We Are Not Like Them(48)

There’s a brown water stain on the ceiling. I zero in on it, trying to decide if it looks more like a palm tree or a pineapple as Dr. Wu pushes the needle into the fleshy part of my upper arm. I’m still pissed at my mom, but I also wish she’d scoot closer to the table and stroke my forehead the way Gigi used to when I was sick. But Lou’s not a toucher, never has been. At least not with me. Dr. Wu must be able to sense my need for human comfort, because, after administering the shot, she runs her own hand lightly over my hair, smoothing it away from my face.

“We’re going to keep monitoring you closely, okay? I’m going to send you down to radiology for an ultrasound. They should be able to get you in within the hour. Is your mom staying with you?”

We both look at Lou, her already pale skin pastier than usual now that she’s been called into action.

“I can stay.”

Dr. Wu nods in approval. “I’m going to let you get dressed. Rita will be back in with the ultrasound order, and you can head down.”

When the doctor opens the door, I spot the beautiful woman from the waiting room walking out of the bathroom in her flimsy paper gown, runny mascara creating black streaks down her face. When we lock eyes, I get the sense that she sees me as the lucky one today.

Lou hands me my clothes. “It’s not fair. All this stress on you while you’re pregnant.”

“Yeah, well, isn’t that what you always told me, Lou? Life isn’t fair?” Lou doesn’t respond as I slip back into my clothes. But it’s true, nothing about this is fair. I’ve done everything right. I read all the books, did all the stupid breathing exercises, took all the vitamins. I’ve worked so hard for this, wanted it so badly. I’ve come this far, and I can’t let it be taken from me. In my mind a slideshow plays out—butternut squash, pineapple, pumpkin, and… then a baby.

“Look, it’s Riley.”

I almost lose my balance and topple over with one leg in my jeans.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your phone just buzzed. Here.” Lou thrusts it in my face, never mind that looking at my phone is none of her business.

There it is, right on the screen: Riley. The last person I’m expecting to hear from. I finish getting dressed before I swipe at the screen with my damp hands.

Hey—I have on my calendar that your appointment is today. Hope everything is okay.

“What? What’d she say?” Lou asks.

“Nothing, come on, let’s go.”

Riley’s message and the fact that she has all of my appointments in her calendar are a surprise. A nice one. Of course, Riley would have come with me today if—if everything was different. So why am I annoyed? “Hope everything is okay”? Well, it’s not. My stress levels are crazy high, and it could hurt my baby, and you’re taking the side of the people who want to lock his daddy up forever.

“Are you okay?” Lou is racing to keep up as I practically jog to the elevators.

“No, Lou, I’m not okay. Did you hear what the doctor said? I might have preeclampsia. It’s dangerous, okay?” I snap at her, my voice carrying down the hall.

The other woman waiting for the elevator looks at me like I’m a crazy person. I know I should be embarrassed. But I’m not, and I don’t feel bad when Lou takes a cowering step backward like a beaten dog.

“What’s that?” I ask, seeing something in Lou’s hand. My mom holds up an ultrasound photo.

“What the hell? Did you steal that from my file?”

Lou grins. “What? I wanted it. It’s not like you’ve ever given me one. It’s my grandson.” She looks down at the picture with such adoration that I’m seized by a fleeting hope. Is it possible, is there a chance that Lou would be a better grandma than she was a mom? I’m angry at myself that I even allow this hope to creep into my heart.

“Give me that.” I hold out my palm, and Lou lays the photo in it. I trace my finger over the dark shadows. Now that I know to look for it, I can just make out his little wee-wee.

Chase.

Chase.

Chase.

A mantra and a prayer.





Chapter Seven RILEY




There’s a boy in that coffin.

Even with Justin’s picture blown up poster-size on an easel behind the casket, it’s almost impossible to believe there’s a child inside, a small body trapped in a wooden box soon to be buried beneath layers and layers of dirt.

Through speaker after speaker, I’ve tried to make sense of that. I look up to meet Justin’s eyes in his photo. This one is less staged than the official school portrait Tamara gave to the media—the one where he looks like he’s trying to be grown and serious and not let a smile crack his lips. In this photo, his hair is longer, a fade turning into an Afro. He looks unguarded, happy, with an adorable goofy grin wide enough to showcase the straw-size gap between his two front teeth. Like the coffin, I can’t bear to look at the picture for long, or the roomful of sorrowful faces. The only other choice is to stare down at my lap. According to the program, the next speaker, now walking to the podium, is the last one. He’s a boy, a little younger than Justin. I recognize him from Tamara’s living room. He climbs the few steps to the raised platform, approaches the podium that stands in front of the coffin. In a shaky voice, he introduces himself as Malik, one of Justin’s cousins.