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“There’s no living will that the family was aware of, so the decision to keep her on life support was made by her mother.” I roll my eyes. “The doctors would have taken her off of life support and declared her dead if it wasn’t for her havin’ family support and being pregnant. Besides, she’s too far along.”
What the fuck?! I swallow back my disgust. “’Exactly how far along you talkin’?” I ask, bracin’ myself up against the counter.
“She’s in her twentieth week.”
OhmyGaaaawd, the bitch is five months’ pregnanat. “And she’s dead,” I add for effect. “And probably carrryin’ some kinda bubble-head alien with no arms ’n shit.”
“On the contrary. From what the sonogram showed three days ago, she’s carryin’ a healthy baby, kicking and moving about in her womb with all of its limbs.”
I feel myself gettin’ nauseous. A film of sweat forms over my neatly arched brows and it starts to feel like I’m standin’ on balls of fire in these Marc Jacob six-inch pencil-heels. I wipe my forehead. Shift my weight from one foot to the other.
“And how long do you plan on keepin’ her tubed up?” I ask, lettin’ my handbag drop down from the crook of my arm to my hand.
He tells me for at least another five weeks; that that’s the earliest a premature baby can be delivered and survive. Tells me the longer they are able to keep her on life support and the baby inside ’er, the greater its chances of survival. That bringin’ it into full-term at thirty-seven weeks would be the preference. But keepin’ a fetus in the womb for that long would be a greater risk. That it could expose it to a host of infections. I feel my knees gettin’ weak. I don’t wanna hear shit else.
“Thanks,” I say, walkin’ off; my heels angrily stabbin’ the white-tiled floor wit’ each step. I feel his eyes on my ass so I glance over my shoulder and bust ’im starin’. Niggas!
I stop in front of ’er door. Take a deep breath. Steady my nerves. Then step into the dimly-lit room to face my past. A woman I have fuckin’ hated for most of my life, but still—like a silly, stupid ass ho—once yearned for something she was incapable of givin’—love. The only light in the room is comin’ from outta the bathroom. My eyes adjust to its dimness. And there she lay; hooked up to a ventilator and other machines. IV tubes run through her body. Her face and head is wrapped in gauze. The bitch looks a mess!
I step closer to ’er bed. Study e’ery inch of the woman who pushed me outta her pussy, then pushed me outta ’er life. Ignored me; neglected to nurture me and love me. Unexpectedly, starin’ down at ’er makes a bitch’s heart ache. I block out the hummin’ of the machines in the room. My eyes burn wit’ hate toward this woman.
As I lean in, I grit my teeth, blink back painful memories of bein’ abandoned by this fuckin’ heartless bitch. “You no-good, selfish bitch,” I hiss in ’er ear. “All my life you’ve done nuthin’ but think ’bout ya’self, bringin’ no-count niggas and drama in ’n outta your life, and into mine. When you were gettin’ ya ass beat, you neva gave’a fuck ’bout how that shit affected me. E’ry nigga you let disrespect you, you let disrespect me. But you was too dick-whipped to see that shit. When two’a ya muhfuckas was comin’ into my room and I told you how da niggas were creepin’ in my room, you had da muthafuckin’ audacity to blame me for da shit, or act like I was makin’ da shit up. And ’cause of you, you dick-dumb-ho, I had’a take matters into my own hands…”
I take a deep breath. I’m fifteen, again; back in that darkened, piss-stained stairwell holdin’ a gun. It’s cocked and aimed at the nigga who constantly beat Juanita’s ass and snuck in my room suckin’ on my titties and diggin’ his nasty-ass fingas all up in my pussy. I pull the trigger, empty the clip. Blood and brains and chunks of skull are splattered against the cement wall. I squeeze my eyes shut, then reopen them, bringin’ my attention back to Juanita.
I clench my teeth. “…Not once, bitch, did you eva consider how your fucked up ways and choices hurt me; that my own mother turned ’er muthafuckin’ back on me; chose ’er niggas ova me. I fuckin’ hate you for that shit, bitch. All my life you’ve hurt me one way or another wit’ your neglect and bullshit. And, now, even in death you fuckin’ come wit’ drama. All I want is to be free from you, once and for all.”
I glance down at her protrudin’ belly beneath the white sheet. Another fuckin’ life ruined. “I hope you rot in hell. I feel like punchin’ you in your fuckin’ stomach. You couldn’t be a mother to me, and now your stupid ass is lyin’ here dead, carryin’ anotha child you’ll never be a mother to. Another child you’re ’bout to abandon ’cause your stupid, trick-ass couldn’t stay da fuck away from fucked up muhfuckas. You’re a fuckin’ bitch,” I say, fightin’ back tears. “Do you really think I’ma let you bring an orphan into this world?” I ask, pausin’ as if she can hear me. “Oh no, sweetie, I will have that thing that grows inside of you gutted out, first, before I let that happen. I’d rather see it dead along wit’ you.”
I have the urge to slap the shit outta ’er bandaged face and spit on ’er. I clench my hand shut. Glance ’round the room, then bring my eyes to the machine that pumps air into ’er lungs. I stare at the cord that connects the ventilator. Follow its length to the outlet. Wit’out a doubt, I know ’xactly what’a bitch has’ta do. “Sweet dreams, bitch,” I say, walkin’ out the door.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lights out…da party’s ova…nuthin’ to be confused ’bout…no use in sheddin’ tears…bankrupt ho had ’er run…wasted ’er years…lettin’ niggas steal ’er worth…drain ’er senses…empty out ’er heart…now she’s laid up on ’er deathbed…poor thing…bitch died a long time ago…walked among the livin’ dead…no use hangin’ on…I already know why da caged bird sings…
“Pull da plug,” I tell the doctor. It’s nine o’clock in the mornin’, and I made it my business to get back to the hospital to let ’em know what it is. I can tell I’ve shocked ’im. But I don’t give a fuck. I want Juanita’s ass put to rest so I can get on wit’ my life. He stares at me; pushes his rimmed glasses up over the bridge of his stumpy nose.
“Excuse me?” he asks, blinkin’ his wide brown eyes.
“You heard me. It’s time to put that bit…my mother, outta her misery.”
“It’s not that simple; she’s with child,” he tells me like I don’t already know this shit. He tries to convince me to reconsider; to think on it a few more days. He tells me she’s carryin’ a healthy baby that can be safely delivered in another five to six weeks.
“I know all that,” I tell ’im. “Still doesn’t change my mind.”
“Miss Rivera, if you’d just hold off for a few more weeks. Then the fetus will be viable outside of the womb.”
After seein’ her last night, then talkin’ to that nigga DeAndre afterward, I’m well aware of my options as
her daughter, and next of kin. I let ’im know this. If I wait too long, like ’er hittin’ her third trimester, then it’s a wrap. A judge can step in ’n block shit. “I’m not interested,” I say, gettin’ up. “I want the plug pulled today.”
He calls for a social worker who tries to talk me out of it, then in comes the on duty charge nurse and the hospital administrator. All three, white bitches wit’ a buncha pressed powder on they faces. They are all lookin’ at me like I’m fucked up for wantin’ to shut shit down.
“And what about the unborn fetus?” the skinny social worker bitch asks.
“What about it? It has no rights.”
“But it’a life,” the nurse states.
