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I’d called it my pregnancy cave. Three months into my pregnancy, I needed to nap all the time. I still got all my work done by staying in my office every day until late into the night — but about half of my “at work” time was spent asleep in my private cave. The library’s board knew it. I was a star employee. The board didn’t mind accommodating my pregnancy. I planned to keep working right up until the delivery, six months more.
My little pregnancy cave down a side hallway didn’t exactly meet building code or OSHA standards. It did meet my need for rest. I felt safer and calmer there than even inside my own apartment. Legally, technically, it was approved only as a storage closet. I only had to remember to clear out of there before the annual fire safety inspection the following week.
I kept earplugs for these very situations, when for some reason, I couldn’t fall asleep in my private room in the depths of the library. Weren’t libraries supposed to be quiet? Weren’t private rooms in the depths of libraries supposed to be even quieter? This one usually was, but sometimes it wasn’t. The earplugs at least let me get my pregnancy sleep.
Between exhaustion, swollen ankles, and my weird obsession with stuffing salty cured meat into sweet pastries, the first-trimester pregnancy wasn’t exactly fun. But it was precisely what I’d wanted. Pregnancy was my dream, even if it was physically draining and unpleasant. I already knew that part.
The only part I hadn’t been prepared for was the loneliness. I’d always imagined some wonderful, reliable, dependable man standing by me through the trials of pregnancy. I hadn’t expected to be alone.
But if Aiden, the biological father, didn’t want to be involved, then so be it. I was in no shape and no mood for dating now, but maybe I could start dating again after the baby was born. Claire started talking about setting me up with a new guy as soon as I had told her that I didn’t even want to talk to Aiden, even if Aiden dared to show at the library to look for me.
The alarm was ringing longer than it usually did. I started getting up from the mat. I’d only slept for an hour and was still exhausted. I could barely stand up; it was the double whammy of pregnancy exhaustion and the extra twenty pounds I’d already gained in the first three months. I stood up and steadied myself, holding first one wall, then the opposite one. I was still too tired to even open the door.
Something smelled like burning plastic. There might’ve been a staff kitchen accident triggering the fire alarm. Maybe some idiot started a fire trying to light a cigarette in some back room. That happened once in a while too. Or maybe the smell was just my imagination. I’d sometimes tasted and smelled odd things during my pregnancy. Sometimes my office, or even the entire library, seemed to smell like Aiden, Aiden’s hot, sweaty musk — but I knew to put those thoughts behind me.
There was definitely some kind of white smoke coming in under the door. The fire alarm kept ringing. I stood up again. I’d at least check what was going on. Smoke couldn’t be good for the baby, nor for me.
I casually touched the door handle. Burning hot pain seared my hand. The handle was much too hot to touch. And now my hand was throbbing with pain. I ran some water over it from the water cooler.
The water felt hot. I realized that my entire room was hot. The water was just as hot as the room. And this couldn’t have been good for the baby.
With my left hand, I wondered how I could open that door or whether I could even open it. What was on the other side? Flames and smoke?
I could at least try to call for help. My cellphone never had any signal inside that room. I picked up the office phone, and there was no dial tone. The internet router was showing a red light: no connection. I banged my left fist on the door and burned my left hand almost as badly as I’d burned the right.
I sat down in the corner, as far as I could get from the door. The air was cooler down lower near the floor. I’d been told that in fire safety training. Was I actually in a fire now? Was this a fire? Not just some stuff creating some smoke? Was I now pregnant, carrying an innocent baby inside me, in the middle of a fire?
I kicked the door. At least the heat didn’t damage my shoes. Maybe somebody would hear. But this whole room, this whole area, wasn’t intended for use as an office. These little things were all just storage closets and supposedly used for storing excess inventory. Nobody would be looking here, even if they were trying to save valuable property. These rooms were only used for storing worthless junk. And maybe that was what I was too: alone, in a storage closet, in a fire, with nobody caring about me.
