Early winter, soon snowfall across a city where the buses to the centre roll in and lower down for the mothers who coffee in hand manoeuvre the strollers and take a seat.
Later you remember that the autumn was unusually mild and the blanket your sister gave you lay smoothed on the cot next to the wall, awaiting the child. You remember that earlier in the night you had chopped parsley for Gran’s eggplant stew recipe and that the picture of the cactus flower you had put up with a few pieces of tape had fallen to the floor, that you couldn’t find it when, belly in the way, you were looking under the bed. The hill outside the kitchen window had by lunchtime already gone as dark as a mountain or the closest thing to a mountain you have come across since childhood, and you had started to think of the dream you’d had the night before in which the baby was finally born, was already six months old and had big black hair like Rozia.
Later you also remember how your mother set aside her tea glass to help you on with your winter boots and jacket, held you tightly as you shopped for the baby’s first clothes and a purple plush rabbit.
Take especial care in this mild winter she said, leaning against the galleria with its bread and cheese stalls outside—before you know it, you’ll have taken a fall she said and we can do without that sort of accident as she bent over to read the price per kilo of string cheese and white cheese and lost her footing and slipped.
You remember that earlier in the day she had commented on the photo of the girl that, ever since you found it in the woman’s bag on the corniche, you’d been saving in your notebook open on the kitchen table. She had said so lovely and so pretty, asked you if you saved the soap, and then I understand.
Later you remember how in the weeks before you went on long walks in hopes of inducing labour and how every day you bought the sweet bread you liked and took it to the hill that soothed and rocked you, talked you through it. You bought two big bags of detergent and hard soap and carried them up the stairs, unpacked for want of anything else to do the little bag of tiny pyjamas and socks and once more washed everything by hand.
That morning your brother called to say he had bought a onesie with teddy bear ears on the hood and a little later your sister got in touch asking about washcloths, if you had enough or if she should pick some up now while she was out shopping. You need at least eight or ten she said as you nodded down at the phone and pulled out each one of your towels, wondering which of them to cut up and re-sew.
You shouldn’t worry so much, your co-worker said between bites of lunch in the cafeteria bathed in winter light—do you remember this?
You shouldn’t always imagine the worst and should understand that the child is calmer towards the end as there is less space, she said, and helped herself to yet another piece of potato, wiped her mouth. You were talking about the trip and about the corniche, and she asked you if you’d finished writing the report and you said no, not yet—I haven’t been able to get my thoughts in order you say and put down your cutlery—I keep coming back to the woman on the corniche and then it’s impossible for me to write, do you know what I mean? you say and take a sip of water.
Later first and foremost you will remember the light in the examination room and how you listened to the doctor tell you what you needed to do and that you could go home for the night if you wanted to, hearing her say how many people preferred that, to be in a safe place so to speak.
Your first no shocked them, made them back off. Later when they tried to take your hand, you slapped them away and when they asked if it was home you were going to, you replied I have no home and kept walking.
You stay in that room for a very long time.
For years you wander the windowless corridor, it’s like a canal lock between the reception and the maternity ward, and when someone asks you to tell them what it was like, you tell them what you remember, but each time using new words and in a different order.
You say I remember there was a family sitting in the waiting room and I greeted them. It was dark and the grandmother was the only one who returned my greeting. She had a bag in her arms, it was green, and later I also saw the child slumped in the chair next to her, kicking the rug away again and again.
You say I remember drinking two glasses of cold water that night and knowing afterwards that it was over, do you know what I mean? That’s how the story always goes, I know, but I was certain that neither the sleep nor the tea nor the books nor even the hill could calm me down and that it was once again time for me to go.
You say it was the same scene playing itself out, but in a different time and for a moment it occurred to me that supper ought to be cleared away so as not to attract the neighbour’s cat, can you imagine? In that moment I thought about how we used to say that it was the neighbour’s cat who’d trick the rooster into coming over and it was the rooster who’d sent the dishes crashing to the floor and Mum would get angry, but not at the cat.
I thought about how from here on out I wouldn’t be able to play with the cat anymore and how sad Rozia would be if we didn’t get to carry it across the mud pits to the other side of the road and into our playhouse with the red rag rug and the pillows, the hand puppet that belonged to Rozia and the colouring book that belonged to me. Then I walked to the door, took my jacket and wallet and turned both locks.
