CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Where there is life…there is death…pullin’ in da final breath…one life traded for anotha…mixed emotions slicin’a bitch like a knife…da birth of a tiny lil’ brotha…gotta ho rethinkin’ some things…should a bitch play ’er position…be his sista, or play his motha?…
Three weeks later, on Saturday, June 26, 2010 at 6:36 p.m., after bein’ pumped up wit’ a buncha steroids to help the baby inside’a ’er lungs develop, the plug is finally pulled on my mother. And the truth is, I feel nuthin’; just like I knew I would. Watchin’ ’er life support machine bein’ shut off is like liftin’ a switch and turnin’ on bright lights to a dark, lonely past.
I am in the labor ’n delivery room, relieved that this is my last time lookin’ at ’er. I’ve been comin’ back ’n forth up to this hospital practically e’ery damn night, starin’ at Juanita. Cursin’ ’er out, sayin’ a buncha shit I kept bottled up for what I knew would be the last time, knowin’ she couldn’t hear shit I had’a say. But, I realize she didn’t need to. I needed it for me. And like I’ve said, there will be no tears, not ova ’er. And a bitch ain’t livin’ wit’ no regrets.
Patrice, Elise ’n my grandmother are here—lookin’ through the glass window, bawlin’ they eyes out. This is the first time I’m ’round all’a these hoes and we ain’t goin’ at it. Still, the tension is thick as shit, but we keep the drama at bay—for now.
I keep my back to them bitches. We are all consumed wit’ tears. Theirs are for the loss of another daughter ’n sister. Mine for seein’ this tiny lil’ baby brought into this world by C-section, then laid on my mother’s shoulder for a brief moment. Neither aware of the otha’s presence. Then havin’ the doctor hand the baby to me. I am nervous at first, takin’ it. It is the first time I’ve held a baby—a tiny life; a baby boy brought into this world at twenty-six weeks, weighing’ only 3 lbs. 8 oz. A bitch bursts into tears, so f*ckin’ distraught knowin’ I woulda killed ’im.
Chanel is here wit’ me—my real family. Masked and suited up, she is cryin’ wit’ me. She’s the only bitch who knows and understands me. “Ohmiiiigod, Kat, look at ’im. He is soooo tiny.”
I don’t speak. I can’t. There are no f*ckin’ words in me. E’erything ’round me is one big blurry mess from tears. And when the nurse finally takes ’im from me, I feel myself ’bout to collapse. I am shocked at myself. Surprised that I am feelin’ the way I do—overwhelmed. That I have all’a these emotions wrapped up in me. That I am a snotty-nosed mess behind all’a this. He will be placed in an incubator, and be under ultraviolet light. I watch ’em place a lil’ mask ova his eyes. Watch ’em place a trach tube down into his lil’ lungs, then connect it to a machine so he can breathe. I watch ’em stick a catheter into his umbilical cord so they can pump ’im wit’ fluids and drugs. He is pinched ’n pricked ’n probed and it tears a bitch’s heart to see this. I’m exhausted and emotionally drained. But I can’t stop cryin’. The doctor is sayin’ shit to me, but I ain’t hearin’ it all.
“…He will be in the NICU…the next few weeks are the most critical…”
I tell ’em I gotta leave. Tell ’em I can’t deal wit’ this right now. Tell ’em I’ll be back later. Chanel follows behind me, wrappin’ ’er arm ’round me. She swipes tears from ’er own face wit’ ’er other hand.
“I’m here for you, girl.”
“I know you are,” I tell ’er, squeezin’ ’round ’er waist.
“Kat, you can’t let them take ’im; you gotta step up and take that lil’ baby. He’s so precious and tiny. Ohmiiiigod, you gotta, girl.” I don’t say shit; just break down, sobbin’. She hugs me, rubbin’ my back. “It’s gonna be aiiiight. I know you scared, girl. But I got ya back. We can do this. It’s whateva, ho. You know how we do. You hear me?”
I nod. Hold onto ’er tighter, catchin’ Elise lookin’ ova in our direction. She says sumthin’ to Patrice ’n my grandmother, then walks ova toward us. “This bitch,” I mumble.
Chanel whispers in my ear, “Be nice, Kat. Keep it cute.”
Elise reaches out to console me, but I pull away. I don’t want the bitch touchin’ me. And I ain’t beat to hear what comes outta ’er cunt muncha. I look ova to the left of me and peep Patrice huggin’ my grandmother. The poor thing is all broken up. And so she should be.
