Survivor Song(27)

“That’s me. Ambulatory patient.” It’s a Natalie-style wisecrack but is cold and inflectionless.

Dr. Awolesi answers almost immediately. “Dr. Sherman, only visitors and kitchen staff on the first floor are being evacuated currently. You are to remain in your room for now, but we may be moving you. The situation is—” The long pause becomes a break.

Ramola drops the radio away from her mouth and says, “Fluid?” unable to resist completing the sentence.

“Fucked,” Natalie says. “Ask her if they’re still going to do the C-section.”

Ramola does as asked. Dr. Awolesi responds with, “I’m working on it. Hang tight.”

The alarm stops. The lights continue to flash.

Natalie grabs the empty blue plastic cup from the bed tray table, stands, and shuffles past Ramola. She says, “I’m going to drink more sink water. Or throw up. Or both.” She ducks inside the bathroom, does not shut the door, and turns on the sink.

“Do you need any help?”

“No, I can manage both.”

Ramola paces and tunes the radio to the open channel. From the harried chatter she determines the fire in the cafeteria is not the main concern, but a second one at a nurses’ station on the third floor is. She tunes back to the second channel so as not to miss a message or instruction from Dr. Awolesi.

Natalie walks out of the bathroom holding the cup of water, her face scrunched up. “Ugh, I need, like, some regular, non-sink water. This tastes so gross. Almost like old eggs. I can smell it. Disgusting.” She puts the cup on the table tray.

Ramola intends to say something about getting her bottled water soon but does not. She goes to the bathroom sink, fills her own cup, and takes a sip.

Natalie calls out, “It’s awful, right?”

There is that overly chlorinated taste one associates with unfiltered tap water, but it’s not overbearing. There’s none of the sulfur odor or flavor Natalie described. Is Natalie expressing dysgeusia, a drastic change in sense of taste that many pregnant women experience? That usually only occurs during the first trimester. Is her taste aversion to the water instead a manifestation of the classic rabies symptom of hydrophobia?

The staccato two-note fire alarm blares again. Ramola steps out of the bathroom, turns right, and almost knocks into Natalie. She has her bag slung over her right shoulder.

Natalie says, “We can’t just sit here in this room.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Tell the doctor they need to try something, something new. Anything. Give me the booster early, like now.”

“We can’t. The booster doesn’t work like that.”

“How do you know that? How does anyone know that? It’s a new fucking virus, so they should be trying or testing new treatments. We’re just sitting here and I don’t have the time. I don’t. And I don’t want to die. Don’t let me die. It’s not fucking fair, not fucking right . . .” Natalie turns away.

Ramola can’t tell her she isn’t going die. She can’t tell her everything will be okay. She doesn’t say anything. How could she possibly say anything? Ramola places a hand on Natalie’s back. The fire alarm squawks and the lights flash, their rhythms not synced but unyielding; it’s easy for one to imagine these broadcasted warnings continuing through the darkest of ages, ceasing only when there is no one around to heed them.

Natalie turns around. “Okay. We need to do the C-section now. Right now. Get one of the surgeons, anyone, I don’t care. Give me an orderly with a penknife. Get an operating room, lock it fucking down, and get it done.”

Dr. Awolesi says Ramola’s name repeatedly on the radio.

“Yes, yes. I’m here.”

“Open your door, please.”

Ramola opens the door. Dr. Awolesi rushes inside and says, “Change of plans, Natalie. We’re transporting you to Ames Medical Clinic. Oh, I see you’re already packed and ready to go.”

Natalie cocks her head and pulls at Ramola’s yellow sweatshirt, stretching it over her belly. It falls away when she lets go. “Why can’t we just do it here?”

“Both of our surgeons have been injured. The obstetrician has not arrived, and I don’t know her ETA. Most importantly, I cannot guarantee the procedure could be performed safely here at this time. You’ll be sent via ambulance. The Ames Clinic is less than twenty minutes away and they’ll know you’re coming. But you need to leave before this building is quarantined, which could happen at any moment, and that would mean no one will be allowed to leave until that order is lifted.” Dr. Awolesi speaks loudly to be heard over the alarm. Unlike earlier conversations, she gesticulates while talking, but instead of aiding in communicating and projecting calm confidence, her traitorous hands are held low, at her side, and palms-up, as though pleading. Her shoulders slump and shrug.

Natalie looks past Dr. Awolesi to Ramola, watching for her response.

Ramola hides her ungloved hands in her coat pockets, as though they might betray their thermometer ways. She says, “All right. We should move quickly then.” She walks past both women and retrieves her bag.

Natalie says, “I—I’m not feeling well. Should I take my temperature—”

Dr. Awolesi holds up stop hands (or are they surrender hands?) and says, “Stop. Natalie. I didn’t hear you say that . . . .” She pauses, looks down, defeated, and shakes her head.