All I wanted was for the bus to leave on time you say and look out the window.
It was all I could think about, and although it almost never runs as it should, it did then, can you imagine? You almost laugh, can’t help it. That night public transport didn’t let me down you say and sink back into the hospital bed, falling asleep and sleeping long.
When did the child die? you ask the nurses after they’ve moved you to another room and check on you from time to time, roll up the sleeve of your white shirt, take your blood pressure.
When do you think my baby died? you ask one more time as the nurse notes something down on her pad and before she has a chance to say that unfortunately she will only be able to know after the baby has been born and examined, you turn away and say well, anyway I think I know—I think it died a long time ago or on the corniche. Maybe it died long before I got here and maybe even before they dug Rozia out, who knows.
You sit up, adjust the sheet and blanket, try to sound your smoothest.
I mean, maybe the child had already died before I was born and Mum was just a girl, or maybe even before Mum was born and Gran was carrying her and me, do you know what I mean? You clear your throat, try to get some air. Back when Gran had already lost two children and for fear of losing the third stopped working the vegetable fields and took up sewing—maybe that’s when my child died? you say, looking back at the nurse. When the train rolled in, and we jumped off and Mum was searching the station and I asked where we were going and she said, wait a minute—just wait here, and stared right at the tracks you say and fall silent.
Before she leaves you say yes to tea and a sandwich, say you’d like to have more fruit cordial, and half an orange if there’s one going, followed by a sleeping pill.
It’s early winter, you’re lying on a hospital bed / it’s late summer, you’re standing with your feet in the sea—can you see it happening?
Sitting in the waiting room outside, from here on out there is always a grandmother with a bag in her arms and a child slumped in the chair next to her / in the air a fresh chill but the water as mild as before and the corniche as bright and ornate / the nurse rubs her hand over your belly, making it sticky / you’re wearing a black dress that gets tighter when you sit when you walk / then looks at you apologetically / the sun hat on your head frames your face and falls forward each time you look down at your belly when you feel the baby kicking, delighted by the sunlight and the heat / sometimes it’s hard to tell the mother’s heartbeat from the baby’s, she says, and rolls a shopping cart over / the passenger plane roaring low over the bustling city and the mountains a shadow beside / the ultrasound machine works better, the nurse says, and switches the screen on / the palm trees swaying, and beyond them is the juice vendor you stop to chat with each day / the light dim almost dark and soon you begin to feel cold / the only public beach that’s empty at this time of day, leaving you and a few street dogs to bathe alone / the nurse keeps searching, this time more gently / and the corniche runs like a wall overhead / finally you ask if something is the matter / it happened that night on the corniche / I’m going to get the doctor, she says, I’ll be right back, and then walks out into the brightness of the corridor / when you catch sight of the woman she has already climbed out onto the cliffs, is leaning forward / the first doctor takes the time to greet you, tells you her first and last name, seems kind / the woman’s eyes search the corniche / the second doctor says nothing at first / first she looks this way and then that / I’m afraid we can’t find a heartbeat, she then says / the cold is different tonight but the darkness the same as before—you feel it as you watch the woman on the corniche / later you remember firmly pulling your hair—that it is the first thing you do / does she see you where you’re standing, yet another tourist by the railing? / after that you notice the bed barely contains you, why is that? / no, she probably doesn’t see you, blinded by the light from the corniche / your jacket is still hanging on the hook, unchanged / the woman is holding the railing, but what is she planning to do? / to think you chose that jacket tonight—to think you chose the red duffel coat over the black one you otherwise always wear / when she throws herself off maybe you scream no across the corniche / why did you do that? / you scream or do not scream no across the corniche / in the room only the doctors and the back of the screen to fix your eyes on / the scream is loud, it comes from all directions, but was it you who screamed? / one of the doctors pulls up a chair, starts telling you about the induction of labour, about what’s to come / you don’t know, you can’t remember, have no one to ask / the doctor talks at length, barely looking at you all the while / was something said in the scream or was it just a scream unfurling, do you remember? / you sit up on the bed, clamp a hand over your mouth, look around / it may or may not have been your no across the corniche / outside a beeping machine gets louder and louder and now the doctor is finally looking at you / maybe or maybe not your voice across the cliffs, the railing and the racket of traffic along that corniche / then you say I can’t and try to get away / a stillness as the woman’s body disappears, onto the rocks and into the sea / I won’t do it you say and grab your bag and jacket off the hook / and then the way the corniche just goes back to being as noisy and as bright as before.