“Kat, we’re family. Whateva shit you think we’ve done to you, right now we gotta let that shit go. We gotta work it through. I know you’re hurt. We’re all hurt. But this shit, this bullshit-ass feud, has gotta stop. I lost two sistas, back to back. And now there’s a baby that’s gonna need all of us.”
I blink. Finally look the ho in the face.
“I know you’re angry at ya moms, but she loved you. And she did the best she could wit’ what she had.”
“Please. Get. Away from me.”
The bitch keeps standin’ here. “I know you’re hurtin’ that the two of you couldn’t rebuild ya relationship, but—”
I tilt my head. I catch Chanel’s eye. She raises ’er brow. Gives me a “girl-don’t-do-it look.” Ohmiiiiigod…this dizzy bitch thinks these tears are ’cause I’m grievin’.
“But nuthin’. Me and Juanita neva had a relationship, so there wasn’t one to try ’n repair. Get ya facts straight.”
She clenches ’er teeth. “You know what, Kat, I’m really tryna be civil wit’ ya ass. But, you really pushin’ it. I know you goin’ through a buncha shit so I’m givin’ you a pass.”
Chanel starts pullin’ me by the arm. “C’mon, girl, keep this shit cute; let’s go.”
For once, I think before I speak. I don’t call ’er a buncha bitches and low-budget hoes like I want. “Elise, be clear. You ain’t givin’ me a pass to shit. So hop, lil’ froggy, and get dropped. ’Cause you can get it just like ya crackhead sista did; trust.”
“Elise, c’mon, girl,” Patrice calls out. “Don’t get into no situations wit’ that crazy-ass chick, not tonight. We need’a get Momma outta here. Don’t worry; she got it comin’ to ’er.”
I snap my neck in ’er direction. “And who’s gonna bring it to me? You? ’Cause I know you ain’t crazy enough to think that this”—I flick my thumb over at Elise—“this chick is gonna serve it.”
Elise turns ’er attention back to me. “Bitch, don’t sleep. As soon as we bury my sista, I’ma see you.”
I eye the bitch. “Oh, really. Well, let me tell you this. You betta keep a ’xtra hole dug ’cause da day you raise up on me will be da day ya mammy will be tossin’ ya ass in it next to ya dead-ass sistas.”
She raises a hand to swing off but I catch it, pushin’ ’er back into the window. “Biiiitch!” she yells, causin’ a bigga scene than necessary. F*ck tryna keep it cute. A bitch is ready bring it to this ho’s head.
“Stop it! Both of you,” my grandmother snaps. “I will not have this. Elise, leave that hateful devil child alone.”
I raise my hands up and pointin’ at ’er like their guns. “Granny, boom,” I say, makin’ poppin’ gestures at the air as if I’ma shoot ’er the f*ck up.
She stops in ’er tracks. “Elise, let’s go,” she says. “Esta puta es loco.”
I force myself to laugh. “Yeah, I’ma crazy bitch. And whaaaat? Stay da f*ck away from me. All’a you.”
I’m surprised Patrice isn’t tryna set it off. I guess the bitch is too distraught to bring it. Elise says some extra shit still tryna make it pop ’bout not lettin’ me get away wit’ disrespectin’ ’er mother. My grandmother yanks ’er by arm, and the bitch still keeps poppin’ shit.
“You lucky ya grandmother’s here. She saved you from a beat-down. But, bitch, be clear, I’ma jump on that ass so fast you won’t know what da f*ck hit you.”
Instead of escalatin’ the shit, I straight spin-off on them bitches. Bottom line, my mind is made up. If the bitch comes at me on any kinda shit, I’ma push ’er fronts all the way to the back, then I’ma be makin’ that call for anotha clean-up crew. And a bitch don’t have’a problem tossin’ Cash’s freak-nasty ass another pair’a panties to make this ho go away—permanently.
LATER THAT NIGHT, ME AND CHANEL ARE SITTIN’ UP AT ’ER SPOT, blazin’ ’n tossin’ back a bottle of Moscato while listenin’ to Eric Roberson. As usual Devine is out grindin’ and Chanel is sittin’ here schemin’ on how she can get ’er creep on. “Do you know if Allstar got any niggas on his squad I might wanna chill wit’?”
I shrug, frownin’. “Bitch, how da f*ck I know?”
“Well, da next time you talk to ’im, ask.”
“Ho, I ain’t askin’ ’im shit. You already gotta man. So be happy wit’ what you got.” She rolls ’er eyes. “Bitch, pass me da damn blunt.” I laugh. “Annnnway, wassup up wit’ ya’ll any-damn-way?”
