often than not?”
She didn’t respond at first. “Go ahead, Jarvis. She’s your patient as much as mine.”
“The answer is… no,” Dr. Jarvis said, speaking more slowly. “More often the patient doesn’t respond, and in fact, her responses are declining.”
“When was the peak response time?”
“Two weeks ago,” Jarvis said.
“Could the fetus be negatively affecting the patient’s neural recovery?”
Dr. Jarvis didn’t answer.
“Yes, indirectly,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice dragging. “We believe the increased volume of fluids and more circulatory demands could be stalling the brain heal… or even eroding it.”
Eroding? That’s not good.
“Tosco, go.”
“What are the chances the baby will be brought to full term?”
“Good to very good.”
Whew.
“Gaynor, go.”
“And what is the prognosis of the patient?”
I’m waiting… and waiting…
“Um… let’s move on to the maternity ward.”
Is she running late, or avoiding the question?
“But before we leave I’d like to remind everyone this patient is receiving a lot of media attention and as such, you might be approached by reporters or others for information on her condition, or the baby’s. If that happens, keep your mouth shut and call the police. Are there any questions?”
“I have a question.”
“Go, Tosco.”
“Can you address the rumor going around that this patient is receiving special treatment?”
“Such as?”
“Such as experimental drugs?”
I held my breath.
“Since you brought it up, yes, Dr. Jarvis has administered an experimental treatment to this patient that was completely unauthorized. Dr. Jarvis, please step forward.”
His footsteps sounded as if he were headed to the gallows.
“Please take a few minutes to explain the idea behind the iPod’s continuous loop of some of the worst music ever perpetrated on the human ear.”
Rounds of laughter sounded, then Dr. Jarvis launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his research on the effects of classical music on the brain.
I silently applauded Dr. Tyson. But at the same time I realized she’d had time to answer the question about my prognosis, but had deftly dodged it.
September 21, Wednesday
“HELLO, MY DEAR.”
It’s Aunt Winnie. But why is she whispering?
“I know it’s early, but I had to bring Faridee when I was sure your mother wouldn’t be around.”
“Good morning, Marigold.”
Faridee sounds groggy.
“Carrie fairly threatened me the other day, refuses to believe in the power of the mind, nearly blew a gasket when I told her the amulet I gave her is to help pull you back to this world.”
I’m with Mom on that one.
“Anyway, after I thought about her distress that no one knows the identity of the baby’s father, I realized this is the perfect time to call in Faridee! She can connect with you and then you can tell her who the father is, and then we’ll find him. It’s brilliant, and I can finally convince Carrie there are more things in the world to explore than shopping malls.”
Because, of course, if two crazily dressed women go to Duncan and tell him they communed with his comatose non-girlfriend on another dimension and I told them he is the father of my baby, he will totally believe them, end his engagement, and devote his life to a vegetable and our child.
Besides, I’ve already gone over this in my head a thousand times. If Duncan simply read a newspaper, he knows about the baby, and if he were remotely interested in being involved, he would’ve already come forward. And he hasn’t.
“Do your thing, Faridee. We don’t have time for a lot of ceremony.”
“I forgot to bring the sage.”
“Let me see what I’ve got in my purse. Here’s a packet of vanilla flavored Stevia—will that do?”
“I can try.”
Great—a bad idea magnified by a half-assed psychic. This can’t go wrong at all.
“Are you ready, Marigold?” Faridee asked.
Someone tore open the paper packet,
She didn’t respond at first. “Go ahead, Jarvis. She’s your patient as much as mine.”
“The answer is… no,” Dr. Jarvis said, speaking more slowly. “More often the patient doesn’t respond, and in fact, her responses are declining.”
“When was the peak response time?”
“Two weeks ago,” Jarvis said.
“Could the fetus be negatively affecting the patient’s neural recovery?”
Dr. Jarvis didn’t answer.
“Yes, indirectly,” Dr. Tyson said, her voice dragging. “We believe the increased volume of fluids and more circulatory demands could be stalling the brain heal… or even eroding it.”
Eroding? That’s not good.
“Tosco, go.”
“What are the chances the baby will be brought to full term?”
“Good to very good.”
Whew.
“Gaynor, go.”
“And what is the prognosis of the patient?”
I’m waiting… and waiting…
“Um… let’s move on to the maternity ward.”
Is she running late, or avoiding the question?
“But before we leave I’d like to remind everyone this patient is receiving a lot of media attention and as such, you might be approached by reporters or others for information on her condition, or the baby’s. If that happens, keep your mouth shut and call the police. Are there any questions?”
“I have a question.”
“Go, Tosco.”
“Can you address the rumor going around that this patient is receiving special treatment?”
“Such as?”
“Such as experimental drugs?”
I held my breath.
“Since you brought it up, yes, Dr. Jarvis has administered an experimental treatment to this patient that was completely unauthorized. Dr. Jarvis, please step forward.”
His footsteps sounded as if he were headed to the gallows.
“Please take a few minutes to explain the idea behind the iPod’s continuous loop of some of the worst music ever perpetrated on the human ear.”
Rounds of laughter sounded, then Dr. Jarvis launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his research on the effects of classical music on the brain.
I silently applauded Dr. Tyson. But at the same time I realized she’d had time to answer the question about my prognosis, but had deftly dodged it.
September 21, Wednesday
“HELLO, MY DEAR.”
It’s Aunt Winnie. But why is she whispering?
“I know it’s early, but I had to bring Faridee when I was sure your mother wouldn’t be around.”
“Good morning, Marigold.”
Faridee sounds groggy.
“Carrie fairly threatened me the other day, refuses to believe in the power of the mind, nearly blew a gasket when I told her the amulet I gave her is to help pull you back to this world.”
I’m with Mom on that one.
“Anyway, after I thought about her distress that no one knows the identity of the baby’s father, I realized this is the perfect time to call in Faridee! She can connect with you and then you can tell her who the father is, and then we’ll find him. It’s brilliant, and I can finally convince Carrie there are more things in the world to explore than shopping malls.”
Because, of course, if two crazily dressed women go to Duncan and tell him they communed with his comatose non-girlfriend on another dimension and I told them he is the father of my baby, he will totally believe them, end his engagement, and devote his life to a vegetable and our child.
Besides, I’ve already gone over this in my head a thousand times. If Duncan simply read a newspaper, he knows about the baby, and if he were remotely interested in being involved, he would’ve already come forward. And he hasn’t.
“Do your thing, Faridee. We don’t have time for a lot of ceremony.”
“I forgot to bring the sage.”
“Let me see what I’ve got in my purse. Here’s a packet of vanilla flavored Stevia—will that do?”
“I can try.”
Great—a bad idea magnified by a half-assed psychic. This can’t go wrong at all.
“Are you ready, Marigold?” Faridee asked.
Someone tore open the paper packet,
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