My dress caught on the metal frame.
I nearly fell.
Someone inside screamed.
My mother-in-law stopped.
I turned.
A young woman stood between two rolling racks of white table linens.
The wedding planner.
Her face was pale.
Her mascara had smudged beneath one eye.
“What are you doing in here?” I asked.
She looked from me to my mother-in-law.
My mother-in-law swore quietly.
The planner stepped forward.
“You cannot put her in here.”
My mother-in-law pointed at her.
“Stay out of this.”
“I told you before, she needs an ambulance.”
My blood went cold.
Before?
The planner already knew.
I looked between them.
“What do you mean before?”
Neither answered.
My mother-in-law shoved my clutch into the room after me.
It hit a shelf and dropped to the floor.
Then she reached for the door.
The planner lunged.
“No!”
The door slammed.
The lock turned.
The sound was soft.
A simple metallic click.
It remains one of the loudest sounds I have ever heard.
For several seconds, neither the planner nor I moved.
Music drifted faintly through the wall.
The bride was probably walking down the aisle.
I stared at the locked door.
Then another contraction hit.
I doubled over.
The planner rushed toward me.
“Sit down.”
“I need to get out.”
“I know.”
“My husband doesn’t know.”
“I know.”
“Open the door.”
“I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“She took the key.”
My breath came faster.
I grabbed the handle anyway.
Pulled.
Nothing.
I hammered against the door.
“HELP!”
The planner grabbed my shoulders.
“Listen to me.”
“I AM IN LABOR!”
“I know.”
“My baby…”
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
That stopped me.
She was terrified too.
I stared at her.
“How long have you been in here?”
“Twelve minutes.”
“Why?”
Her face changed.
“Because I heard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.”
Another contraction started.
She helped me lower myself onto a padded banquet chair stored against the wall.
The gown spread around me in huge blue folds.
The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh.
I looked dressed for some elaborate maternity portrait while sitting between boxes of napkins and spare candles, locked away from my own husband because his mother did not want labor to interfere with photographs.
The planner crouched.
“How far apart are the contractions?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
“Maybe five minutes?”
Her eyes widened.
“That close?”
“I had one before my water broke.”
“How many?”
“Three or four.”
“Any bleeding?”
“No.”
“Baby moving?”
I placed both hands on my stomach.