Survivor Song(14)
“Thank you, Officer.” Ramola eases off the brake and they creep forward. “Can you call ahead, give them my name, Dr. Ramola Sherman, and tell them to expect us?”
Natalie groans and whisper-shouts, “Just go, come on, let’s go!”
“I will but I’m not sure there will be anyone available to greet you.”
Ramola accelerates onto the rotary. Three more on-ramps, the remaining points on a compass, are similarly roadblocked by state police. Unlike eerily empty I-95, there is traffic below the overpass on Route 1, its double lanes a glorified path between car dealerships, box stores, strip malls, and themed restaurants. As they pass the on-ramp to their right, cars queue from the highway’s southbound lanes.
Natalie says, “You’re not stopping again—”
“I’m not stopping.”
Officers wearing the same painters’ masks wave the SUV through the rotary’s west exit and onto Nahatan Street. They pass a warehouse on their right and an apartment complex on their left, a cluster of two-story brick buildings squatting around a three-quarters-full parking lot. Ramola does a double take as someone darts through the lot and disappears among the buildings.
Natalie asks, “How long do you think it’ll take to get me in, get me seen? The rinky-dink hospital is probably fucking jammed.”
“I can’t say for sure, but I’m confident we’ll get you in quickly. It won’t be anything like a normal emergency room with check-in and then sit and wait, and all that. There is extra staff and there will be a triage set up outside the emergency-room entrance to help with patient screening.”
“I don’t doubt you, but how do you know this?”
“I received the hospital’s emergency-response information sheet last evening. I was scheduled to report there tomorrow morning.”
“Lucky you get to go in early for Take Rabies-Infected Preggo to Work Day. It’s going to be a shit show when we get there. I know it is.”
“I’ll personally escort you through the shit show.”
“I’d hug you with my bitey arm if I could.”
Ramola reaches across the center console and squeezes Natalie’s thigh. Natalie covers her mouth with the back of her right hand, still clutching her cell phone. She says, “I-I was going to check my phone for a text from Paul,” and cries silently.
They motor past four blocks of tree-lined streets and small Cape houses. The crowded residential area gives way to a shopping plaza. Its sprawling parking lot is vacant but for a dusting of cars. A portable traffic message board sign and trailer squats in the plaza’s main entrance. The rectangular display message, in big yellow letters proclaims:
ENTER HOSP VIA WASH ST EMERG ENTRANCE ONLY
Across from the plaza are the Norwood fire and police stations, which marks the eastern border of downtown Norwood. Ahead is a set of lights that normally rotates through the green-yellow-red spectrum, and is instead flashing yellow; proceed with caution. There are no police directing traffic. There is a stopped car in front of them that has yet to pass below the commuter-rail overpass. It is part of a growing line of vehicles at least three blocks long.
Natalie says, “Fucking great. What are we going to do? We’re still like a half mile away, right? Is there another way we can go? Are they blocking off other routes? We’re never going to get there. What if they already closed the hospital? It’s overrun. It’s fucking overrun. I know it is.”
Ramola attempts to assuage Natalie by saying, “We don’t know that. We’re still moving. We’ll get there.” She’s feeling similarly panicked. She doesn’t know the answers to Natalie’s more-than-reasonable questions.
Traffic creeps ahead. Natalie taps the passenger window frame with her hand and chants a “Come on, come on” mantra.
Ramola squeezes the steering wheel and she needs to say something, anything, to keep one or both of them from completely freaking out. “How are you feeling? Any change?”
Natalie shakes her head and swears under her breath. She turns on the radio and an AM Boston news station blares at high volume. She says, “We should try the phone. Who can we call at the hospital? You must know who’s in charge. Let’s call them, and give them your name, ask them what to do, but yeah, we probably can’t call because the phones are still fucked, like we’re all fucked.”
Natalie talks fast and her voice schizophrenically alternates between a low, almost distracted grumble and a manic, high-pitched incredulity. Granted, the circumstances are more than a little extraordinary, but in all the years Ramola has known Natalie, she has never sounded or acted like this. Has the virus already passed into her brain? Could it possibly work that quickly?
Natalie rolls down the window and yells, “Come on, let’s go. Drive, you assholes, drive!” She is breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed red.
Ramola says, “Please, Natalie. You need to try to remain as calm as you can.” She thinks about asking if Natalie’s blood pressure has been normal throughout her pregnancy, but for the moment it’s probably best not to bring focus to other potential ailments. “Let’s listen to the radio in case there is new information or instructions.”
Natalie closes the window and resumes her tapping on the doorframe. The radio announcer repeats the quarantine protocol and teases an updated listing of emergency shelters and hospitals to be read in two minutes.