Wiser (19 page)

It reached a fever point when I came back from the market to find Jake smoking a joint in the living room.

“You want a hit?” he asked, his eyes half-lidded, holding the roach out to me.

“Hello?” I said, pointing at a belly no one could miss. “Pregnant, here.”

“You’ve been so uptight lately,” Jake said, shrugging. “Maybe it’d do you good.”

“You want to harm your unborn child with marijuana?” I asked. “Is that what you really want, Jake?”

I was unwillingly transported back to Tennessee, my parents putting their substances of choice well before their children. I gritted my teeth. Is that what kind of father Jake was planning on being? I shouldn’t even be around the smoke. It was bad for the baby and bad for me. What was Jake thinking?

What was I thinking?

I plopped the bag of groceries on the table and took up my purse again.

“Where are you going?” Jake asked, setting the joint on the ashtray in front of him. The smoke spiraled toward the ceiling, looking poisonous.

“I can’t stay here,” I said, heading for the door.

As high as he was, it surprised me how fast Jake moved.

“Do you think you can maybe give me another chance?” he asked, seizing me by my elbow before I could walk out the door.

“For smoking weed?” I asked. “If it were up to me, you’d never smoke it again.”

“I mean, overall,” he said. “Christ, Blue, I’ve done nothing but try since we met for brunch and you’ve kept me at arm’s length.”

I searched my heart, looking for the truth in his words even as I knew they were undeniably true.

“You ignored me for the majority of my pregnancy,” I said. “What makes you deserve another chance at being there for me? Being there for my child?”

“It’s our baby, Blue,” Jake said, his eyes shimmering. “I’m sorry for hurting you. I want to make it right.”

“I don’t know what I want,” I said. “You’re going to have to accept that.”

It was too close to my due date to be doing something like this, but I didn’t care. I didn’t know where the right place to go was anymore. I wasn’t wise enough to make these kinds of decisions. I just wasn’t.

I looked up into the sky, slices of gray that I could only see through the other tall buildings. It began to rain, fat droplets that soaked my hair and dress.

Perfect. Just perfect. Just what I needed. A rainstorm in the middle of the city and I didn’t have a place in the world to go.

My breath caught in my throat. There was one place I could go. One more place to try.

Knowing it was the worst decision to make, I set off across the city.

There was no girdle that was going to hold me in at this point, I realized as I walked across the city, wrapping my arms around my big belly to help support it. And where I was headed would hold no sort of refuge for me now.

But something inside of me wanted to see Mama’s nightclub again—just for the simple fact that it used to be my home. I had belonged in it at some point, and I wanted to experience that again, even if it was only an illusion.

I’d thought I’d belonged with Jake, once, and then Dan. Those were even more hurtful farces.

Jake’s apartment was miles away from the seedy part of town that housed the nightclub, but pounding the pavement took my mind off of my problems.

How could I have not realized that Dan and Jake were brothers? They had the same last name, for God’s sake. I should’ve known the moment that Dan had introduced himself at the nightclub.

But, distracted with my entire life falling down around me, I’d moved forward blindly, throwing away everything to be with Dan. And to carry Jake’s baby to term.

And to lose everything.

The constant crush of people around me was, on the whole, impersonal—just commuters trying to get to their jobs or tourists trying to get to their next destination. Each one of them, though, had a purpose—a set of motivations and reasoning’s that were driving them toward something. When someone jostled me, it reminded me that I didn’t have anywhere to go. I walked in the overlap of umbrellas, then didn’t, not minding the warm rain. I didn’t care if I got soaking wet. I didn’t care about anything.

I was on a pilgrimage, of sorts. I was going to go see what I used to call home. I probably wouldn’t see any of my old friends, and only God would save me if I saw Mama. She’d probably murder me on the spot the moment she saw my big, pregnant belly.

I didn’t know what I was going to do.

At this time of the afternoon, it should’ve been quiet in front of the nightclub. It only got interesting after opening, when people would line up, sometimes around the block, to try to get a table and the attentions of one of Mama’s bevy of beautiful girls.

But now, in the middle of the afternoon, there were cars pulled up in front of the nightclub, blocking the entrance. The entire area was cordoned off with yellow tape, and I noticed flashing lights.

Jogging up—or at least attempting my version of jogging, which was more like waddling at that point—I grabbed the shoulder of the first person I reached.

“What’s going on here?” I demanded. “What happened?”

He was scribbling something on a pad of paper and looked up at me briefly before finishing whatever he was writing.

“Vice raid,” he said. “Nightclub was a front for a brothel. If you want the rest of the story, you’ll have to read it. It’s big shit. Bunch of city officials knew about it. This is just the beginning of everything.”

