She jabs the phone in Luis’s direction. He leans in and like a nervous witness on the stand says, “I am Luis Fernandez.”
Natalie pivots and points the phone at Ramola, who obliges with her full name and address.
Natalie hits a button on the screen, presumably shutting off the recording, and says, “I’ll haunt motherfuckers if it doesn’t happen.”
Luis laughs, but then sheepishly hides it, pulling his bandanna over his mouth.
Natalie points at Luis and her belly, and says, “If you say something about the movie Alien I’ll rip your face off.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but the rhythm is off, and sounds mournful, a lament. She adds, “Okay, if this is going to happen, let’s go. We gotta go.”
Natalie sets off ahead of Ramola and Luis, who scramble to re-shoulder their bags. Natalie will not get very far ahead of them, but Ramola wants to shout, Wait! even though she knows she can’t.
Nats
Hey. I want to say this before they catch up and can hear me. It’s official. I’m infected. I know I was talking and acting like I knew I was all along, but I—I was really hoping these messages would work like a reverse jinx and I would be okay. But I’m not okay. So, yeah. Soon all that’ll be left of me are these recordings.
No. You will be left of me. Am I saying that right? Do you know what I’m trying to say? My tongue is slow and I’m getting dizzy. That’s supposed to happen because I’m infected.
I’m a part of you, so the recordings aren’t all that’s left of me. You have parts of me. Auntie Rams has parts of me with her. Make her tell you all those parts. Even the bad parts. I know I can be a lot.
(male speaks, inaudible)
Do you mind? I’m talking to my kid.
That was Luis. He rides a bike that’s too small for him and makes jokes about zombies driving cars like those are the craziest things the universe has to offer—it’s not even close—and he jokes about this being a different and ridiculous timeline because why? Crazy, awful stuff happening. Pfft. Horrific shit has always happened, is always happening. And everywhere! And will happen! It won’t stop. There aren’t any other timelines, and this one has always been a horror. I’m not saying this to scare you, like the sun rising and falling each day shouldn’t scare you.
I’m not going to be me for much longer. How am I supposed to wrap my head around that? What makes me me? Who or what will I be? Am I a different me with each passing second? I don’t feel different, but how can I tell when I am?
I won’t be able to worry about what’s going to happen. That’s kind of a weird comfort. I wish I was going to be around to always be worrying about you.
(silence)
Auntie Rams says she’s going to take care of you. Be nice to her. The nicest. She’s—
(silence)
I know you can’t always be nice. No one can.
And you’re going to think bad thoughts, appalling things, things that if you actually said or did people would think you’re a monster, but it’s normal. No one ever tells you that it’s okay to think hideous stuff and that everyone else does too. I used to cultivate elaborate daydreams about getting into arguments over the silliest, inconsequential bullshit with coworkers and friends, even Rams. Who does that, right? Who fantasizes about getting pissed off?
“Is that Josh?”
But when I’d start I couldn’t stop and I’d feed my anger like a bonfire until the scenarios got so big and out of control, burning everything down, then after when I finally would come out of the daydream I’d be all worked up and upset with myself for even thinking that way and I would be convinced I was a terrible no-good person and I’d slip into a self-hatred spiral, but that’s what people do, we prepare for the worst and think our worst but then we try our best.
“What the fuck is he doing?”
Everyone has the worst inside of them but some of us try to make something beautiful out of it anyway. I sound like an insane Hallmark card. Have I changed already? Am I not fully me anymore?
(Luis and Ramola speaking at once, inaudible)
Sassafras and lullabies.
And love. The kind that’s so good it hurts and will always hurt. A great and most terrible love. I’m sorry.
Bye.
Rams
“Do you mind? I’m talking to my kid.”
Listening to Natalie again speaking to her unborn child, Ramola wants to send a message to her mum and dad, to tell them she is sorry, but for what she cannot say.
Natalie’s verbal patterns are off, and her delivery, and syntax. It’s not every sentence, but there are missed connections, thudding halts, shifts, awkward restarts.
“There aren’t any other timelines and this one has always been a horror. I’m not saying this to scare you, like the sun rising and falling each day shouldn’t scare you.”
Ramola assumes Natalie implies the horrors of existence are as common and everyday as a sunrise and sunset, but “I’m not saying this to scare you” makes it difficult to fully parse the intended meaning or what tattered shred of hope or inspiration might be elicited.
“Auntie Rams says she’s
