L.A. Blues III (2 page)

I felt bipolar most days. I was being torn from two different sides. I believed a child had a right to life, but I also believed in a woman's right to choose.

How could I even think of having a child? I was not mother material. I was not married. My private eye business was just taking off. I was beginning to get clients from Bel Air and Beverly Hills. Our reality show was blowing up. Where would I fit in a baby? I fed my face and I had fed my family. Period. That's all I'd known for thirty-five years. How could I ever change and be responsible for another human being?

I didn't want to bring a child into a life where he didn't feel he had any choices—that he was a victim, which is what I've had to fight all my life not to be.

I had so many what-ifs. What if the baby was fathered by that monster Alfredo who might have raped me? But what if the baby was Romero's?
What should I do?

Now that the charade of a wedding ceremony was over, I marched out in formation with some unknown groomsman, Trevor's best friend, Peter, or whatever his name was. As I speed-walked down the aisle, I felt someone's eyes boring into my back. I turned when I made it to the end of the aisle and noticed the minister staring at me.
What was that all about?
I wondered, but I rushed on, trying to make it to the bathroom.

Chica, close on my heels, followed me to the luxurious restroom as my heels clicked on the mosaic tile. I couldn't hold back the wave of nausea any longer, as I squeezed my hand over my mouth and regurgitated.

I made it to one of the empty stalls just in time to vomit into the toilet like the little girl in
The Exorcist.
Head hung over the toilet bowel, knees on the cold marble floor, I retched and retched and retched some more. A typhoon had moved inside my stomach and would not let up until it hit the back of my throat, then gushed out into the commode. This cycle repeated itself over and over and over. As a slew of green lava rushed out my mouth, I could hear Chica's voice calling behind the closed stall's door.

“
Mija
, what's wrong with you?”

I heaved and heaved until just a frothy foam trickled out. I finally came up for air. “I'm okay.” I gasped helplessly between breaths as I stood up and leaned my forehead against the stall's cool slab of granite.

“What do you mean you're okay? You don't sound okay to me. Z, are you sure you're all right?” Chica called from outside of the bathroom as she banged on the door.

Gagging air with nothing left on my stomach, I tried to catch my breath. A string of saliva ran from my mouth and I wiped it with the back of my hand. Between breaths I said, “It must be something I ate.” The truth be known, I hadn't eaten anything but a little broth that morning. This was my meal from yesterday.

Finally feeling some relief, I sat down and urinated since I couldn't help from peeing all the time, it seemed. I came out the restroom stall, washed my hands, then rinsed out my sour mouth. The next thing I knew Chica grabbed me by the shoulders, spun me around, then peered deeply down into my eyes.

“You look funny.” She shook her head and pursed her lips the way she did when she was figuring out something. “You sure you aren't pregnant?”

“No.” I averted my gaze as I threw the paper towels into the waste bin.

In turn, Chica grabbed up a paper towel, scurried into the bathroom, got on her knees, and scrubbed up the floor where I'd missed the toilet. She came out the bathroom, paper towel crumpled in her hand and shaking her head. She washed her hands and let them air dry. “Z, stop lying,” Chica snapped. “You're pregnant,
mija
. I've had five babies. I should know. I thought you looked different. It's something about your eyes. That's how Shirley knew I was pregnant with Trayvon.”

For the first time in months, Chica could talk about her murdered fifteen-year-old son, Trayvon, without breaking down crying. She was talking as if this was a warm memory—her getting pregnant for the first time at eighteen by a drug dealer, Dog Bite. Memories; how time softened tragedy.

As I felt hot tears swim to the surface, I shook my head to clear my eyes.

Chica reached over and hugged me, her tone as soothing as brook water running over smooth pebbles. “Why are you hiding it? You're a grown-ass woman. Girl, won't that be nice to have Romero's baby? You really loved him. This way, you'll always have a piece of him.”

I bit my bottom lip, fighting back the tears, which floated dangerously near the surface at all times these days. I noticed that tears were becoming my daily friend. I wasn't used to this rollercoaster of emotions. One minute I'd be all right, the next I'd be sobbing uncontrollably. Finally I spoke up. “I'm not sure if I'm going to have this baby.”

Chica caught her breath. “Wait a minute. What do you mean? Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

I nodded.