“Trick, why is you always askin’ me wassup wit’ me ’n that nigga? Ain’t shit up. I keep tellin’ you we chillin’; that’s it.”
“Does he know ’bout the baby?”
This bitch has had’a ’nough smoke for one night, I think, starin’ ’er ass down. I kick my shoes off, then curl up on ’er sofa. “What’s there for his ass to know? I keep tellin’ you da nigga ain’t my man, ho.”
She flicks ’er wrist, dismissin’ me. “Yeah, whateva. I don’t know why you keep frontin’; you know you diggin’ da nigga. Face it.”
“Okay, ho, you got me…busted. Guilty as charged. And?”
“And give da nigga some rhythm.”
“That nigga gets all the rhythm I’ma give.”
She pours us both ’nother round. “Kat, be real. What da f*ck you afraid of?”
I buck my eyes open. “Afraid? Who said anything ’bout bein’ afraid?”
She stares at me. “Aren’t you?”
“Hell no.” Bitch, shut ya lyin’ ass up. Keep shit real. I toss back my glass, gulp down my nerves.
“Bitch, you lyin’.”
I huff. “Aiight, damn, ho. I hate ya ass; for real, for real. Real shit. I don’t eva wanna end up like Juanita. All f*cked up ova a muhf*cka. I saw what that ho went through. Saw what she was. All broke down ’n pitiful ’n desperate. I don’t wanna be that kinda bitch, you know. Cryin’ ’n fightin’ ova a nigga.”
“Girl, not you. That’s not even ya steelo. You too damn strong-willed to let a nigga do you sideways.”
“Yeah, you right. But some’a the strongest bitches have been broken down gettin’ too caught up wit’ a muhf*cka.”
“Kat, that ain’t you.”
“Still, the shit haunts a bitch.”
“Girl, puhleeze. Don’t let that keep you from gettin’ close to a nigga you feelin’. Shake that shit off.” She looks at me. “You eva think ’bout how you mighta turned out if ya moms was a different kinda woman, or if ya pops was in ya life?”
I shake my head. “No, what for? Fantasizin’ ’bout shit that is already done can’t change shit for me. Juanita was a dick junkie, and my pops is a career criminal. I’m kinda thinkin’ that’s how shit was ’posed to be. But, it’s not shit I’m tryna live. It’s not how I wanna be. And it’s damn sure not what I wanna become.”
She twists ’er lips. “I feel you. Do you think they gonna eva find that nigga who did that shit to ya moms?” she asks, fillin’ our glasses to the rim wit’ more wine.
Hopefully not before I do. “Who knows. All I know, that nigga needs to get served, lovely. I want that muthaf*cka’s head on’a platter wit’ his dick stuffed in his mouth.”
“I feel you, girl. I know you don’t wanna hear it. But what that nigga did to ya moms is mad crazy. And now there’s a beautiful lil’ baby wit’ no parents.”
What that nigga did is a blessin’ in disguise, I think, gulpin’ down the last drop of wine in my glass. Chanel asks if I want more. I tell ’er no. Tell ’er I ain’t for beat any more’a that fruity-tooty shit. Tell ’er to spark up ’notha blunt. We change up the subject and start talkin’ ’bout takin’ a trip to either Italy or France.”
“Shit,” I say, takin’ the blunt from ’er. “We can do both. We young, fly, butta bitches who can do whateva da f*ck we want.”
She laughs. “Hell yeah, Boo. We two siiiiick bitches doin’ it up. Oh, wait…you sponsorin’ me, right?”
I bust out laughin’. “Ho, I can’t stand nuthin’ yo broke ass stands for. You know Divine got you.”
She laughs wit’ me. “Bitch, you know Divine ain’t gonna give me ’nough paper to live it up. His cheap ass’ll only give me few bullshit gees, then ’pect me to stretch it out for da whole time we gone.”
“Well, if ya cheatin’ ass started suckin’ ’n f*ckin’ top-dolla niggas instead of them nickel ’n dime muhf*ckas you be chasin’, you’d have ya paper up.”
She rolls ’er eyes. “Whateva, tramp. Pass me da damn blunt.”
We go back ’n forth for a few rounds, draggin’ each otha for filth, laughin’ and whatnot ’til Eric Roberson’s joint “Dealing” starts playin’. Wit’out any thought, we shut the f*ck up and go into our own lil’ zones, bobbin’ and puffin’. I’m sure ’er horny ass is imaginin’ ’im wit’ them big, juicy lips swallowin’ up ’er titties. I’m stuck in mine, wonderin’ if I should give the nigga Alex a go, or cut the nigga off now ’fore shit gets too hectic.
