The Citrus Syndrome

11 ; blood

Blood

Ghania

Dr. Catherine has a baby.

I watch her rock it back and forth in her arms, wondering what strange chemical reaction has led to this. It is as though I have caught hitler playing with his pet kitten. I watch with wide eyes, looking from the baby to the doctor and back again.

People are crying in the lab, the ones who are looking for an antidote. They sob like babies, but the baby itself does not cry. I hear screams from downstairs.

"Ghania!"

I turn around to see the only person who talks to me anymore. Wilson is gray from head to toe, hugging himself while he shivers. I back up, hoping he doesn't notice me shying away.

"We need help downstairs," he says. "In the infirmary?"

I nod, standing. Yes, I can dress wounds and bring water to the dying. In the late stages, they can't carry on conversations anyway. I glance back at Dr. Catherine. She is gray as well, but doesn't shiver. She is stoic and still, gazing at her baby with a tenderness I have never seen before in her eyes.

Wilson holds out his hand to me, but I pretend not to see it. I walk behind him to the basement.

It reeks of death down here. Blood, sick and human waste litters the floor, swirling together in a repulsive scent. I breathe shallowly through my mouth, closing my eyes. On second thought, I open them. There are too many puddles of human output for eye-closing.

Instead, I watch Wilson's back. His body is much like his face: delicate and precise. His shoulder blades protrude from his back like fragile little angel wings, hidden away behind his shirt. His arms are thin and bony, almost bird-like.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Nothing much, probably. Those two words are the story of my life.

He leads me to the one facet of the basement that is not cluttered with dying bodies. In this small space, two women whom I recognize from the testing unit are furiously pumping water into flimsy paper cups, filling trays with them. Ever five seconds, another nurse comes bustling in to take the tray. There are spools of gauze and tape, bandages and wipes. Buckets of water filled with rags are strewn across the floor.

Wilson picks up a bucket. "It's only a matter of time before I go down, too," he informs me. He then picks up a surgical mask from the pile beside him. "Keep yourself safe, okay?"

And with that, he leaves me. I watch him leave for the other side of the room, water bucket swinging at his side. He kneels down next to a woman who lays on the floor, draping a rag over her forehead.

A nurse gives my shoulder a sharp tap. "Do you have any first aid training?" She demands. I shake my head. "Cleaning duty for you, then." She thrusts a mop into my hand, nudging a bucket of water my way.

My stomach flips in disgust. I want to protest, but I've forgotten how.

So I take the water and the mop and move away from the uninfected corner. I dip the mop in the bucket, swilling it around in the brown water. I don't know much about cleaning, and I don't do it often, but I assume that a mop works something like a sponge.

I start with a puddle of blood beside a boy who's on a mat. He watches me push the watery redness around on the floor for a couple seconds before croaking, "Do you know where my mama is?"

I ignore him. How should I know? The blood has become the color of koolaid, diluted but not cleansed by the water. I dunk the mop again, and grinding it into the floor. The water blossoms red.

"Do you?" The boy insists. His voice is barely a rasp.

I spare him a glance. He's about eight, I would say, with a curly black afro and vomit soaked clothes. I resume my mouth-breathing, looking away. I shake my head.

The sick people talk to me as I mop around them. I don't respond, but they talk anyway. One woman tells me that she is engaged and her wedding will be on the beach. The reception hall will be covered in blue, and her dress will be an elegant pile of turquoise tulle. And the cake will be sea-salt and caramel flavored.

A teenage boy tells me (between grunts of pain) about his girlfriend, who he says looks like me. I adjust my hijab, wondering if he is simply saying this because his lover wears one as well. I don't ask, though. I listen to him talk about her glistening green eyes and the day they first met. No, I want to say. She is nothing like me. She has eyes you can go on for hours about, and smart remarks and a bold personality. Do not insult her by comparing her to me.

But he seems so lovesick and citrus-sick that I feel for him. I kneel down and place my hand on his forehead, rubbing my thumb over the burning skin. He watches me and for a second, looks at me as though I am the girl he has been raving about for the past few minutes. Then he closes his eyes and I leave. I don't want to know if he's dead.

Being in love is a risk factor for The Citrus Syndrome. I've certainly see that this is true, down here in the infirmary. Many talk to me about their loved ones, or hold hands with others beside them. Husbands, wives, friends, sons, daughters, mothers and fathers. They hold each other, each oblivious to the fact that they are the cause of the other's pain.

Half and hour and thirteen beds later, a young woman bursts through the basement door.

She is short and thin, wrapped in a flannel blanket. She looks asian, maybe filipino. She shivers like mad, pushing the door shut behind her. When she lifts her face, I see that she is crying. Her eyes are hazel, murky with tears. Her features are petite and delicate. I go back to work.

But she runs up to me, wiping her nose on the blanket. "Can you help me?" She asks. Her voice is shaky and high. "I need to find someone."

I shrug, because I cannot help her. I cannot help anyone but myself and the bloodstains on the floor.

She tells me who she is looking for anyway. "Catherine Ashford," she says. "She works here. Do you know where her office is?"

My head snaps up. Dr. Catherine? How does this girl know her? I study the girl's face for some trace of doubt, but there is none.

I sigh. And I shake my head because if I don't, then I have to care. And the last thing I can afford to do right now is care.