Chapter 8
DUKE
The easiest way out of this situation would be death.
Had to die. That’s what I was going to do when Mahogany found out anyway.
And she’d find out. She always did. Sometimes I felt like Mahogany was a psychic, she knew shit just to be knowing shit and it annoyed me.
I really didn’t need her to find out about this though.
It had been three days since I found out about Diary and every day since had been spent on edge, worried.
It felt like my days were numbered. Because if there was one thing Mahogany was great at, it was keeping up with my routine and my shit was flipping.
She thought I was cheating.
Could feel it in every ‘okay’ and ‘uh huh’.
I could’ve been tweaking. Could’ve been my insecurities but something told me that I’d be hit with divorce papers soon.
I wasn’t even the anxiety type of nigga, but I felt that shit.
It woke me up out of my sleep last night.
I had a whole ass panic attack. Couldn’t tell you much about it.
The only thing I could remember was Mahogany hopping up, asking me if I was alright. I wasn’t. My spirit was uneasy.
“Yeah, I’m here to see Diary Little,” I said to the receptionist. “I should be on the list.”
I was back at the hospital, to handle some much-needed business.
I had a kit on me—a DNA test. I might’ve fucked Erika raw every now and then, but she could’ve been fuckin’ other niggas.
I refused to just take responsibility. I needed proof.
I really didn’t want to see Diary but in order to do the test, I had to swab her mouth.
With consent from her grandmother, of course.
Rochelle was alright. Every now and then she showed a little compassion, while on the other hand, she treated me like a deadbeat father instead of a nigga who’d just found the kid.
The receptionist typed around on her keyboard and looked up at me with a light smile. “ Good evening,” she paused, locked eyes with me and gave me another smile. “Diary Little? PICU, room 1512. Do you know how to get there?”
I told her yeah, but I didn’t know shit.
Just told her yeah so, she could give me my pass, and I could be on my way.
I caught the sarcasm with the good evening, and I wasn’t feeling the bitch.
Maybe I should’ve greeted her. Didn’t because I just didn’t give a fuck.
That was my mood these days. I was pissed most of the time, so I really didn’t give fuck.
Not about anything aside from the family I created out of love.
I didn’t want shit to do with Erika or her child.
Yeah, her child. Wouldn’t call her mine until the test results came back.
Every night I prayed that when I got the results, they would be negative.
I didn’t want her for obvious reasons. However, I could see very well, and Diary was damn near a splitting version of Sparkle and Spark’ looked like me.
I hated it. Knowing, without really knowing.
The minute I walked into her hospital room the other day, seeing her for the first time, I just knew.
I didn’t need a test, but I needed a test.
Denial weighed heavy on me. A positive result threatened the hell out of my future.
I wanted Mahogany and my four.
Didn’t even feel right to think about having a fifth, especially since she was on the outside.
Shit had me really fucked up. So much so that when I left the hospital that day, I hit the liquor store and drove to a park around the corner from the crib to get drunk as hell.
Couldn’t fuck around with Tank and them anymore.
Wasn’t too far from the hood but still. The type of mood I was in…
I wanted to drown my sorrows. Killed a pint of Don Julio by my lonely, straight.
I was sick. Literally. Thinking about the little girl being mine made me nauseous.
That and the thought of possibly having to deal with Erika for the rest of my life too.
I fucked with her. She was cool. She was really cool, but my wife was my wife, and I didn’t want anybody added to the equation that didn’t belong.
Erika might’ve been cool in the relationship or whatever the fuck it was but we didn’t end on good terms. She was clingy.
Didn’t want us to end. Cried a lot. Complained.
Wanted to compromise. Promised to be more patient than she already had been.
Went nuts too. Called my wife all types of names, claimed I was settling.
Called me a dumb ass nigga for losing her.
The whole nine. I ended up having to block her number too.
Thought she would end up popping up at the crib.
I had to threaten the bitch real good when it came to that.
She knew where I lived. Had been to the crib a couple of times.
