Survivor Song Read online

  Outside the tent and its numbing drone of the heater, the chilled air nips at exposed skin. The surging roar of the crowd returns, angry at having been ignored for the duration of Natalie’s screening.

  Inside the hospital they run a frenzied but well-organized gauntlet through checkpoints and hallways. Ramola is identified, briefly screened, and allowed to accompany Natalie after donning scrubs, gloves, and a lab coat. She does not remain behind in the ER’s waiting area, which has been reserved for visitors and family members of patients in which the infection has taken hold. Those patients are being treated in an isolation ward.

  Ramola and Natalie are brought to the second floor and the department normally reserved for patients recovering from hernia and weight loss surgeries, procedures that were the first nonessential services suspended by the hospital. This ward is one of four areas reserved for monitoring people who have been exposed to the virus and have received the globulin and vaccination but have yet to exhibit symptoms of infection. They wheel Natalie to a private room, though a nurse tells her that it might not be private for long. The nurse takes her temperature again and tells Natalie they are going to continue to take her temperature every fifteen minutes until she is symptom-free for six hours, at which point she’ll be released. Her temperature remains at 99.2 degrees. Her blood pressure is 125/85, which is slightly higher than normal.

  When Natalie asks what will happen if she begins to present symptoms, the answer is: try not to worry about that unless it happens. Natalie says that isn’t good enough, as she’s speaking for two. The nurse apologizes and promises Dr. Kendra Awolesi, who is working directly under the incident commander and chief medical officer, is on her way up to meet with them and discuss such protocols.

  The nurse and the orderly leave. Natalie and Ramola are by themselves.

  Ramola looks at her watch. 12:43 P.M. Natalie is now over an hour post-exposure, if their original estimate is accurate. Despite her having received the prophylaxis, this time marker has the ominous weight of both possibility and inevitability; from here on out, anything can and will happen.

  Natalie asks, “Aren’t you going to wear your mask?”

  “When I checked in I was informed the mask was not compulsory in this wing. And I’d prefer you see my smiling visage.”

  Natalie slides her mask off her face. She parrots Ramola’s “visage,” elongating the soft g of the last syllable. She repeats the word again, as though reminded of something.

  “Accent needs work.”

  “You’re so mean. My French is impeccable.”

  “Oh, that’s what that was?” Ramola smirks and wanders to the windows, which overlook a gridlocked Washington Street: flashing blue-and-red lights, National Guard troops working to keep one lane open for emergency vehicles, more and more people walking.

  “Nice view?” With a mechanical whir, Natalie raises the head of the bed so that she is in a semi-upright position.

  “Not particularly.” Ramola fusses with the curtains.

  Natalie lowers the bed, then raises it again.

  “Having difficulty getting comfortable?”

  “I won’t be comfortable until after the kid is birthed—God, what a painful-sounding word—and isn’t sitting on my bladder or kicking me in the kidneys.”

  Ramola is pleased she references a time after her child is born. Any positive talk of the future is a good thing.

  Natalie grabs the side rails and pushes up as she twists her hips. She winces and grabs her left forearm. “Fuck, that hurt.”

  “Want me to put a pillow behind your back, would that help?”

  Natalie waves her off. “No. Well, okay. Let’s try it. Thanks, that’s actually better. Hey, when this other doctor gets here we’ll talk about what to do for my baby if I get sick, right?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you know—”

  There’s a knock on the partially closed door and Dr. Kendra Awolesi walks briskly into the room. She has brown skin and is in her mid-to-late forties. While about the same height as Natalie, she is more slightly built. She wears a blue hair net and her respirator mask dangles around her neck. After a courteous but brief introduction she matter-of-factly informs Natalie that she is recommending they perform a cesarean section to deliver her baby within the next two hours. If Natalie were to begin presenting clear symptoms of infection, they would still perform the procedure, and remain reasonably confident that the baby would be not be infected.

  “‘Reasonably confident’? Is that like a medical shrug?” Natalie asks.

