Survivor Song(19)

Natalie says, “I don’t need that. I can walk.”

“I think you’ve walked enough. You need to rest, get some fluids, and think healthy thoughts.” She hands Natalie a piece of paper. “This lists rare but potential side effects you might experience. It’s marked with the date and time, and that barcode sticker corresponds to both the globulin and vaccine you received. You’ll be given a bracelet inside, too, with the same information but you definitely should hold on to this as a backup. I’m sure you noticed things are a little hectic out there. If all goes well, which I’m confident it will”—at this her voice increases in volume, she turns to look at both Natalie and Ramola, and she places a hand on Natalie’s shoulder; with the mask covering all but her eyes, it’s impossible to tell if she’s smiling or frowning or any one of a thousand complicated expressions in between—“you’ll be back here or be assigned to go to another treatment center for the follow-up vaccine booster in three days. You cannot get one before then, okay? Getting the second shot too soon will compromise the immune response. Now, you may need that paper to ensure you get the second shot. They’ll explain this process to you again inside. Do you understand? Good. And while we wait I need to take down some information as well.”

Natalie gives her name, address, date of birth, cell phone number. When asked for an emergency contact she says, “I don’t—my husband, Paul, was killed. He died less than an hour ago.”

The doctor pauses typing on her medical tablet computer. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

Natalie shakes her head, silently saying no to everything. She points at Ramola and sputters through a flash flood of tears. “She’s my emergency contact.”

Dr. Bilezerian asks what their relationship is.

“Friend,” Natalie says.

As Ramola digs through her overnight bag, hunting for her yellow zip-up hooded sweatshirt, she recites her cell phone number.

“Is there anyone else you’d like to list as an emergency contact? Any immediate family or—” Dr. Bilezerian peters out as though coming to the too-late realization that there is no good or happy answer to her queries.

Natalie shivers and gingerly flexes her left arm. “I don’t know if any of this, any of what we’re doing, even matters. I’ll pretend it does.”

Ramola says, “It very much matters, and we’re going to keep you healthy. And the baby, of course.” She stumbles over herself to include the nameless child.

Natalie says, “I’ll add my parents as contacts. They are in Florida. They sit in their condo all day and watch Fox News and complain about the humidity when they’re not arguing or forgetting to eat.”

Dr. Bilezerian asks for their names and information and Natalie obliges.

Ramola drapes the sweatshirt across Natalie’s back and over her shoulders. “You can take that damp jumper off once we’re inside.”

Natalie says, “I don’t think I can squeeze into this.”

“It’s surprisingly roomy. I swim in it.”

“Yellow, huh?” Natalie laughs.

“Well, it’s my—”

“I know yellow is your favorite, but this is really fucking yellow. If I zipped this up I’d look like a pregnant banana.”

“Only if you wore matching bottoms. I’d say you look more like a lemon.”

“Don’t argue with the pregnant banana.”

An orderly appears in the cubicle with the wheelchair, and without missing a beat, says, “I’m here to help a, um, pregnant banana get in out of the cold.”

Natalie says, “All right, I’m the only one who can call me that.” She slides off the table and settles into the chair.

Dr. Bilezerian helps Natalie put on a white respirator mask, explaining that exposed patients are wearing them out of an abundance of caution. She reminds Ramola where the Command Center is, instructs the orderly to take good care of her patient. She says, “Goodbye, Natalie,” and wades back into the tent’s bustling concourse.

The orderly says, “It’s ugly out here. Think they’ll let me stay inside with you ladies?”

As they wheel Natalie from the screening area Ramola notices the middle-aged man in the cubicle across from them is gone and has been replaced by an older one, pointing at the back of his hand. She overhears the doctor—who un-gloves and crosses his arms—saying, “I don’t see any broken skin. I know—but you’re the one who told me she’s an indoor cat. . . .”

Outside the tent and its numbing drone of the heater, the chilled air nips at exposed skin. The surging roar of the crowd returns, angry at having been ignored for the duration of Natalie’s screening.

Inside the hospital they run a frenzied but well-organized gauntlet through checkpoints and hallways. Ramola is identified, briefly screened, and allowed to accompany Natalie after donning scrubs, gloves, and a lab coat. She does not remain behind in the ER’s waiting area, which has been reserved for visitors and family members of patients in which the infection has taken hold. Those patients are being treated in an isolation ward.

Ramola and Natalie are brought to the second floor and the department normally reserved for patients recovering from hernia and weight loss surgeries, procedures that were the first nonessential services suspended by the hospital. This ward is one of four areas reserved for monitoring people who have been exposed to the virus and have received the globulin and vaccination but have yet to exhibit symptoms of infection. They wheel Natalie to a private room, though a nurse tells her that it might not be private for long. The nurse takes her temperature again and tells Natalie they are going to continue to take her temperature every fifteen minutes until she is symptom-free for six hours, at which point she’ll be released. Her temperature remains at 99.2 degrees. Her blood pressure is 125/85, which is slightly higher than normal.