No you say as loudly as you can.
The doctors don’t understand.
No, I will not birth my baby you say as clearly as you can and then leave the room.
Someone has locked the windows facing the hospital courtyard and you can no longer air the room out, you feel breathless / a mattress is put to one side in anticipation of the night, of the baby and mother curling up at night / later the nurse says it’s routine and nothing out of the ordinary, that you shouldn’t worry about the window / the kerosene lamp casts a yellow light on the ceiling, and along the walls black with soot, a mist spills across the floor / you ask no more questions and turn away, your belly heavy on the bed / in one corner a girl is helping her mother with the day’s tasks—do you see them sitting there? / yet another doctor kneels down, takes your hand, says your name twice / it’s your mother and her mother, they’re busy, trying to finish up / the doctor begs you to understand, says please and lingers / Gran shows the girl how to beat the cotton fluffy and how to finish sewing the quilt that she later ties a silk ribbon around and takes to the wedding on the other side of town / it’s not reasonable to carry a child who is no longer alive, the doctor tells you / she pours water from the big clay vessel and washes her face and under her arms, does the same to the giggling girl who soon thereafter runs to fetch a sheet to wrap herself in / it won’t bring your child back to life / she dresses the girl in the one pretty dress she owns and plaits what’s left of the silk ribbon into her hair / there is no benefit to carrying the child, dead, inside you / before she snuffs out the lamp she’s placed in the same corner as God’s holy word and a gem-encrusted box that holds a lock of hair from each of her two dead children, she takes the girl aside and says we’re setting off on an adventure / in the end your body will protest / with the quilt in hand, they walk past the cars on the main road and take the bus to where the girl has never been before / it will reject the child / as they get off, the aviary and the fountain are backlit, the palm trees more lush than anywhere else / you could get a serious infection / wide streets wide houses and large pavements lined with flower beds and carved gates / it could hurt your chances of carrying other children / sometimes the girl hears birds chirping and sometimes a barking dog / you can take this pill, the doctor says / the girl stops, shakes her head—why are the houses so big, Mum, how many people actually live here? / it will get the contractions going / Gran keeps going, rings the bell on the gate of the third house, waits / after that we’ll follow your cues / the woman who opened the door was white and radiantly dressed Mum later tells you / you shouldn’t worry at all about the birth, it will go well / it was the first time I visited a client with your grandmother, and later in the evening I was given pocket money for my trouble / you will get all the painkillers you need / I didn’t know you had children, says the woman as she hands the envelope to Gran and asks the housekeeper to take the quilt into where the music and cheering is rising above the walls and the courtyard / tonight you’ll get a sleeping pill and tomorrow we’ll get through this together / Gran takes the money, puts it in her bag, shuts it / you just have to take this pill first / she’s my third says Gran, stroking the now tired and hungry girl’s hair / do you think you can take it now? the doctor asks / and she is my home and my joy says Gran and carries the girl to the bus / or should I leave it right here? she asks / afterwards we ate at the grill kiosk closest to our street / can you hear me? / when I asked for a soft drink, I got it and when I asked for bread, there was more / hello there, can you hear me? / once home, I also got to stay up with the kerosene lamp lit and read for a long time even though it was already late and Mum had fallen asleep on the mattress next to me.
Later you ask the doctor what mother doesn’t take her own life when a child dies?
My grandmother lost two children you say and pat your belly. Has your grandmother lost any children? you ask before she leaves.