That was the type of shit I used to be on.
Degraded my home. Fucked a bitch in the bed I shared with my wife.
That’s why I got so uncomfortable every time someone said Mahogany was lucky.
She wasn’t. I treated her like shit. Most of the things I did, she never learned about.
A nice chunk of the women, yeah. But what I did with them?
Shit no. I knew for certain that if she knew that, we wouldn’t be in martial counseling.
I would have gotten divorce papers a long ass time ago.
That was why I valued her so much now. Felt like God had given me a second chance, and I didn’t want to fumble.
I couldn’t. That was why Diary couldn’t be mine.
Because if she was… I was going to lose it. And everything else in between.
I didn’t even know how to feel about their condition for real.
They were in a head-on collision, caused by the other driver.
The person was going the wrong way on the freeway.
The accident was pretty bad. Life threatening.
The driver that caused the accident died on the scene.
Erika was still in critical—they were working hard to keep her stable.
I hoped like hell she pulled through. I had questions only she could answer.
Rochelle helped a little bit. Told me as much as she could from her perspective and apparently, E was thinking about telling me about Diary.
Said her third birthday was coming up and not telling me was eating at her spirit.
She said Erika tried to call a couple of times but was too nervous to tell me so she’d either hang up or call private.
The only good thing about that conversation was finding out about who’d been behind the private calls.
Diary was moved up to stable last night. Because she was in the back, strapped in her car seat, her damaged wasn’t nearly as severe as Erika’s.
After asking a nurse for help, I finally found the PICU.
The walk to her room was slow. The first time I was here, I just walked right in without any real expectations.
It wasn’t only the fact that she looked like Sparkle that fucked me up—it was the machines she was hooked up to.
She might’ve been in a better predicament than Erika, but she still was a baby hooked up to stuff.
The accident on her little body was traumatic as hell.
Her resemblance to my daughter only made me feel worst. Felt like I was staring down at my own child.
Probably was the case, but you know what the fuck I meant.
The walk to room fifteen-twelve was longer than necessary. When I made it, she had family inside. Two men, a woman, and Rochelle. The minute I knocked on the door, making myself known, all eyes fell on me and conversation ceased.
“Wassup, how y’all doin?” I greeted, brushing my fingers on the back of the boxed DNA test kit sitting in my pocket.
One of the niggas chucked his chin and stood. “What up doe? You must be Duke.”
He approached with an open palm, and we shook hands. “Yeah, I’m Duke,” I told him, unsure of how to take his energy.
He was a big nigga. Had to be a good six foot five.
“Aaron,” he greeted. “Erika’s brother. My bad about all of this. Sis didn’t handle her situation right. Fucked up way to find out about yo’ daughter, right?” He locked eyes with me and raised his brows for emphasis, probably waiting for me to deny her in his face the same way I did Rochelle.
What the fuck else was I supposed to do? Just take the little girl as mine?
“Don’t know if she mine yet,” I responded, pulling the test from my pocket, showing him. “But yeah, it’s fucked up, for real.”
Thought I was going to bitch up? Fuck no. I said I was a real nigga at all times. Didn’t give a fuck about her brother. At all. Didn’t give a fuck about Rochelle, the bitch sitting next to her, or the other nigga neither. Fuck all of them.
I might not have been a street nigga, but I didn’t have to be.
Who I was, was embedded in me because of where I grew up at.
I was considered a balling ass bookworm nigga for most of my teenaged years but that didn’t take away from my street cred.
I didn’t need to be on a corner to be considered one of the realest. Didn’t need to sell drugs to be respected.
Niggas in the hood knew not to fuck with me off my reputation alone.
I was a one hitter, quitter. Had to be. It came with the territory.
Growing up in the hood you either had to know how to fight or owned a pistol.
Didn’t have a gun, so you know the rest. I got out in the field, for real.
“I know that ain’t a DNA test,” He doubted, looking me up and down with a frown. “You think you about to swab my niece mouth while she in here, nigga?” Aaron asked with a frown.