warehouse. I don’t mind the work—it pays for my half of the rent in an apartment in an artsy (i.e., “shady”) part of town—but wrangling Berber isn’t the kind of career my mom can brag about.
Plus I don’t have a boyfriend and from what I can remember, no prospects, unless you count booty pings on Blendr and Tinder. But to be honest, I don’t get a lot of those because I post an actual picture of myself, fully clothed.
I don’t have any exciting hobbies, I’m not a big partier, and I have no useful talents.
Still… it’s my life and as little as it is, I want to get back to it sooner rather than later. My boss Mr. Palmer won’t hold my crappy job forever.
“There’s no change in her condition whatsoever?” Sidney asked.
“We’re going to run another series of tests to check for brainwave activity,” the doctor said.
I cheered. Surely the tests would reveal I was still here, listening and… well, just listening.
“Is there anything we can do?” my father asked, dear man.
“Talk to her,” the doctor said, her voice growing more distant. Her footsteps indicated she was leaving.
“What are we supposed to say?” my mother asked, her voice elevated.
“Just talk to her the way all of you normally talk to her.”
The door opened and closed. In the ensuing silence, I pictured my parents and sister looking pensive and coming to the collective realization they normally didn’t talk to me.
A ding sounded over the P.A., then a voice announced visiting hours were over.
“We should leave,” my mother said.
And they did.
July 3, Sunday
“SO WE’RE TAKING TURNS,” Sidney said. “Now that you’re out of intensive care and people can visit, Mom and Dad and I came up with a schedule so everyone won’t be tripping over each other.”
Everyone? My social circle would fit in a refrigerator.
The sound of a chair scraping the floor brought her voice closer. “It’s nice to have some privacy, just the two of us.” Then she made a thoughtful noise. “Well, the two of us and your three roommates, but I’m pretty sure they can’t hear me.” She sighed. “Can you hear me, Sis?”
I focus all my efforts on making my mouth move, on saying I’m so relieved she wasn’t hurt in the accident. But since Sidney doesn’t react, I assume I’m still inert.
A clinking noise sounded—something against metal.
“I brought you my favorite rosary beads. I’m hanging them on your bed.”
I knew the one she
I willed myself to open my eyes then and there, just to say, “Boo!” and freak her out.
But I didn’t… I couldn’t. And it scared the hell out of me because ever since my parents and Sidney had come into the room, I’d been trying to move, whimper, blink—something to let them know I’m in here and I’m aware of what’s happening around me. And hearing I might never wake up, well, that’s just impossible.
This cannot be my life.
I mean, no one has to tell me my life isn’t all that. Especially compared to my remarkable older brother who passed on a career in Silicon Valley to become a decorated soldier. Or compared to my bombshell younger sister who’s in law school and could seriously be president of the world someday. They are both splendid specimens of their gender and the Kemp name, and I… am not. I’ve always pictured my starchy mother looking at the three of us and wondering what happened to her middle fetus. And my sweet, practical dad saying, “Two out of three isn’t bad, Carrie.”
In hindsight, I assumed the only role in my family I could. There simply wasn’t room on the Kemp stage for three stars, so I became the stagehand and audience for my siblings. In between, I graduated from a tiny state college with a generic degree and landed a job managing a carpet warehouse. I don’t mind the work—it pays for my half of the rent in an apartment in an artsy (i.e., “shady”) part of town—but wrangling Berber isn’t the kind of career my mom can brag about.
Plus I don’t have a boyfriend and from what I can remember, no prospects, unless you count booty pings on Blendr and Tinder. But to be honest, I don’t get a lot of those because I post an actual picture of myself, fully clothed.
I don’t have any exciting hobbies, I’m not a big partier, and I have no useful talents.
Still… it’s my life and as little as it is, I want to get back to it sooner rather than later. My boss Mr. Palmer won’t hold my crappy job forever.
“There’s no change in her condition whatsoever?” Sidney asked.
“We’re going to run another series of tests to check for brainwave activity,” the doctor said.
I cheered. Surely the tests would reveal I was still here, listening and… well, just listening.
“Is there anything we can do?” my father asked, dear man.
“Talk to her,” the doctor said, her voice growing more distant. Her footsteps indicated she was leaving.
“What are we supposed to say?” my mother asked, her voice elevated.
“Just talk to her the way all of you normally talk to her.”
The door opened and closed. In the ensuing silence, I pictured my parents and sister looking pensive and coming to the collective realization they normally didn’t talk to me.
A ding sounded over the P.A., then a voice announced visiting hours were over.
“We should leave,” my mother said.
And they did.
July 3, Sunday
“SO WE’RE TAKING TURNS,” Sidney said. “Now that you’re out of intensive care and people can visit, Mom and Dad and I came up with a schedule so everyone won’t be tripping over each other.”
Everyone? My social circle would fit in a refrigerator.
The sound of a chair scraping the floor brought her voice closer. “It’s nice to have some privacy, just the two of us.” Then she made a thoughtful noise. “Well, the two of us and your three roommates, but I’m pretty sure they can’t hear me.” She sighed. “Can you hear me, Sis?”
I focus all my efforts on making my mouth move, on saying I’m so relieved she wasn’t hurt in the accident. But since Sidney doesn’t react, I assume I’m still inert.
A clinking noise sounded—something against metal.
“I brought you my favorite rosary beads. I’m hanging them on your bed.”
I knew the one she
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