“Not here here.” Out of force of habit, Ramola flicks on her right directional for a moment but then shuts it off, afraid of starting another rush of cars from behind that would fill the coffee shop’s small parking lot, its entrance still more than ten meters away. She turns into a hard right. There’s a loud thump and a jostling jolt as the squealing tires climb over the elevated sidewalk curb.
“Jesus, Rams? What are you doing?”
“Sorry, sorry. Parking at the Dunks.” Her use of local slang for the doughnut shop is intentionally awkward, as she hopes to elicit, if not a laugh, at least a smirk. She slaloms past a thin metal pole and No Parking sign and navigates the sidewalk for twenty or so feet before turning into the square, half-full parking lot, choosing an empty spot closest to the entrance/exit.
“You stay put until I can help you out of your seat.” Ramola opens her door and bounces out of the vehicle before Natalie has the opportunity to argue with her. The world outside their SUV is cacophony and cool air. Ramola was right to worry about setting off a mad rush as the cars behind her joust for space on the sidewalk and in the lot. Determined and with her head down, she dashes around the back to the passenger side, opens the rear door, and retrieves their two bags, slinging them both over her right shoulder. Natalie opens her door, cell phone still clutched tightly in her right hand, and Ramola helps her out of the car and into a standing position.
“You can do this.” She hopes the affirmation is prophecy. Natalie is more than a half foot taller and likely fifty pounds heavier; if she is going to fall, there isn’t a lot that Ramola can do to keep her upright.
Ramola coaxes Natalie into depositing the cell phone into her bag. With her newly unencumbered hand, Natalie holds her injured arm out in front as though carrying an invisible shield. Ramola loops her left arm through Natalie’s right.
Instead of walking through the main part of the lot, which is now full of cars jockeying for spots, they change course and work their way past the front grille of their SUV. They follow a thinning path along the lot’s perimeter, shimmying single-file between cars and a chain-link fence, and to the sidewalk.
They link arms again and Ramola asks Natalie how she is doing.
“We’re good.”
Crowd noise swells, although not the buzz that greets one entering a sporting event or concert that’s generally accompanied by a vibe of euphoric giddiness at having peacefully gathered to share a pleasant, if not fleeting, experience, while winking at potential dangers associated with the ludicrous number of people amassed. There’s an altogether different feel within this throng of fear-fueled and panicked hundreds racing to Norwood Hospital, one that raises gooseflesh and fills Ramola with the urge to flee screaming.
People abandon their vehicles in the middle of the street. Others lean and pound on their ineffectual horns and shout through cracked-open windows. They plead and they are confused and angry and afraid. Desperation and realization lurk within their collective voices. They don’t understand why or how this is happening; why it is that their personal emergency is not more important than anyone else’s; why no one is out here helping them.
Worried slinging the overnight bags over her shoulder might’ve knocked loose her medical ID badge, Ramola double- and triple-checks it is still affixed to her chest and is plainly visible. Finding it in place, she wonders if someone might snatch it from her, thinking they could somehow use it to gain entrance into the hospital.
There are sirens in the distance, approaching from somewhere behind the standstill traffic. Cars hop over curbs and beach themselves on the congested sidewalk. Clusters of people break like cascading waves around the sputtering mechanical carcasses. Everyone moves in pairs or packs, molecules bonded together by held hands, by arms entwined or draped around shoulders. The rhythms of their individual gaits are not in tune and they inefficiently half walk/half jog forward toward a hope they cannot see.
Ramola holds on to Natalie’s wrist as they trudge forward. There is enough space for them to walk side by side. Ramola jogs two steps for every four walked to keep pace with Natalie, who walks faster and with longer strides despite her increased girth and accompanying waddle. They follow Broadway and cross Guild Street, weaving between stopped cars and passing an elderly couple. The hunched gentleman walks erratically and is draped in a blue-and-white fleece blanket. His wife taps his shoulder and repeats his name as though it were an unanswerable question.
Instead of continuing along Broadway, which traces the boundary of the medical campus and leads eventually to the emergency-room entrance, Ramola darts in front of Natalie and leads her through a quick mart and gas station adjacent to the hospital’s physical plant and then into the outpatient parking lot. Here they encounter steel crowd barriers plastered with arrow signs pointing left and handwritten signs that read: Rabies exposure patients via emergency entrance only. A small group of police and other security personnel stand by the barriers and wave Ramola and Natalie away from the outpatient entrance, which is directly across the lot.
Having the single entrance is an attempt to control the traffic of infected patients and reduce the risk of their spreading the infection to the other hospital populations. Ramola knows better but she is desperate to avoid the crowd, so she shows one of the officers her medical badge and asks to be let into the hospital here. She fumbles through explaining she is reporting for duty, is a part of the second tertiary support, in addition to her tending to Natalie’s emergency medical needs, a thirty-eight-weeks-pregnant woman who shouldn’t be made to stand and be tossed about by the gathering mob. The man shakes his head the entire time she talks, eventually cutting her off.