“Please don't do it.” Her voice was adamant, almost pleading.

“I just can't have a baby right now . . . not ever. I don't have a motherly bone in my body. I'm too scarred emotionally. When I was eight years old and my mother had my brother Diggity, I changed his diapers and got up at night with him so much, I think I knew then I'd never want babies. She just handed him over to me like I was the mother.”

Chica glanced around the bathroom, stooped down, peeked under the other stalls to make sure we were alone, then went into the bathroom and pulled out some toilet tissue. She handed it to me. “I'm going to tell you something I've never told another soul.”

“What?” I wiped my eyes, and gazed out. Chica looked like I was seeing her through a rainy window since my eyes were so bleary.

“When I was out on the streets, just before I got clean, I got pregnant by one of my johns. I didn't know who the father was and I went and had an abortion . . .” She paused, as if it was too painful to remember, let alone put into words.

“And?”

“On that first day everything seemed okay, but the next day, I started hemorrhaging. I wound up in the hospital in ICU. While I was passed out, they gave me an emergency hysterectomy in order to save my life. At the time, I was just happy to be alive. I never dreamed I'd clean up and find a good man like Riley so it was just another day in the life of a crack head. But now, I'd love to have a baby for Riley and I can't ever give him one. ”

“Does Riley know about this?”

“He knows I've had a hysterectomy, but he doesn't know why. I heard what you said about dick is not your friend.”

“When did I say that?”

“When I wanted to tell Riley about my being molested as a child. You said something like, ‘Don't tell men all your dirty secrets.'”

“Right. Save that for your girlfriends.”

Chica gave me a serious look. “You're more than a friend. You're my sister.” Then she added, “It'll all work out. Trust me.”

She pulled me into a long hug and was saying some more soothing words about her helping with the baby, which sounded more like Charlie Brown's teacher, “Wonk, wonk, wonk,” as far as I was concerned. I heard Chica's voice washing over me, but I didn't feel comforted. Between the nausea, the constant peeing, the fist tightness in my womb, the sore tingling in my growing breasts, I was miserable all the time. I pulled away and rushed out the restroom. I couldn't tell her the truth about the possible rape in Rio. I still didn't know what I was going to do. I found a table and I sat alone.

The dinner choices included grilled Cajun salmon, chicken cordon bleu, or Cornish hens with wild rice, asparagus, and a Greek salad. Dessert consisted of the most decadent piece of black forest cake slathered with a dollop of whip cream and the largest scrumptious Bing cherries I'd ever seen, but I knew I couldn't hold it down so I didn't try.

An example of Haviland's fastidious attention to detail was demonstrated in the impeccable calligraphy on the menu. I just picked at my food so my stomach wouldn't get upset again. I was thinking about what Chica said. Would I regret having an abortion?

“Hello. Why are you sitting over here by yourself?” A strangely familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.

I turned around and found myself face-to-face with the minister. He wore a white starched collar like a priest and a black old-fashioned Nehru-styled suit.

I glared at him, throwing all the shade I could muster up. “Why not?” I just wanted to be left alone.

His face melted into genuine lines of concern. “You seemed troubled.”

“No, I'm good.” I waved my hand in a “get lost” gesture.

“I didn't mean to disturb you. I've got to leave, but there was something about you. I'd like to give you my card, just in case you need prayers. You're welcome to come visit my church, too.”

I looked down at the small business card.
Fellowship Baptist Church, Inglewood, California. Reverend Edgar Broussard.
I slid the card in my purse next to my Glock, which was licensed, and which I carried with me at all times.

“I hope to see you again.” He gave me a tentative look, as if he expected me to say something in response.

“How are you getting back to the shore?”

“I'm taking the ferry back. I've got to get to work. ”

“What kind of work do you do?” I leaned forward with interest.

“I'm a fireman.”

“A minister who works?” I lifted my eyebrow in an incredulous manner. I didn't mean to sound sarcastic, but a working minister was an oxymoron in my world. I'd seen all the big churches on TV and splattered throughout Los Angeles. My relationship with organized religion had been like that of a relationship with a distant cousin since I became grown. I think the last time I stepped foot inside a church was at my nephew Trayvon's funeral. Shirley made us go to church so much after I went to live with her as a foster child at the age of nine, I really made a vow that when I got grown I'd never go to church.