I come from a tradition of loss you say to the counsellor the first time he takes his seat opposite you, notebook on his lap, white coat a little too big in the shoulders / green streaks across a spring sky, a mother bleeds for a child she hadn’t wanted to keep / and I don’t intend to continue in that tradition you say and drink your tea / she carried two gas cylinders up the stairs and had an older cousin punch her stomach but you’d made up your mind Mum tells you—you were going to stick around / the counsellor’s name is Alexander or John and in the dream you approach him with a sharp knife in your hand / Mum is losing blood and isn’t allowed to put you to her breast even if she wants to / you rest the teacup on your belly like you did when the child was alive and say from here on out, no one I love will be forced to give up their child—that ends now, that trauma / later, when she is given you to hold, she sees that you’re the baby from that dream she once had, that it was all real / to birth your child—is that continuing a tradition of loss? Michael or Anders asks and picks up his pen as if about to make note of something / That’s when I understood the deeper meaning of your arrival Mum says and kisses your shoulder, the highest point she can reach / outside the first snow, a gloaming light and the occasional ambulance / what meaning? you ask later as the two of you stroll the hospital grounds / sometimes there are sounds from the corridor, birthing pains and the cries of infants and midwives saying things you can’t comprehend / Mum answers the meaning of this moment—that you and I are talking like this and holds you tight so as not to slip in the snow / I had a friend called Rozia you say as if speaking to no one / after the birth I was so broken that we stayed in hospital for a week she says and wipes her nose / we were neighbours, Rozia and I, best friends too / and when we finally left, it was already summer, can you imagine? / we were the same age, but she was shorter and fairer, freckled all over / water was flowing in the fountain again and the cherries were in bloom / when her house was bombed no one said a thing to me for years / I had money for a taxi so we took one, you and I / then they told me about how they’d recognized her dress / in the car you woke up and stuck your finger in your mouth and then I knew Mum tells you again / they had dug a body out of the rubble and could tell that it was Rozia by the dress you say / that’s when I knew you would be my joy, because that’s exactly what the child in my dream had done she says and cries / it happened a month or so after we’d left / at home your siblings gathered around the little bundle of you and sang / her face was blown off along with one arm / your brother had bought a tea set and your sister a ball almost as big as you were / no one looking at her could tell it was Rozia, they said / Gran had baked sweet bread and sewn a silk cap to shield you from the summer sun / I can’t understand it you say to the counsellor and shake your head / the courtyard had been washed cool and clean, and for once the cat stayed away / I can’t imagine not recognizing Rozia’s face whatever it might look like / everyone was excited and I was ravenous Mum says and laughs / do you think of her often, Marcus or Magnus asks softly / we ate bean stew with rice and yoghurt and I drank a whole pot of tea afterwards / you nod, of course you do / Gran was the happiest of us all I think / I think of her and of my grandmother you say and put the cup down / she took you in her arms and then I made sure to sleep while I had the chance / do you know anything about black holes? you later ask the counsellor / and I only got out of bed the next morning, can you imagine? / inside a black hole is a place that is also a state—do you know about this? you ask, facing Patrick or Henry in his chair / a few days later Rozia’s mother visited with little Rozia in her arms and a basket full of fruit / no, I’m afraid I don’t know much about space, says Eric or Martin and continues to take no notes / then the two of you would meet up practically every day / you say it’s called the singularity—that’s what the place is called and lean over the bed / you and Rozia were like twins, we thought—the same round face and your hair as big and black / inside the singularity, the force of gravity is so strong it can’t be calculated, can you imagine? you tell the counsellor / the pair of you often played in Rozia’s yard and sometimes you stood by the big road even though you weren’t allowed to and the soldiers could show up at any moment / that force pushes bodies together and renders the distance between them nil / because you both liked Gran’s fried potatoes and her bean stew, you mostly ate at ours Mum says / you use your hands to show how no space remains between bodies in the singularity / she breastfed you once, Rozia’s mother / eventually they occupy the same space you say / I was sick and my eye had started bleeding again, and then she came over with Rozia and fed you both / and if there’s no distance between two bodies, it’s pointless to go on talking about distance, right? / and when Gran and I had a lot to do, you and your siblings would sleep at theirs, do you remember that? / like the earth in a burial plot you say and press the button nearest the bed, wait for the nurse to turn up / before we left, you gave my prettiest dress to Rozia even though I didn’t want you to—do you remember that? you ask Mum later as you sit on a bench outside the entrance to the hospital / I’d like to have my lunch now you say to the nurse when she appears in the doorway / yes, I remember—you cried when you were looking through your bag and saw that it was missing, you wanted to go back Mum says / the fish please you say and some cordial too / you said she’d already been given a gift—your colouring book, isn’t that right? / and after lunch, I just want to rest / you nod—yes, that’s right, she got the one with a rabbit by a sunflower field at sunset you say, she liked that one as you get up from the bench.
