21. Maggie
Maggie had been in the ICU since seven-thirty on Tuesday morning, taking as many half-hour shifts next to Jo’s bed as they’d let her. She talked, she read Vivien’s diary, and she held it together while compiling a catalog of indignities being inflicted on her best friend.
The gown, for one. Gunmetal gray decorated with pink and pale teal triangles, like a kindergarten teacher’s painting smock. Of course, sweet Jo would call it “whimsical” and threaten to take it home and make a patchwork quilt out of it.
Maggie called her Thumbnail for the rest of the semester. And speaking of nails, Jo’s pretty “Bubble Bath” polish she’d picked for the wedding was chipping. Jo Ellen would die before—
Maggie stopped.
Jo Ellen would not die. Not today, not…over her nail polish.
“On my next shift, Jo,” Maggie said brightly, “I am going to take that polish off you and I do not care if some officious nurse tells me I can’t bring acetone remover into the hospital. I’ll smuggle it in along with that overpriced tea you love so much.”
She smiled at the inside joke about Jo Ellen’s weakness for fancy boxes and silly names and…oh, God, don’t let her die.
“And I am going to bring you a real gown,” she continued. “Maybe that flamingo thing you bought in Miami that I say I hate but secretly love. They can’t stop me.”
Nobody can stop you, Mags.
She could hear Jo Ellen’s dear voice in her head, but in real life? In this dreary ICU room? All she could hear was…medical stuff and that tube down her throat groaning and clicking and hissing.
Maggie picked up the diary Vivien had let her borrow, flipping to that entry she’d just read out loud. She’d brought the notebook on a whim, hoping some memories from the past would cheer up her comatose friend.
It was mostly drivel about Peter, who had only taken thirty-plus years to realize the greatest woman he’d ever meet was standing in front of him all those summers. But every once in a while, Maggie would read something about herself, or Jo Ellen, in Vivien’s girlish voice…and it gave her a jolt.
Like this last entry when Maggie had tried to exercise authority and Jo Ellen had, as always, helped her see the light. Because Jo was the light. And she’d disciplined with love, not an iron fist.
“I mean, of course I said no,” Maggie muttered, defending herself against her own thoughts. “Vivien had already come home reeking of vodka one night and I didn’t know these boys from Adam! And where are they now, huh? This Wes and Drew? Never heard from again.”
Of course not. That was the night it all…ended.
“But it was sweet of you to intervene,” she conceded, vividly remembering that kitchen conversation.
“I appreciate that, in front of Vivien, you supported me. But then you set me straight. And did Vivien really think I didn’t know she was out in the hall?
Me? The woman with eyes ‘in places eyes shouldn’t be’? ”
She chuckled, not because anything was funny, but because that would have cracked up Jo Ellen, who’d repeat it for days.
“But you were right, of course. You gave Vivien and Kate a chance to shine on their own because…you’re wise,” she said on a sigh, the realization just hitting her so hard.
“I know I act like I know everything—which, usually, I do. And if I don’t, I make it up.
But you actually understand people. You have a tender heart. ”
Her voice cracked and through sheer willpower—something she had in abundance—she pushed the choking tears away.
“That’s what I love about you, Jo. One of many things. You’re so…tender. But underneath all that softness and silliness is a truly great woman. Please, Jo. Please, please, please come back to me.”
She dropped her head and let it rest on the side of the hospital bed, her heart aching.
Forcing herself to pull it together and knowing that any minute another beast in blue scrubs would come in here and demand she leave, she fluttered the pages of the diary before putting it on the rolling table.
“You said it, Jo Ellen. It’s right there in Vivien’s diary.
‘Mags, when we’re eighty, I’m going to be helping you let go of control and you’re going to make sure I don’t stop laughing because you are funny.
’” She took her friend’s hand and squeezed.
“You’re nowhere near eighty. Okay, almost, but not there yet. ”
She sighed, coming closer to whisper the rest. “Jo, you know what else was in that diary? The Maggie Lawson Karma Rule or whatever Vivien called it. ‘Do bad things and bad things happen to you.’”
She swallowed, thinking of Gator Jack’s.
“I sure hope we’re not being punished.”
The ventilator blew, like Jo Ellen scoffing out a breath.
“I mean it,” Maggie continued. “Of course, we’re all feeling guilty. Eli’s a wreck, second-guessing every word, every safety check, every moment on the day you…the day this happened.”
