Survivor Song(65)
Ramola, no longer whispering, says, “I’m sorry we—we had to get on this bus and it was wrong of us—wrong of me to tell you she hadn’t been exposed, and I know she can’t be saved but her child still can. She needs a cesarean section as soon as possible—”
Dr. Kolodny holds up her hands, shakes her head. She twists free and darts up the aisle, almost knocking a woman to the floor.
Ramola calls after her, “You must call ahead. Tell the hospital to prepare for her arrival. Please, this is our last chance.”
Natalie continues yelling, “No!”
Dr. Kolodny is next to the driver and shouts something to him. Whatever she tells him, he does a double take. She repeats herself. The driver does not hand Dr. Kolodny the two-way radio as Ramola hopes. The bus slows and the pneumatic brakes again become hissing snakes.
It’s a smoother, more controlled stop than earlier, although because Ramola is standing she pitches forward and latches onto the headrest of the now-empty seat in front of hers to keep her feet.
Natalie continues yelling. As they rumble to a stop, other passengers fearfully peek over the rows of seats.
Dr. Kolodny walks back down the aisle announcing, “This stop is only temporary. There is no issue on the road ahead of us. Please stay calm. Keep your masks on. We will be on our way soon.” When she reaches Ramola and where the staff continues struggling with quieting Natalie, she says, “Please help Natalie get off the bus safely.”
The rest of the bus goes quiet but for Natalie still shouting, “No!”
Ramola says, “Please. I’m sorry and I should’ve told you—”
“The driver is alerting the police that we are dropping you here, using the home address on the mailbox we parked next to. You and Natalie will be picked up very shortly.” Dr. Kolodny says this while looking at some other area of the bus that neither Natalie nor Ramola occupies.
“We can’t. It’ll be too late. Please.”
“Federal quarantine law is quite clear on this. We cannot risk her infecting others on board, including our six newborns.”
“Doctor—”
“And even if I let you stay, the hospital we’re going to will not take her, and they wouldn’t take us.”
The last part sounds like a lie, has to be a lie. Or is it? Would Kolodny and staff physically remove them from the bus if she refuses to budge? Ramola shouts and appeals to other clinicians on board, all of whom wear the same blinking, blank face of disbelief, of This isn’t supposed to be happening. Ramola then turns to the terrified patients, masked women and their crying babies. Ramola knows the horror on top of the horror is that she and Kolodny are both correct: this bus is Natalie’s child’s last chance and they cannot in good conscience continue to risk the other patients without their consent, particularly as Natalie has become more agitated, more dangerous. Ramola envisions asking each patient if Natalie can stay. Many if not most would say yes, but all of them?
Natalie shrieks in pain as the two staff members yank on her arms, trying to pull her to standing.
Ramola, swollen with a righteous rage at everything, including herself, yells at them to stop and she pounds on the backs of their shoulders with closed fists until they do. Ramola pushes and shoves her way past them to her friend.
Natalie clutches her injured forearm. The fingers on her left hand spasm into a gnarled, arthritic fist. Her eyes roll around the bus’s interior as though she doesn’t recognize where she is, how she got there. She shouts, “Y-You can’t eat her! I know your names!”
Ramola tries to soothe and calm her down, saying, “I’m here. It’s me,” and rests a hand on Natalie’s sizzling forehead. Natalie lifts her head, twists and shakes the hand away. With the mask covering her mouth, Ramola doesn’t know if Natalie attempted to bite her.
She repeats Natalie’s name, leans in so their faces are mere inches from touching. She feels the unremitting heat of Natalie’s corona of fever on her own face. Natalie finally locks eyes with Ramola, blinking rapidly as though focus is difficult to maintain. Her shouts decay into a breathless, muttered mantra. Ramola slowly peels Natalie’s right hand from her left arm. Hand in hand, Ramola gently urges Natalie onto her feet and they shuffle into the aisle. She squeezes Natalie’s hand. Natalie does not reciprocate.
The large man holds the two bags Ramola brought on board. He wears a mask now too. He says he’ll carry them outside for her.
Natalie says, “You can’t eat her. I know all your names, all of them . . .” at a conversational volume, though it is not her voice anymore. It’s a voice that belongs to someone else.
Needing fuel to go on, Ramola feeds the dying embers of her previous rage. She says, “Doctor,” spitting out the word, filling it with the leaden weights of despair and disappointment, “what address did you give the police?”
Astride the driver, Kolodny states the address and points out the opened folding doors.
The large man follows closely behind Natalie. As they pass, patients shrink away. Quick, hushed bursts of “We can’t just leave her on the side of the road” and “She can’t stay. It’s not safe” percolate behind them.
Ramola spews questions as they walk the short distance down the aisle to the doors: “Doctor, did the police give you an estimated time of arrival?” and “Doctor, did you tell them Natalie is pregnant?” and “Doctor, how will you be able to sleep at night?” Ramola knows the last question might be cruel, but why not share what she would ask herself.