  Dr. Awolesi is direct and does not break eye contact with Natalie. “The latest from our area’s infectious disease specialist is that we are dealing with a rabies or rabieslike virus, one expressing increased virulence by the greatly shortened incubation period. Normally, the virus advances along at one centimeter per day as it travels up the nervous system to the brain. This one, as I’m sure you know, is moving exponentially faster. Regardless, the virus is not blood-borne and it will not pass through the placenta to the baby while you are infection-free. We know the post-exposure prophylaxis you received is safe for both the mother and fetus, but there isn’t a lot of medical literature out there regarding what happens if a woman at your stage of pregnancy succumbs to rabies, or this rabieslike infection, and begins to shed the virus in her saliva. As I said, we are confident the baby would remain free of infection, but we don’t know for how long, as there are no case studies available to refer to.”

  “Okay, okay, let’s get the kid out as soon as we can, yeah?”

  Dr. Awolesi nods. “As of eight A.M. Norwood Hospital ceased providing all other services beyond accepting patients who have been exposed to the virus. Right now there are two general surgeons in the building, and they are both occupied with cases they cannot leave. We have contacted Dr. Danielle Power, an obstetrician, and have sent a police officer to pick her up and escort her to the hospital. She should be here within the hour. While it’s preferable for Dr. Power to perform the procedure, either general surgeon is certainly more than capable and qualified if one of them is ready before she arrives.”

  “Yes, of course. Whoever is ready first, I’ll be ready. Thank you, Doctor.”

  Dr. Awolesi says, “Don’t tell anyone, but you and your baby—does the baby have a name?”

  “No, I mean, we have names, but we—we didn’t find out the sex.”

  “You and your baby are our number-one priority today. We’ve already given you a private physician to be by your side.” She smiles. “Is it okay if I steal Dr. Sherman for a minute? I would like to give her today’s briefing and cover the highlights of our general emergency response, especially as she is due to officially join us on staff tomorrow morning.”

  “Yeah, okay. Please don’t go far.”

  Ramola says, “We’ll be right at the door, and we’ll leave it open.”

  “Oh, hey, Rams, can you give me my cell phone? Or you can just put my bag up here, because I want my charger too.”

  Ramola says, “Yes, of course. Are you going to call your parents?” She places the night bag next to Natalie.

  Dr. Awolesi says, “A text is much more likely to get through. The cellular network is getting crunched with the surge in calls.”

  Natalie says, “Right. Believe me, I know. Maybe I’ll text them, I don’t know.” She lifts the phone out of her bag, holds it up. “I have this pregnancy diary app thingy on it. Voyager. Voyageur. See, there’s my impeccable French, Rams. And yeah, anyway, I’m going to talk to my kid on it.”

  Nats

  I’ve recorded and deleted four tries at this. This is number five. Math, right. Five is not my lucky number, by the way. It’s nineteen. That’d probably be a weird thing to remember about your mom, but also kind of cool. Maybe.

  If I’m not around to play this for you, which is probably the only reason you’d ever listen to this, then I’m sure someone will give you a, um, fuller explanation as to what this is, or why I’m recording mess
ages for you. Sorry, but there’s no good way to intro this, to explain why I have to do this. I mean, I’m doing this because your dad was killed and I’m sick. I might get better but I might get awful, terrible sick, and very quickly. I’m not even a mom yet and I’m already not telling you things to protect you, but if you’re listening, those things have already happened. Let me try again: Your dad was killed by a guy infected by a weird new super rabies and the same guy bit my arm. There’s a good chance I’m going to die from it, maybe even before the day is out. There. I said it.

  You’re squirming all around as I’m recording this. Good timing, kiddo.

  I’m doing this because I want you to hear me. I want you to know my voice. Maybe even know a little bit of who I am, you know? And I want you to know my lucky number, apparently.

  So, yeah, hi there. It’s me, Mom. That sounds so weird and fake to me. I haven’t had any chance to get used to me being called that, so it doesn’t seem real. I have been talking to you for months now. We have excellent conversations. They’re one-sided, but you’re a great listener. And I haven’t once referred to myself as “Mom.” This wouldn’t really apply to you until you’re older, like, at least a teen, but don’t ever refer to yourself in the third person. Only assholes do that.

