Survivor Song(48)
When finally able to speak, she says, “Get that shit away from me. Why’d you make me?” Natalie is bent over as far as her belly will allow, her hands on her thighs, and loose hair hanging in front of her face.
Ramola darts to Luis and hands him the bottle, the water agitating and spilling at its rough treatment. She goes back to Natalie and rubs the base of her neck and between her shoulder blades with her own shaking hand. She has returned from her clinical mental space without any clue of what to do next. But there is a definitive diagnosis. The undeniable expression of the oddest symptom of rabies, hydrophobia, means the virus has passed through Natalie’s brain barrier. Either the vaccine was not effective against the new, more virulent strain or, more likely, it was not administered in time. Natalie is infected. There is no longer any doubt, just as there is no cure. The virus is one hundred percent fatal.
Ramola alternates hushing her friend and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .”
Natalie abruptly stands up straight, wiping her eyes and brushing the hair out of her face. She exhales and says, “Stop being sorry. It’s not your fault.”
Luis is sitting on his bike, holding the bottle and sniffing its contents. When he notices Natalie watching him, he dumps the water out and tosses the bottle toward the road’s shoulder. It comes up short, bouncing and clattering against the pavement, drumming out hard but hollow percussive notes.
Natalie says, “I didn’t tell you about the first zombie I saw. It was—what, not even three hours ago?—he came into my house, killed my husband, and bit my arm. I got vaccinated, but looks like that happened too late.” She’s calm, composed, as though relieved the truth, as awful and final as it is, has finally been revealed. “Can I have a couple of those cleaning wipes?”
Luis digs through his pack and pulls out white cloths, one after the other, a magician performing the endless-kerchiefs gag. He asks, “How much time before—?”
Natalie cleans her hands and says, “Before what?” She waits for Luis to finish for her. He doesn’t. She adds, “I don’t know. Do we know?” She doesn’t pause here and instead answers her own question. “Another hour? Maybe two? Delirium and hallucinations first, right? But how will I know they’re hallucinations when I’m having them?”
Luis adds, “And the baby?”
Natalie says, “The virus goes up nerves directly to the brain, doesn’t travel in the bloodstream. No one knows for sure, but the baby could be okay, not infected. Right, Rams?”
Ramola answers, “Yes, that’s correct.”
“So we really need to get you to the clinic,” Luis says. “Where the fuck is Josh? I should’ve gone . . .” He takes out his cell phone, attempts contact.
Natalie says, her admirable if not eerie calm evaporated, “If we get my kid delivered and she’s okay, who’s going to raise her? Who’s going to be her mom?” She coughs, then looks around wildly as though the new mom might emerge from the woods.
Ramola says, “You’ll always be her mom,” which feels like the worst thing to say as soon as it’s out of her mouth. But what could possibly be the best thing to say?
“My parents are too old, and even if they weren’t . . . No. Just no. No way. You know. I don’t have to tell you that. And I don’t want her with Paul’s dad, and I don’t want her with either of his siblings. They’re both total messes. But I don’t want her with random strangers either.” She covers her face with both hands, issues a wavering sigh, and then blurts out, “Will you do it, Rams?” She takes her hands away, exposing her eyes, which are Mars-the-angry-planet red, and she blinks a desperate code. “Will you adopt my kid?”
Ramola stammers, the question itself is another virus shutting down her brain. “Oh, well, I’m not—I don’t know if—”
Natalie grabs Ramola’s hand. Her skin is damp and on fire. “I know it’s not fair of me to ask. Not now. None of this is fucking fair. Is it? And it probably won’t come to that, as we’re all going to fucking die so yay and none of this will matter. But it does matter, right? Some of this has to matter. Doesn’t it? I’m sorry, Rams, but will you do this for me? I know this is a big fucking ask. The biggest. But you have to do this for me. Please, Rams. If you say yes, it’ll get me through this. I promise I’ll get through this. All the way to the end.”
Ramola hesitates—there is no way she can answer with No, but I’ll make sure your child is placed with a good family even if she wants to—then says, “Yes.” At this moment she would’ve said yes if Natalie asked her to cut off her own head, but she regrets it as soon as it’s out of her mouth. This “yes” feels like the heaviest, saddest word she has ever spoken. She repeats her answer, trying and failing to make it sound like an affirmation.
Natalie repeatedly says, “Thank you” and “I love you.” She releases Ramola’s hand and retrieves her phone from a sweatshirt pocket. Her birding fingers hover indecisively over the screen until one finger pecks at a button. She nearly shouts, “This is Natalie Larsen of 60 Pinewood Road of Stoughton, Mass. I am of sound mind, and this is, um, my last will and testament, or whatever I’m supposed to say to make this legally official. It is my wish—no—I want, I demand Dr. Ramola Sherman of Neponset Street, Canton, have sole custody of my soon-to-be born child.” She pauses and scans the others. “I have, um, two people here with me. Witnesses of my legal declaration. They’re going to say their names.”