SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

IN OTHER WORDS

Three days until the due date, and I wish Paul were born today. To get to the point: I really don’t feel like it anymore. I look like the drenched version of SpongeBob and the only shoes that fit me are flip flops. When I move, I feel like Momzilla: with every step, my surroundings tremble, window panes rattle, dust falls from the walls, and the remaining apples fall from the tree. Okay, the latter may be because they’re overripe. And the summer broods on. 35 degrees is announced for today. It would be awesome if there was an old zinc bathtub. I would lie in it all day. So I lie on the sun lounger all day – and wait. According to the midwife, I’ll definitely notice when it starts.

“Hey, Paul,” I say, tapping my stomach. “You’re old enough now and should start looking for a place of your own. A little independence will do you good, you’ll see.”

Sam comes out of the house.

“Are you talking to me?” He puts the plaster cast we took of my abdomen yesterday on the table.

“No, with Paul. I asked him to move out.”

“Oh, oh. And what’s his opinion on that?”

“Oh, typical for his age,” I sigh.

“He doesn’t have an opinion.” Sam laughs and goes into the house to get the other materials. Back on the terrace, he sits down at the table and opens the box with the paints.

“Which ones shall we use?” He pulls out a couple of tubes to read out the colour names.

I struggle out of the sun lounger and sit down at the table across from him.

“I like reds best. Do you think Paul would mind?”

Sam says no. He doesn’t have an opinion anyway. With a grin, he suggests, “We can paint the plaster like those eggs I think are so cool.”

“You mean Kinder Surprise? It would be original, but not very personal.”

“True.” He taps his pencil against his lips, takes out a scrap of paper and begins to sketch. “How about this?”

I watch him. With every stroke, his idea becomes clearer and more beautiful.

“Sam, you’re a genius!” I comment on his finished sketch.

We start painting with red, orange and yellow. The background is a huge sun, the jagged yellow rays of which touch the imprints of my breasts. The outer rings of the sun’s body are also yellow, which becomes more and more orange towards the interior. A dark red even mound forms the foreground. The silhouettes of buildings, which we paint red, are enthroned on it. On the left is the Statue of Liberty, in the middle is the Berlin TV Tower and on the right is the Marienkirche in Mühlhausen – all places where Paul has been and which are of some importance. Red stars and music notes dance above the buildings in front of the sun.

Sam draws all the shapes. Together we fill them with colour.

“You’re good at this,” I praise him and joke: “You should start your own business as a baby tummy painter.”

“I’d need a work permit for that. But first I have to get a residency permit.” Sam is suddenly serious. “I’ve been here a little over a month. I can stay another two months without a permit.”

That’s a fencepost gesture Sam’s giving me. It’s about time, Hannah! my inner voice admonishes me.

However, it’s not that simple. The past few days have been so chaotic that I’ve hardly thought about my recent realization that it’s my turn.

The fact that Sam is eyeing me and apparently waiting for an answer doesn’t make it any easier. I want to take a few steps through the garden – very carefully so that the apples in our neighbour’s garden don’t fall from the trees. After this short walk, I’ll have found the right words and will tell Sam that I want him to stay with me.

“I’ll be right back,” I let him know and stand up. “Just a short walk,” I add to his astonished expression and waddle to the garden gate.

I am back half an hour later. My pulse is beating very fast with excitement. Sam isn’t on the patio. He put the colours in the box. The brushes are in the water cup. The baby bump lies in the sun to dry. I go inside the house looking for him and find him in the bedroom throwing his clothes into a holdall.

My pulse jumps and starts a wild gallop. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” Sam doesn’t look at me, and there’s an unknown coldness in his voice.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Home.” He zips the bag shut with a jerk and looks at me. His expression is cold, as is his tone.

“Why?”

“Why?” He takes the bag and comes closer. “If you really don’t know, think about why I came here. Once you figure that out, you’ll understand why I’m leaving.” He pushes past me.