She closed her eyes against tears she so rarely shed. Not Maggie. Jo? Oh, yes, she’d bawl like a baby over a commercial. Maggie only let herself cry at the end of Gone with the Wind. And only because Rhett was a stubborn fool.
“But nobody is blaming you, Jo, and I don’t want you to be hard on yourself for loving your plants so much. You don’t get to come back to me and apologize. That’s forbidden.”
She leaned in closer.
“But please come back. We have so much to do together. We just found each other again! After all those years—”
Then the door opened, and a brisk, all-business nurse hustled in. “I’m sorry, your visiting time is up.”
Maggie stared at her, wishing she had some authority in this place, but knowing she had none.
“We’re starting a critical procedure,” she continued when Maggie didn’t move.
“What is it?” Maggie asked.
“The doctor will talk to your family in the lounge in a few minutes. She’ll explain everything, but I have to prepare her, so…” She angled her head toward the door. “If you don’t mind.”
Oh, she did mind. Very much. But Maggie nodded and pushed up, bending over to kiss Jo Ellen on the forehead.
“I love you, Thumbnail.”
With that, she stepped outside and walked to the family lounge that the Lawsons and Wylies had taken over. Kate and Tessa were on the small orange couch, both on their phones. Eli rose from the chair when Maggie entered, reaching to give her a hug.
“We’re waiting for Dr. Halpern,” he said, referring to the neurologist they’d been assigned on Monday.
Maggie nodded. “I heard. Can I be here when she comes?” She directed the question to the ladies who were, technically, the “family” that was allowed in here.
“Of course,” Kate said, putting her phone down and standing. “She might as well be your sister, Maggie,” she said.
Maggie wasn’t much of a hugger, but when Kate stepped forward for a spontaneous embrace, Maggie gave in and held her, noticing how thin she felt. Poor thing probably hadn’t had a bite to eat for days.
As they composed themselves, the door opened and Dr. Marcia Halpern came in, carrying an iPad.
She was a small, efficient woman in her late forties, wearing navy scrubs and a stethoscope draped around her neck.
She sat down in the empty chair and gestured for all of them to do the same, a move that surprised and impressed Maggie, since most of the doctors had rushed through everything since they got here.
She seemed calmly in control.
“I want to explain the process to you,” she said after greeting them, “and answer any questions before we start bringing her out of the coma.” She cleared her throat and glanced at each of them in turn.
“We’re going to begin the sedation wean in about thirty minutes.
That means we slowly reduce the propofol drip over several hours.
Her body will start clearing the medication and we will keep her under constant surveillance for a change in her vitals. ”
“Can the vent come out?” Eli asked.
“The breathing tube stays in until she can demonstrate adequate respiratory effort on her own and protect her own airway,” the doctor replied. “That could be sooner or later. I’ll make the call.”
She waited a beat for questions, but they were all quiet.
“Her numbers are where we want them to be,” she continued. “The ICP has held in the goal range for forty-eight hours. The follow-up CT this morning showed no new bleeding and good resolution of the midline shift. Her surgeon did beautiful work. These are the things we want to see at this stage.”
“So, she’s out of the woods?” Tessa asked. “We just need to get her out of a medically induced coma?”
Dr. Halpern pinned steady gray eyes on Tessa.
“She is definitely not out of the woods. We don’t know what will happen when the sedation clears.
With subdural hematomas of this size, we see a range.
Some patients wake up and are themselves—the same person they were before, perhaps slower for a few weeks, perhaps fatigued for months, but recognizable.
Some wake up with deficits like language issues, memory issues, weakness on one side, changes in personality, which may or may not resolve over time. ”
Maggie shifted, trying to imagine that version of Jo, who couldn’t take long walks or do Wordle. But it wouldn’t matter. It would still be Jo Ellen.
“Some patients wake up in a state we call minimally conscious—they’re tracking, they’re technically conscious, but they’re not really there.”
“What does that mean?” Kate asked.
“It means they are in a vegetative state requiring round-the-clock care.”
“Oh.” Maggie breathed out the syllable as the news landed with a thud.
Kate leaned forward. “What are the statistical chances of that happening?”
The doctor just angled her head. “We’re not dealing in percentages now. We don’t know.”
“Any other possible outcomes?” Eli asked.
The doctor hesitated, as though giving them a half-second to process what she was going to say, even though Maggie could have predicted she’d save worst-case scenario for last.