Over the next few days I learn more than I ever wanted to know about coma patients. I learn that Gloria’s Glasgow Coma Scale score is 8, which means she’s in bad shape but does have at least some chance to recover. I learn about daily sponge baths and frequent changes of position so she won’t develop sores. I learn she might never wake up and if she does she might have significant brain damage.
And I learn there might not be a damned thing anyone can do about any of it.
I want to, of course. Though we’re not close, she’s the only sibling I have left and I can’t imagine losing her too. I keep thinking that if I’d only agreed to meet her that night none of this would have happened. So I sit by her bedside as much as I can, going straight there after work every day to relieve my parents who spend the days with her, because at least that feels like doing something.
Gloria’s friends show up in groups of two and three every night, and I leave the room when they arrive because I can’t handle their emotions or their sympathy. I’m getting enough of both at work, too much, despite asking again for everyone to just act like nothing is wrong. Mara came to the hospital once, but she couldn’t stop crying and eventually I had to tell her to leave so she wouldn’t upset Gloria. Andy, to my surprise, called and told me how sorry he was and asked if there was anything he could do. There isn’t, of course, and I told him so, but he said he’ll call again later. I can’t say I care either way.
Since I’ve also learned that coma patients might be able to hear despite not being able to respond, I talk as much as I can when I’m with Gloria so she’ll hear a familiar voice if she can hear. That helps me too, because while I’m talking I can’t eat.
I manage to stick to that 1200-calorie diet. Mostly. I can’t resist a peanut butter cup when Jaimi shyly offers me one Wednesday, and I eat a few other things I shouldn’t, but even my worst day doesn’t go over 1300 calories.
On Friday, though, when we meet with Doctor Wise at one o’clock for an official update, I know I haven’t done enough.
“I’m afraid the news isn’t good,” he says, his face calm but sad. I have a brief flash of wondering whether they practice that expression in medical school before he goes on with, “Gloria’s coma score is now 7. We’ve had to lower her rating because she’s not responding to painful stimuli as well as she did before.”
“You’re… hurting her?”
He turns quickly to Mom. “No, no. It’s things like squeezing her finger at the base of the nail. Uncomfortable, but not severe pain by any means.”
Mom relaxes back into her chair. “Okay, so she’s at 7. What happens when she gets to zero?”
The doctor clears his throat. I know why. I’ve researched the coma scale enough to know that normal consciousness rates a fifteen and total unresponsiveness a three, so Gloria’s drop of a point is extremely bad news. She’ll never reach zero. There is no zero. Zero means she’s dead.
The thought of zero makes me picture the size zero dress that was left hanging in the office closet Monday after we all claimed our new clothes. It was gorgeous, black with sleek silvery embroidery, but way too small for me. Jaimi fit into it but didn’t like it. I did, though. Like it, I mean. I certainly didn’t fit into it.
I shove the dress out of my mind, not wanting to think about fashion right now, in time to hear the doctor finishing his explanation of how the coma score works.
“So why is her score dropping?”
The doctor turns to Dad. “We are concerned,” he says slowly, “that she may be experiencing brain swelling. We’d like your permission to drain the pressure.”
“How?”
He describes how he’d drill a hole into my sister’s skull, but I stop listening. I know what I have to do. The only thing I can do. The thing only I can do.
When I threw out that bagel Gloria’s condition improved. This week I’ve slid backward with my diet, and Gloria is backsliding too.
I know it can’t truly be connected, but I manage not to let that register with me. At least my diet is something I can lock down. I’ve been screwing up, but I won’t do that any more. I will be perfect.
Mom’s mention of ‘zero’ goes through my head, and I know how I’ll know I’ve been perfect, know I’ve done enough. I will get myself to a size zero as soon as I can. Gloria wanted to be there but she never did it, so I’ll do it for her. It’ll be challenging, but I’m small-boned enough that it’s possible. And it being hard to do is good, because Gloria has a hard task ahead of her in recovering.
So I will do the toughest thing I’ve ever done, become a size zero, and if I don’t mess up even once that has to be enough to save my sister’s life.
*****
When our talk with the doctor is over, my parents and I go to sit by Gloria’s bedside. After fifteen minutes, though, two of Gloria’s friends arrive to see her, so my parents head home to get a little rest and I claim I’m going back to work but instead go shopping. My willpower already wavered once, when a sympathetic nurse offered us some packets of crackers, and though I only had a tiny nibble before regaining control I need to ensure that doesn’t happen again. I need a constant reminder to stick to my plan and do the only thing I can do to save Gloria.
The moment I see the black dress in the store window, I know I’ve found that reminder. Undoubtedly designed by my boss, it’s sleeveless with an exposed silver zipper and a sleek straight skirt trimmed with silver embroidery at the hem. The dress in our office closet is similar, but I don’t want to take that one. I want to spend my money, quite a lot of money, on this dress, so it will keep me on the right track.
“The dress in the window,” I say to the salesclerk, who’s so skinny she probably thinks size zero is obese. “Does it come in a zero?”
Her eyes skim over me. “It does. Why?”
I raise my chin. “I want one. Size zero.”
I can see her wanting to say, “Why?” again, but she doesn’t. Lucky for her: I might have hit her if she had.
She finds the dress, moving insultingly slowly, and begins folding it carefully. Without taking her eyes from it, she says, “Our gift boxes are ten dollars.”
“I don’t need one.”
She doesn’t lift her head but she raises her eyes, and her eyebrows, then lowers them and doesn’t bother replying.
Impotent fury snaps through me. I could tell this bitch off, but what good would that do? My sister would still be in a coma.
“Use that anger, that frustration,” I tell myself. “Eat them instead of food.”
I stand waiting, chewing on my rage and hoping she can’t tell because I know it would give her satisfaction, until she’s finished packaging the dress in tissue and tucking it into a paper bag. Then I pay a thousand dollars for my motivation dress, walk out without a word to her, and go straight home where I hang the dress from the handle of an upper kitchen cabinet so it drapes down over the fridge door. I take a picture of it covering my access to food and make it my phone’s lock screen and wallpaper, and for good measure I also make that picture the background on my home and work laptops.
Wherever I am, I need to see it.
This is the only thing I can do to help Gloria, and I cannot forget it even for a moment.
I will be a size zero.