Like every afternoon, the room is full of your loved ones, always nearby and always the first to meet the doctors you don’t want to talk to / Rozia, have you heard—the neighbour’s cat was at our house again and now Mum is angry / you stroke and stroke your belly and hope your body will hold / I know—I told her it was the rooster who started it, but she’s still angry / you hear your brother crying and wonder how long he can sit here before they stop calling him in to work / no, it’s not possible, we can’t go to the playhouse today, the cat broke a dish / with them in the room, you allow yourself to do what you’re longing to do, like giving your face a hard slap or pulling your hair, fistfuls of it in your lap / we can go tomorrow—then we can bring meat and milk and cordial and sugar / the doctors sometimes ask your siblings to talk some sense into you and when they come back into the room your siblings tell it like it is—what the doctors have asked of them / Rozia, did you hear that my sister’s school was bombed? / someone says what have we done wrong, God and someone else it will all work out, just calm down, trust in providence / well, yes, I swear—it happened last weekend, it’s in ruins now / someone approaches you, it’s your sister, she has just been sick / no, no one died, but now there’s almost nothing left of it / she lifts your hand off your stomach and holds it, tells you that you’re still young, that life is long and anything is possible / now she just sits at home drawing and reading, can you imagine anything better? / she tells you that you can have a big family if you want, that there’s time for everything, that life goes on / yes, but we’re not even in school, Rozia / outside you see another part of the hospital, count the storeys, ten in total / Mum says that whatever the case, this isn’t working anymore, we have to leave soon and we have to get out of here / you have to get up there somehow, you know you do, it’s all you want right now / I don’t know when, I’ve asked several times, but she isn’t responding / as high as you can get and then an open window—that’s all / no, not tomorrow, but maybe in a month or a year or so / can someone please tell the doctors that I want to get out of here you say and look at your siblings / I don’t know, Rozia, she’s not saying, can we please play instead? / someone is crying loudly, you can’t see who, you don’t care / behind the house, I think—bring the hand puppet with you and come you say and run to the back.
Again the counsellor is sitting across from you, asking you to explain your thinking / the day before you leave, Mum doesn’t mention anything / why don’t you want to birth your child? / she simply asks if you want to give Rozia a present because it’s Best Friends Day today and then points to the calendar where she’s scribbled something down / what do you think will happen if you keep the child in your belly? / you take out the colouring book with the rabbit and the sunflower field and wrap it up in newspaper / what do you hope to avoid by not taking that pill? / Gran wraps a yellow silk ribbon around it and now the package looks complete / what will happen to the child if it’s kept inside? / when you bring it over to Rozia’s, she says she has a package too, that her mother told her about Best Friends Day and she’s ready for it / how will life proceed with the child in there? / it’s a sparkly cloth bag containing Rozia’s prettiest hair clip / is there something about what you’re doing that you feel is bringing you closer to the child—is that why you’re doing this? / you’ve wished for one just like this, begged and begged and said you want to be as pretty as Rozia, that it’s not fair / if the child leaves you physically, does that make it any less yours? / Rozia helps you fix the hair clip to your bangs and then says it’s really nice on you / will you feel more alone after it leaves you? / Mum wakes you up at dawn, says it’s time, that you need to get dressed / most people in this situation have a different reaction / I haven’t finished packing you say and Mum replies that she’s packed the last of it for you, that she’s been up all night, that all the important things are there / most people want to birth their babies as soon as possible, the counsellor says and tells you about these other people / what about Rozia, I have to say goodbye to Rozia, I promised / they feel that giving birth marks an important step forward / if you hurry, you can draw a picture—Rozia’s mother is sitting in the kitchen, she can take it with her Mum says and goes down the stairs / the grief lasts forever but rituals have meaning / before you get in the car Rozia’s mum kisses you on the cheek, says she’ll miss you, that you’ll see each other again soon, that they’ll catch up with you on the other side of the border / because of the birth and then a burial ceremony of some kind, most people feel they can move on / as we drove away I turned and looked back at the house, the balcony, the palms and at Rozia’s mother who was waving and sprinkling a glass of water behind us, but I don’t know if I looked long enough Mum says later / how do you feel, don’t you want to move past this? / afterwards I always felt like I didn’t look long enough / this situation is of course physically untenable, even you know that / it’s always felt like I was never quite ready Mum says / so what’s the point of holding on to it? the counsellor says and looks at you.
You sit up in bed, take a look around, adjust your shirt and the sheet covering the bed.
