Survivor Song(26)

Natalie says, “I’m taking my temperature again.”

Sounds echo from the struggle outside the room. The woman in the hallway continues shrieking.

Ramola says, “Again?”

“I got one hundred point seven the first time.” Natalie turns the thermometer around and reads, “One hundred point five this time.” She drops the thermometer in her bag. “Shower gift. Paul got sick of me randomly zapping his forehead with it and making pew-pew sounds. I left it in this bag, like, two months ago. Forgot it was there until I saw it when I got my phone.”

Ramola says, “You can’t go by that. Forehead scanners can be wildly inaccurate.”

In the hallway, the woman’s shrieks abruptly cut out.

Natalie shakes her head. “I don’t feel good. My throat hurts. And not because I’ve been yelling and crying. It’s an I’m-sick kind of throat pain. I know the difference.”

Frenzied chatter and call-and-response on the radio. Intercom announcements plead for Dr. Gray and Dr. Silver to make their appointed rounds.

Natalie says, “I was feeling okay but then I crashed hard in the bathroom. I got dizzy and nauseous when I stood up from the toilet. That’s why I was in there so long, splashing water on my face, leaning over the sink. I thought I was going to puke.”

“Like I said earlier, you’re most certainly dehydrated. We really should have you hooked up to an IV to replenish your fluids.”

“I feel hot, like I have a fever. Put your hand on my forehead. Come on. Please. You tell me I’m not hot.”

On the floor above them, there is more banging and shaking, as though there are giants up there stomping, searching for bones to grind for their bread.

“My hand cannot divine temperature.”

“I’m not asking. I’m telling you to feel my forehead.” Natalie gets off the bed and walks over to Ramola.

Using a tone reserved only for the most obstinate parents of patients, Ramola says, “Natalie, dear, I will take your temperature with a proper thermometer as soon as our floor is secured. I—”

Natalie grabs Ramola’s hand and slaps it over her forehead.

“I can’t feel anything through my gloves.”

“Take them off.”

“You know I don’t go around feeling foreheads at the clinic. This is hardly—”

“Just tell me. Do I feel warm?”

Ramola sighs (Natalie returns her sigh) and shakes her head. She takes off both gloves and puts her right hand on Natalie’s forehead. And it does feel warm; it feels warmer the longer her hand lingers. When Ramola was sick as a child, her mum would consult the oral thermometer but would not diagnose a fever until after she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead and cheeks. Mum would then announce in an exaggerated English accent, “You’re a little boiler, you are.”

Ramola says, “Perhaps you’re a tad warm.” She flips her hand over briefly. Looking up into Natalie’s face, it is difficult to not read infection in the redness and glassiness of her eyes, the red splotches on her skin. “Not outrageously so. My hands are cold from being in the gloves.” Ramola pulls away and rubs her hands together. They are not cold. “It would be perfectly normal to have an elevated temperature given the stress.”

Natalie groans and goes back for her bag. She plucks out the thermometer and aims it at her head again.

Over the intercom: “Paging Dr. Firestone to the cafeteria.”

Natalie lowers the thermometer without looking at the temperature reading. She says, “Seriously? Dr. Firestone?”

Strobing lights flash, followed by the automated, rhythmic wail of the fire alarm.

Natalie says, “This isn’t good.”

“No, it’s not ideal.” None of this is ideal. None of this is good. Ramola closes her eyes for a moment and rubs her hands together and they are as clammy as Natalie’s forehead. You’re a little boiler, you are. Ramola pulls the radio out of her pocket.

Natalie is standing and turning from side to side, as though searching for an escape route. She rattles off a blur of questions. “Do we stay? Do they make us go stand outside? What about my C-section?”

Ramola hasn’t worked in a large hospital since her residency, and their fire-alarm drills have become fuzzy bits of marginalia. She remembers that if evacuations are necessary, most staff help ambulatory patients to the exits, while only a skeleton crew remains with the patients who are not so easily moved. Ramola halfheartedly (and not very convincingly) explains that hospitals are “defend in place” buildings that have fire protections built into them. They likely won’t have to evacuate the building. They might be moved to another area within the wing, or to another floor, however. She knows her calm recitation belies the panic and despair she feels; all the best-laid plans of incident commanders and infectious disease specialists and chief medical officers—their rigorous emergency-response logistics and government protocols—cannot prevent disaster, cannot save everyone, and perhaps cannot save Natalie.

Natalie slumps and sits on the edge of the bed. She wipes her eyes with the back of her right hand and then rubs her belly. She says, “Are they still getting that obstetrician to help me?”

Ramola tunes the radio to channel 2, presses the button, and says, “Hello, Dr. Awolesi, or Central Control? Hello? This is Dr. Ramola Sherman in Room 217. Are we evacuating ambulatory patients? Please advise.”