The shock freezes me. I stay where I am as if rooted to the floor and listen to his footsteps on the terrace, on the garden path, and hear the gate opening and closing. I can’t believe he’s leaving and I wait to hear the sounds in reverse order.

But Sam doesn’t come back.

I blink like a mental slap, wake up from the trance and waddle away as fast as I can. Just before the gate, a pain runs through me like I’ve never felt before. I slouch, gasp, and crouch as my eyes blur.

I can’t say how long it’s going on, but it’s over as abruptly as it began - as if nothing had happened. I stand up carefully and put my hands on my stomach. So this is what I’ve been waiting for. I can only congratulate Paul on his timing.

“Okay! Calm down!” I say to myself and go to the terrace to look at the clock hanging there. Five minutes pass. And another five. I pick up my phone and consider calling my parents. But what if that was just a prelude, a sort of false alarm?

No, Hannah! I tell myself, you wait now! I put the phone down and get my bag, packed and ready for the hospital stay. I’ve hardly sat down and looked at the clock again when the second spasm sets in. When it’s over, I grab the bag, the car keys, and the phone and start walking. So I have a quarter of an hour until the next contraction starts. During this time, I can easily drive to the train station by car – assuming most of the traffic lights are green.

Fortunately, since the recently completed underpass, the level crossing is no longer an obstacle.

A little faster than allowed, I jet towards the centre of Mühlhausen and arrive at the train station seven minutes later. About eight left. I haul my SpongeBob body out of the car and start wiggling. Even from a distance, I see Sam standing on platform 3.

His sunglasses pushed into his hair, his legs casually crossed, he sits on a bench and reads.

I hurry down the steps, cross the tunnel that runs under the tracks and hoist myself back up the stairs on the other side. A look at the train station clock tells me that I have at most four minutes until my next contraction.

As if sensing my presence, Sam looks up from the book and at me.

His expression is no longer hard, just sad. He gets up and wants to say something, but I don’t let him speak. After all, I don’t have time!

“Sam…” I begin, gasping for air. That’s a good start. “I know why you came here. For a long time. I also know why you want to go now. That would be a mistake because you might be here the day after tomorrow.”

He raises his eyebrows as if he doesn’t understand a word. That could well be the case. I’m just not good with words like this. Nonetheless, the sentences keep pouring out of my mouth.

“Besides, I would miss you very much. I don’t want to miss you, I want to know you are with me. Close to me. It’s not easy for me to ask you to stay, because I know what you have to give up to do so. But I can’t help it.” I swallow, hold my breath, and say, “Please stay with me.”

Sam still doesn’t move. I squint at the station clock. Two minutes at most.

“Now I have to go,” I announce, turning and heading toward the steps.

Punctual to the minute and as soon as I’m in the car, contraction number three begins.

Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I close my eyes, snort, moan and blow in front of me. When I look up, Sam is no longer on the platform. The thought that the train has come and he has boarded in the meantime is downright cruel, but not improbable. I’m already about to get out, believing I’ve got another good quarter of an hour, when I’m gripped by a new surge - not as violent and lasting as the last one, but still clearly a contraction.

I hastily put the key in the ignition, start the engine and am once again driving too fast on the road. The second crime I commit is by calling my parents. My mom thinks I’m crazy for driving and wonders why Sam doesn’t. I dodge the answer and promise to get back to her soon.

Arriving at the hospital parking lot, I park my car and switch off the engine.

Take it easy, I say to myself, take a deep breath! Another contraction takes my breath away, rages and pulls and goes.

I get out of the car, grab my bag and puff towards the entrance. I don’t need to say anything. It’s enough for me to point to my stomach. The nurse who rushes overtakes my bag, puts me in a wheelchair and squats down next to me to stroke my cheek.

Tears well up in my eyes. I wish Sam was there.

The sight of the little pink fabric I’m supposed to slip into brings unexpected amusement, and I bite my tongue not to ask if there aren’t light blue negligees for women expecting a boy. This is all so unreal! What am I doing here?

