A Drink Called Paradise by Terese Svoboda Page A

they’ve given us stone soap. Too obvious.
    I start to shiver under all that hot water, and I don’t stop even after I dry off, even after I use their big fluffy towel on myself and I’m wrapped in it. Maybe I’m sick is what I want to think about the shivers, then I don’t want to think that, not at all.
    My clothes are gone. And my bag. All they leave is a gray shift and slippers.
    Of course—when it’s all clean, I’ll get it back.
    I put on their clothes. One of their smiley faces emblazons the left side of my gown. I wonder if the ones on the moonsuits were as white as this face, but I can’t be sure.
    Still shivering, I step out of my cubicle. I can hear the others under their showers. Somewhere farther down the long row, a man with a medical bag walks toward Ngarima’s stall. I know where she is because she’s wailing again. She hasn’t wailed since I caught her with her plastic Jesus, but now she fills the hall with her wild, sad sound.
    A sedative makes sense.
    I get out of the way of that man, I walk away from him.
    I need to walk.
    Gray metal rivets, gray stairs, no signs except “Lifeboat This Way.” I skip that way. I turn toward a reindeer-and-dove-covered door on the left. I go through it, wondering at the season I had forgotten in the seasonless sway of an island. Maybe such decoration wipes time and place away, and the island is gone in a whorl of blinking light. I open the door at the top of a set of stairs, thinking this, and the island is still there, still small at such a distance, but there.
    A woman comes up behind me. Can I help you, Clare?
    Me? I say. I can’t get used to my own name, the one everyone here knows for no reason and can say. Who are you?
    Someone with you on my list. She points to a clipboard filled with names.
    I see. She has a Dr. in front of her name on her tag, that entitles her to my name, the way she checks my tag.
    Where am I? I ask.
    The answer she gives inspires hope, to go with the insignia of snake and staff. We’re a large health organization, she says.
    With the UN?
    Wouldn’t that be nice. No, not us. I see from your records that you spent a little time on this island. What brought you here?
    Nobody was going there.
    She could say with a professional smile, How adventurous. Instead she says, Nobody is supposed to go there.
    I guess not, I say. Why did they let me?
    Some mix-up, somebody’s second cousin was asleep, no doubt.
    Why don’t they evacuate the island?
    It’s not that bad, she says.
    Oh, really? I smile, like her. What happened to the boat that was supposed to take me back?
    Boats are always late or just a myth around here. You must be glad to see this one. The doctor moves her pens on her pen guard. Over six weeks there, wasn’t it?
    The boat rocks under my feet, a slight left, a slight right, and I’m uneasy to match. Over this woman’s shoulder is the island, locked in incomplete reproduction. Can I make a call? I ask.
    Sure. But why not get these out of the way? She turns her clipboard full of paper around. Just a couple more releases. Sign here, here, and here. She presents her pen.
    I see, I say. I stare at the small print. Ngarima’s wailing increases from somewhere below. I slide my foot in and out of my slipper. Do you have children? I ask her.
    Not yet, she says. We’re hoping. She smiles the way they do, the ones who hope.
    Have you ever seen any of their babies?
    She waggles the clipboard. This is my first trip out. But I’ve seen pictures, of course.
    I nod. With her of course , we’re in this together. Well, I say, I guess you have to have one to really appreciate those pictures.
    She flattens the paper with her finger where I’m supposed to sign. You’ve had a very slight exposure, ma’am, she says. You should be on your way within a day or two of reaching port.
    When is that?
    Given the weather, it should be in three days.
    I see.