“You know Apostle Paul and the disciples were tentmakers,” Reverend Broussard said. “They worked when they weren't out making disciples. So I follow in their footsteps. Besides, not all of us have mega churches.”

“Oh, so you're not one of the pimps in the pulpit?”

The minister paused. “If that's what you want to call them. I could take offense at what you're saying. I know there are some bad ministers out there, but I try to live by the Word. I fall short sometimes, but I do my best.”

I didn't respond to him.

“Well, I must be getting along.”

I wanted to tell him I didn't want to hear anything about any old God or any Christianity. But most of all, I was angry at God. I almost wanted to shake my fists at the heavens and scream, “What next, God? You're doing a good job up there. First,
You
take my family from me when I was a child, then You kill off my first true love, and now I'm pregnant with a baby that may or may not be my lover's child. What else you got good for me, God? Is that all You got?
”

I silently made a vow.
I promise to find the two men who kidnapped my brother and indirectly caused Romero's death. I will get to the bottom of this if this is the last thing I do.

I knew whenever I made a vow, I followed through with it.

I wanted to tell the good reverend I didn't want to hear anything about any old Jesus or any Christianity. If there was a God, why was I born into the life I was born into—with my mother being a Crip, my brother Mayhem being a Crip, or, the coup de grâce, my father being murdered in front of my eyes when I was nine years old? How could I not be scarred? Give me a break.

 

As everyone got up to do the Cupid Shuffle from the movie
Jumping the Broom,
I remained seated. I looked on as the dances evolved into the Wobble, the Electric Slide, and the Dougie. The women outnumbered the men ten to one, so it was good they had the line dancing going on. The party was getting heated up. I thought about how well Romero and I used to salsa together and a pang of loss hit me again. I sipped my water slowly to keep from regurgitating again.

Gradually, my stomach began to settle down. Instead of dancing, I was enjoying myself with a bottle of water, and finding solace in my settled stomach. One day I would be happy; the next, I'd be miserable. Little things, such as not feeling sick to the stomach, made my day now.

Even water tasted good, now that it wasn't coming back up. I didn't want to go into the main ballroom and sit on the dais with Haviland and the wedding party because if I got sick again, she might guess. Up until now, I hadn't told either Chica or Haviland that I was pregnant, but Chica seemed to have guessed from my vomiting. However, I didn't confirm or deny my pregnancy when Chica asked me. I trusted Chica not to say anything; we'd held each other's secrets since we were raised together in foster care. But I didn't want big mouth Haviland to know—particularly if I terminated the pregnancy.

To begin with, I was not the motherly type. Never wanted children after being a foster kid. Truthfully, I was afraid I wouldn't know how to be a good mother.

What would I do with a baby? But then I got down to the heart of it. What if the baby wasn't Romero's? Could I raise a rapist's baby?

One day I would be okay; the next, I'd be miserable. I'd even driven to an abortion clinic, not once, but twice, but the protesters surrounding it scared me off the first time, and the second time, I just sat in my car and cried.

First of all, let me explain something. It wasn't that I was religious or anything that stopped me each day. Maybe I didn't want to be seen on the Internet or Instagram where someone snapped me on the camera going into the clinic. Don't get me wrong. I'm no saint because of the reality show. I really don't know what stopped me.

In all my thirty-five years, I'd never been pregnant. For one, I didn't even think I could get pregnant, since I'd been sexually active more or less (meaning I had periods of celibacy, particularly when I first got sober) since I was nineteen. I've been married twice, once where the marriage was annulled. I'd been single the last ten years. I generally used condoms, but the last time I was with Romero, he didn't use one. I was drugged in Rio, so I don't know what happened while I was out, but I do know I was tampered with downstairs in my cootie-cat.

After being raised as a foster kid, even though I had a good foster home with Shirley and Chill, who were still my surrogate parents, I was leery of risking motherhood. As far as I was concerned, Venita, my biological mother, pushed us out into the world with no more concern than a cat has for kittens and we all wound up spread to the four winds. I had no role model of how to raise a child, other than the care my foster mother, Shirley, had given me. But, was that good enough to be a mother? But then I got down to the heart of the matter. What if the baby wasn't Romero's? Could I love that child?