Read Coma Girl: part 2 for Free Online

of guy who walks into a room and owns it.
    But those men come with a boatload of ego and emotional thorns. Woe to the girl who falls for Detective Jack Terry.
    “So just a quick update before the game starts,” he said. “The re-creation of the crash was inconclusive, which sucks considering all the resources that went into it. Also, the phone records came back.”
    He has my full attention.
    “You were talking to your roommate Roberta either right before or at the time of the crash. Careless, but not illegal. And, hey, I can’t be a hypocrite—I’ve been known to talk and drive, too.”
    He tore into the bags of food. I’m on pins and needles.
    “So did you swerve into Young’s lane like he said? I guess we’ll never know… and fortunately for you, it doesn’t matter. Your and Young’s lab results are back. Yours were clean—good girl. And Young blew .1 over the legal limit, which isn’t much, but it’s enough to charge him with driving under the influence.”
    So without proof to the contrary, I can assume the accident wasn’t my fault. Phew.
    “The press is going to have a field day when the results of his blood test are released. Your family will be told tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you first.” Then he made a rueful noise. “Although really, does it change anything for you?”
    There he goes being philosophical again. But while he unwrapped tacos and brought up the game, I felt a keen sense of satisfaction. Because it’s good to have a confirmed, if faceless, target for my seething resentment: Keith Young.
     
     

August 15, Monday
     
     
    “THIS ROOM MUST BE the most peaceful place on Earth,” the poet volunteer said with a sigh.
    From his footsteps, I can tell he’s going from bed to bed. I can’t make out the words, but he’s greeting each of my roommates as if they are old friends. I wonder how long he’s been coming to the ward. He seems especially warm today, which makes me wonder if his own diagnosis has taken a turn for the better. Since he visits in the very early mornings, I’ve decided he makes his rounds before some sort of treatment. Chemotherapy? Kidney dialysis? Physical therapy?
    Or perhaps his situation has taken a turn for the worse? I recalled his previous comment that some people would be happy to trade places with me. It seems clear he’s at some sort of crossroads. I’ve even wondered if he’s a doctor or hospital administrator who visits patients anonymously for his own insight.
    If so, I wondered what he’s learning from reading to the vegetable patch?
    “Hi, Coma Girl. How’s it going in there? Solving the world’s problems? I hope so.”
    So if and when I wake up, I’m supposed to emerge with some kind of wisdom? Like people who are struck by lightning or who report being kidnapped by aliens?
    The crackle of pages sounded. “This poem by Dickinson is titled simply ‘Life.’ I think it captures the uniqueness and fragility of our existence. ‘Each life converges to some center, expressed or still… exists in every human nature a goal. Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be too fair for credibility’s temerity to dare. Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven to reach… were hopeless as the rainbow’s raiment to touch. Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance… how high unto the saints’ slow diligence the sky! Ungained, it may be, by a life’s low venture… but then, eternity enables the endeavoring. Again.”
    The pages rustled, signaling he’d closed the book.
    “Well, what did you think?”
    My life is certainly “still.” But overall, I think Dickinson was saying if we don’t get to do everything in this life we want, we get an eternity to try other things. Which sounds appealing… but I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet.
    “Alright,” he said. “You think on it for a while, and so will I. Bye til next time.”
    Darn it—now he had me thinking I should be lying here dwelling on something important, like how to