Page 78 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Yes, and it’s good to be here. Thanks for stocking the fridge and for transporting the flowers. I don’t know what I’d do without you. And, Ronnie, it means a lot that you remembered my parents and sent flowers.”
“That’s why you pay me the big bucks. You in the mood for company, or do you want some alone time while you settle in?”
“I’ll probably just call it a night soon. Maybe tomorrow, though.”
“I’ll give you a buzz in the morning. But don’t worry, I won’t call too early. Sleep in, Chelsea.”
I dial Uncle Sylvester’s number and get his voicemail. “Hi, it’s me. I’m home safe and sound. I’m turning in soon but will talk to you tomorrow.”
I assume the other missed call is spam, which aggravates me, because it should’ve been Lolly. Everyone else had the decency to check in on me to make sure I’ve had a smooth transition from hospital to home. But not my sister, who apparently can’t be bothered.
It doesn’t pay for me to work myself up about it, not when I can pass the time noodling around on the Internet, trying to prove to myself that I’m not delusional. I carry my laptop into the living room and resume my spot on the sofa in front of the fire. I miss the crackling and woodsmoke smell of a real one, but at least it lends the room some air of coziness. Still, I can’t help but imagine that Knox would hate it.
The first search I do is for Flower Power. Ronnie has already traveled this road and has reported that the floral shop did indeed exist.Didbeing the key word. According to her research, it closed two years ago.
The only evidence that it ever existed is an old weekly column in theGhost Advocatethat profiled local businesses, and a now-defunct website. The owner was someone named Gerald Mattson, not Ginger. And according to the pictures, it looked nothing like the shop I saw in my dreams.
I zoom in on Google Earth to find that the shop is now Gold Country Real Estate.
My next stop is the website for the Ghost Inn, which still exists and is an exact replica of the one I visited while in a coma. I click on the page for the Inn’s restaurant and bar with no clear picture of what I’m looking for exactly. Eventually, I settle on the menu. The closest item they have to smoked chicken wings is “golden chicken nuggets” on the kid’s page. They do, however, serve chips and salsa, as does pretty much every restaurant in California.
I click over to the drink menu and search for a Ghost Ghoul, only to come up empty. The most original cocktail on the list is a piña colada, circa 1954. I call the toll-free number on the homepage and ask the operator to transfer me to Katie Hart. If she’s working today, she would be starting her shift right about now.
“I’m sorry, there’s no Katie Hart here,” the operator says.
“She’s a bartender in the restaurant.”
“Do you mean Cassie Reinhold? She’s our only female bartender.”
“This would’ve been a few weeks ago.” Because Katie was going back to school. Maybe she’d already quit.
“Ma’am, I’ve been here for three years. We’ve never had an employee named Katie Hart.”
“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong place.” I hang up and cry.
Through tears, I search my texts for the dozenth time. But there’s nothing from Austin during the two weeks I was in a coma. Just to be sure, I scroll through my call log. Again, nothing to indicate that any of the conversations I remember us having ever happened.
I don’t know what I was expecting to find. It’s clear I couldn’t have been in two places at the same time, and yet, I was. Everything about those two weeks in Ghost were so real, so distinct. So life-changing.
I suppose I’m lucky. At least I didn’t have nightmares while comatose, which, according to what I’ve read, is not uncommon. While I was recuperating in the west wing, I made a study of comas and dreams. Like the man who suffered from a high fever who kept dreaming that he was being burned alive. Or the woman who repeatedly dreamt she was drowning.
And then there are those whose experiences are not dissimilar from mine. For example, a man who hallucinated a whole new life while he was unconscious. In the span of only a few minutes, he met the love of his life, married, had two children, and then went crazy.
When he came to and realized that none of it was real, he went into a dark depression that lasted three years. He said he was grieving the loss of his nonexistent wife and children and thought he might be going insane.
This is what I’m up against.
Chapter 21
It’s been five days since I came home, and I’m feeling a lot like my old self again. Not entirely ready to take on the world but strong enough to go into the office and do a little work. I call myself an Uber, because I’m still not ready to drive. And I don’t want to zap my strength walking.
Ronnie’s waiting for me with a cup of Peet’s coffee. “You’re sure you’re up for this?”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
“Your agent called. The mockup for the new calendar is ready. I’ll cue it up for you on the big monitor.”
In September, I was beyond psyched for this calendar, a fun project that I thought could make a difference in the lives of couples working on their marriages. Now, it just seems . . . ridiculous. Like fodder for an SNL skit.
