CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ready or not…da ho gotta go…bitch won’t eva rest in peace… Grim Reaper done came to take ’er…now it’s time for ’er to meet ’er maker…but da dead bitch has a baby inside ’er womb…wrapped ’round doom ’n gloom…what’s a bitch to do…do I take one life, or take two?
The minute I reach the nurse’s station I spot the nigga DeAndre. But, before I can speak, I peep the pasty-faced charge nurse from the other day, sittin’ on the other side of ’im behind a computer. She glances in my direction and looks shook. I grin and keep it cute, puttin’ ’er mind at ease. “Bitch, ain’t nobody thinkin’ ’bout you. I’m here to see my mother.” She quickly shifts her eyes back to what she was doin’. DeAndre bucks his eyes, surprised. “How you doin’, Nurse Lewis?” I ask, turnin’ my attention to ’im. I smile.
He smiles back. “Missus Rivera. Good morning. I’m good, thanks. I was on my way to your mother’s room so I will walk with you, if you don’t mind.”
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 f*ck wit’ a nurse if I was a junkie-bitch. I could f*ck 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’ muhf*cka 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. F*ck all the formalities! A bitch wants to know what the f*ck 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 f*ckin’ 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 f*ck outta here—away from the image on the screen; away from Juanita; away from this f*ckin’ 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 f*cked 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—f*ckin’ 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 f*ckin’ 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 p-ssy you been holdin’ out on me.”
I cringe. Hearin’ his voice takes me back to the last thing this fat muhf*cka said to me when I decided to shut down the Kat Trap. “It’s twisted muhf*ckas like you and me who can do this shit in our sleep. It takes a cold, vengeful, mean-streaked muhf*cka 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 muhf*cka 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 muhf*cka 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.”
“Bet. Give me a few weeks to see what I can find out ’bout this cat.” He lowers his voice. “Whatchu tryna give a muhf*cka for findin’ ’im? You know I been wantin’ to run this big-ass dick up in you for a minute.”
I laugh. “Nigga, da only thing ya ugly, black-ass will eva get is a bullet to da head, trust. You’ll neva feel da inside of my p-ssy.”
“Ouch,” he says, laughin’. “Yo, Kat, I see ya ass is still f*ckin’ crazy; still poppin’ mad shit.”
“That’s right, muhf*cka. Ain’t shit changed, nigga. Hit me up when you find that nigga.” I disconnect, shut the phone off, tossin’ it back in my bag.
The bathroom door swings open, almost knockin’ the shit outta me. My mouth drops open. “Abuela,” I say, steppin’ back. I’m not sure if I should be shocked or happy to see my grandmother since I haven’t physically seen ’er in over three years.
“Puta, por qué you wanna take mi hija y nieto de mí? Why?”
Ohmiimuthaf*ckin’gaaaawd! I can’t believe she has come outta her face and called me a bitch. She’s standin’ in front of me icegrillin’ me. I know chickie has a right to be pissed knowin’ I wanna shut shit down, but comin’ at me sideways…uh, I don’t think so.
“I’m not takin’ anyone away from you. She’s already dead. And, as far as that grandchild you’re talkin’ ’bout, who’s ’posed to raise it?”
“Who else,” she huffs, indignantly like I done asked a retarded-ass question, “su familia.”
I laugh. “Her family? Who, you?” I swing my bag up over my shoulder. I have’ta get away from ’er ass before I really go off on ’er. “Oh, puuuhleeze. You have…well, had four daughters, and all four of ’em are f*cked up. Now one of ’em is out there on a respirator, dead ’n pregnant. So, if you didn’t get it right wit’ any of them trick-ass bitches, what makes you think you gonna get it right now?”
She slaps me. I squeeze my hand into a fist. Catch myself from knockin’ the shit outta ’er. Grandmother or not, this bitch has crossed the line. I stare at the bathroom door, wonderin’ if anyone else is gonna walk in. Hopin’ I’d have time to slip on my knuckles and bring it to granny’s head.
I touch the side of my face. Glare at ’er. A bitch is blazin’ mad right ’bout now. And, although I have neva, eva, disrespected this woman, today she might get it if I don’t get the f*ck away from ’er—now!
“Vergüenza me!”
