Survivor Song(9)
I’m on board. What has hosp ntwrk or the state or feds done to show they care about any of us?
Jacquie Joyce
We need to leak our “training” to the media and mention lack of PPE.
Bobby Pickett
It’s ridiculous. We aren’t equipped like CDC in Atlanta etc.
Jacquie Joyce
Lisa told me one pt of hers is one hour post exposure, fever and aches already. She said CCU is staff tonight, assigned by do-nothing Erin. You remember when she “consulted” at our office?
Ramola Sherman
I do. I would hope Erin is doing more than simply assigning.
Jacquie Joyce
We need to tell everyone that we have no clue how to handle this. That friggin news conference in Boston was all lies! Homeland security guy said area hosps all have appropriate staff and equipment. Jackass president tweeting same.
Bobby Pickett
Yeah we had 30 min “training” and then they made us sign a waiver. Good job in protecting their ass!!!
Ramola Sherman
You signed waivers? Oh dear.
Bobby Pickett
Mary couldn’t explain to rest of us if even an observer should be gowned or not. Complete bs. Should let it be known we don’t know what to do. It takes about 20 min to gown up. The cuffs on the jackets are permeable. We need serious support and equipment.
Jacquie Joyce
Waiver/sign sheet that u got “trained.” She made sure we all signed them. Is Claire still in Cali? (I hope she is). Where’s Mags? We ALL need a plan. We should not accept this. I am serious. Fucking assholes . . . Do not let ur kids see these texts, Bobby!
Bobby Pickett
Even though I have a mortgage to pay, my life is worth more. But I’ll still go in tomorrow. Fuck. Us.
Jacquie Joyce
Yes it is. (And I know. You know I will too.) Mags doesn’t need this shit. She has $
Ramola Sherman
Haha! I elect Jacquie as our team/office rep.
Jacquie Joyce
I elect Bobby as team cap. I swear too much.
Ramola Sherman
Bobby: You mean instead of “hurry up and finish training so we can go to lunch on time”?
I thought I knew you.;)
Bobby Pickett
Normally I’d be okay with that.
Ramola Sherman
Not to worry, Erin will properly assign you.
Jacquie Joyce
Hazmat suit wouldn’t fit over her big dome anyway!
Ramola Sherman
That’s just wrong, but brilliant.
Bobby Pickett
Bahahahahaha!!!!
An incoming call kicks Ramola out from the group text screen. Her phone fills with an image of herself alongside her dear friend Natalie. The photo is from Natalie’s bachelorette party, which was six years ago. They are leaning on a wooden railing at a sun-splashed outdoor bar, their drinks raised and mouths wide with laughter. They are wearing white Tshirts with a cartoon caricature of Natalie’s face above the ridiculous slogan “Nats Is Plightin’ All the Troths.” Ramola was volunteered by the group to explain what the shirt meant to inquisitive passersby, not solely because she is British, but because she is a doctor, which was part of her increasingly elaborate, drunken explanations.
At the sight of Natalie’s face on her phone, there’s a brief spark of guilt. Aside from a few stray texts, Ramola hasn’t talked to Natalie since the baby shower two months ago. Ramola, ever practical, chose from a rather elaborate registry to gift a month’s supply of baby diapers and wipes. Post-party, on her way out the door, she also gave Natalie a stuffed Paddington Bear along with a stack of books, joking the extra present was necessary for her to remain on brand.
“Hello, Natalie?”
“Oh thank Christ, Rams.” The nickname is a holdover from their college days, and Natalie is the only person who continues using it. “I kept calling 911 and it wasn’t going through. I—” She pauses and cries quietly. “Are you home? I need your help. I don’t know what to do.”
“Yes, of course. I’m here, Natalie. Where are you? Are you all right? What happened?” Ramola has the disorienting sensation of being outside herself, observing this moment from a temporal distance that has yet to be achieved or earned, and it’s as though she expected this call and what is sure to be the delivery of devastating news.
“I’m in the car. Halfway there. I’ll be at your place in five minutes.”
Ramola runs to the bay window, throws open the curtains, exposing the view of the front lot. “Why aren’t you at home? Are you having contractions?”
“I had to leave. Something terrible happened. I really need help.” Her normally assured, insistent voice loses its force the longer she speaks so by the end of her third sentence she sounds like a timid child.
“I’m going to help. I promise.”
Natalie whispers, “Ow, fuck,” in a high-pitched voice, one that breaks into hitching sobs.
“What is it? Are you all right, Natalie? Do you need me to come to you?”
“My arm really fucking hurts.” Natalie grunts as though attempting to reset herself. “We were attacked by some guy. He was infected. Paul was bringing groceries inside and we were in the living room talking, just talking, and I don’t remember about what . . .” She trails off.
“Natalie, you still there?”
“Some guy walked in. He opened the screen door and walked right in our fucking house, and Paul tried to close the door on him, but he fell, and . . . And—and I tried to help Paul, and Paul—” She splinters into shards of tears again, but briefly recovers with a deep, wavering inhale. “The guy killed Paul and he bit my arm.”