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I shake my head. “Fine wit’ me. I’ll be glad when all this is ova.” I peep Pasty-Face pick up the phone. “Sweetie, if you’re callin’ for security, there’s no need for that,” I tell ’er. “But I would like to speak to the doctor.”
“I’m calling him now,” she says, lookin’ over at me.
I roll my eyes at ’er. “Oh, goodie. You do that.” Stupid bitch!
She hangs up. “He’ll be down momentarily to speak with you.”
I lean up against the counter. ?
??Good. Send ’im to my mother’s room.” I walk off wit’ DeAndre. And of course the nigga’s tryna get his rap on on the sly. It’d be real cute to fuck wit’ a nurse if I was a junkie-bitch. I could fuck the nigga into snatchin’ me up a few of them ’script pads to keep a bitch lifted. But I ain’t the one. Still, I keep it cute and let the nigga try ’n spit his game; no matter how wack.
“I get off at three today. You wanna go grab something to eat?”
“Maybe sum other time,” I tell ’em as we approach Juanita’s room. “I need to do—” I stop myself when I see a brown-skinned chick and some tall, blond-haired, Ken-doll-lookin’ muhfucka in the room who’s movin’ a wand slowly ova Juanita’s swollen belly. “What’s goin’ on in here?”
“We’re completin’ an ultrasound,” the chick says. She glances ova at DeAndre, who tells ’em who I am. The brown chick is introduced as Doctor Larsons; the white dude as Doctor Peters, both ob-gyn specialists for high-risk pregnancies. Fuck all the formalities! A bitch wants to know what the fuck they doin’ another sonogram for when I’m here to shut this sideshow down.
“We want to make sure the pregnancy is…” Ken Doll’s mouth is movin’ but I don’t hear shit he’s sayin’. My eyes lock on the image on the screen. A bitch is frozen. It’s a baby. Wit’ hands and feet and a mouth and nose. And you wanna take its life; murder it.… You a real selfish bitch for this shit…
I blink, try ’n shake Chanel’s voice outta my head. Is this about you or ya fuckin’ hate for ya moms? And da only bitch you need to be real wit’ ’bout it is you.
I feel myself startin’ to hyperventilate. “Turn that shit off!” I hear myself screamin’ in my head. My mouth opens. But a bitch can’t get the words out. It’s a baby…And you wanna take its life…
“…Missus Rivera? Are you okay?”
“I-I-I,” I stutter, slowly backin’ outta the room. Pull da god-damn plug! I have’ta get the fuck outta here—away from the image on the screen; away from Juanita; away from this fuckin’ hospital. I turn to walk out. Race outta the room and down the hall ’til I get to the bathroom.
As soon as I get into the stall, I throw my guts up. I am mad siiiiiick! Do you hear me? Sick…sick…sick! Sick wit’ disgust! Sick wit’ knowin’ that there’s really a baby inside’a Juanita! Sick knowin’ that no matter how fucked up a bitch might be—no matter how cold-hearted; no matter how bad I wanna see the plug yanked outta the wall—I can’t do it. Not to that lil’ helpless thing growin’ inside’a that bitch’s belly. No matter how many times I say I’m done wit’ ’er ass, somehow, someway, this bitch finds a way back in my space—fuckin’ up my world ’cause I keep lettin’ ’er. And that has a bitch siiiiiiiiiick!! I throw up again, flush the toilet, then walk outta the stall.
I run the water, splashin’ my face wit’ it, then pat dry my face wit’ sum’a their hard-ass paper towels, starin’ at myself in the mirror. Bitch, you shoulda pulled that plug ya damn self when you had da chance. Now you done seen that fuckin’ sonogram, and now you gotta wait ’til it can be cut outta ’er.
I stare at myself in the mirror. I might have’ta wait ’til I’m finally free of Juanita, but a bitch damn sure doesn’t have’ta wait for shit else. I pull out my makeup case. Apply a fresh coat of eyeliner and lip gloss, then pull out my Kat line. Although, I still carry it, and keep it charged, it’s a phone I haven’t had’a use in two years. One I hoped I wouldn’t have’ta eva use again. Still, I held onto it.
I turn it on. Wait for it to boot up, then scroll through the address book. I press the CALL button, then wait.
“Ohhh, shit. Let me find out my baby girl ready to come home to Daddy. I been waitin’ to hear from ya sexy ass. Took you long ’nough. Maybe now I can finally get sum’a that good-ass pussy you been holdin’ out on me.”
I cringe. Hearin’ his voice takes me back to the last thing this fat muhfucka said to me when I decided to shut down the Kat Trap. “It’s twisted muhfuckas like you and me who can do this shit in our sleep. It takes a cold, vengeful, mean-streaked muhfucka to look a nigga dead in his eyes, then smoke his ass and never blink. Somewhere in our twisted minds, we think ain’t shit wrong with takin’ a muhfucka out. And what keeps us doin’ this sick shit is the fact that we like takin’ chances, livin’ on the edge, thinkin’ we’ll never get caught. Killin’ is ya callin’, baby. You’ll be back. And when you ready, I’ma be here waitin’ for ya.”
I roll my eyes. “Nigga, puhleeze. Annnnnnywaaaaaay, I need you to track someone down for me.”
“I got you, ma. Is it someone you need me to send the goons out on?”
“No,” I tell ’im, runnin’ my hand through my hair, “this is a muhfucka I need’a handle myself.”
“Personal?”
“Very.”
“Aiight, I got you. You gotta descript?”
Kat, this is Jawan, my fiancé. I close my eyes. Picture the nigga in my head; him standin’ in Juanita’s kitchen, grabbin’ ’er ass—tall and prison-sculpted and bare-chested wit’ a long dick swingin’ in a pair’a flimsy gray sweats. I keep this part to myself.
“Yeah. He’s like six-two wit’ a caramel-colored complexion, curly hair and a chipped tooth.” I tell ’im the nigga’s from some-where over in Brownsville; that he did a bid, then tell ’im his name.
“Oh, aiight. Anything else?”
I think; try ’n remember. The tattoo on his arm pops into my head. “Yeah, he has a tatt of a panther wit’ green eyes on his foream.”
