Manfred Gabriel
 

I never thought I would sit down just then. “I’m on my way, I’m coming,” I told her on the phone. Her voice sounded strong, clear, despite the pains that were coming faster now. I hung up and I sat down.

From the chair by the phone I looked across the room at my coat. It seemed gray and old. I should get up and put it on and go to her. It would be cold outside by now, I would need the coat. All I could think of was her face looking up at mine. How she had put her little hand in my hand and had asked, “are we leaving?” I hadn’t even really looked at her on that cold morning, just glanced at her, before looking up again, looking at the sky: north. “Yes,” I had replied, “I am leaving,” and then I had picked her up, lifted her into the front seat of the car, checked that I had fit everything into the back. I remember thinking, I don’t care if he wakes up now, as I turned the ignition and drove off, drove for three days, north.

Twenty-five years. Putting her through school, braces, that bloody face on prom night, Tom. The way he didn’t look at her when they drove off after the wedding in a convertible. But she had turned back, waving. I had looked, really looked at her face then, but it was shrinking, drawn into the distance. How often had I told myself nothing would scare me, nothing would be hard again, after waking up that day and driving north with her.

I was still looking at my coat. All I could hear was her voice in my head, asking me. Asking me again, “are we leaving?” She needs me, I told myself, she is waiting for me. The baby will come any minute now. She is waiting for me. She needs me.

Then I got up. The floor creaked as I walked across to the door. I put on my gray coat. I glanced at the mirror, I took my keys. I don’t care if I wake up now, I told myself on the way to the hospital, driving north.