Survivor Song(33)

Ramola creeps the ambulance past the Jeep, hoping, willing the driver for a change of mind, if not heart. The hand continues to wave, cruelly implacable, without pause or impatience.

She exhales and stomps on the accelerator. The ambulance lurches forward. Within two blocks, the commuter rail station, commercial properties, and congestion of the large suburban downtown give way to trees, rolling sidewalks, landscaped lawns, picket-fenced yards, and front porches of residential neighborhoods.

Ramola turns, sparing both eyes for Natalie.

Natalie stares into the mirror of her darkened phone. Her mouth clenched tight, the muscles in her cheeks pulse and quiver. Is she grinding her teeth? She clears her throat two more times without opening her mouth.

Ramola snaps her head back to the road as though having witnessed something she should not have seen. The ambulance’s flashing red lights reflect off the darkened windows of houses they pass.

Natalie says, “I don’t feel great. I know there has to be a thermometer in the back, but we’re not pulling over to get it. I just—I don’t feel great.”

“You’re thirsty and hungry and beyond exhausted—”

“I’m not trying to be a dick, I swear, but please don’t explain it away. All you have to say is you know: you know I don’t feel well. That’s all I need. I mean, that’s all we need, I think. I’m sorry I don’t know what the fuck I want or need or what to do.”

“When one says one is not trying to be a dick, it generally implies the opposite.”

Natalie laughs. “I can’t believe you’re calling a rabies-exposed preggo a dick. That’s gotta go against your Hippocratic Oath.”

“Nats . . .”

“Oh, please tell me you call some of your other patients dicks. That would be amazing. Let me pretend—”

“Nats.”

“What? What?”

“I know you don’t feel well.”

“Thank you, Rams. Thank you. I mean that.” Each word gets quieter, like a song fading out instead of ending abruptly.

“Doctors don’t say the Hippocratic Oath anymore.”

“No?”

“I did recite a modern version of the oath rewritten by Dr. Lasagna.”

“Ooh, yum. Lasagna.” Natalie is again at exaggerated volume and exuberance. “Hey, I like your sweatshirt. Yellow is my new color.”

“You pull it off.”

“So I don’t look like a giant rubber ducky? I’m glad.”

After shared, restrained laughter, they drive in silence, passing through this new ghost town, where the ghosts are reflections of what was and projections of what might never be again.

The urge to say something, anything, to keep them talking becomes a compulsion. Ramola says, “This windscreen is rather large, isn’t it,” knowing Natalie won’t be able to resist commenting upon the Anglicism.

“‘Windscreen.’”

“Sorry. Of course, it’s a windshield.”

Natalie says, “I like windscreen better. And yeah, it’s huge. You can see the whole world. You can see everything.”

Ramola keeps her eyes on the road, afraid of looking at Natalie and seeing a ghost.

II.

Fill Your Knapsack Full of the Sweepings

Nats

Hi, I’m back. I love you.

It’s only been, like, thirty minutes since recording my last message and it seems like I did it two weeks ago. Rams says “fortnight” when she means two weeks and still can’t get over that no one in this country says the word unless they’re talking about a video game your dad and other children are obsessed with. Yes, I just called your dad a child. He would’ve laughed at that, and totally agreed. I can’t believe he’s gone—

Hey, you won’t be listening to any of this until years from now. From my now. So I shouldn’t talk about fortnights, weeks, and time. It’s too much. Time is too heavy. It really does have weight you can feel but you can’t measure.

Jesus, I’m talking in shitty riddles like I’m Rabies Yoda.

We’re back on the road. We’ve been forced to leave the hospital. It was on fire. And there were zombies—

“Natalie, they’re not—”

I know, I know. Okay, fine, they’re not really zombies. You probably already know that because the goddamn history of this will have already been written since you’re able to safely listen to this. I’m dreaming about you being safe right now.

So, they’re not zombies. No one is rising from the dead. Sounds silly to have to say because it’s so obvious, right? Dead is dead. There’s no coming back.

This is getting dark. And I’m getting way off track . . . .

I was kind of joking when I said zombies, but not joking at the same time. They’re sick people and they turn delusional and violent and they bite, but it’s easier to say zombie than “a person infected with a super rabies virus and no longer capable of making good decisions.”

I’m not making fun of this. I’m not. It’s either I say it this way or you get a recording of me screaming and crying.

Not for nothing, I hope you make good decisions in your life. It’s okay to make bad ones too, of course. No one makes all good decisions, and it’s often difficult to know if your decision was good or bad or likely somewhere in between, and you might never know. I mean, don’t sniff glue, right? Doing so would be an obviously bad decision. Don’t microwave a hardboiled egg. Don’t drink milk past its expiration date. The sniff test isn’t reliable enough on milk.