Survivor Song(15)
They roll slowly between granite walls and then from under the shadow of the rail overpass. Nahatan Street splits and expands into two lanes. Both lanes are full of cars, crawling uphill, into the heart of Norwood Center, toward Washington Street. Perched at the top of the hill is the old stone-and-mortar Unitarian church, the spire’s gray shingles reaching into the grayer midday sky.
“Come on, come on.”
Ramola says, “A few more cars and we can turn left on Broadway. Looks like everyone else is going to Washington Street, but the officer said we could—”
An engine revs and the car behind them lunges into the opposite lane. It roars past their SUV and three other cars ahead of them and turns sharply onto Broadway. Ice broken, other cars from behind buzz into the opposite lane and pass them on the left.
“Go, Rams, you have to go. Now!”
“I am. I’m trying.” Ramola edges out into the lane cautiously and a continuous blur of cars emerge from the darkness of the overpass and swerve as they pass.
“Go, go now!”
Ramola spies what she hopes is enough of an opening in the passing traffic and darts into the opposite lane, cutting someone off. The grille and hood of a red, full-sized SUV fills her rearview mirror. Its blaring horn reverberates, but not as loudly as Natalie screaming at them to fuck off.
They turn left, onto Broadway. The other cars that passed them have accelerated on the open road ahead. There isn’t a procession of stopped traffic like there is on Washington Street. Ramola says, “Okay, okay, we’re almost there.” They speed past a McDonald’s and a large liquor store on their left. As she takes in the landmarks and spins through quick time-and-distance calculations to the hospital, a black sedan spills into their lane from a side street on their right. Ramola jerks their SUV into the opposite lane, barely managing to avoid a collision.
Two-family homes and small businesses whiz by on the periphery for three blocks but ahead is another dreaded sea of brake lights. They are quickly pinned within the bottleneck.
Natalie looses another expletive-filled tirade.
Ramola says, “We’re close. We’re so close,” which she knows sounds less reassuring and more like a lament of defeat. She cranes her head in an attempt to peer over and around the gridlock. This isn’t the slow but steady creep of traffic in the town center; no one is moving. Ahead in the opposite lane are the flashing blue lights from a parked police motorcycle.
They can’t wait for the traffic to magically clear. However, their car is almost parallel to a ubiquitous Dunkin Donuts to their right. Ramola says, “Can you walk?”
“Walk?”
“We’re only two blocks away.”
Natalie nods and adjusts the position of her injured arm. “I can definitely walk. Are we leaving the car here?”
“Not here here.” Out of force of habit, Ramola flicks on her right directional for a moment but then shuts it off, afraid of starting another rush of cars from behind that would fill the coffee shop’s small parking lot, its entrance still more than ten meters away. She turns into a hard right. There’s a loud thump and a jostling jolt as the squealing tires climb over the elevated sidewalk curb.
“Jesus, Rams? What are you doing?”
“Sorry, sorry. Parking at the Dunks.” Her use of local slang for the doughnut shop is intentionally awkward, as she hopes to elicit, if not a laugh, at least a smirk. She slaloms past a thin metal pole and No Parking sign and navigates the sidewalk for twenty or so feet before turning into the square, half-full parking lot, choosing an empty spot closest to the entrance/exit.
“You stay put until I can help you out of your seat.” Ramola opens her door and bounces out of the vehicle before Natalie has the opportunity to argue with her. The world outside their SUV is cacophony and cool air. Ramola was right to worry about setting off a mad rush as the cars behind her joust for space on the sidewalk and in the lot. Determined and with her head down, she dashes around the back to the passenger side, opens the rear door, and retrieves their two bags, slinging them both over her right shoulder. Natalie opens her door, cell phone still clutched tightly in her right hand, and Ramola helps her out of the car and into a standing position.
“You can do this.” She hopes the affirmation is prophecy. Natalie is more than a half foot taller and likely fifty pounds heavier; if she is going to fall, there isn’t a lot that Ramola can do to keep her upright.
Ramola coaxes Natalie into depositing the cell phone into her bag. With her newly unencumbered hand, Natalie holds her injured arm out in front as though carrying an invisible shield. Ramola loops her left arm through Natalie’s right.
Instead of walking through the main part of the lot, which is now full of cars jockeying for spots, they change course and work their way past the front grille of their SUV. They follow a thinning path along the lot’s perimeter, shimmying single-file between cars and a chain-link fence, and to the sidewalk.
They link arms again and Ramola asks Natalie how she is doing.
“We’re good.”
Crowd noise swells, although not the buzz that greets one entering a sporting event or concert that’s generally accompanied by a vibe of euphoric giddiness at having peacefully gathered to share a pleasant, if not fleeting, experience, while winking at potential dangers associated with the ludicrous number of people amassed. There’s an altogether different feel within this throng of fear-fueled and panicked hundreds racing to Norwood Hospital, one that raises gooseflesh and fills Ramola with the urge to flee screaming.