“Now that it’s clear you will be with us until the time you pass, wake, or are moved to a different facility, you will need to know how to proceed and what to expect while in a comatose state.” He points his golf club at me. “From the time of birth, your spirit creates energy to fuel your physical body. When you die, your spirit leaves the earth plane, and without fuel, your physical body is returned to the elements.”
He drops the head of his club and continues. “In cases such as coma, your body goes dormant but your spirit does not and keeps creatin’ energy as always. When all that energy is no longer used as fuel, the spirit may leave the physical body for periods of time. However, while you are free to leave your physical body, you are not free to wander the hospital. You must remain here or in the Limbo Lounge. There are no exceptions,” he says, like he’s reading from Dying for Dummies. “Like all energy, yours will eventually drain from use. You will feel tired and need to reenter your physical body in order to recharge both.”
Oh. I don’t like the sound of returning to my body. The stitches holding me together look painful, not to mention the probe in my head. “Is there another way? Maybe a chargin’ station like in the airport?” Last year when Momma and me flew from Midland to Amarillo to visit Aunt Bonnie Bell, cell charging stations were all over the place.
“You’re not a cell phone.”
Duh. “How long does it take to recharge?”
“That depends on your activity. Strong emotions from you, or the livin’ around you, will accelerate the drain. And if you have family visitors, we prefer you remain in your room with them.”
“Why?”
“That’s not for me to know. I don’t make the rules.”
Uh-huh. I get the feeling he’s playing dumb. Either that or he’s lazy.
“Is this our new guest?”
I look to my left at a middle-aged man moving toward me. I’m so shocked to see anyone else that it takes a second or two for me to notice the solid outline of his tuxedo and ten-gallon hat. His edges aren’t fuzzy like the golfer’s. He looks more solid, like me.
“Yes. This is Marfa.” The golfer turns to include the other gentleman. “Marfa, this is Clint.”
“Howdy, Miss Marfa. That’s some hair.”
“Thank you, sir.” I think. “Who’s Marfa?”
“You.”
“Me?” I put a hand on my chest. “My name isn’t Marfa. I’m Brittany Lynn Snider.”
“We already have a Brittany in this unit. That name has been claimed, so to avoid confusion, the incomin’ party shall be referred to by their hometown,” the golfer says, sounding like he’s reading out of Dying for Dummies again.
“That’s right, Miss Marfa.” Clint continues down the hall and we walk with him. “My real name is Tom but there was a Tom, a Thomas, and a Tommy before I got here. Clint is my hometown.”
Who cares? “Marfa’s ugly. I don’t want to be called Marfa! Why can’t I go by Brittany Lynn or Lynn o
r by my last name?”
“I don’t make the rules, and you have bigger concerns than a name, Marfa.”
Wing nut. I let the name stew because I do have bigger concerns. “How long has it been since my accident?”
“On the earthly plane, you arrived four hours ago.”
Four hours? It feels more like thirty minutes. “Has my momma come to see me yet?” I ask as we pass a room. I try to look inside but all I can see is the foot of a bed and a maroon curtain.
“No. I haven’t seen anyone.”
I wrecked the van and broke her Jesus, but she should be here by now. “Really? Her name is Carla Jean Snider.”
“Does she live in El Paso? The traffic gets mighty backed up at the Spaghetti Bowl this time of day.”
“No. She lives in Marfa.” El Paso? What’s the Spaghetti Bowl?
“That’s three hours away, Miss Marfa.”
I stop again. “What?” My memory is fuzzy, and just when I think it’s going to clear up, it doesn’t. “This is Big Bend hospital, right?”