TWO DAYS LATER, CHANEL IS BACK UP AT THE HOSPITAL WIT’ ME. I just finished talkin’ to the doctor ’bout the baby’s progress. And so far he’s doin’ good. The doctor is optimistic he’ll make it through this. But, for now, he is still in ICU. And on some real shit, a bitch can’t stand seein’ ’im and all them otha lil’ babies in incubators wit’ all kinda tubes comin’ outta ’im. They are so tiny ’n fragile. The shit is really f*ckin’ my nerves. I stare at ’im. Feel myself gettin’ all choked up.
What am I gonna do?
Bitch, you was poppin’ mad shit ’bout ’im goin’ into foster care. ’Bout you not bein’ beat. Now ya confused-ass standin’ here switchin’ it up. Ho, make ya mind up.
My mind is made up. I can’t let these muhf*ckas take ’im. I can’t do it.
“Oh, bitch, puhleeze. And you think you can raise ’im? Get real.
“Do you have any idea what you wanna name ’im?” Chanel asks, cuttin’ through my thoughts.
“Huh?
“Hello, hello? Anybody home? I asked whadaya gonna name ’im?”
“F*ck if I know. All this shit is new to me.” On some real shit, I really haven’t thought the shit all the way through. It feels like shit is movin’ type-fast for a bitch. I’m torn…okay, okay, and f*ckin’ scared to death. I don’t know the first thing ’bout carin’ for a baby. Shit, who knows if it’s sumthin’ I even got in me. All I know is, from the moment I laid eyes on that lil’ boy, he’s been on my brain, heavy. And I can’t turn my back on ’im.
“Well, you need to think of sumthin’, soon. We can’t keep callin’ ’im ‘baby’. Our lil’ man needs a name. I’m gonna start lookin’ through some baby books for a name.”
I grin. “Oh, he’s our lil’ man, huh?”
“Damn straight ’cause you know I ain’t tryna stretch my snatch all outta shape tryna pump no babies outta it. So we gotta share ’im.”
I laugh. “Girlfriend, as much mileage that kat-box of yours got on it, it really ain’t gonna be that much stretchin’ goin’ on. You real loosey-goosey wit’ yours, boo. All you gotta do is squat down low and a baby’ll drop right out wit’ ya big-p-ssy self.”
She laughs. “Whateva, tramp. Shut ya cum-trap and come up wit’ a name for our baby. And da shit gotta be fly.”
I laugh wit’ ’er. “Yeah, you right. I don’t—”
“Umm, ’scuse me. Are you Miss Rivera?” I turn in the direction of the voice. There are two chicks—one black, the otha white—standin’ wit’ notepads. The black chick is the one talkin’ to me. She has a real strong face, mannish-like. And ’er short blonde ’fro ain’t helpin’ matters. I look ’er up ’n down. Take in ’er cheesy makeup job. The ho got on foundation that is two shades lighter than ’er neck wit’ a buncha eyeliner ’round ’er eyes. She’s a makeup artist’s nightmare. I glance down at ’er footwear. Cheesy patent-leather heels; mmmph, a Payless booga.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Samantha Hillinger-Brown, and this is my colleague, Dana Movella.” I glance at the white chick. The first thing I peep are a pair of white seashell earrings danglin’ from ’er lobes. She’s all dolled up in ’er Sunday best; a purple dress wit’ large white polka dots. All the bitch needs is a pair of white gloves and a Bible. “We’re with Child Protective Services.” She extends ’er hand. I glance at it, raisin’ my brow. She quickly puts it down.
“And?”
“We’re here on the matter of Baby Rivera.”
Okay, now a bitch’s radar kicks up a notch. “What’a ’bout ’im?”
“We understand your mother had been on life support until he was delivered. And we understand the father is a person of interest in her death.”
“Yeah, that’s right. What does that have to do wit’ me, or you?”
“Well, now that he’s born we need to begin planning for—”
“Oh, no, Sweetie,” Chanel cuts in, shiftin’ ’er handbag from one hand to the otha. “We don’t need no plannin’ committee. We got this. So thanks for ya interest. But you can go hop scotch on back ova to ACS. He’s in good hands.”
“And you are?” Sam the Man asks.
“I’m his aunt.”
“Can we have your name?”
“It’s Aunt,” Chanel says f*ckin’ wit’ ’em. “A-U-N-T.”
