The doctor covers the wound with a gauze pad. “We’re all done with that. You’re doing great, Natalie.”
Natalie releases Ramola’s arm, pats her belly, and exhales deeply again.
Dr. Bilezerian swabs Natalie’s shoulder with an alcohol wipe and holds up a second needle. “Next is a shot of vaccine. This won’t hurt as badly. I promise. It feels more like a flu shot.”
“Ooh, those are my favorite.” Natalie half laughs and half cries, and her mischievous smile remains. Natalie already appears less vacant, less hopeless. Ramola has never felt more proud of her friend, or more bone-crushingly sad for her.
“Right? You could do this all day,” the doctor says as she injects the vaccine. “And we’re done.”
Ramola swaps spots with Laurie and sets to affixing the pad and wrapping Natalie’s forearm with more gauze. She considers asking the doctor what the efficacy of this treatment has been during the outbreak. Have they had many or any successes in preventing exposed patients from succumbing to the viral infection? She doesn’t want to ask in front of Natalie, not yet anyway. Ramola has always believed physicians should be forthright in sharing information with the patient, or in the case of her charges, their parents, no matter how dire the prognosis or uncomfortable the conversation. As Ramola’s sinking, hopeless feeling can be measured in fathoms, perhaps it’s not Natalie she’s protecting from hearing potentially devastating news.
Dr. Bilezerian removes her gloves, picks up a two-way radio, and asks for an available orderly to bring a wheelchair.
Natalie says, “I don’t need that. I can walk.”
“I think you’ve walked enough. You need to rest, get some fluids, and think healthy thoughts.” She hands Natalie a piece of paper. “This lists rare but potential side effects you might experience. It’s marked with the date and time, and that barcode sticker corresponds to both the globulin and vaccine you received. You’ll be given a bracelet inside, too, with the same information but you definitely should hold on to this as a backup. I’m sure you noticed things are a little hectic out there. If all goes well, which I’m confident it will”—at this her voice increases in volume, she turns to look at both Natalie and Ramola, and she places a hand on Natalie’s shoulder; with the mask covering all but her eyes, it’s impossible to tell if she’s smiling or frowning or any one of a thousand complicated expressions in between—“you’ll be back here or be assigned to go to another treatment center for the follow-up vaccine booster in three days. You cannot get one before then, okay? Getting the second shot too soon will compromise the immune response. Now, you may need that paper to ensure you get the second shot. They’ll explain this process to you again inside. Do you understand? Good. And while we wait I need to take down some information as well.”
Natalie gives her name, address, date of birth, cell phone number. When asked for an emergency contact she says, “I don’t—my husband, Paul, was killed. He died less than an hour ago.”
The doctor pauses typing on her medical tablet computer. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
Natalie shakes her head, silently saying no to everything. She points at Ramola and sputters through a flash flood of tears. “She’s my emergency contact.”
Dr. Bilezerian asks what their relationship is.
“Friend,” Natalie says.
As Ramola digs through her overnight bag, hunting for her yellow zip-up hooded sweatshirt, she recites her cell phone number.
“Is there anyone else you’d like to list as an emergency contact? Any immediate family or—” Dr. Bilezerian peters out as though coming to the too-late realization that there is no good or happy answer to her queries.
Natalie shivers and gingerly flexes her left arm. “I don’t know if any of this, any of what we’re doing, even matters. I’ll pretend it does.”
Ramola says, “It very much matters, and we’re going to keep you healthy. And the baby, of course.” She stumbles over herself to include the nameless child.
Natalie says, “I’ll add my parents as contacts. They are in Florida. They sit in their condo all day and watch Fox News and complain about the humidity when they’re not arguing or forgetting to eat.”
Dr. Bilezerian asks for their names and information and Natalie obliges.
Ramola drapes the sweatshirt across Natalie’s back and over her shoulders. “You can take that damp jumper off once we’re inside.”
Natalie says, “I don’t think I can squeeze into this.”
“It’s surprisingly roomy. I swim in it.”
“Yellow, huh?” Natalie laughs.
“Well, it’s my—”
“I know yellow is your favorite, but this is really fucking yellow. If I zipped this up I’d look like a pregnant banana.”
“Only if you wore matching bottoms. I’d say you look more like a lemon.”
“Don’t argue with the pregnant banana.”
An orderly appears in the cubicle with the wheelchair, and without missing a beat, says, “I’m here to help a, um, pregnant banana get in out of the cold.”
Natalie says, “All right, I’m the only one who can call me that.” She slides off the table and settles into the chair.
Dr. Bilezerian helps Natalie put on a white respirator mask, explaining that exposed patients are wearing them out of an abundance of caution. She reminds Ramola where the Command Center is, instructs the orderly to take good care of her patient. She says, “Goodbye, Natalie,” and wades back into the tent’s bustling concourse.
The orderly says, “It’s ugly out here. Think they’ll let me stay inside with you ladies?”
As they wheel Natalie from the screening area Ramola notices the middle-aged man in the cubicle across from them is gone and has been replaced by an older one, pointing at the back of his hand. She overhears the doctor—who un-gloves and crosses his arms—saying, “I don’t see any broken skin. I know—but you’re the one who told me she’s an indoor cat. . . .”
Outside the tent and its numbing drone of the
