Is it going to survive? Can it survive something like this?
She’d forgotten the razor blade; it was no longer relevant. In her panic Nele could only formulate a single thought, a question: But didn’t my doctor tell me weeks ago that the baby was capable of living from that point on?
The due date was fourteen days from now.
With a C-section the baby’s risk of infection was even lower, which was why they’d moved up the date of the operation. To avoid precisely what was happening now: Nele going into natural labour.
Can they operate once your water has broken?
Nele didn’t know. She just kept hoping that her munchkin (as she called the thing inside her) would enter the world healthy.
Christ, when’s the taxi coming?
Eight minutes.
She’d need every one of those.
Nele stood and felt all the liquid running out of her.
Is this going to harm the child? A horrific image flashed through her mind: the baby inside her womb gasping in vain for air, like a fish out of water.
She teetered to the door of her apartment and grabbed her maternity bag sitting there packed and ready.
Changes of clothes, loose-fitting trousers, nighties, stockings, toothbrush and cosmetics. Plus, of course, the pouch with the antiviral medicines. She’d even packed some size 1 diapers, though they’d surely have those in the hospital. But Juliana, her midwife, had said you could never be over-prepared since nothing ever turned out as expected. Just like now.
My God.
Fear.
She opened the door.
Nele had never felt so worried for someone other than herself. And never felt so alone.
Without the father. Without her best friend, who was on tour with a band in Finland.
Out in the hallway, she paused briefly.
Should she get changed? Her wet tracksuit bottoms felt like cold flannel between her legs. She should’ve checked the colour of her amniotic fluid. If it was green she shouldn’t be moving around, or was it yellow?
But if it was the wrong colour and she had moved, would she now be making it worse by going back and putting on dry clothes? Or wouldn’t she?
Nele pulled her door shut. As she made her way down the stairs she held on tight to the banister, relieved not to see anyone so early in the morning.
Why did she feel ashamed? Giving birth was the most natural thing in the world. But in her experience, very few people sought any direct involvement in the process. And she didn’t want any hypocritical or embarrassed offers of help from neighbours who she’d barely exchanged a word with otherwise.
Once downstairs Nele opened the front door and stepped out into the autumn air that smelled of leaves and earth. It must have just stopped raining.
The pavement on the broad Hansastrasse gleamed in the bright light of the streetlamps. A puddle had formed by the kerb and in it – thank God – the taxi was already waiting. Four minutes before the scheduled time. But not a second too early.
The driver, who was leaning against his Mercedes, buried in a book, tossed the thick volume through the open window onto the passenger seat and ran a hand through his dark, shoulder-length hair. Once he realised that something wasn’t quite right with the way she was shuffling along, he hurried over to her. He probably thought she was injured or the bag so heavy that she was forced to hunch forward. But maybe he was just being polite.
‘Morning,’ he said tersely, and took her bag. ‘Airport?’
He had a faint Berlin accent and his breath smelled of coffee. His V-neck sweater was a size too big, as were his cords that threatened to slide off his narrow hips with each step. His half-open Birkenstock sandals and his Steve Jobs glasses completed the cliché of the sociology student moonlighting as a cab driver.
‘No. The Virchow Clinic. It’s in Wedding.’
Eyeing her belly, he gave a knowing smile.
‘Sure. No problem.’
He opened the door for her. If he’d noticed her soaked trousers he was too polite to mention it. Nele imagined he’d seen far more disgusting things on his night-time tours and probably fitted his rear seats with a plastic cover.
‘Well, here we go.’
Nele climbed into the car, worried that she’d forgotten something important even though she was clutching her bag containing her phone, charger and purse.
My dad!
As the car headed off she calculated the time difference and decided on a text message. Not that she was afraid of calling her father in Buenos Aires at this time of day. But she didn’t want him to hear the anxiety in her voice.
Nele wondered whether she should tell him that her water had broken, but what would be the point of worrying him unnecessarily? Besides, it was none of his business. He was her father, not her close friend. The reasons for having him come to Germany were purely practical rather than emotional.
He’d abandoned Mom. Now he could make up for that by supporting Nele with her munchkin, even if his fatherly assistance would be limited to running errands, shopping and helping out financially. She certainly wouldn’t trust him to look after the baby. After all, she hadn’t wanted to see him before the birth and she’d virtually ordered him to stay put until the day of her operation at the earliest.
‘It’s starting!’ she tapped into her phone and sent the message. Short and sweet. She knew he’d be hurt by the lack of a greeting. And she felt slightly ashamed by her cold manner. But she only had to recall her mother’s eyes – open, empty, virtually engraved with the fear of that death she’d had to suffer all on her own – and she knew she’d been far too nice to him already. He should count himself lucky that she’d listened to her therapist and re-established contact with him after all these years.
Looking towards the front, Nele discovered the green tome that the young man had been leafing through, now wedged between the handbrake and the driver’s seat.
Pschyrembel Clinical Dictionary.
Not a sociology student, but a medical one.
Then she noticed: ‘Hey! You forgot to start the meter.’
‘What? Oh… crap!’
When they sat at a red light, the student gave his meter a good tap. It seemed to be broken.
‘That’s the third time now…’ he moaned.
A motorbike approached from behind.
When it stopped right beside her window, Nele turned to the side. The driver was wearing a mirrored helmet, which is why she only saw herself when he lowered his head to peer in. His bike was gurgling like a seething lava lake.
Confused and apprehensive, Nele faced forwards again.
‘It’s green!’ she squeaked.
Looking up from his meter, the student apologised.
Nele’s eyes wandered to the side again.
Rather than taking off, the motorbike rider tapped his helmet as if in greeting, and Nele could imagine the diabolical smile this man must be wearing beneath his helmet.
David, Nele thought.
‘The ride’s on me.’
‘I’m sorry?’
The student winked at her in the rear-view mirror and put the car into gear. ‘Your lucky day. The meter’s had it; you won’t have to pay a penny, Nele.’
The driver’s last word sliced through the very fabric of her sanity. ‘How…?’
How does he know my name?
Nele realised that they were coasting slowly into a driveway, a right turn just after the lights.
‘Where are we going?’
She saw a frayed wire fence, beyond which two industrial brick chimneys towered into the dark sky like stiff fingers.
The taxi rolled across bumps into the entrance of a long-abandoned factory complex. Nele grabbed the door and shook the handle.
‘Stop! I want to get out.’
The driver turned around and stared at her swollen breasts.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a smile that looked so incongruously shy and harmless.
The five words that followed unnerved Nele more than anything she’d heard in her life: ‘I just want your milk.’
An inner fist unleashed all its fury on the most sensitive spot in her womb.
‘Aaagh!’ she screamed at the student, who eyed her in the rear-view mirror as the headlights brushed across a rusty sign.
To the Milking Parlour, Nele read.
Then her contractions reached their first peak.