Completion:
Assignment no. 3

I evaded the vase and heard it crash into the wall behind me. ‘Goddamn hormones’ I thought, and ducked under the attack of a porcelain dog. I had taken cover behind the sofa, while Margaret was bombarding it with the contents of the living room. ‘Honey,’ I said soothingly, ‘I didn’t mean it like that. You look wonderful in that dress. You are glowing!’ I popped up my head to see if the coast was clear, and was rewarded when one of the stuffed animals, we had bought for the baby hit me right in the face. Fortunately, she had run out of china. ‘Glowing?’ Margaret screamed and armed herself with a brown teddy bear. ‘That wasn’t your exact words, was it now, Darling?’ She threw the toy after the sofa, and grabbed another weapon. ‘This isn’t healthy for the baby.’ I thought nervously. Instantly, as though she had heard my thoughts, the assault stopped. After a minute I dared to take a glance, but not before a toy giraffe had secured the area by looking first, taking the possible upcoming damage. After this security check, I slowly stood up behind the piece of furniture and watched my wife: She had gone all pale, contrary to her red grimace when she was shouting at me. ‘Thomas?’ Margaret said, all her anger had left her. ‘Yes my love?’ I was still crouching a bit, ready to throw myself down if this was a trick. But from the look of her face I didn’t thought so. She took a deep breath and said quietly: ‘I think my water just broke.’

I fought down my panic and tried to speak calmly. ‘I’m going to leave you for a few minutes, Margaret. I must find a telephone, but I’ll come back to you as soon as possible. Try to breathe slowly, deep breath in, hold it, count six, and breathe out again.’ I held her hand tightly. Her brown eyes were enormous in her white face, but she gave me a faint smile.

I stormed out of the living room, and into the kitchen, where my cell phone was laying beside our newly bought groceries, consisting of a pack of mozzarella-cheese, a box of coffee-flavoured toffees and a glass of green pickles. The glass however had already been opened and fully emptied, apart from one lonesome pickle, lying on table. I grabbed my cell phone, while wondering about pregnant women’s tastes in food and called for a cab. After the receptionist had reassured me that they would send a taxi within five minutes, I hurried back to Margaret. She was lying on my former hideout, the sofa, doing the breathing-exercises from the ante-natal classes. I rushed to her side and held her hand. Out of the blue, I felt my hand being compressed in a painful grip of terror, crushed as if a bodybuilder was trying to break it. I was surprised to look down and see that the bodybuilder-hand belonged to my wife. I was speculating about possible excuses for her to let me go, when I looked in to her big, brown eyes: I could see that she was frightened of the fore coming events, but there was a secure look in her eyes, a confidence that I would take care of her. So I restrained myself and took it like a man, with only a few tears of pain and a single whimper. Finally I could hear the cab’s toot in the driveway, and I cautiously removed my hand, checking it for broken bones. I called for the taxi driver, and together we carried the moaning Margaret into the taxi. ‘I have to get my wallet,’ I told the driver. ‘Wait a minute.’ I ran into the house and grabbed the wallet on the kitchen table. I rushed back out, but stopped in the hallway. I glanced to the side and saw my reflection in the mirror beside the wardrobe. I was just as pale as Margaret was, covered in a cold sweat of fear. ‘We are not ready for this,’ I thought. ‘I am not ready for this. We are too young, too inexperienced to take care of a baby. What if we do something wrong?’ I was interrupted in my worried train of thoughts, by a painfully moan from Margaret. I tore myself away from the mirror and my fears, and ran out to the cab.
After fifteen minutes of breathing exercises, agonizingly moans, partly from me, and a severe case of hazard driving, the taxi arrived at Manchester Hospital. While I helped Margaret out of the cab, the driver fetched a wheelchair for her. I stuck him a couple of notes, not noticing how much I was paying and pushed my wife into the entrance hall, hurrying so much, she almost fell off. Quickly the doctors and nurses rushed her to the delivery room, leaving me behind, only with my anxious thoughts as company. ‘What if Margaret doesn’t make it through the birth?’ I thought fearfully. ‘What if there’s something wrong with the baby? What if I fail as a father?’ The ‘What-if’s’ kept tormenting me for another hour, haunting me with unlikely, though possible outcomes of the delivery. After three hours in solitude, a doctor approached him with the common, unfeeling look in his eyes as all doctors have, and an atmosphere of authority around him. ‘Mr. Thomas Evans?’ He asked in a slow, slightly arrogant way. ‘Y-yes, that’s me,’ I answered, fearing the worst. In a moment that felt like a lifetime, he just glared at me with his cold fish eyes. ‘Your wife is fine,’ he finally said. ‘She is waiting for you.’ I felt a great relief, as if a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I thanked the doctor and went to Margaret’s room.
Sitting in the bed was she, her back supported by several pillows. Her face was still pale, but she had a look of contentment on her face. I approached her slowly, inspecting her to reassure myself that she was alright. Beside her, in a crib, he laid. My son. The shear sight of him scared me out of my senses. Maybe Margaret knew what I felt, because without a word she took my hand, though more kindly than last time, and drew me closer, to her and to the baby. She lifted him out of the baby bed and handed him to me. For a moment I was petrified. ‘What if I drop him?’ I thought in a relapse to the mirror. But Margaret just smiled at me and laid him in my arms. The little baby boy looked at me with curiosity, as to see what kind of an odd fellow I was. Then he yawned and looked at me with a big, drowsy smile. He had Margaret’s brown eyes. ‘Wow’ I thought. ‘I am a dad.’