Coma Girl: part 2 by Stephanie Bond Page B

people like that who give carpet a bad name. It’s why we’re losing ground to hardwood, you know.”
    If Mr. Palmer had his way, every surface indoors and out would be carpeted. The man was evangelical when it came to fiber density, weight, and stain resistance.
    “A nice wall-to-wall remnant would make it a lot nicer in here,” he said. “I hate to see you like this.”
    I suspect all the vinyl tile is making him nervous.
    “Well, I’d better go. I have the truck double-parked. We’re all pulling for you, Marigold.”
    His voice cracked on my name, bending my heart.
    His footsteps sounded and I sensed he’d come closer. “And don’t worry,” he said, his voice lower, “that football player is going to get what he deserves for what he did to you, one way or another.”
    As his heavy steps left the room, my mind raced. Mr. Palmer’s heart of gold was outweighed only by his sense of justice. Had he just threatened to do or have something done to Keith Young?
     
     
     

August 3, Wednesday
     
     
    “DAVID BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, David…whoop, whoop, David… and then David boop boop be-doo.”
    Sidney is doing our nails and talking about David Spooner so much, I’ve started substituting words, just to entertain myself.
    “But it’s not like we’re having sex,” she said.
    They were so having sex. She is super animated, talking a mile a minute.
    “But David’s just so hidey hidey hoe.” She sighed. “And so shoobie doobie do.”
    I’m sure he is.
    “I’m putting baby blue polish on your fingernails, and orange on your toenails. Someone left a nasty note on your chart about no more makeup, but they didn’t say anything about nail polish.”
    I have a feeling Dr. Downer will have plenty to say the next time she comes in to check my pupils. She might’ve downplayed my “sluggish” dilation to the nurse, but she’d been back in every few hours to give my eyeballs a lookey-loo. Since she’d ended each session with a disappointing click of her tongue, however, I assume my pupils haven’t picked up their pace.
    “Oh, I forgot to tell you David boogie oogie oogie!”
    I’m happy to have the company, but I’m getting really irritated with Sid for acting as if nothing is amiss. If from the beginning she’d been truthful about the fact that I was talking on the phone when the accident happened, I wouldn’t be lying here marinating in remorse. I know she did it out of love for me, and I appreciate the gesture, but I’m worried the lie is going to boomerang back and hit me in the face.
    Then a sudden thought occurred to me—maybe she’d lied because she thought I’d die… and she was lying still because she thinks I won’t wake up… or wouldn’t remember what happened if I do wake up.
    She had me there—I’ve played the scenes leading up to the accident over and over in my head just as Detective Jack Terry and Sid had discussed them, but I can’t remember them. I can picture pulling up curbside to Hartsfield-Jackson Airport and waving to Sidney as she emerged from baggage claim with some hapless stranger carrying her suitcases in the hopes she’d give him her number. And I can picture us driving north on I-85 to midtown, then jumping onto Northwind, her chattering like a magpie the entire time. I can even picture us stopping at the convenience store to buy a lottery ticket and maybe pick up a half gallon of chocolate milk for Dad. I can picture all these things because I’ve done them multiple times. But I can’t remember doing them Memorial Day.
    Sid was blowing. “There. It’s not a perfect manicure, but it looks pretty good, if I do say so.” She gave a little laugh. “Remember Mom used to keep her nail polish in the refrigerator door? The bottles were lined up like pieces of candy, all different colors. When I was little, she would let me pick one and paint my nails, and I thought it was the greatest thing ever.”
    I do remember that—I used to watch them, green with envy. Mom