Back to Betty. I don’t like her much. No, that’s an understatement. I don’t like her at all. She’s pretty enough to be envied, if not for those glued-on eyelashes, bleached hair, and bronze skin, the one you get by putting yourself at the hands of experts in the best tanning salons in town.
Betty has a coy smile and pointy boobs, not to mention long legs, often presented in sexy tights that make her big butt bulge even more than it already does. She has been using these assets, time and again, to steal away my previous boyfriends. All two of them.
That’s why I’ve never introduced her to the one I’m dating right now, I mean, the one I would be dating, if not for having to hang out around here.
So no, I don’t like Betty. Even so, I must admit: her company is good for me. As long as I have visitors, I’m not forgotten. I’m still among the living.
The nurse says, “She’s just the same.”
“Really? The same?” asks Betty, with a note of disappointment that astonishes me. Does she care? Really?
The nurse sighs. “Who knows if she’ll ever be better.”
“Yes. With the trauma she’s gone through, she may never wake up.”
What? How dare the nurse say anything like that? I’m tempted to leap out of bed and scare her with a good shriek. It takes a while for me to control my temper, control it long enough to wonder, what does she mean? What, exactly, have I gone through?
Betty clears her throat. “What, exactly, has she gone through?”
“So sorry,” says the nurse. “For privacy reasons, this is something I can discuss only with family. You related?”
“No, not really—”
“Then, so sorry. My lips are sealed. You understand, of course.”
“Of course,” says Betty, in a tone that means just the opposite.
I bet she’s rolling her eyes. If that were a sport, she’d win a medal. Now she turns on her heels—one of them squeals against the floor—and stomps out of the room. That’s just like her, popping in when I least expect the pleasure of her company, then popping out again, even though the right thing to do is to spend some time by the side of the dearly beloved.
I’m foaming at the mouth. But as angry as I am, how can I blame her? As far as conversation goes, there’s no way for me to amuse her, let alone keep her interested.
Meanwhile, the nurse goes to the foot of the bed, where she hangs something—my chart?—which sways back and forth a couple of times, singing on a nail. Then she leans over to straighten the blanket, while muttering to herself, “Poor girl. Not even Prince Charming can save her.”
At this point, I turn my anger against myself. So far, I’ve neglected to ask the right questions. I must start making a list. Was there some near-fatal accident? Is that what landed me here? When? Where? How? Was it my fault?
Ash finds herself in the ER diagnosed with coma. She has no memory of what has happened to her, but what she can do--despite what everyone around her might think--is listen to the conversations of her visitors. Will she survive the power outage in the hospital and then, being kidnapped out of it?
It's that flirting with reality that makes this story such a compulsive read. Plot twists and suspenseful storytelling make this a book that you will have trouble putting down..