When you put it like that you say to the counsellor afterwards you’re revealing everything you can’t comprehend / first we went to an abandoned house and then to a tent camp in the desert Mum says / what do you think a child is—replaceable? / Gran started having regrets and said she wanted to be left behind, that she’d rather live among these rocks and mountains than elsewhere, and that she would rather be hiding in her own country than fleeing / when you talk about rituals—do you mean the one where you have to abandon your home? / she said there was no separating life and land and language and children, but we couldn’t just leave her there Mum says / when you talk about keeping something—do you mean the mother tongue that isn’t allowed to be spoken? / in the tents we lay on blankets, all except you and Gran / when you talk about moving past this—do you mean from exile? / you two slept on the only mattress we were given and I took the only pillow / when you speak of a normal reaction—do you mean to the knowledge of all those who have disappeared? / your sister got her period during this time, we didn’t know how to keep her dry, where to wash ourselves / when you talk about loneliness—do you mean my mother who sits alone all day in her rented one-bedroom outside the city? / during the day the sun was unbearable and during the night we were freezing cold / when you talk about burial ceremonies—do you mean the one for my grandmother, who is lying at one end of the cemetery out here? / the first few days, Gran sat outside the tent most of the time / it’s dishonest to talk about grief when you know nothing about it, wouldn’t you agree? / she didn’t want to talk, not even with you, and when I brought her tea, she asked me to pour it back and when I brought her bread, she didn’t want it / this isn’t temporary you say / the night before we and two other families were to meet up with the smugglers a few miles away, I let her commune with the earth awhile, made space for her to lie down and cover herself with it if she so wanted / I don’t understand what I’m supposed to be moving past you say, facing the window / cover yourself in your earth, in life if not in death, I said to her and told her that later I would heat water and wash the earth off her myself, use that soap we’d been given, take my time and be thorough / I don’t understand what constitutes forward movement or even what forward is / she came in after only an hour and said it didn’t matter how long she communed with the earth—if she wasn’t allowed to stay with it, no amount of time would be enough / can traumas be ranked? you ask after a while / later I saw that she had filled a handkerchief with earth and put it in her bag / I remember crying when I first saw this country / once we’d made it here you asked for Rozia every day, wondering if we were going to pick her up at the train station, if now was when she’d be arriving / it was February and wet, can you imagine anything worse / you dreamed about her, cried in your sleep, woke up tired and fretful / I told Mum I wanted to go back, that I wanted to be with Rozia, but that wasn’t possible / at the time I didn’t know that they were no longer alive Mum says and stamps her feet in the snow / at the refugee unit we were given cornflakes and hard bread for breakfast and sometimes a bit of salted cod roe, I retched when I first tasted it / and then when I found out what had happened, I had no idea what to say / as well as milk and yellow cheese that gave us a stomach ache / there were so many people who disappeared then Mum says quietly / the room was so small, two bunk beds and an extra mattress that my brother put next to the wall / Gran’s cousin and my paternal aunt’s entire family and my childhood friend Leyli along with her husband and children—do you remember them? / in the preparation course, the teacher laughed at my pronunciation once / still it was hardest to hear about Rozia / I was only seven years old and already spoke two languages, but she was laughing, the bitch / it was so strange too, because when I heard about what had happened to Rozia, I came to think of our house / today I’d probably have slammed that mouth of hers into her desk / if their house had been bombed, then our house was also in ruins / yes—I’d have slammed that mouth of hers right into her desk if she laughed at my child’s pronunciation you say and put a hand on your unmoving belly / and in my memory that house is indestructible, do you know what I mean? Mum says and looks at you under your dark beanie in the hospital grounds nearest the entrance.
On the walk back, you and Mum talk about what she did with the plush rabbit you bought on that final occasion and whether she should bring other clothes now that you’re going to be here a while.
Yes, another sweater and pants you say—and more underwear in case I bleed through.
You ask her to bring the rabbit—saying you want to put it on the windowsill—and also the picture of the girl, the one you’ve been keeping in your notebook, which still smells of the soap you stashed away.
Do you know which one I mean? you ask Mum and she nods, the girl on the corniche she says and you correct her, say the mother on the corniche—with the photo of her girl in her bag and Mum nods yet again.
Just bring the notebook on the kitchen table and my good black pen you say and get up, kick the snow off your boots and go past reception back to the hospital room.