L.A. Blues III Read Free

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.
    â€œ 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œNo.” 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.
    â€œPlease don’t do it.” Her voice was adamant, almost pleading.
    â€œI just can’t have a baby right now . . . not ever. I don’t have a