Survivor Song(24)

Natalie says, “Hey, speak of the Rams. Say hi, Rams.”

“Hi.” Ramola waves, flustered, unsure who the greeting is for. She cannot recall why Natalie wanted her phone, though remembers she did state it was for a reason other than contacting her parents.

Natalie’s mask sags limply on the table tray. She holds the phone away from her ear and faces the screen. “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.” She jabs the screen once, places the phone down on her bed. “They gave you a new toy?”

“What? Oh yes.” She pockets the radio as though embarrassed to be holding it. “Who were you talking to?”

“I told you. I was recording messages for my kid. Just in case I don’t make it. I feel better saying that out loud. Is that weird? I think it is, but it doesn’t feel weird.”

“Please don’t talk like that. You’re going to beat this—”

“Rams, your brown skin has gone whiter than mine. I’m guessing Dr. Awolesi didn’t have much in the way of good news. But listen, I’m emailing you my username and password for the app while I can. Wireless still works here at least.”

“All right, but you don’t have to—”

“This is fucking important to me, okay? I’m sorry, I’m not swearing at you. I’m swearing at”—Natalie waves both arms in the air—“everything. Ow.” She eases her left arm back down to the bed. “Anyway, if I die and the rest of the fucking world doesn’t, which it probably should—yeah, I’m saying that out loud too—if I go, then, fuck yeah, why not everyone else? Except you, if you want. I don’t need to take you down with me. Just everyone else.”

“Natalie . . .”

“I need you to make sure my kid gets to listen to my messages. And my maybe-dying wish is for you to call me Nats, please. You sound so proper when you say Natalie.” She mimics Ramola’s accent when saying “so proper.”

“We’re going to fight, and the rest of the world isn’t going to die. Dr. Awolesi and I were in fact discussing how—how containable the virus is.”

“Containable.”

“Yes, that’s a word you use, isn’t it?”

“Oh sure.”

“Yes, well, things are darkest before the dawn.”

“Oh, Jesus, we’re so fucked.” Natalie is smiling and appears to be on the verge of laughter. The earlier muting of her personality has swung one hundred eighty degrees into manic levels of Natalie. Is this how she is coping? Is her hyperactivity a symptom of infection?

“Natalie.”

“Nope.”

“My dear Nats, is that better?”

“Much. Hey, did you read this list of vaccine side effects?” She waves around her vaccination information sheet. “Pain, swelling, redness at the injection site. Check. Headache. Check. Nausea, muscle aches, abdominal pain, dizziness, fever. Something to look forward to? Um, aren’t all those the symptoms of infection?”

“Those side effects are exceedingly rare.”

Natalie rescans the page and points to its lower half. “It says ‘rare.’ Nowhere does it say ‘exceedingly.’” She tosses the paper toward a plush visitor’s chair and before it lands, she says, “Can you get me some water? Sink water is fine.”

Ramola goes to the bathroom, shares a despairing look with herself in the mirror, and fills a small blue plastic cup. Water dribbles over the rim as she carries it out to Natalie.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have filled it to the top.”

“Okay. Watch me, please.” She holds the cup at an arm’s length away from her body. She glowers at it, like she wants to give it a talking-to. She brings it up to her mouth, leaving it there only an inch or so away from her lips. She lifts the cup to her nose, cocks her head, and side-eyes the water. She finally takes two small sips, and then large, greedy gulps, spilling water down her front. “Oops.”

“What are you doing? Should I be concerned?” Despite herself, Ramola laughs softly.

Natalie wipes her chin and neck with a corner of the bedsheet. “Testing for—what do they call it?—hydrophobia. I read all about it last week. People with rabies get freaked out by water. Like they can’t even go near it, never mind drink it.”

“Drink-management issues aside, you don’t appear to be hydrophobic.”

“The water tastes and smells like hospital sink water, which is to say, not good, like water that’s had pennies soaking in it, and I’m not happy my shirt is wetter than it was, but no hydrophobia.”

“Let’s get you into a dry shirt.”

“Shouldn’t I just change into a johnny? They’re going to prep me soon for the C-section, right?” Her two questions are contained in a single breath. She doesn’t give Ramola a chance to answer. “Wait, I have to pee first.” Natalie clambers out of bed and walks to the bathroom.

With the bed and room newly empty, Ramola wipes her face with both hands. To prevent parting the curtains, staring out the window, while repeating the feckless mantra of What are we going to do?, she sets to searching the room for hospital gowns. She mutters instructions and observations to keep herself company. Sometimes new gowns are stacked above the dirty-linens hamper, but there are none. She opens two swinging doors of a tall, thin wardrobe locker on the wall across from the foot of the bed, which is bare but for a small stack of folded pillowcases.