“No.”
“Pecos?”
“Wrong direction,” the golfer says over his shoulder as he continues. “This is UMC El Paso.”
“What?” I pass rooms on each side of the hall as I hurry to catch up with them. “How did I get here?”
“An ambulance brought you in.”
“All the way from Marfa?”
“No. We don’t send our ambulances that far away.”
“I’m in El Paso,” I say more to myself than anyone. “Are you sure?”
“Sure as can be, Miss Marfa.”
“Why am I in El Paso?”
“Maybe one of those geo tours,” Clint suggests, as if I look like the kind of girl who’d pass on a mountain of Buc-ee’s Beaver Nuggets in favor of a mountain bike. He stops and tips his hat to a woman with fried blonde hair and skintight Wranglers. “Miss Kodiak.”
“Clint. Concierge.” Her outline is as solid as mine and Clint’s, but she looks through me like I’m invisible. I recognize the look. I’ve seen it many times from snooty women like Kodiak. If she was nicer, and if I didn’t have better things to do, I might give her a professional consultation and recommend a deep-conditioning hair mask for those thirsty roots growing from her center part.
“She’s a long way from home,” I say as she moves down the hall.
“That’s her birth name,” the golfer tells me. “They’re about to bring Kodiak out of her coma, and she best shake her tail feathers and get there before she’s marked as unresponsive and gets shipped off to Vista Hills for long-term care.” He raises his voice. “She’s not goin’ to like the concierge at Vista Hills. Connie’s from Terlingua and was left in the sun too long.”
Kodiak runs down the hall and disappears into a room. “When a patient is comin’ out of a coma, it’s best if both body and soul are together for obvious reasons,” the golfer tells me.
We continue down the hall, getting farther from my body, and I ask if the same holds true for when a person passes on. That seems like important information. “We prefer a soul raise from their physical being. Unfortunately, there are occasions when it doesn’t occur that way.”
Unfortunately? That sounds scary. “What happens?”
“Shit happens, Marfa. That’s what.” One minute he says, “That’s not for me to know,” and in the next he says “we” as if he was in on the planning. Now it’s “shit happens” like he’s Forrest Gump. He sighs and explains, “Sometimes a soul can’t make it back to their body before their portal opens, and they are raised up from wherever they happen to be at that moment, be it in deep conversation or playin’ bingo. Some patients witnessin’ the passin’ are reassured by the splendor and warmth of God’s light while others screech like caged monkeys.”
Bingo? I shake my head but don’t ask. I’m confused and nothing about this day makes a lick of sense. The last thing I remember is sitting in church next to Momma. The night before, I remember I was writing lyrics like I always do. Real Housewives reruns were on the television, and I was texting… someone. “Why did I drive all the way to El Paso?” I wonder out loud.
“Do you have relatives in the area?” Clint asks.
“No.”
“Visitin’ a nice young fella?”
HotGuyNate. I was texting HotGuyNate from Tinder. I had plans to meet him in El Paso. I don’t think I made it.
“Here we are.”
We turn right and the hall opens to a room filled with sofas and wooden tables and chairs. It’s like a common area in a retirement home, complete with people watching Highway to Heaven reruns on a large television or staring into a fish aquarium as a hologram of Noah’s Ark battles choppy waves in the big tank. I take a step back. “Are we still in the hospital?”
“Yes and no. This is a part of the hospital that dwells on the spirit plane. It cannot be seen or accessed by humans. We call it the Limbo Lounge.”
I take another step back. “Can I get stuck here like the in-between?”
“No. This is not a path to heaven. This is a place to relax and socialize while you wait.”
The room looks to be filled with eight people, give or take. “And these people are…?”
“Like you. In a comatose state, whether from traumatic injury or illness or other unfortunate events. Which, as you know, is a stressful and confusin’ time. Patients come here to put their feet up—as the sayin’ goes.”