Survivor Song(22)
There’s some other alternate universe where you and I are together, and I’m crying in front of you all the time, like once a day minimum. I’m not saying I’m a mess, I just don’t hide how I’m feeling. Okay, swearing and crying, maybe I am a mess. But I mean who doesn’t cry at kids’ movies? The first five minutes of Up kills me every time.
So in the other universe, the one where we’re together, we’d be laughing a lot too, don’t get me wrong. There are all these times where I’m saying or doing the silliest things to get you to laugh. Like my mom used to randomly say “sassafras and lullabies” to get a laugh out of the baby me. I don’t remember it, but I kinda do. And there are times where I’m singing you goofy songs and you and I are laughing so hard that I’m crying too.
Goddammit.
I hope you’re in a good place. I hope you aren’t scared.
I didn’t plan this very well. This is a spur-of-the-moment decision. I’m just going to keep talking until Rams or Dr. Awolesi comes back in. They’re still outside the room talking about stuff they don’t want me to hear. I don’t feel very good, physically, but as long as my temperature stays normal, I’ll pretend I’m okay. My arm hurts and my head is fucking pounding. Sorry, I shouldn’t drop the f-bomb, but that’s exactly how my head feels.
Hey, speak of the Rams. Say hi, Rams.
“Hi.”
That was exciting, wasn’t it? We’ll talk again later. I won’t promise, but I promise. Hey, I love you. I do. Don’t forget that.
Rams
Ten years ago Ramola was in her second year at Brown Medical School and Natalie tended bar at the Paragon, a trendy Thayer Street restaurant one block from the Brown University bookstore. They shared a two-bedroom apartment, a second-floor unit of a three-family house on Hope Street. None of the rooms had doors (only curtains), and the floor of their small kitchen was pitched, sloping distinctly, if not alarmingly, downhill toward the rear of the apartment. On quiet nights they sat on placemats on the kitchen floor, drank wine, ate sharp cheddar cheese, raced runaway rolling coins down the linoleum pitch, and talked. Sometimes they talked about the meaningless and ephemeral, which turned out to be—for Ramola—the more memorable nights; Ramola playing devil’s advocate and setting Natalie on rants about iced coffee (coffee should be molten hot), the toe that does the least amount of work (the one next to the baby toe, of course), and a short-lived campaign to rename one of the seven days without using the word “day.” Some nights they discussed more serious subjects, including careers and their families. Ramola most often voiced her anxieties concerning the pressures of medical school, the financial insecurities of what lay beyond, and fearing she would allow the pursuit of her career to narrowly define who she is and would be. Natalie’s fraught if not outright toxic relationship with her mother was her recurring topic. Both women would offer advice, when needed, but more often than not, their shared roles as the supportive listener was enough and was, ultimately, what both parties wanted. Ramola is more homesick for those wine-laughter-and-occasionally-tear-filled nights on the kitchen floor than she ever was for her childhood home.
Natalie had been dating Paul for about six months when he showed up unannounced at the apartment one night. Natalie was at work, but Ramola was home studying; her books, notes, and an array of highlighting markers and pens were spread out on her bed. Paul walked into the apartment carrying a wilted and wet fistful of daises. He gave Ramola a side-eye and a smirk, one that was somehow cocksure, nervous, and totally Paul, as he announced he was there to talk to Ramola, and, surprise, the flowers were for her, not Natalie. Years later Paul admitted (to no one’s shock or surprise) to liberating the flowers from a window box he passed on the walk over. Ramola didn’t know what to think other than whatever it was Paul had to say couldn’t be good. They sat on the sheet-covered couch and he stammered through an aimless recounting of his relationship with Natalie. Ramola demanded he get to the point, as she had to get back to her studies. Her tone was harsher than what was warranted, but it reflected a sinking dread she couldn’t control, much less recognize. He was there to ask Ramola’s blessing for Natalie and him to live together. Ramola without hesitating or even blinking said, “Christ, I’m not her bloody mum. You don’t need my permission.” Ramola was annoyed; she knew this meant she would have to find a new place or a new roommate. What she wanted to say was, No, you can’t have my Natalie. She never did, technically, say yes or give her blessing, something Paul pointed out years later. Truth be told, at the moment he asked, she wanted him and his stupid flowers to go away and she wanted to pretend the discussion hadn’t happened. She wanted to tell him it was a bad idea, that he was moving too fast and he might scare Natalie away, which wouldn’t have been true. After the initial shock and jealousy were beaten back and inner-monologued away, Ramola was able to express happiness for Natalie and Paul, who indeed made a lovely couple.
It’s impossible for Ramola to imagine the awkward but charming young man from that bittersweet night in her favorite place on earth, and the wry, only slightly older one he became, is dead.
Ramola remains in the doorway to Natalie’s room, the gatekeeper, the half-closed door resting against her hip. She says to Dr. Awolesi, “I haven’t pressed Natalie for details. She is adamant her husband, Paul, was killed by the infected man who bit her.”