Free Unknown by Mari Jungstedt

gradually increasing in strength; everything went black when they exploded into fireworks of pain, only to slowly fade away into a brief respite before the next one rolled through her. They came and went, like swells on the sea outside the window.
    Even though Johan was only five minutes away from the hospital, Emma hadn't called him as she had promised to do when the labor pains started. Everything was so complicated, and she had convinced herself that it would be best if she handled the birth on her own. Now she regretted her decision. Johan was the father of her child; that was an irrevocable fact. What did it matter if she allowed him to give her some support? Her pride bordered on pig-headed stupidity. Here she lay, at the mercy of her pain, and she had only herself to blame. She had chosen not to summon him here, to share the moment with her. He could have held her hand, consoled her, and massaged her aching back.
    She breathed according to the instructions she had been given in the prenatal course she had attended when she was pregnant with Sara. How different things were back then. They had been so happy— she and Olle. His face flickered past. They had practiced breathing together, they had spent weeks preparing for how they would handle the labor pains, and she had taught him how she wanted to be massaged.
    "It's only a matter of minutes now," said the nurse gently as she wiped the sweat from Emma's brow.
    "I want Johan to come," whimpered Emma. "The father."
    "All right. How do we get hold of him?"
    "Call his cell phone. Please."
    The young woman didn't waste any time. She rushed out and came right back with a cordless phone. Emma rattled off Johan's number.
     
    She didn't know how much time had passed before the door opened and she saw Johan's face, looking worried and tense. He took her hand.
    "How are you?"
    "I'm sorry," she said before the pain overwhelmed her again with even greater force, making any further conversation impossible. She clutched his hand as hard as she could. Now I'm going to die, she thought. I'm going to die.
    "You're open all the way now," said the midwife. "Breathe now, breathe. Don't start pushing yet."
    Emma panted like a thirsty dog. The bearing-down contractions tore at her, trying to pull her along with them. She had to use all her strength not to give in.
    "Don't push," she heard the midwife urging her.
    In a haze she noticed the obstetrician come in and sit beside the midwife, down there somewhere between her white legs, spread wide apart. A sheet covered her, so at least she didn't have to look at all the misery. She had intended to stand up to give birth, or at least to squat down. How shameful this was. She had absolutely no strength left in her legs.
    Every now and then, in her groggy state, she was aware of Johan next to her, his hand holding hers.
    She lost all sense of time and space as she listened to her own hysterical breathing—it was the only thing that could stop her from pushing.
    Suddenly Emma heard a voice that she had heard before. Another midwife had come into the room. She recognized the woman's Danish accent from one of her previous births.
    "All right, here's what we're going to do."
    Emma no longer cared about what was happening around her; she had slipped into a vacuum in which she felt no pain. It didn't matter whether she died right here and now. There was something liberating about that thought.
    A woman is never so close to death as when she gives life, thought Emma.

Night arrived with unusually high temperatures. The air was
    oppressive, and the ventilation in the building, which was more than a hundred
    years old, was all but nonexistent. Warfsholm's youth hostel resembled a merchant's
    villa from the nineteenth century, but it had originally been built as a public
    bathhouse. It stood off by itself, right near the water, as an annex to the
    main building, which housed the hotel and dining room and was several hundred
    yards farther out on the