  I totally planned on making you call me “Mom.” Wait, is “making you” too harsh? How about, “encouraging you,” then? Hey, look at me being all nurturing.

  Anyway, I’m cool—yeah, so cool I have to tell you that I am cool. That’s almost as bad as talking in the third person. But I wasn’t going to be one of those, like, too-cool moms with kids who call her by her first name. I can’t stop you, but I’d prefer you not call me Natalie. Or Nats. I do like Nats though, especially when your dad or Ramola says it, but for you, I’m Mom. And definitely not “Ma.” Nothing worse than “Hey, Ma!” in a Boston accent. And I insist you have a Boston accent.

  Here I am, going on about what to call me and I’m not calling you by your name. That’s messed-up. I’m sorry you don’t have a name yet. Well, you have one now, whenever it is you’re listening to this, but you don’t have one in my now. Shit, I’d be so bad at time travel.

  That’s another thing you should know about me: I like to swear. I won’t give you a fake example of me swearing, it’ll just come out I’m sure.

  I’m sorry about your dad. We were, um, attacked—I tried to help him but I couldn’t. He’s a beautiful man. The kind of man who would crinkle up his face like he smelled something bad if someone told him he was a good man. He always said he was still a kid. I wanted to be there to call BS on him still saying that when he was an old man; he totally would’ve.

  Two months ago I got all fired up to take a bath. I texted Paul from work that I was going to take the bathiest bath. He asked why I was “taking the bath and please bring it back when you’re done.” Not funny but funny. At dinner we talked nothing but bathing and the bath. Then it was time. I had on my fluffy robe and everything, but I sat on the toilet crying because the tub suddenly seemed so dirty. Normally I don’t care about that stuff and, please, I’m more of a slob than Paul is, but right then, I was convinced the tub was dirty, like unhealthy filthy, and it meant that we weren’t ready, we weren’t capable of being parents, or doing right by you, and I didn’t want Paul to hear me so I cried into my hands, but he heard me, and he came in and held me and I don’t think I explained myself very well because I could barely speak. He led me out into the kitchen and made me a cup of hot chocolate, and then he cleaned the tub and the rest of the bathroom, cleaner than it had ever been, and then he ran a bath for me, which I didn’t even want anymore.

  I hope you look like him. I hope you look like me, too, but him especially. He was a beautiful man.

  I’m back, sorry. I don’t want you to hear me crying. Judging by how you’re kicking me, you don’t want to hear me crying either. I know I have limited time and space, and whatever, and I don’t want to take up any of it with me crying. Not that there’s anything wrong with crying, please don’t think that. It’s way healthier to share your emotions and not bury them—like my mom and dad, your grandparents; shit, can you even follow this? Don’t think I’m cry-shaming you. Please, I’m a crier. Full-on ugly-crying, tears and snot everywhere. I’m like a sprinkler. Say it like this: sprink-lah. Do you even know what the hell that is?

  There’s some other alternate universe where you and I are together, and I’m crying in front of you all the time, like once a day minimum. I’m not saying I’m a mess, I just don’t hide how I’m feeling. Okay, swearing and crying, maybe I am a mess. But I mean who doesn’t cry at kids’ movies? The first five minutes of Up kills me every time.

  So in the other universe, the one where we’re together, we’d be laughing a lot too, don’t get me wrong. There are all these times where I’m saying or doing the silliest things to get you to laugh. Like my mom used to randomly say “sassafras and lullabies” to get a laugh out of the baby me. I don’t remember it, but I kinda do. And there are times where I’m singing you goofy songs and you and I are laughing so hard that I’m crying too.

  Goddammit.

  I hope you’re in a good place. I hope you aren’t scared.

