“No. Trust me. You don’t know her mother,” my father says bitterly.

Dr. Foreman moves to my bedside and lightly presses his fingers around my head. “I know it’s not much to go on, but we have been lucky that there haven’t been any complications.”

“Meaning?”

“In coma patients, there is always the danger of a secondary infection, most commonly pneumonia.”

My father pulls himself up into his full height, far below Dr. Forman’s shoulders. He inhales, then expels his words in a rush, “If Jackie comes out of the coma, could she…is it possible she could lead a normal life?”

Someone had to ask it. I wish it didn’t have to be my father. He squints as if to ward off the bad news.

“Well, that all depends on your definition of normal.” The doctor pauses to give my father a chance to weigh this. “Are you a religious man, Mr. Goldstein?”

“No. Anna, she goes to church, but I…” he trails off, then crumples into the chrome chair, burying his face.

“I’ll get you some water,” Dr. Foreman pours from the pitcher on my bed stand, places the cup on the floor by my father’s feet, and lightly touches his shoulder. “You know you can call me any time, night or day.”

My father nods.

He waits until Dr. Forman leaves the room then folds into the solace of his own arms.

SLOW DISSOLVE TO:

INT. MALIBU COLONY HOME

1974

Our house was not typical of the other Colony houses of that time. My father was the first person to have entirely knocked down one of the old cottages and put in its place a five-thousand-square foot “Contemporary,” completely engulfing the tiny beach lot. A concrete behemoth, it stuck out like Gulliver’s sore thumb. Three thick steel arches swept over the roof with no practical purpose other than to intimidate neighboring houses. The effect was an assault and challenge to the quaint old beach shacks that surrounded it. Offended though our neighbors were—letters of protest poured into the Malibu Times—in the following few years, barely half of the Colony cottages remained in their original form.