The Girl in a Coma Read Online Free Page B

it depressing. They’re obsessed with sex. I’m not.
    It’s time I work out who shot me.
    I realize I probably saw him do it. Have I blacked him out because of the horror? It was no fun being shot in the head. Is it amnesia? Is it temporary? Or did I black out because I knew him and don’t want to think about it?
    That night, I worked until midnight. It was still winter. I’ve been in the hospital for a few months. I haven’t bothered counting the days because I was in a complete coma for awhile. Maybe I should. I know it must be April by now. I could hear nurses talking about Easter.
    So, anyway, that night I worked late. Some Tim Hortons stay open all night but ours in East City, on Hunter Street, closes earlier. There’s not enough traffic passing through. We cleaned up. I was the last to leave except for the night manager—that means I wasn’t actually the last to leave, I suppose.
    Peterborough is a very safe town. Especially the East City area. And I can generally look after myself. I’m quite independent.
    After we broke up, Jaimie Retzinger would still walk me home sometimes. He’d ride over from his place and give me a lift. Mostly we’d walk and he’d leave the Harley in the parking lot. When the snow came, he stashed his Harley.
    Sometimes he’d show up and sometimes he wouldn’t.
    It was the kind of logic you can’t argue with.
    I was tired after a long shift and trudged along Hunter Street and turned right. A car came along. It was a dark blue Chevy. It parked ahead of me. No one got out. I crossed over to the sidewalk on the other side.
    I wasn’t afraid, but you might as well avoid trouble. If you can’t, then you fight. I mean, even David knows enough to stay out of my way if I get really focused on something. When we were little we used to wrestle. He’d pin me down and that would make me furious. But I wouldn’t cry. Then when I got to be about eleven, one time I pushed him off and before he knew what hit him, I was straddling him like a donkey and twisting both ears as hard as I could. His eyes filled with tears and his nose started to run. He whispered, “I give, I give,” which was like crying “Uncle.” He never tried to pin me down again.
    Still, he looks after me because he’s my older brother. But that night he wasn’t there. Jaimie Retzinger wasn’t there. I was alone. It was cold and dark.
    A guy got out of the car. The interior lights flashed on for a moment. That’s when I saw someone in the passenger seat. A bald-headed man.
    The guy who got out had his head down, away from the streetlight. I couldn’t see his face. Was it covered? I don’t think so. I can’t remember.
    I heard a shout, or was it the bald guy banging on the glass? Or was it the car door slamming shut? Or the crack of a bullet exploding.
    My hand in my coat pocket clutched at a can of bear spray. Every year or two you hear about someone being attacked by bears. I’ve read that ten times as many people die from dog attacks. I bought the spray at Wild Rock, where they sell camping gear. There are no bears in Peterborough. We’re probably too far south. But just the same, bear spray has other uses.
    The guy didn’t cross over to my side of the street. My hand relaxed on the bear spray. Then I saw him raise what looked like a big stick. Only he wasn’t lifting it up like a club. He was aiming it at me. It was a rifle. Turns out it was only a .22, but even a .22 can kill if the bullet hits the right place. Like your brain.
    Next thing I knew, I was here in my hospital room. And more alive in Pennsylvania in the spring of 1778 than I am in Peterborough today. I know what year it was back then because I was good in history. Before I left school, we studied about the United States and the American Revolution and the winter encampment at Valley Forge.
    I learned most of my own family’s history from