I stared at the scene unfolding in front of me. Cops were milling about. I wondered if the guy standing next to me—still jotting things in his notebook and evidently a reporter for one of the city’s many media outlets—knew that Mama’s nightclub had also hosted very privileged clientele, including the chief of police, right alongside some of the most notorious criminal bosses of the city.

“Where will they all go?” I wondered aloud, thinking of the rest of Mama’s girls.

“To hell, if we’re talking biblically,” the reporter joked, not looking at me. “But to jail, on this plane of existence, if proven guilty in a court of law.”

How many of my friends had been arrested? How many of them would do jail time?

How many got away?

No less than three cops burst out of the front door of the nightclub, dragging an extremely irate Mama. She was cussing a blue streak, her hair as wild as her eyes, her arms and legs akimbo.

“You let me talk to Johnny!” she screamed. “Let me talk to your boss, you sons of bitches!”

The reporter next to me sucked in air through his teeth, writing for all he was worth. Mama had just given the tabloids fresh meat. Johnny French was the chief of police of New York City.

After a considerable struggle, and salacious action for the photographers and videographers gathered around, the cops were able to shove Mama into the back of a squad car.

When they slammed the door shut, something slammed shut in me. It was the same feeling I got watching the police officers with Child Protective Services take my brothers and sisters away. It was the sound of a significant portion of my life ending.

I’d known walking all the way over here that I wasn’t going to stay. But where was I going to go now? What had I given up in the process?

Had I ever made even one right decision? A single wise choice in my entire existence?

“Blue as the sea,” I muttered, my chest heaving, tears spilling down my cheeks. “Blue as the sea.”

My little meditation trick was no use. There was too much right beneath the surface of that sea—neglect, abuse, betrayal, confusion, anger, and love. Too much.

Right there outside of Mama’s nightclub, sirens wailing and New Yorkers standing around, I launched into a panic attack. My stomach seized up and I cried out, unable to keep myself from doing it. I latched onto the reporter’s arm, halting his incessant writing, and gritted my teeth.

“You okay?” he asked, cocking his head at me.

I hyperventilated, unable to get a good breath. This was the worst attack to date. All of my friends, gone. My former home, gone. Nowhere to go. Everything was gone.

My knees buckled and I gave a keening wail again. My stomach hurt terribly. I grabbed it, putting my arms around myself, and the reporter helped me sink slowly to the ground.

“Are you going into labor?” he asked. “Should I get an ambulance?”

The worst of the stomach pains subsided. “No,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s just a stupid panic attack.”

But then the pavement beneath us was wet and the front of my leggings were soaked.

“Your water always break when you have these panic attacks?” the reporter asked sardonically. “Yo! I need an ambulance over here!”

A cop ducked under the yellow tape and helped clear the crowd from around me. I hoped inanely that Mama wouldn’t see this mess, wouldn’t realize that it was me, in apparent labor, who was causing this side drama from the nightclub. It was hard to fathom the fact that Mama was about to go far out of reach. She wouldn’t be able to touch me—or any of us girls—again.

“You wanna call someone?” the reporter asked, unzipping my purse for me. “Tell them to meet you at the hospital? Your family? Father of the baby?”

The reporter’s deft, knowing fingers located the phone and pushed it into my hand as another horrid cramp made me curse luridly. I clutched the phone, staring at the screen, before unlocking it and scrolling to my contact list.

Dan Fraser.

Jake Fraser.

One right before the other.

Why I hadn’t even realized it when I’d had both their numbers saved was beyond me. How blind had I been?

But now I had to make a decision. Did I want to call the father of my baby, Jake? We’d shared a fiery passion, no one could deny that. And he was my baby’s biological father. He’d promised that he’d changed, swore to me that he was ready to be a daddy, ready to take both me and his child into his life.

Or did I want to call Dan? Maybe we didn’t have as much scorch to our relationship as Jake and I had, but there was definitely a slow burn, a deep, comfortable passion. Would it last forever, or would he get tired of me eventually? Would he someday come to the realization that he was too good for me, with his degree and job and success?

Who did I call? Dan? Or Jake?

Jake? Or Dan?

Medical personnel I hadn’t even noticed approach lifted me onto a gurney, strapping me in securely.

“Good luck,” the reporter said, patting my knee as I was wheeled away.

“You calling someone to meet you, sweetheart?” a kindly EMT asked me.

A third pain—no, they were called contractions—hit me, but the straps kept me from doubling over. I squeezed the older woman’s hand and rode it out.

Was I calling someone? Yes, but who to call? Jake, the hip, red-hot DJ, rightful father to the baby getting ready to come into this world, or Dan, the stable, successful uncle of my child, who’d believed in me long before I was ever wise enough to believe in myself?

“Sweetheart?” the woman prompted as soon as I’d loosened my death grip on her hand. “You calling someone?”

“Yes,” I said, and hit send.