They motor past four blocks of tree-lined streets and small Cape houses. The crowded residential area gives way to a shopping plaza. Its sprawling parking lot is vacant but for a dusting of cars. A portable traffic message board sign and trailer squats in the plaza’s main entrance. The rectangular display message, in big yellow letters proclaims:
ENTER HOSP VIA WASH ST EMERG ENTRANCE ONLY
Across from the plaza are the Norwood fire and police stations, which marks the eastern border of downtown Norwood. Ahead is a set of lights that normally rotates through the green-yellow-red spectrum, and is instead flashing yellow; proceed with caution. There are no police directing traffic. There is a stopped car in front of them that has yet to pass below the commuter-rail overpass. It is part of a growing line of vehicles at least three blocks long.
Natalie says, “Fucking great. What are we going to do? We’re still like a half mile away, right? Is there another way we can go? Are they blocking off other routes? We’re never going to get there. What if they already closed the hospital? It’s overrun. It’s fucking overrun. I know it is.”
Ramola attempts to assuage Natalie by saying, “We don’t know that. We’re still moving. We’ll get there.” She’s feeling similarly panicked. She doesn’t know the answers to Natalie’s more-than-reasonable questions.
Traffic creeps ahead. Natalie taps the passenger window frame with her hand and chants a “Come on, come on” mantra.
Ramola squeezes the steering wheel and she needs to say something, anything, to keep one or both of them from completely freaking out. “How are you feeling? Any change?”
Natalie shakes her head and swears under her breath. She turns on the radio and an AM Boston news station blares at high volume. She says, “We should try the phone. Who can we call at the hospital? You must know who’s in charge. Let’s call them, and give them your name, ask them what to do, but yeah, we probably can’t call because the phones are still fucked, like we’re all fucked.”
Natalie talks fast and her voice schizophrenically alternates between a low, almost distracted grumble and a manic, high-pitched incredulity. Granted, the circumstances are more than a little extraordinary, but in all the years Ramola has known Natalie, she has never sounded or acted like this. Has the virus already passed into her brain? Could it possibly work that quickly?
Natalie rolls down the window and yells, “Come on, let’s go. Drive, you assholes, drive!” She is breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed red.
Ramola says, “Please, Natalie. You need to try to remain as calm as you can.” She thinks about asking if Natalie’s blood pressure has been normal throughout her pregnancy, but for the moment it’s probably best not to bring focus to other potential ailments. “Let’s listen to the radio in case there is new information or instructions.”
Natalie closes the window and resumes her tapping on the doorframe. The radio announcer repeats the quarantine protocol and teases an updated listing of emergency shelters and hospitals to be read in two minutes.
They roll slowly between granite walls and then from under the shadow of the rail overpass. Nahatan Street splits and expands into two lanes. Both lanes are full of cars, crawling uphill, into the heart of Norwood Center, toward Washington Street. Perched at the top of the hill is the old stone-and-mortar Unitarian church, the spire’s gray shingles reaching into the grayer midday sky.
“Come on, come on.”
Ramola says, “A few more cars and we can turn left on Broadway. Looks like everyone else is going to Washington Street, but the officer said we could—”
An engine revs and the car behind them lunges into the opposite lane. It roars past their SUV and three other cars ahead of them and turns sharply onto Broadway. Ice broken, other cars from behind buzz into the opposite lane and pass them on the left.
“Go, Rams, you have to go. Now!”
“I am. I’m trying.” Ramola edges out into the lane cautiously and a continuous blur of cars emerge from the darkness of the overpass and swerve as they pass.
“Go, go now!”
Ramola spies what she hopes is enough of an opening in the passing traffic and darts into the opposite lane, cutting someone off. The grille and hood of a red, full-sized SUV fills her rearview mirror. Its blaring horn reverberates, but not as loudly as Natalie screaming at them to fuck off.
They turn left, onto Broadway. The other cars that passed them have accelerated on the open road ahead. There isn’t a procession of stopped traffic like there is on Washington Street. Ramola says, “Okay, okay, we’re almost there.” They speed past a McDonald’s and a large liquor store on their left. As she takes in the landmarks and spins through quick time-and-distance calculations to the hospital, a black sedan spills into their lane from a side street on their right. Ramola jerks their SUV into the opposite lane, barely managing to avoid a collision.
Two-family homes and small businesses whiz by on the periphery for three blocks but ahead is another dreaded sea of brake lights. They are quickly pinned within the bottleneck.
Natalie looses another expletive-filled tirade.
Ramola says, “We’re close. We’re so close,” which she knows sounds less reassuring and more like a lament of defeat. She cranes her head in an attempt to peer over and around the gridlock. This isn’t the slow but steady creep of traffic in the town center; no one is moving. Ahead in the opposite lane are the flashing blue lights from a parked police motorcycle.
They can’t wait for the traffic to magically clear. However, their car is almost parallel to a ubiquitous Dunkin Donuts to their right. Ramola says, “Can you walk?”
“Walk?”
“We’re only two blocks away.”
Natalie nods and adjusts the position of her injured arm. “I can definitely walk. Are we
