Douglas Coupland - Girlfriend in a Coma

"No. No. Not those friends. That… old friend of yours. The one in a coma. She's up in 7-E. Karen."Wendy turns around to Linus and Megan and their bodies curdle; small hairs on the necks prickle; their arms become weightless. They have entered a mesmerizing and frightening realm. The nurse says, "You must know the girl—she's been in a coma for fifteen years now. Karen."

"Seventeen," says Linus instantly. Megan feels like vomiting.

"She said hello to me twice. Her eyes were clear and intelligent. She's all there, all right."

Wendy looks at her friends; glances are exchanged. Linus's brain empties as though passing through a trapdoor in the floor. Within moments, the three race down the ozone corridor and then endure a long, tense elevator ride. Nobody speaks, and a few breaths later they arrive in Karen's room, now buzzing with staff. Karen is crying. Someone is about to give her a sedative, and Wendy grabs the needle and throws it into the trash. "No. Don't do that. Jesus. That's how she ended up here in the first place. No drugs of any sort. None. Ever. Everybody—out … out!" Everybody clears the room save for her, Megan, and Linus. Wendy says, "Karen. It's me. Wendy. I'm here, honey."

Karen raises her eyes, her hysteria dwindling: "Wendy? Is that you, Wendy?"

Wendy walks forward, kneels down, and puts her left arm on Karen's shoulder. She then wipes her eyes with the other hand. "Hey, Karen? Yeah—it's me, Wendy. I'm here, girl." Wendy has been a doctor long enough to know that Karen's awakening is a miracle. She tries to keep her composure as she has done throughout her life, but now she isn't sure she can do it.

"Wendy—what happened to me—my body—I can't move. I can't see any of it. What the hell's happened?"

"You've been asleep for a long time, Karen. A coma. Don't worry. You'll get your body back. Soon." Wendy is hoping that her face doesn't betray this last lie.

"Oh, Wendy. I'm glad you're …" Karen closes her eyes. Several breaths later, she reopens them. Her eyes dart sideways. "Is that Linus?" Karen's voice is rasping, like beard stubble rubbing on paper. Linus comes over and sits beside Wendy."Hey there, Karen. Welcome home." He kisses her forehead. Karen lies there and looks into the eyes of her friends. They are older. Much older. This is not right.

"My body," Karen says. "Where's my body!" She cries once more. "I'm a fucking pretzel."

"Shhh," Wendy says. "You've been gone a long time. You will get your body back. You will. I'm a doctor now. We missed you, honey. We missed you so badly."

Karen looks about, her eyes darting. She asks Linus how old she is now. "You're thirty-four, Kare."

"Thirty-four. Oh, God."

Linus says, "Don't worry, Kare—your twenties suck. Believe me, be glad you missed them."

"Linus, what year is it?"

"It's 1997. Saturday, November the first, 1997, 6:05 A.M."

"Oh. Oh, God. Oh, my! My family—how's my family?"

"All fine. Alive and well."

"And Richard?"

"Pretty good. In good shape. He's visited you once a week all these years."

She focuses on Megan, standing by the door. "And you—you by the door. I—I think I know you."

"No," Megan says. Megan feels bashful for one of the few times in her life.

"Come here," Karen says, because there is something about this teenager that Karen has been told—by whom? She remembers the Moon. She remembers talking to Richard on the Moon. Bullshit. Nonsense. "Come here. Please." Megan meekly shuffles forward, nearly paralyzed with hope, anticipation, sickness, and fear. Karen looks over Megan calmly. "You're related to me—aren't you?" Megan nods. "A sister?"

"No."

Karen is now understanding just how long she's been gone. She focuses on Megan as though she were a difficult algebra equation. Her brows knit. "What's your name?""Megan."

Karen thinks out loud: "Mom had a daughter once—a miscarriage. 1970? The name was Megan."

Megan buckles. She walks to the bed and hops onto its metal rick-etiness and lies down beside her mother as she did the first time she met her. She places her face directly before Karen's and they look at each other, retina to retina, brain to brain. Who is this creature? Karen is now calm about this scenario. She knows that answers will come. She says to Megan, "You're very pretty, you know," to which Megan sniffles, saying, "I am not."

Karen asks, "And I've never seen makeup like yours, either. Concert last night?"

"I wear it all the time. If you want I'll take it off. I really will." She gouges her palms into the eyes.

"Stop," croaks Karen. "Stop."

Megan is trembling. "I took your makeup off once, too," Megan says. "The first time I ever saw you. I was seven."

Karen is silent. She pauses and looks at the ceiling and sighs and meditates: This must surely be a sister, but she says she isn't. And she looks like Richard. "How's Mom and Dad?"

The floodgates open: "I—I've been a … a … real shit to them. I'm a horrible person. And you're awake. Mom—my real Mom."

Karen is unable to move her neck, but her eyes are focused deeply on the boo-hooing teenager clutched against her right side. "I never thought you'd wake up. And now you have and I see I've just been horrible to everybody." Megan uses her tears to wipe off her eyeliner and kohl. Her eye sockets are a mess.

"Shhhh …" whispers Karen. "It's over now. All over. I'm here." Karen thinks over this outburst. Mom? "Megan, did you call me Mom?"

"Yeah. Because you are. My mom, I mean."

Karen is faint: "What are you talking abou— Oh, man." That night with Richard on Grouse Mountain? This is not possible.

"I've wanted to talk to you all these years. Did you like punk rock? It's coming back in now."This last comment distracts Karen. Suddenly, Megan is off on a tangent discussing the Buzzcocks and Blondie. Karen, meanwhile, assembles pieces. She notices the absence of a mirror in the room. Hair that has fallen into her face tells her she has gone gray. In spite of her bedridden condition and seventeen-year-old mind, she knows that she is going to have to be the mature one here.

As she thinks this, Wendy is taking pulses and doing medical thin-gies. Outside in the corridor, employees are quietly milling about. News is spreading quickly. A friend of a patient down in the lobby has phoned the city desk of a local paper. Wendy has asked staff to clear away from the room.

Karen says, "And Wendy … there's something wrong. I can tell. Wendy. Wait—what are all of you doing here? I mean, it's Sunday morning. How did you know I was—that this was going to happen?"

"We didn't," Wendy says, recognizing the morning's coincidences. "We had no idea."

Megan butts in, as though imparting hot gossip, "Hamilton and Pammie OD'd on heroin last night. They're down in Intensive Care. They're, like, complete heroin addicts now. Linus was at a party with them. Wendy fixed them up an hour ago."

"Thank you, Megan," Wendy says.

Karen thinks. "They're doing heroin? At thirty-four? That's so old. That's my age."

"Heroin's big these days," says Linus.

"Ugh."

All of the dramatic things Wendy and Linus had once planned on saying upon Karen's reawakening have vanished—poof. Instead, they discuss the commonplace. "Hey, Wendy—do I still smoke?"

"Not anymore, hon." Then Wendy says, more to herself than to anyone present, "You know, I just can't understand the coincidences—Ham and Pam, Megan, Linus, and then you. That leaves Richard, I suppose. No doubt he'll be traipsing in soon."

Karen looks at her arm, bony, defleshed, and prisoner-of-war-useless looking. "Shit. Just look at me, Wendy. I was gonna go to Hawaii. Whatta disaster. I look like a praying mantis." Karen is nowoddly objective about her body—her self. She looks up at Wendy. And then she yawns. "Hey there, Wendy—I saw you watch me yawn. Don't sweat it. I'm going to be falling asleep soon. But it'll only be normal sleep. I won't be going into deep freeze ever again." She blinks. How does she know this?