surprised him.
The stairwell inside was empty and silent. A crystal chandelier hung from
the ceiling, and on the floor lay a thick red carpet that continued up the
entire staircase. The ceiling height was impressive. The austere grandeur
and permeating silence made him uncertain. He stood there for a moment, staring
at the names on the elegant sign on the wall: von Rosen, Gyllenstierna, Bauer
busch.
Suddenly he felt like a timid little boy. He had the same sense of submissiveness and lack of self-esteem that he'd had when he was growing up. He didn't belong here; he was a house cat among ermines; he wasn't good enough or distinguished enough to be in this luxurious marble foyer among the refined people who lived behind these dark-varnished doors. For a moment he stood there, struggling with himself. He couldn't just turn around and leave, not after he'd come so far. He had to pull himself together, muster his courage. He'd done that before. He sat down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands, and shut his eyes tight. He needed to concentrate, although at the same time he was worried that someone might come in the front door. Finally he felt able to stand up.
He chose to walk up the four flights of stairs, even though there was an elevator. He'd never been able to tolerate elevators. Outside the apartment door he stopped to catch his breath. He fixed his eyes on the shiny brass plate with the name engraved in elegant script. Again he felt uncertain. Of course, they had met before, but not here. They barely knew each other. What if the man waiting for him was not alone? He fumbled to pull a handkerchief out of his inside breast pocket. Not a sound came from the neighboring apartments. Not a sign of life.
Uneasiness struck him once more and quickly grew stronger; he felt dizzy. Not again, he thought.
The muted walls began to shrink around him, coming closer. Thoughts raced back and forth in his head. He couldn't do it; he had to turn around. The doors were enemies, barriers that were keeping him out; they didn't want him here. The porcelain pot in the window with the magnificent white azalea seemed to be staring at him with hostility: You have no business being here. Go back to the alley where you came from.
He stood there paralyzed, concentrating on his breathing,
trying to regulate his heartbeat. He had suffered from panic attacks for as
long as he could remember. He had to leave that's what he had now decided.
First he just needed to marshal his forces and concentrate so that he wouldn't
faint. What a fine mess that would bettor be found here, lying stretched out
on the marble floor. What an impression that would make.
Far below he heard the front door open and close. He waited tensely. The building had five floors, and he was up on the fourth. If he was unlucky, the person who had just come in would be heading for the top floor.
Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps got louder. Someone was about to appear on the stairs at any second, and he wanted at all costs to avoid being seen here. Swiftly he wiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. He had to go inside now; he had to force himself to act normal. Resolutely he rang the doorbell.
One hospital delivery room was like any other. Emma wondered if this was the same room in which she had given birth to Sara and Filip. That was almost ten years ago. It seemed to her an eternity as she was maneuvered inside and expert arms moved her over to the birthing bed. Her cervix was now dilated to almost three inches, and everything was happening fast. The nurse was young and dressed in white. She had kind eyes, and her blond hair was wound into a knot on top of her head. She gave Emma's arm a reassuring pat as she recorded the contractions on a chart.
"We've brought you in here because it won't be long now. Soon you'll be all the way open."
The contractions came rushing over her like an earthquake,
The stairwell inside was empty and silent. A crystal chandelier hung from
the ceiling, and on the floor lay a thick red carpet that continued up the
entire staircase. The ceiling height was impressive. The austere grandeur
and permeating silence made him uncertain. He stood there for a moment, staring
at the names on the elegant sign on the wall: von Rosen, Gyllenstierna, Bauer
busch.
Suddenly he felt like a timid little boy. He had the same sense of submissiveness and lack of self-esteem that he'd had when he was growing up. He didn't belong here; he was a house cat among ermines; he wasn't good enough or distinguished enough to be in this luxurious marble foyer among the refined people who lived behind these dark-varnished doors. For a moment he stood there, struggling with himself. He couldn't just turn around and leave, not after he'd come so far. He had to pull himself together, muster his courage. He'd done that before. He sat down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands, and shut his eyes tight. He needed to concentrate, although at the same time he was worried that someone might come in the front door. Finally he felt able to stand up.
He chose to walk up the four flights of stairs, even though there was an elevator. He'd never been able to tolerate elevators. Outside the apartment door he stopped to catch his breath. He fixed his eyes on the shiny brass plate with the name engraved in elegant script. Again he felt uncertain. Of course, they had met before, but not here. They barely knew each other. What if the man waiting for him was not alone? He fumbled to pull a handkerchief out of his inside breast pocket. Not a sound came from the neighboring apartments. Not a sign of life.
Uneasiness struck him once more and quickly grew stronger; he felt dizzy. Not again, he thought.
The muted walls began to shrink around him, coming closer. Thoughts raced back and forth in his head. He couldn't do it; he had to turn around. The doors were enemies, barriers that were keeping him out; they didn't want him here. The porcelain pot in the window with the magnificent white azalea seemed to be staring at him with hostility: You have no business being here. Go back to the alley where you came from.
He stood there paralyzed, concentrating on his breathing,
trying to regulate his heartbeat. He had suffered from panic attacks for as
long as he could remember. He had to leave that's what he had now decided.
First he just needed to marshal his forces and concentrate so that he wouldn't
faint. What a fine mess that would bettor be found here, lying stretched out
on the marble floor. What an impression that would make.
Far below he heard the front door open and close. He waited tensely. The building had five floors, and he was up on the fourth. If he was unlucky, the person who had just come in would be heading for the top floor.
Suddenly he heard footsteps coming up the stairs. The footsteps got louder. Someone was about to appear on the stairs at any second, and he wanted at all costs to avoid being seen here. Swiftly he wiped the worst of the sweat from his forehead and took a deep breath. He had to go inside now; he had to force himself to act normal. Resolutely he rang the doorbell.
One hospital delivery room was like any other. Emma wondered if this was the same room in which she had given birth to Sara and Filip. That was almost ten years ago. It seemed to her an eternity as she was maneuvered inside and expert arms moved her over to the birthing bed. Her cervix was now dilated to almost three inches, and everything was happening fast. The nurse was young and dressed in white. She had kind eyes, and her blond hair was wound into a knot on top of her head. She gave Emma's arm a reassuring pat as she recorded the contractions on a chart.
"We've brought you in here because it won't be long now. Soon you'll be all the way open."
The contractions came rushing over her like an earthquake,
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