I hit my lights, pull over in the cut, away from the entrance. After I pull my hoodie over my head and gather the string tight enough for the hoodie to partially cover my face, I get out and sprint toward the wheelchair. Once I push it to my ride, I get the lady and her bag and place her in it. She’s conscious but her eyes look weak and her breathing sounds really labored.
I roll her to the large, glass, double doors. When they open, I push the chair with force, just enough to get distance from me.
As she rolls into the hospital, I yell, “Help! Help! She needs help.”
The minute I see someone dressed in light blue scrubs rush toward her, I skirt. I take off, hop in my still running ride, and back out of that bay fast as hell. My heart is pounding in my fucking chest and it doesn’t stop until I pull into my garage.
“Now what the fuck was yo’ dumb ass thinking?” I ask Kadean as soon as my garage door closes.
Chapter 2
Adora Mitchell
Six and a half weeks later
It’s Tuesday, and no matter how I feel, my babies expect some form of Mexican food on Tuesdays. I’m keeping it simple tonight though, cheese quesadillas—with salsa for Averi and sour cream for Romi— smashed black beans, and yellow rice. While I usually have to make at least two different quesadillas, tonight, they both requested cheese and I’m grateful. Between my eight-hour shift at the office and my hour lunch break spent on the phone with the insurance company, I was too drained to cook much more than that.
“Are we talking to daddy tonight?” Averi, my six-year-old, asks and I turn to keep her from seeing me roll my eyes.
“Yes, baby. Get your iPad while I fix your trays.”
Averi darts off toward their room to grab the iPad. Although they have their own rooms now that we are in my mom’s house, Averi and Romi refuse to sleep in separate rooms. The third bedroom still contains all of my mom’s things I don’t have the emotional strength to go through. It’s been forty-seven days and it still feels like we’d lost her yesterday.
“Can I help, Mommie?” my little four-year old helper, Romi, asks. Her little heart is bigger than her body and she likes to assist with every little thing.
“You can grab two juices out of the refrigerator for you and your sister.”
“You not thirsty?” she asks.
I’m definitely thirsty, just not for that.“Mommie is going to haveherjuice for dinner.”It’s strong and requires a tall glass.
In the bottom of the fridge, in the veggie crisper, I keep their juice boxes, little mini milk cartons, and squeezable yogurts. It allows easy access for them.
We all meet at the kitchen table. I have their filled food trays, pink for Romi and yellow for Averi. Averi has her iPad and Romi has two juice boxes. Averi climbs into her chair and I help Romi into hers then open their juices and prop up the iPad.
Rush, their selfish ass father, should be calling in a few minutes with a video visit. He’s in maximum security at Diamond Falls Correctional Facility, doing a twelve-year sentence for aggravated burglary. He got locked up when I was pregnant with Romi. She’s yet to see him in person because I promised him when he decided to do dumb shit that I would never bring my babies to visit him inside. I refuse to subject my daughters to anything associated with prison. They don’t need to go through that, so every Tuesday and Sunday, I schedule video visits.
I grew up without knowing who my father was so I’m trying to give my girls some semblance of a relationship with theirs. It’s getting harder and harder to do that though because I honestly feel like I’m the only one pushing the relationship. Two years ago, when my separate video visits stopped and I stopped hitting the road every other weekend for face-to-face visits, his desire to be consistent with the girls’ video visits seemed to diminish as well.
“Let’s say our grace so we can eat,” I say and they bow their heads and press their hands together, placing them in front of their faces then closing their eyes.
“Romi, you can say it,” Averi says, knowing her little sister likes doing so.
“Okay. Thank you, God, for food and prayer. And teach us how to love and share. Amen,” my baby says, reciting our normal dinner prayer.
“Amen.”
As they start to eat, I walk back to the kitchen island and prepare my plate. I like jalapeños, salsa, and sour cream with my quesadilla. After I chop up a whole pickled jalapeño, I open my bottle of Black Ops Specialty Bourbon Lemon Drop and pour a much-needed glass. With it in hand, I walk back to the girls and open the visitor app on the iPad. Rush should be logging on in a few minutes.
While I’m testing the camera and volume, his face fills the screen and I try to step back. I don’t even want him to see me. Two years ago, when I finally woke up and realized just how selfish and verbally abusive he was, I was done. Our eight-year tumultuous relationship ended for me and the once handsome man with the head full of beautiful locs became hideous to me. His ugly ways and attitude overshadowed any good looks he possessed. I was able to see past his manipulation and facade and saw the real Rushmore Roberts.
I saw the man who refused to hold a steady job, the man who was cool with watching the mother of his one-year-old work all day while he stayed at home doing God knows what. I saw the same man who decided stealing from hard working people was better than earning his own. I saw the man I should have never given my heart, body, and mind to.
“Adora, you not gon’ speak?” he says as soon as his face appears on the screen.
“Hello, Rushmore,” I say, smirking before I walk back into the kitchen. He hates his government name.
“Man, hold that shit down,” he scoffs.