  I didn’t plan this very well. This is a spur-of-the-moment decision. I’m just going to keep talking until Rams or Dr. Awolesi comes back in. They’re still outside the room talking about stuff they don’t want me to hear. I don’t feel very good, physically, but as long as my temperature stays normal, I’ll pretend I’m okay. My arm hurts and my head is fucking pounding. Sorry, I shouldn’t drop the f-bomb, but that’s exactly how my head feels.

  Hey, speak of the Rams. Say hi, Rams.

  “Hi.”

  That was exciting, wasn’t it? We’ll talk again later. I won’t promise, but I promise. Hey, I love you. I do. Don’t forget that.

  Rams

  Ten years ago Ramola was in her second year at Brown Medical School and Natalie tended bar at the Paragon, a trendy Thayer Street restaurant one block from the Brown University bookstore. They shared a two-bedroom apartment, a second-floor unit of a three-family house on Hope Street. None of the rooms had doors (only curtains), and the floor of their small kitchen was pitched, sloping distinctly, if not alarmingly, downhill toward the rear of the apartment. On quiet nights they sat on placemats on the kitchen floor, drank wine, ate sharp cheddar cheese, raced runaway rolling coins down the linoleum pitch, and talked. Sometimes they talked about the meaningless and ephemeral, which turned out to be—for Ramola—the more memorable nights; Ramola playing devil’s advocate and setting Natalie on rants about iced coffee (coffee should be molten hot), the toe that does the least amount of work (the one next to the baby toe, of course), and a short-lived campaign to rename one of the seven days without using the word “day.” Some nights they discussed more serious subjects, including careers and their families. Ramola most often voiced her anxieties concerning the pressures of medical school, the financial insecurities of what lay beyond, and fearing she would allow the pursuit of her career to narrowly define who she is and would be. Natalie’s fraught if not outright toxic relationship with her mother was her recurring topic. Both women would offer advice, when needed, but more often than not, their shared roles as the supportive listener was enough and was, ultimately, what both parties wanted. Ramola is more homesick for those wine-laughter-and-occasionally-tear-filled nights on the kitchen floor than she ever was for her childhood home.

  Natalie had been dating Paul for about six months when he showed up unannounced at the apartment one night. Natalie was at work, but Ramola was home studying; her books, notes, and an array of highlighting markers and pens were spread out on her bed. Paul walked into the apartment carrying a wilted and wet fistful of daises. He gave Ramola a side-eye and a smirk, one that was somehow cocksure, nervous, and totally Paul, as he announced he was there to talk to Ramola, and, surprise, the flowers were for her, not Natalie. Years later Paul admitted (to no one’s shock or surprise) to liberat
ing the flowers from a window box he passed on the walk over. Ramola didn’t know what to think other than whatever it was Paul had to say couldn’t be good. They sat on the sheet-covered couch and he stammered through an aimless recounting of his relationship with Natalie. Ramola demanded he get to the point, as she had to get back to her studies. Her tone was harsher than what was warranted, but it reflected a sinking dread she couldn’t control, much less recognize. He was there to ask Ramola’s blessing for Natalie and him to live together. Ramola without hesitating or even blinking said, “Christ, I’m not her bloody mum. You don’t need my permission.” Ramola was annoyed; she knew this meant she would have to find a new place or a new roommate. What she wanted to say was, No, you can’t have my Natalie. She never did, technically, say yes or give her blessing, something Paul pointed out years later. Truth be told, at the moment he asked, she wanted him and his stupid flowers to go away and she wanted to pretend the discussion hadn’t happened. She wanted to tell him it was a bad idea, that he was moving too fast and he might scare Natalie away, which wouldn’t have been true. After the initial shock and jealousy were beaten back and inner-monologued away, Ramola was able to express happiness for Natalie and Paul, who indeed made a lovely couple.

  It’s impossible for Ramola to imagine the awkward but charming young man from that bittersweet night in her favorite place on earth, and the wry, only slightly older one he became, is dead.

  Ramola remains in the doorway to Natalie’s room, the gatekeeper, the half-closed door resting against her hip. She says to Dr. Awolesi, “I haven’t pressed Natalie for details. She is adamant her husband, Paul, was killed by the infected man who bit her.”