Natalie’s right hand alternates between tucking hair behind her ear and hovering over the phone, index finger extended. A trace of a smile on her face, though upon closer inspection, it’s not really a smile. There’s no upturn in her lips, no exposure of teeth, but instead a softening of expression, facial muscles relaxed, eyes half-lidded, almost sleepy, eyebrows slightly elevated, unguarded. It’s the ghost of a look of contentment.
Ramola has stopped counting, even though time stubbornly goes on without her marking it. She continues closely observing her friend, afraid of witnessing the point-of-no-return transformation, afraid she missed it already. In the tinted window glass, there is a near mirror-quality reflection of Natalie’s face. In this reflection there are no tear and dirt stains, no puffy circles under her eyes, no feverish red splotches on her cheeks. Trapped in the glass’s amber is Natalie’s younger face: Ramola sees the Natalie she first met in college and the one she shared an apartment with and the one from those nights sitting on the kitchen floor and the one she secretly cried over when she moved out and the one in that bachelorette-party photo, her favorite photo; the Natalie she’ll always remember until she cannot remember anything anymore. This reflection of younger selves rest their heads against the Natalie of now, the one who showed up bloodied at Ramola’s townhouse, the one who fought and is fighting valiantly, the one who is dying despite her defiance. The split images are representatives of the past and present, and together, the horrible future. Both sets of faces are only inches away from each other and they are in sync, staring and blinking at the phone screen, opening their mouths to say something, but they do not speak.
If Natalie looks up now, what will she see? What will Ramola see?
“Excuse me, I haven’t had a chance to check in with you yet, Natalie. How are you feeling?” asks Dr. Kolodny. She’s a sentinel in the aisle wearing rubber gloves (was she wearing them earlier?), and she only has eyes for Natalie. Her professional veneer, already haggard and worn at the edges, collapses.
Ramola jumps out of her seat and stands between Dr. Kolodny and Natalie. She turns forward and back, opens and closes her white coat, wipes her face, and glances at her watch, desperate to somehow keep the Natalie-is-healthy lie alive until they get to the hospital in another fifteen minutes. Is that all the time they will need? Is that all the time they have?
Natalie says, “Sassafras and lullabies.” Her voice is low-pitched and airless. She sits up from the window, breaking away from her reflection.
Ramola says, “Oh, we’re doing quite well over here. Thank you.”
Natalie hits a button on the phone and puts it back into her pocket. She says, “I’m tired. A tired peach.” She lowers her chin into her chest and runs one hand through her hair, which falls out from behind her ears and blankets most of her face. The gesture is purposeful; she’s hiding from the awful world.
Dr. Kolodny speaks sternly, a teacher trying to shame a churlish student sleeping in the back row. “Natalie, I need to take your temperature. We were supposed to screen you prior to leaving the clinic, or right after leaving, and I was on my way to do so but then everything—is it okay if I slide by, Dr. Sherman? Thank you.” Dr. Kolodny shimmies into their row, nudging and edging Ramola into the aisle with her hips.
Ramola says, “Of course. But I could—is there anything I can help with?” She folds her hands together, unsure of what to do beyond snatching the thermometer from Kolodny’s hands and throwing it off the bus.
Natalie says, “Is that the right thermometer? It doesn’t look right. It’s small. That’s a baby one. What are you trying to do?”
Dr. Kolodny inserts the temperature wand into the rear of the device, covering it with a disposable sleeve. “This is not an infant thermometer.”
Natalie says, “The baby ones don’t work on adults. They run hot. Hot, hot, hot. Right? You do know I’m pregnant too. Pregnant women run hot.”
Ramola adds, “I can attest her body temperature is normally in the low-to-mid ninety-nine degrees.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Open your mouth, please, and keep this under your tongue.”
Natalie tilts her head back, her brown hair parts, a sly smirk flashes, and she opens her mouth as wide as she can. Once the thermometer makes contact with her tongue, she snaps her jaws shut as though a trap is triggered. Dr. Kolodny flinches and Natalie giggles.
“Please keep your mouth closed.”
Natalie mutters around the mouthful of thermometer. “Sorry. Me laughing is stress. I’m stressed, so stressed. And I run hot. Wicked hot. Scalding hot iron shoes.”
The thermometer beeps and Dr. Kolodny doesn’t look at the reading. “Your mouth must remain closed, please. Just for a few seconds.”
Before the thermometer goes back in her mouth, Natalie grabs Dr. Kolodny’s hand and pushes it toward her belly. “Feel her moving around in there. Feel her. I want you to. Do you want a living creature or all the treasure in the world?”
Ramola intervenes, calls out Natalie’s name, separates their hands, and coos lies to Natalie (instead of Kolodny), “Let go. It’ll be okay.” Natalie gives a watery-eyed look of betrayal and slumps in her seat. Ramola’s heart splinters and cracks. Tears sting her eyes. The first tears always sting the most.
Dr. Kolodny threatens to have Natalie restrained. Other staff and clinicians congregate around their seats. Whispers and chatter swells from the other patients.
Natalie shouts, “All right. I’ll be good. Just let Rams do it and get it over with.”
Dr. Kolodny yields the thermometer. Ramola holds the wand in one hand and the readout device in the other. How can she fool the machine? How closely are the others watching?
Natalie says, “They’re not going to like it,” and opens her mouth. Her brown eyes are
