Luis says, “Josh is taking his sweet-ass time.”
Natalie coughs. It’s a dry, painful sound, full of dust, and after, she has difficulty catching her breath.
Ramola says, “You’re pushing yourself too hard. Let’s take a break. A short one.”
Natalie says, “I’m fine. I mean, my boobs hurt and my back kills and my hips are pulling apart. But I’m good.” She coughs again, then growls, as though she might scare the coughs away.
Luis rides a handful of paces ahead of Natalie, spins out the bike in a neat little move so that he blocks her path and is turned to face her. He says, “I’m a dumbass. Sorry, I got water to spare.” He offers game-show display hands in front of the bottles hanging over his chest. “Choose wisely.”
Ramola, without thinking, says, “Yes, you’ll be no good to anyone if you get dehydrated, least of all yourself or your child. You need to drink.”
Natalie comes to an abrupt halt and shouts, “Do I? You think so?” Her teeth are gritted, eyes wild; a look of unadulterated anger. During their university days Ramola mockingly delighted, documented, and cheered sightings of Angry Nats, such appearances generally reserved for unreasonable professors, rude bar patrons, and man-boy twits who insisted Natalie could not turn down having a drink in their company.
As Natalie holds her in a stare, Ramola recognizes the look as not necessarily one of anger, or solely of anger, but one of betrayal and resignation. Natalie blinks rapidly, as though she might start crying. She turns so her back is to Luis, and says, “Rams?” like a question. She bends her left arm and winces.
“Are you okay?” Luis asks.
Whether or not Natalie has succumbed to infection, it’s clear she fears having a hydrophobic reaction to water. A high temperature and flu-like symptoms, for the time being, doesn’t have to equate to infection and could be vaccination side effects. Hydrophobia is as classic and telling a symptom as foaming around the mouth.
Ramola rubs her friend’s right shoulder and considers whispering, We need to know, which would feel selfish in a way she cannot explain or abide. She instead whispers, “It might be okay.” Can it still be a lie even if it is not a declarative statement?
Natalie says, “It won’t.”
“You need to try.” Ramola wishes she had something better to say, something with more resolve and more hope.
Natalie closes her eyes, shakes her head, and coughs. “Fucking ow.” She shrugs Ramola’s hand off her shoulder and turns to face Luis. She says, “Hey, guy, I can’t wait to drink the delicious neck water you got there. Splash that shit over here.”
Ramola walks over to Luis, who is totally confused, sitting on his bike, frozen in place. She says, “May I,” and sets to removing one of the water bottles from the cord around his neck. “These are in fact filled with water, I presume. Drinkable water.”
“Yeah.” Luis lets Ramola untie one of the bottles. “Filled them this morning.”
“Did you fill them with love in your heart?” Natalie is freaking out. Tearful begging and pleading would be less disturbing than her desperate humor and the low-wave frequency of panic amping in her voice. Natalie adds, “Make sure you pick the one that doesn’t have rabid raccoon guts on it. That’s not my thing.”
“I’m choosing a clean one.” Ramola frees a bottle, unscrews the lid, and takes a quick sip. The water is cooler than she expects. It has that hard taste of water having been in a plastic bottle but is also undeniably refreshing. Her body craves more but she will wait.
Natalie says, “Is this filtered water? Tap water? Brockton’s kind of a big city. Do you know the nitrate levels? Do you have the city’s water report handy? I’m drinking for two and all that.”
Ramola faces Natalie with the bottle cradled against her chest, small hands wrapped closer to the top of the bottle, attempting to obscure the view of the water line. She says, “The water tastes fine.”
“You can taste lead, nitrates, sulfates, and all the other –ates?”
Natalie is only a few steps away from Ramola. “Yes, I’m a doctor.” She wills Natalie to look at her face and not the bottle.
A wry smile falters and flickers away. “You’re not a water doctor.”
Ramola wanders to Natalie’s right side instead of camping directly in front of her. Still gripping the bottle in both hands, she slowly extends it to Natalie.
“Fine. But this is just going to make me have to pee on the side of the road again.” Natalie reaches for the bottle with her right hand, a hand that is shaking. She drops her hand to her side. “Sorry, I guess I’m a little shaky from the walk.”
“You’ve had a day,” Ramola says, being her friend’s agreeable chorus.
Natalie reaches for the bottle again. Shakes become tremors as her hand gets closer to the bottle. A high-pitched whine leaks through her lips, apparently involuntary, judging by Natalie’s shocked expression.
Ramola steps closer and guides Natalie’s hand to the bottle. Natalie closes her eyes, but it doesn’t prevent the tremors from spreading into her arm, shoulders, and head. She jerks her hand away. Water spills, slapping on the pavement at their feet, but Ramola keeps hold of the bottle.
Natalie, out of breath, says, “I—I can’t.”
Ramola says, “Let me help. It’s all right. You’re exhausted. Dehydrated.” She employs the same tone of voice she uses with her sickest patients. “Relax. Breathe.” Ramola attempts to dampen her inner emotional turmoil by imagining what she needs to do and say next as a clinical list of instructions and procedures handwritten in black marker and in her own precise script on a large whiteboard; a stress technique she adopted during residency.
She tells Natalie to breathe and to leave her arms by her side while lifting the bottle up to Natalie’s face.
“It fucking smells awful. Can’t you smell it?” Natalie’s tremors have not lessened. Her
