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“Is e’erything okay?”
“Everything’s fine,” she says, softenin’ her tone. “The question is, is everything alright with you?”
“Oh, no doubt,” I tell her.
“You sure?”
“Yep. I’m good, Ma, real talk.”
She responds, “I’m cooking tomorrow. Dinner will be ready at six.”
I shake my head and smile. Anytime she calls me and says she’s ‘cookin’,’ she wants to see me. And, more than likely to beat me in the head ’bout sumthin’ she’s heard, seen, or thought I’ve done. She’s never been one to confront me over the phone; it’s always face to face. However, no matter the reason, a muhfucka drops e’erything for Mom dukes, no questions asked—whether I want to hear it or not.
“I’ll be there,” I tell her, puttin’ out my blunt.
“See you then.”
19
“I dreamt of fish last week,” Moms announces at the table as I’m bitin’ into my second piece of her slammin’ cornbread, then scooping up a forkful of her infamous three-cheese baked macaroni and cheese.
I cough, chokin’. Ramona’s words sting my ears. I’m pregnant. Moms studies me as I continue coughin’. I finally stop, takin’ a sip of my pomegranate and blueberry juice. I swallow, hard.
“You okay?” she asks, raisin’ her brow.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
“Hmmm, as soon as I told you I had a dream about fish, you practically choke to death,” she says, givin’ me the eye.
“Ohhhhkaaay, and?”
“Is there something you wanna tell me?”
I frown. “Nah, there’s nuthin’ to tell you.”
“You sure?”
It’s yours. “No doubt.”
“You know everytime I have a dream about fish someone’s pregnant.”
I don’t know what the hell fish has to do wit’ some ho bein’ knocked up? I shift in my seat. “Well, don’t look at me. I’m not the one pregnant.”
She doesn’t crack a smile. “Then who is?”
All of sudden I’ve lost my appetite. I get up from my seat, takin’ my half-eaten plate of food over to the counter. You heard me, nigga…I’m pregnant. I shake the thought. Ain’t no way that bitch pregnant by me. “The hell if I know.” I gulp down the rest of my drink, placin’ the empty glass into the sink.
Moms remains seated, watchin’ me. “Alex, you need to come back over here and have a seat.” I sigh, knowin’ she’s ’bout to beat me in the head. I walk back over to the table and take a seat. She folds her hands. “When I was married to your father, I could always tell when he was lying, or keeping something from me. And the last time I dreamt of fish I confronted him and he looked me dead in my face and”—she catches herself, foldin’ her arms ’cross her chest, realizin’ she’s ’bout to say sumthin’ I’m not supposed to know. She shakes her head, swipin’ hair outta her face— “Is one of them hot-in-the-ass girls you fucking pregnant?”
I shake my head. “Not by me.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, raisin’ her brow. “The left side of your jaw twitches like your father’s when you’re lying,” she calmly states.
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, then, you must be keeping shit out ’cause you’re definitely not telling me something.”
“There’s nuthin’ to tell,” I tell her again, feelin’ a headache comin’ on.
