Survivor Song(21)

“Yeah, okay. Please don’t go far.”

Ramola says, “We’ll be right at the door, and we’ll leave it open.”

“Oh, hey, Rams, can you give me my cell phone? Or you can just put my bag up here, because I want my charger too.”

Ramola says, “Yes, of course. Are you going to call your parents?” She places the night bag next to Natalie.

Dr. Awolesi says, “A text is much more likely to get through. The cellular network is getting crunched with the surge in calls.”

Natalie says, “Right. Believe me, I know. Maybe I’ll text them, I don’t know.” She lifts the phone out of her bag, holds it up. “I have this pregnancy diary app thingy on it. Voyager. Voyageur. See, there’s my impeccable French, Rams. And yeah, anyway, I’m going to talk to my kid on it.”

Nats

I’ve recorded and deleted four tries at this. This is number five. Math, right. Five is not my lucky number, by the way. It’s nineteen. That’d probably be a weird thing to remember about your mom, but also kind of cool. Maybe.

If I’m not around to play this for you, which is probably the only reason you’d ever listen to this, then I’m sure someone will give you a, um, fuller explanation as to what this is, or why I’m recording messages for you. Sorry, but there’s no good way to intro this, to explain why I have to do this. I mean, I’m doing this because your dad was killed and I’m sick. I might get better but I might get awful, terrible sick, and very quickly. I’m not even a mom yet and I’m already not telling you things to protect you, but if you’re listening, those things have already happened. Let me try again: Your dad was killed by a guy infected by a weird new super rabies and the same guy bit my arm. There’s a good chance I’m going to die from it, maybe even before the day is out. There. I said it.

You’re squirming all around as I’m recording this. Good timing, kiddo.

I’m doing this because I want you to hear me. I want you to know my voice. Maybe even know a little bit of who I am, you know? And I want you to know my lucky number, apparently.

So, yeah, hi there. It’s me, Mom. That sounds so weird and fake to me. I haven’t had any chance to get used to me being called that, so it doesn’t seem real. I have been talking to you for months now. We have excellent conversations. They’re one-sided, but you’re a great listener. And I haven’t once referred to myself as “Mom.” This wouldn’t really apply to you until you’re older, like, at least a teen, but don’t ever refer to yourself in the third person. Only assholes do that.

I totally planned on making you call me “Mom.” Wait, is “making you” too harsh? How about, “encouraging you,” then? Hey, look at me being all nurturing.

Anyway, I’m cool—yeah, so cool I have to tell you that I am cool. That’s almost as bad as talking in the third person. But I wasn’t going to be one of those, like, too-cool moms with kids who call her by her first name. I can’t stop you, but I’d prefer you not call me Natalie. Or Nats. I do like Nats though, especially when your dad or Ramola says it, but for you, I’m Mom. And definitely not “Ma.” Nothing worse than “Hey, Ma!” in a Boston accent. And I insist you have a Boston accent.

Here I am, going on about what to call me and I’m not calling you by your name. That’s messed-up. I’m sorry you don’t have a name yet. Well, you have one now, whenever it is you’re listening to this, but you don’t have one in my now. Shit, I’d be so bad at time travel.

That’s another thing you should know about me: I like to swear. I won’t give you a fake example of me swearing, it’ll just come out I’m sure.

I’m sorry about your dad. We were, um, attacked—I tried to help him but I couldn’t. He’s a beautiful man. The kind of man who would crinkle up his face like he smelled something bad if someone told him he was a good man. He always said he was still a kid. I wanted to be there to call BS on him still saying that when he was an old man; he totally would’ve.

Two months ago I got all fired up to take a bath. I texted Paul from work that I was going to take the bathiest bath. He asked why I was “taking the bath and please bring it back when you’re done.” Not funny but funny. At dinner we talked nothing but bathing and the bath. Then it was time. I had on my fluffy robe and everything, but I sat on the toilet crying because the tub suddenly seemed so dirty. Normally I don’t care about that stuff and, please, I’m more of a slob than Paul is, but right then, I was convinced the tub was dirty, like unhealthy filthy, and it meant that we weren’t ready, we weren’t capable of being parents, or doing right by you, and I didn’t want Paul to hear me so I cried into my hands, but he heard me, and he came in and held me and I don’t think I explained myself very well because I could barely speak. He led me out into the kitchen and made me a cup of hot chocolate, and then he cleaned the tub and the rest of the bathroom, cleaner than it had ever been, and then he ran a bath for me, which I didn’t even want anymore.

I hope you look like him. I hope you look like me, too, but him especially. He was a beautiful man.

I’m back, sorry. I don’t want you to hear me crying. Judging by how you’re kicking me, you don’t want to hear me crying either. I know I have limited time and space, and whatever, and I don’t want to take up any of it with me crying. Not that there’s anything wrong with crying, please don’t think that. It’s way healthier to share your emotions and not bury them—like my mom and dad, your grandparents; shit, can you even follow this? Don’t think I’m cry-shaming you. Please, I’m a crier. Full-on ugly-crying, tears and snot everywhere. I’m like a sprinkler. Say it like this: sprink-lah. Do you even know what the hell that is?