I’m about to lie down on the extremely uncomfortable-looking bed when the water bursts, and only seconds later pain sets in that puts the contractions in the shade. I feel like there’s a one-pound rock in my stomach banging against my pelvis, over and over.

Finally in the horizontal, I’m plugged into the CTG, which indicates contractions. The late shift midwife seems to be in a good mood.

“Then we’re good to go,” she trills, sending me an encouraging smile.

“Have you had a baby yet?” I ask her, wearily between contractions.

“No. One is planned, though.”

“You’ve got plans there,” I moan, clutching the metal bars of the bed.

Half an hour later I’m no better and no worse. I’m infinitely warm and I’m thirsty as hell. However, there’s no time to drink. The pains now follow each other closely and are so severe that I scream out loud.

The phone in the next room rings.

“Yes, Ms Hönig is with us,” I hear the midwife say from afar. “Yes, she’s likely to have her baby in the next few hours.” I don’t hear her final words as the next contraction makes me scream again.

“That was my mother, wasn’t it?” I ask when I can speak again.

She nods. “Your parents will be here in a moment.”

“Great!”

“Where’s dad anyway? He was here when you registered.”

“Oh, he…” I start and get no further.

The midwife dabs my forehead with a cloth soaked in cool water and disappears into the next room again.

Why does she keep going away? It’s weird lying around here alone. I don’t want to dramatize anything, but I feel a little lonely. Next time she comes I’ll have to ask her to turn off the damn radio. The station plays supposed hits, and at the moment Lady Marmalade is playing. I groan at the chorus.

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi?” sing Christina Aguilera & Co. No thank you! My needs are covered for life.

“You’re doing great,” the midwife praises me. “You’ll soon be done.”

I hope so because I can’t take it anymore. I close my eyes and enjoy a pain-free moment. My forehead is dabbed again and stroked over my cheek in gentle, almost tender movements. I blink through my eyelashes and smile, soothed, and close my eyes – only to tear them open in shock.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

Sam puts the cloth aside. “Sorry. Took a while. I quickly ate a hamburger outside. I brought you one too if you’re hungry.”

My frown seems to be a reason for an apology.

“In class, they said we should eat. Giving birth is hard work.” Sam’s face freezes as I grab his hand and process the next bout by squeezing hard. When it’s over, he exhales with me.

“This really hurts like hell!” I blow a curl of hair off my forehead. “How about you continue here for me and I go out to eat my hamburger in the meantime?”

On impulse, I bring his hand to my mouth and kiss it lightly. “I’m glad you’re here Sam, glad you’re here.”

Sam smiles. “Why?”

“Because I love you very, very much.”

His smile broadens. “How much is very, very much?”

“So much that you have every reason to stay.” The words now fall from my lips with unexpected ease. “To the moon and back.”

“I love you too, honey,” Sam says with so much warmth in his voice I want to cry. He brushes back the unruly curl.

“And I’ve got music with me.”

Swallowing back tears, I whisper, “What kind? Elvis, Janis or Marilyn Manson?”

“None of those. The song goes with your declaration of love and will please Paul.” He goes to the CD radio. “We’re laying the foundation for his career as an astronaut.”

“He’s going to be an astronaut?” I hear everything that follows like I’m in a trance.

Sam puts the CD in. He takes my hand. The expression on his face reveals that this time he expects broken fingers or at least bruises. What I hear is a soft, rhythmically pounding bass. A piano is struck softly twice.

Finally, it clicks.

Surely the hairs on the back of the neck stand up for those in front of the delivery room.

Sounds echo outside - my screams and Franky’s voice:

Fly me to the moon

Let me play among the stars

Let me see what spring is like

On Jupiter and Mars.

In other words, please be true.

In other words, I love you

Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore

You are all I long for

All I worship and adore

In other words, please be true

In other words, I love you

END