The first month of Karen's coma was a write-off—strange yet drab, hope dripping away bit by bit, making us unaware of its overall loss. We were all of us poleaxed with the flu—a good thing in that we didn't have to attend school for the final week before Christmas.

We shambled around to each other's houses and yakked on the phone a good deal. Hamilton phoned on Friday night: "Of course," he said, "we're beacons of gossip at school now." I had to admit we were. "They're ghouls," he said, pausing to honk his nose, adding, "God, my brain feels like a furry clump of dog shit." There were voices in the background at Hamilton's: "My Dad's marshaled up his sap tonight. He's dating a young twinkie in the payroll department. Aggh. My future stepmother is spoon-dancing with Daddy-O as I speak. Well—they'll have a litter of golden little brats together." The background music crooned Brasil '66. "You really should see her, Richard. She's not a mother—she's a golden retriever. You just wait until she turns into a slut. Won't that be jolly." A sigh: "Must go, Toots—owww! My head. Is. In. Pain. Bye."

Click.

A few minutes later, Wendy phoned to say Linus was at her house and they were languidly barn-raising a gingerbread house. "It was supposed to be a Hobbit cottage, but it ended up looking more like Hitler's bunker. Linus's flu is gone. He's going down to see Karen in a minute. Anything to send?"

"No."

Linus became our proxy visitor, but he returned to us with maddeningly obscure information. He never noticed straightforward data like whether or not Karen's eyes were open or how her skin color was; he was interested in the inanimate, in frameworks and systemsthat weren't easily apparent. Accordingly, he began recounting the visit in frustratingly pointless detail.

"You know the IV she has? What do they put in there? How can they squeeze all of her food into a watery liquid? I mean, doesn't it seem like it should be a lot thicker? With fiber or pulp at least?"

"There's a food tube that goes directly to her stomach," Wendy said. "I guess she's involuntarily quitting smoking, too. Her poor body."

Hamilton was straightforward: "Did you see Karen or were you there doing your science project? Can you tell us how she was?"

"Okay, okay … so the food goes in one tube and out another. There didn't seem to be any problems there. Except when you think about how her body is like an earthworm, kind of, a big food-to-compost converter …"

I took offense to the direction this was going. "Linus! Does she look okay? Does she move?"

"Well, um, actually, yeah. Her eyes were open and her eyeballs, her pupils I mean, followed my hand when I moved it over her face."

"What? She's awake?"

"No. Her eyeballs are open, but I think she's still sleeping. She has a little radio beside her bed. It was playing a disco song. Sister Sledge?" Linus seemed pleased at having remembered such a nontechnical detail.

We finally visited Karen two days before Christmas, dazed like bejeezus on Robitussin and decongestants, and we kept far away from her bed. Linus was right: Karen's eyes did follow hand motion—inspiring news. When Dr. Menger came down the hall, we excitedly informed him of the miraculous event. He looked worried and beckoned us into the cafeteria, telling us to sit.

"It doesn't give me any pleasure to tell you, kids, but your friend Karen is in what's known as a persistent vegetative state. Karen is completely unaware of either herself or her environment. She has sleep cycles and awake cycles. She has no control over her bowel or bladder functions. She has no voluntary responses to sound, light, motion, and no understanding of language. I really must tell you thatrecovery is rare. So rare as to be big news for the newspapers when it ever occurs. There's really not much else I can tell you."

"But my hand!" Pammie squealed. "Karen's eyes watch your hand if you move it around in front of her face."

"That's misleading," Dr. Menger said. "That's misleading and sad. It's a common involuntary reflex response to motion. There's no high brain function linked to the act."

So much for hope, I thought as we all drove to Pammie's house. "Oh, God, I haven't done any Christmas shopping," I said. "Let's not give each other presents, okay?" Everyone listlessly agreed. My own family members that year received chocolate bars and magazines from a Mac's convenience store, all badly wrapped in kitchen tin foil and handed over free of enthusiasm.

New Year's Eve that year, a minty fresh new decade, consisted of Hamilton halfheartedly letting off a brick of stale leftover Halloween firecrackers inside the Hitler's Bunker followed by two beers and games of Pong. Ugh.

The year became 1980.

A daily pattern of hospital visits emerged with us of the inner circle, as well as the McNeils visiting daily. Lois McNeil was still grumpy at Pammie and Wendy over the dreaded vodka-Tab cocktails, so the two would skittishly beetle down the corridor at the slightest hint of Lois. Mr. McNeil, though, was on our side, saying, "Christ, Lois, they're kids and they weren't doing harm. Nobody forced Karen to drink, and even then that's probably not the full cause."

Mrs. McNeil would be pursed-lipped, with Mr. McNeil saying, "It may well have been your two pills that caused this, so don't act so bleeding innocent." (Thank you, Mr. McNeil.) "I can see she didn't inherit her drug tolerance from you." Ow!

But as the days slipped by after Christmas holidays, visits trailed off a bit, always with good excuses; by the end of January, it was only Karen's parents and me visiting, Mr. McNeil going daily from the body shop. Softly, he said he couldn't imagine ever not going. We became the two regular visitors."I never had a real chance to talk to her, Richard. You know that?" he would say. "Always working. Always assuming there'd be time later. I feel closer to her now than I did during all her birthdays—and she'll never even know."

"Not never, Mr. McNeil."

"No—you're right. Not never."

It was in February a few weeks after school had resumed that I came home and saw Dad's car in the driveway at four o'clock in the afternoon, two hours earlier than usual. For someone as strongly habit-bound as my father, this could only bode big news, good or bad. I entered the kitchen, heard Mom on the phone in the living room and Dad rustling the newspaper. I came into the room and cautiously asked, "What's up?"

"Richard," she said in a warm, yet neutral voice designed to preempt shock, "Karen's pregnant."

From the top of my skull, flames burned downward; once again, I felt my skin grow quills, my forehead antlers. My stomach jumped off a cliff and my legs became stone. The Pill … was she on it? I never asked. First shot lucky. The Sperminator. "Oh."

Dad said, "The hospital called us this morning. We had lunch with the McNeils today."

Mom added, "There's no problem with us, Richard. Please remember that. Apparently there's no problem with the baby, either. This has happened before—women being pregnant during comas. You know we love Karen like our own daughter."

My mind was steam-whistling.

"There are many cases of coma patients giving birth, Richard," my father said. "Richard?"

"Yes. Yes. Just give me a moment here …" Fire; a throat that will not breathe: that joke isn't funny anymore.

"What about Karen?" I asked.

"Apparently in this sort of—situation—Richard," Mom said,

"the mother is just fine. Birth will be by Cesarean section next September."My mind flashed to abortion and as quickly flashed away. No. This child must be born.

"Richard," Dad said, "if news of this gets out, the media will eat you the way a snake eats rats. Karen and you will both be sideshow freaks."

"You must ensure, Richard," Mom stressed, "that nobody—not even your friends—find out about this. We're absolutely firm on this. In a few months when she starts to show, we'll have to tell people she's having breathing troubles and is unable to take visitors for a while."