Page 44 of AMS.TER.strum

I’m melting, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I slowly start turning into a puddle underneath our table. It was worth all the organizing that was needed for this trip. Leaving these days isn’t such a simple feat, what with making sure there’s someone staying with Dad. But I needed to see Corrie, so I bugged everyone who would listen for smaller gigs, ignoring the complaints that late January is post-Christmas, and people have no money to spend.

We’re sold out, so apparently our following is growing, and our fans are willing to spend their money to listen to us.

Since I last saw Corrie, I’ve been counting down—the hours till our next call, the frequency of which she thankfully doesn’t seem to mind; the days until I next see her on screen, struggling to drag the calls as much as possible, without imposing; the months until I see her next, impatience growing every time.

The moment I saw her walking towards me, I knew it was one of my best decisions to come here in the middle of winter.

She knows my schedule and how my days are, but exchanging our news face-to-face is different. My palm is still resting on her bump, which made us sit at an angle and not opposite each other, the table needing to move out for Corrie to have space. I pretend to not notice the babies are quiet now, because I want every single extra moment of this touch. Corrie looks radiant but also tired. I guess everyone would, trying to live with the bulk of a Pilates ball on their body, plus the weight it doesn’t have.

I notice her increasing discomfort, despite her reassurances that it will go away. Although there’s nothing I want less, I suggest she needs to rest and she begrudgingly agrees. So I get the bill, giving her the Duh! look when she protests, and we head towards her place, because she insists that walking will help. Just a few blocks away, she grabs my arm, folding her body as a grunt of pain escapes her lips.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Call a cab,’ she says through clenched teeth. ‘I need to go to the hospital.’

The next hours go by in a frenzy of bureaucracy, phone calls and procedures. Her parents are out of town, visiting friends in Texel. They’re on their way; only between getting to the ferry, crossing over and catching the train, it will take a few hours before they’re here for their grandchildren’s birth.

Because Corrie is in labour.

‘Please stay,’ she pleads, those liquid eyes changing shades as pain and worry and impatience pass through them.

As if I’d ever consider leaving.

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

She squeezes my hand, probably breaking a couple of bones. I wouldn’t mind having all of them broken in order for her pain to go away. She still doesn’t let go when her mom arrives, and I forbid myself to faint, totally unprepared for this day’s outcome. And then I hear the cry, and my eyes decide to overflow just like my heart is, as I see a minuscule person placed on Corrie’s chest.

‘Hi, Ada,’ she says, and the little girl opens her eyes at the sound, seeming unimpressed.

‘Would you like to cut the cord?’ a nurse asks, offering me a pair of medical scissors to inaugurate Ada’s arrival into this world.

My hands are shaky as I cut through the baby’s connection with her mom, and it all feels surreal. It’s no less of a miracle when Otto arrives a bit later, no curiosity for the noise around him as he rests on Corrie’s chest, before being taken to be cleaned up.

‘They are stunning,’ I tell her. So are you, my thoughts scream.

‘Thank you, Luuk,’ she says, while I am asked if I’d like to hold the babies, the people around us assuming I am the father.

So two bundles are placed in my arms, two now-serene faces, their dark wisps covered by tiny beanies. And as if I’m not screwed enough already, I fall in love once more.

It turns out that being in a hurry to enter the world comes with a couple of concerns. Luckily, there are no serious ones for these thirty-week-olds, still they need to stay in an incubator for a while, until the doctors give Corrie the green light to take them home.

Fortunately, she seems to be doing okay, despite the ordeal her body had to go through twice.

If the healing process is forcing her body to relax, the hormones wreak havoc with her mind, robbing her of her sleep. She goes home after a few days, almost forced to leave after her parents reassured her that one of them will be at the hospital when she isn’t. I’m the intruder here, but Corrie keeps telling me how grateful she is whenever I message or call or pick her up from her parents’ to go to the hospital. I get to hold the little ones again, their tiny hands squeezing my finger stronger every time, making me curse the ticking clock.

I’ve already stayed a week after the band left, never happier that Amsterdam was our very last stop. My body feels torn in two, pretty much like my heart is—I want to be here for her, I’d love to watch Ada and Otto grow, but Dad needs me, or rather, I need to be there now that there are still longer periods when he recognizes me and his health is relatively good.

‘I hate that I have to go,’ I tell Corrie on my last day as I walk her home.

After we left the neonatal ward, where she and I took turns in holding the little ones, we went for a walk, slow enough for her to not be exhausted, even made a stop for Chocomel and appeltaart. Our moves are careful, as if we’re tiptoeing around my departure, so that we don’t spook time into acceleration. No matter how slowly, though, we eventually arrive at her front door.

‘Would you like to come upstairs?’

Tempting offer, but I don’t want to prolong this, because I might never leave. Also, this is Johan’s home, where she’s living temporarily while trying to find a place, which is close to impossible in this city. ‘I have to pack. My flight is early. Any luck with those viewings?’

‘Not yet, but Dad is also on the lookout.’

‘One day, I’ll have that place on the water, and you’ll be able to stay there, rent free,’ I say, not adding, ‘Permanently.’