I point to myself. “I hear the hoot owl’s hoot. I hear it plenty.”
He just shrugs and disappears as easily as he appeared.
“At least I’m wise enough to know your golf pants are an eyesore,” I call after him. Maybe it’s not so wise to antagonize the “concierge,” but this is the second time he’s implied that I’m a dummy. People think I have a quick temper, but that’s not true. I’m just easily aggravated is all.
Several nurses join Miz Pearl’s family, and I head in the direction of the Limbo Lounge, pausing to look into other patients’ rooms as I pass.
The other Brittany’s legs are in traction, and a guy with a man bun sits by her bed, holding her hand and talking to her. I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I can tell it’s something real sweet. He picks up a cup of water and holds the straw to her lips. She’s conscious. Groggy, but definitely awake. Which is not only good news for her, but for me, too. I can have my name back.
Skateboard Tommy is in the next room, and it looks like he’s attached to about as many machines as I am. I see his spirit looking uncomfortable as two women cry over his comatose body. He glances over at me, and I give him a little wave because I know how he feels.
The blue-slip woman is in the room next to Skateboard Tommy. She doesn’t have a breathing tube shoved down her throat and there isn’t anything taped to her face. Her body isn’t bruised or swollen or hooked up to pulleys like that of the other Brittany. She looks like she’s peacefully napping and could wake up any second and hop out of bed. Well, maybe not. My attention is drawn to the restraints buckled around her wrists and ankles and hooked to the bed frame. If all the patients in this ward are in a coma, I wonder why she’s the only one strapped down.
Up ahead I recognize the back of Cheer-Camp Valentina’s purple Cougars cheer outfit, and I speed to catch up with her. She’s chatty and tells me she’s been in the hospital for a week, and that she can’t stand to stay in her room while her momma and daddy are so emotional. She says it makes her sad and very tired. I can relate and try to lighten her mood with tales of my own disastrous cheer tryouts. By the time we enter the Limbo Lounge, she is showing a full mouth of braces as she laughs.
“I love your hair,” she says as we take a seat on a yellow sofa. “How did you get it that color blue?”
“Practice,” I answer as the concierge walks in with a beautiful woman wearing an orange-and-red Jalisco dress. She has bright tissue flowers in her black hair and looks like she just escaped from a Cinco de Mayo parade.
“Is it May fifth?” I ask anyone in hearing range, but things like time and dates don’t matter here and no one seems to know for sure.
“I need all y’all’s attention.” The golfer thumps his club on the floor. “This is our newest guest, Señora Ana Marie Garcia Lopez.” He turns to her and adds, “Estoy a sus órdenes.”
Wait. “He didn’t tell me he was at my service.” I turn to look at Valentina. “Did he say that to you?”
She shakes her head. “What a creeper.”
Clint heads across the room faster than I ever saw a guy his age move. He tips his hat and says, “Buenas noches. Me llamo Clint.”
Valentina is probably ten years younger than me, but we look at each other and snicker because old guys making fools out of themselves is funny at any age.
Behind me I hear a sharp laugh that I recognize. I’d noticed the blue-slip lady when I walked into the lounge. She’s sitting by herself again like she prefers her own company. I glance over my shoulder and into her icy blue eyes. She’s so drop-dead gorgeous, she could be on the cover of a fashion magazine.
She raises a perfect brow and asks, “Can I help you, Marfa?”
“You can call me Brittany.”
“I prefer Marfa.”
“Marfa’s ugly. I prefer Brittany.” I pause and add, “With two t’s.”
“Marfa suits you.” Her lips turn upward but there’s no joy in her smile. “Brittany with two t’s,” she adds, all high-and-mighty.
Normally, I try to be a nice person, but this has been a crappy day and I’m all out of nice. “Why are you strapped to a bed even when you’re in a coma? Are you whack-a-doodle?”
Her smile falters and her eyes look crazy. “You’re a cretin.”
Well, I’m not such a cretin that I don’t know her meaning, but after the day I’ve had, “cretin” seems like a downright compliment. “And you’re a triple-dipped psycho,” I say, because it wouldn’t be Christian to come right out and call her a crazy bitch.
Her smile flatlines and I turn away.
“Do you know her?” Valentina whispers.
I shake my head. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t know. She has evil eyes. If you look at her, she’ll suck you into her evil vortex like Blair Waldorf from Gossip Girl.”
“Only blonde like Serena.”