I tilt my head. “So the only plannin’ there’s gonna be is what color I’m gonna paint his room.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Miss Rivera,” Miss Sunday’s Best says. “We’re here in the interest of the child. We’ve received several calls from concerned parties on behalf of the infant.”
“Concerned parties like who?” I ask, lookin’ ’er dead in ’er blue eyes.
“Well, I’m not at liberty to disclose who the parties are. However, we’d like to discuss with you some concerns…”
Right at this moment, I ain’t tryna hear shit this ho is sayin’. And although I wanna drag this bitch for filth, I know I gotta keep it cute. So I force myself to keep my mouth shut and pay attention. The bitch starts talkin’ ’bout allegations. Someone called in and told ’em that a bitch sells drugs and sits ’round blazin’ all day; that a bitch is aggressive and violent; that I assaulted my grandmother and attacked my aunts; that I get drunk and f*ck a buncha men.
I blink, blink again.
“You wait one damn minute,” Chanel snaps, pointin’ ’er finga at ’em. “That’s a buncha bullshit.”
“And that may be so,” Sam the Man says. “But we still have to follow up with every call received. Our priority is for the safety and well-being of the child.”
“Hmmm,” I say, twistin’ my lips up. “And so it should be. So know this. I don’t have shit to hide. So you can ask me whateva you want. Bottom line, I have my own money, and my own home. I don’t sell drugs; neva have, neva will. And I don’t do ’em.” Okay, yeah a bitch blazes, but that ain’t none’a these hoes’ business. Besides, Kush ain’t no damn drug any-damn-way. I continue wit’ my story. “And in terms of bein’ aggressive or assaultive. I neva slapped my grandmother. I grabbed her arm. So what? The bitch slapped me.”
“Well, did you threaten her?”
“Ho,” I snap, puttin’ a hand on my hip. “What that gotta do wit’ da baby? If I threatened ’er, then it should be the police standin’ here, not you. But since you asked. No, I ain’t threaten ’er. I warned ’er. I told ’er the next time she put ’er hands on me, I’ma forget she’s my grandmother and beat ’er old ass up. I don’t care who you are. Don’t put ya hands on me. Otha than that, I like to keep it real simple. Don’t f*ck wit’ me, and I won’t f*ck wit’ you. But if you bring, then I’ma sling it. And there you have it. Now go back and tell whomeva called you that I said ta fall da f*ck back or get knocked da f*ck back. Anything else?”
They both blink. I guess they shocked that a bitch brought it to ’em like that. These bitches got the wrong one.
Miss Sunday’s Best says, “We’re gonna have to follow up and do an investigation and background check on you.”
“That’s fine by me. Do whateva you need ta do ta rest ya minds.” I give ’em my contact info, then spin-off on ’em. As soon as me and Chanel get into the elevator and the doors shut, I snap. “Can you believe this shit?! They send out sum muthaf*ckin’ low-budget booga bitches to try ’n eye scan me. Bitch, puhleeze. They can investigate all da f*ck they want.”
“Who da f*ck you think called them hoes?”
“Who you think? Them whore-ass trick bitches Elise and Patrice. Shit, they old, crusty-ass mammy probably called ’em too; dusty bitch!”
“I know you gonna keep it cute, though?”
“Sweetie and you know this. First things first, a bitch gotta flush out these insides in case they try ’n get crafty wantin’ me to do piss tests ’n shit. Then I’ma invite them trashbag hoes into my home and serve ’em wit’ grace, okay?!”
“I know that’s right. So, I guess we ain’t rollin’ today?”
My cell rings. I fish it outta my bag, then glance at the screen. It’s Alex. I press IGNORE. The elevator doors open. “Bitch, puhleeze, ain’t shit changed for today. We gonna burn down da muthaf*ckin’ forest all day. But come tomorrow, a bitch gotta shut shit down ’til after lil’ man is released from da hospital and I’m bringin’ ’im home.”
“That’s right. Right where da f*ck he belongs.”
Bitch, how da f*ck you get ya’self into this shit?
Ho, you doin’ da right thing.
Bitch, puhleeze, ya ass ain’t tryna be nobody’s mammy.
“I swear I hope a bitch can handle this shit,” I say as we exit the glass doors. “The last thing I wanna do is f*ck his life up da way Juanita f*cked up mine.”
“Girl, trust me. You won’t.” Chanel loops ’er arm ’round mine and we walk arm ’n arm.
I sigh, lookin’ up at the sky. For what, who knows; maybe for a sign. “Let’s hope so.”