Survivor Song(64)

Natalie says, “Sassafras and lullabies.” Her voice is low-pitched and airless. She sits up from the window, breaking away from her reflection.

Ramola says, “Oh, we’re doing quite well over here. Thank you.”

Natalie hits a button on the phone and puts it back into her pocket. She says, “I’m tired. A tired peach.” She lowers her chin into her chest and runs one hand through her hair, which falls out from behind her ears and blankets most of her face. The gesture is purposeful; she’s hiding from the awful world.

Dr. Kolodny speaks sternly, a teacher trying to shame a churlish student sleeping in the back row. “Natalie, I need to take your temperature. We were supposed to screen you prior to leaving the clinic, or right after leaving, and I was on my way to do so but then everything—is it okay if I slide by, Dr. Sherman? Thank you.” Dr. Kolodny shimmies into their row, nudging and edging Ramola into the aisle with her hips.

Ramola says, “Of course. But I could—is there anything I can help with?” She folds her hands together, unsure of what to do beyond snatching the thermometer from Kolodny’s hands and throwing it off the bus.

Natalie says, “Is that the right thermometer? It doesn’t look right. It’s small. That’s a baby one. What are you trying to do?”

Dr. Kolodny inserts the temperature wand into the rear of the device, covering it with a disposable sleeve. “This is not an infant thermometer.”

Natalie says, “The baby ones don’t work on adults. They run hot. Hot, hot, hot. Right? You do know I’m pregnant too. Pregnant women run hot.”

Ramola adds, “I can attest her body temperature is normally in the low-to-mid ninety-nine degrees.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Open your mouth, please, and keep this under your tongue.”

Natalie tilts her head back, her brown hair parts, a sly smirk flashes, and she opens her mouth as wide as she can. Once the thermometer makes contact with her tongue, she snaps her jaws shut as though a trap is triggered. Dr. Kolodny flinches and Natalie giggles.

“Please keep your mouth closed.”

Natalie mutters around the mouthful of thermometer. “Sorry. Me laughing is stress. I’m stressed, so stressed. And I run hot. Wicked hot. Scalding hot iron shoes.”

The thermometer beeps and Dr. Kolodny doesn’t look at the reading. “Your mouth must remain closed, please. Just for a few seconds.”

Before the thermometer goes back in her mouth, Natalie grabs Dr. Kolodny’s hand and pushes it toward her belly. “Feel her moving around in there. Feel her. I want you to. Do you want a living creature or all the treasure in the world?”

Ramola intervenes, calls out Natalie’s name, separates their hands, and coos lies to Natalie (instead of Kolodny), “Let go. It’ll be okay.” Natalie gives a watery-eyed look of betrayal and slumps in her seat. Ramola’s heart splinters and cracks. Tears sting her eyes. The first tears always sting the most.

Dr. Kolodny threatens to have Natalie restrained. Other staff and clinicians congregate around their seats. Whispers and chatter swells from the other patients.

Natalie shouts, “All right. I’ll be good. Just let Rams do it and get it over with.”

Dr. Kolodny yields the thermometer. Ramola holds the wand in one hand and the readout device in the other. How can she fool the machine? How closely are the others watching?

Natalie says, “They’re not going to like it,” and opens her mouth. Her brown eyes are wide, glassy, red rimmed. The wand goes under Natalie’s tongue. Her mouth closes, lips form a tight seal. Natalie and Ramola stare at each other, making their silent confessions.

The thermometer beeps—102.8 degrees.

Dr. Kolodny quickly huddles with staff, and before they break up and disperse she orders them to distribute respirator masks to everyone on board. One staff member stays with Kolodny, the largest one, a young, baby-faced Latino man standing well over six feet tall. He stares at Natalie as though he’s terrified of her.

The doctor says to Ramola, “What do you know? You have to tell us.”

Natalie shouts, “No!” Both hands rest atop her belly. Her teeth are gritted, lips pressed tightly together though they flutter, wanting to peel away. Breathing heavily through her nose, head tilted, downcast, not making eye contact with anyone, glaring hard at the seatback in front of her.

The large man and a clinician with a respirator mask in her hand worm past Ramola and speak to Natalie, their instructions droning and monotone. Patients vacate the seats directly in front and behind.

Natalie shouts, “No!” again but doesn’t lift her hands away from her belly, doesn’t resist their putting the mask over her nose and mouth.

Could Ramola convince any of them Natalie has the flu or any number of other viruses that cause fevers? Kolodny will surely insist upon submitting Natalie to a full examination and find the wound on her arm. What lie will Ramola tell then?

Ramola leans in, grabs the doctor’s arm at the elbow, and whispers, “Natalie was bitten on the left forearm by an infected man more than four hours ago. She received the first round of vaccine approximately an hour after exposure. She’s been presenting symptoms of infection for at least an hour, possibly longer.”

Dr. Kolodny says, “Let go of me,” and attempts to twist out of Ramola’s grip.

Natalie barks, “No!” into her mask. The two staff members remain in the area in front of Ramola’s seat, with the large man resting one knee in her chair, and ask Natalie more questions.