Page 20 of Knot Your Baby

By the time I reach the bottom, sweat beads my forehead, and my breathing is coming in quick gasps.

I slam my hand on the wall and lean over, and suck back air before I dash to my car.

“I know, little one. Mommy’s sorry.” My hands shake as I unlock the door.

The drive takes minutes, but feels like hours. And when I am close by, red and blue lights paint the pre-dawn sky ahead.

My throat tightens, hoping the fire hasn’t reached my workplace.

“Not my bakery. Please, not my bakery. That's all I have.” Tears blur my vision as I stare ahead. “It’s how I’ll take care of you, baby. We can’t lose it.”

I have nothing else.

I pull up to the scene, the smell of smoke swirling through the air, mixes with the sharp tang of burned wood. Normally, the only smells around here are my cakes.

Firefighters swarm around the two-story building that runs down the block. Some are shouting orders, but their voices are muffled beneath the roar of hoses and burning embers.

I jump out of my car, leaving it running, and rush toward the nearest fireman.

“Please,” I plead, my heart racing. “I need my things from the bakery! My ovens, my mixers—”

He turns to me, a weary look on his face. “Ma’am, your life is more important than some equipment.”

“But it’s professional equipment and it cost me a fortune. Can you get them for me? Or let me be quick. My shop isn’t on fire.”

He narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “No.”

“But—”

“No buts.” He holds my gaze. “You can’t go in there. It’s not safe.”

My breath hitches as I glance back at my shop, which is further down the block. “I can’t lose this place. It’s everything to me.”

“Let us handle it,” he says, then motions toward his crew. He turns back to me. “Please let us do our job.”

I sigh as I step back toward my car, watching the firemen tackling a blaze four shops away from mine.

My bakery isn’t on fire, and it’ll be some time before the fire makes it there—if it does.

I waddle to my car and reverse to the end of the row of shops on the opposite side of the road.

I turn off the engine and dash across the road—at least as much as my belly will allow me to.

At the end of the row of shops, I press my back against the wall and creep toward my bakery, ignoring his warning. My fingers clasp around the key.

When I reach the shop, I turn, press the key into the lock, and push.

The glass door swings open with a creek; inside is eerily quiet compared to the chaos outside. The air feels thick and stale already, but there’s no fire in my shop, but I know I have to be quick.

My heart pounds in sync with my footsteps as I scan for the most valuable items to take.

I grab a mixer from behind the counter—my favorite pink one—the one my dads bought me when I first set up the shop. It’s not the most valuable thing in the shop, but the most precious.

It’s a struggle as I haul it to the door and when nobody's looking, I rush toward my car parked on the opposite side of the road. And then I shove it into the trunk beside the car seat, waiting to be used for my little one.

More equipment awaits me in my shop; and every second counts. This time, I’ll pick something lighter, but valuable.

I rush back to my shop as fast as I can, holding up my enormous bump with both hands. I can do this, though this time I’m not so stealth-like when I dash across the road.

---