I still can’t get past the fact that she hit me in my face. Now she’s standin’ here talkin’ ’bout I’ve shamed her. What da f*ck?! “How, grandmother? How have I shamed you? Please explain that to me.”
“Su espalda en su familia. Why? You weren’t raised like this; hateful.”
“Ohmiif*ckin’gawd, do you really wanna do this, here?” I slam my hand up on my hip. Point my finga in ’er face. And straight disrespect the shit outta ’er. She steps back, clutchin’ her chest. Her eyes widen. “Bitch, I don’t have no family. They turned their backs on me a long time ago, includin’ you. So how da f*ck you know how I was raised, hunh? Were you there? No! Ya ass was too busy lettin’ Patrice’s niggas run drugs ’n guns in and outta ya spot. And too muthaf*ckin’ busy makin’ excuses for Rosa stealin’ from ya ass when you knew da bitch was gettin’ high. Did you eva give a f*ck ’bout whether or not I ate ’cause Juanita’s dickjunkie ass was too damn f*cked up over niggas to make sure I had food to eat? No, ho, you weren’t. You were too muthaf*ckin’ busy worryin’ ’bout Elise’s kids while her ass was munchin’ on p-ssy in prison. So don’t eva talk to me ’bout how da f*ck I was raised.”
She raises ’er hand to slap me again. But I grab it. Clench my teeth. “Let me make myself very clear. I don’t give. A. F*ck. If you eva put ya muthaf*ckin’ hands on me again, I will forget you’re my grandmother and beat ya old-ass down.” I let go of ’er wrist. “You know what, forget it. Get da f*ck outta my face. I want you, and your cracked-out, whore-ass daughters to stay da f*ck away from me. All you bitches have f*cked my life up enough.”
“Oh mi Dios! You talk to me like this? Curse me? Su abuela? I will pray for your soul. You’re nothing but hijo del Diablo!”
She tells me I’m the devil’s child. I laugh. “You need’a pray for ya own soul, sweetie. The Devil’s been f*ckin’ you and your daughter’s your whole life. So, I guess that makes ya’ll bitches his whores!”
I brush past ’er, angrily swingin’ the bathroom door open, leavin’ ’er standin’ in the middle of the bathroom lookin’ stupid ’n f*cked up.
I stop back ova to the nurse’s station. Tell ’em I’ve changed my mind; that they can do whateva they need to do keep Juanita’s baby alive. The doctor and head nurse look relieved. He goes to say sumthin’, but I put a finga up to stop ’im. I’m not in the mood to hear shit he or anyone else has to say. I tell ’em this. Tell ’em I’ll be back in a few days to talk. Then I pop my hips to the elevators one foot in front of the other, holdin’ back a flood of tears as I make my way back to my whip. I disarm it, then slide behind the wheel. My face is streaked wit’ tears, but a bitch refuses to break down. For what? It’s not gonna change a muthaf*ckin’ thing.
Maybe it won’t, but you’re doin’ da right thing, Kat.
For who?
For you.
How da f*ck is keepin’ a brain-dead bitch who ain’t neva gave a f*ck ’bout me alive da right thing to do for me? She’s not even aware of what’s goin’ on ’round ’er; that’s not livin’.
Before I can cum up wit’ an answer that makes f*ckin’ sense, my cell rings, snappin’ me outta my thoughts. I swipe tears from my face, pullin’ my phone outta my bag.
“Yeah?”
“Yo, wassup? You want sum company? I’m tryna see you.”
I stare at myself in my rearview mirror. I feel so f*ckin’ numb. And a bitch really ain’t beat for bein’ alone today…or tonight. I know this muhf*cka ain’t nuthin’ but trouble for a bitch like me. But, right now. I don’t give’a f*ck. I wanna get lost in a nigga’s arms; wanna feel a hard, chiseled body pressed up against mine; feel a heavy, bricked dick pressin’ up against my ass, then stretchin’ out my p-ssy. This muhf*cka is it.
“I’m on my way home,” I tell ’em, startin’ my engine, then slowly backin’ outta my parkin’ space. “Be at my spot in an hour.”
“Aiight, bet.”
“And, muhf*cka, you already know what it is if ya ass ain’t there on time.”
He laughs. “Yeah, aiight. Not this time, baby. I’m already in ya driveway.”