John Hart - Iron House

To be near.

So, he found an apartment on a narrow, crooked street. He ate local food and studied Catalan because that was the language Elena’s father spoke, and because his child would one day speak that language. What surprised Michael was how much he enjoyed learning it. How much he enjoyed life in a strange country. How much he enjoyed life. It was only at night that he doubted, and the hours before dawn were often long with worry and regret. But the sun always rose, and each day began with the same thought.

She will call.

Michael sipped his coffee and touched the window with a finger. It was cold outside, winter. He took a last sip and paid his bill. As he stepped outside, he thought of all the villages high in the Pyrenees and wondered which was hers.

He rounded onto his street and ducked his head as cold wind hit. It whistled over cobblestones and through shutters, keened so high that Michael didn’t hear his phone ringing until he was through the door and inside. For a second he was confused, but only for that second. He ripped his coat open and dug inside for the phone. It rang a third time before he got a hand on it. He pulled it out, didn’t recognize the number. “Hello, hello.”

He heard static and background noise. Voices. Metal on metal. “Michael?”

“Elena. Baby.”

Static scratched, and her voice faded. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry…”

“Elena, what? I can barely hear you.”

“The baby’s coming.”

She faded. “Elena!”

“… don’t know what to say. I thought I had time, but the baby’s coming early. I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry. I wanted you to be here. I was going to call. Oh. God…”

She made a loud, terrible noise and Michael heard voices in Catalan. Intercom sounds. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”

It took long seconds, and Michael recognized hospital noises. She was on a gurney, he thought. Stern voices that had to be doctors.

“What hospital? What town?”

“Ahhh…”

“Baby. What hospital?”

She told him between heavy breaths-a hospital, a town. For an instant, the static faded and he heard her perfectly. “It’s coming. It’s coming.”

Then someone took the phone and hung it up.

Michael tried to call back, but the phone was dead. He stared at the wall for long seconds, utterly frozen for the first time in his life. She’d called; the baby was coming. His mind was locked tight. But then the paralysis broke. He tore through the apartment until he found a map and his keys. “What else do I need? Think! Think!”

But, he needed nothing else. Wallet. Keys. Map.

He squeezed into the tiny car in the tiny garage; his hands shook as he opened the map and found the road that would take him to Elena. He started the car, pulled out onto crowded, icy streets and fought his way to the open roads that ran fast and true to the north. He pushed it until the little car shook.

The baby is coming, he thought.

The baby is coming.

But that was not entirely true. Elena labored for three and a half hours.

He made it with eight minutes to spare.