8. TRUTH #2
I sat in my car in the parking lot and opened the bag.
Inside was a box of pre-filled syringes, alcohol wipes, and a sharps container.
I stared at the syringes.
My hands started shaking.
I got out of the car.
Walked back into the clinic because I damn sure couldn’t do this at home with my mama all in my business. Also, if I passed out, I wanted Dr. Beaumont to be close.
I found the bathroom.
Locked the door.
Set the bag on the counter and pulled out the needle kit.
The syringe was small—smaller than I expected—but it still looked like a weapon.
I opened the pamphlet.
Read the instructions.
Step 1: Wash your hands.
Step 2: Clean injection site with alcohol wipe.
Step 3: Pinch skin and insert needle at 90-degree angle.
Step 4: Inject medication slowly.
Step 5: Remove needle and apply pressure.
I read it three times.
Then I looked at myself in the mirror.
My reflection stared back—tired, scared, broke, and desperate.
“I can do this,” I whispered.
My voice sounded small in the empty bathroom.
“I can do this.”
I thought about the $50,000 in my account.
About Mama’s house.
About Phillip’s face when he realized I didn’t need him anymore.
About escape.
I picked up the syringe.
Held it in my hand.
Felt the weight of it.
“I can do this.”
I put the kit back in the bag.
Unlocked the door.
Walked out.
And I didn’t look back.
Day three.
I sat on the edge of my bed at 10:47 PM, staring at my thigh.
The injection site was swollen. Red. Hot to the touch.
It didn’t look like this yesterday.
Yesterday, it was just a small pink dot where the needle went in—tender but manageable. Today it was the size of a quarter, raised and angry, radiating heat through the thin cotton of my pajama shorts.
I gently pressed my fingers against it.
Winced.
Did I do it wrong?
I grabbed the instruction pamphlet Dr. Beaumont had given me. Read through the steps again, my hands shaking.
Step 1: Wash your hands.
I’d done that.
Step 2: Clean injection site with alcohol wipe.
I’d done that too.
Step 3: Pinch skin and insert needle at 90-degree angle.
I thought I’d done that. But what if the angle was wrong? What if I’d hit something I wasn’t supposed to?
Step 4: Inject medication slowly.
I’d gone slow. I was sure I’d gone slow.
Step 5: Remove needle and apply pressure.
I’d done that.
So why did it look like this?
I scrolled through the side effects section.
Mild redness or swelling at injection site is normal.
But this didn’t feel mild.
This felt like my body was rejecting the medication. Like I was allergic. Like I’d fucked up something that was supposed to be simple, and now I was going to lose the contract before it even started.
My chest tightened.
I stood, paced to the window, then back to the bed.
The house was quiet. Mama had gone to bed an hour ago. I could hear her TV playing low through the wall—Criminal Minds reruns, like always.
I sat back down.
Stared at my phone.
I had Amai’s number. For emergencies.
Is this an emergency?
I didn’t know.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe by tomorrow morning it would be fine, and I’d feel stupid for panicking.
But what if it wasn’t fine?
What if this was the beginning of something serious, and I waited too long to say anything?
What if I messed up before there even was a baby?
My hands were shaking harder now.
I unlocked my phone.
Pulled up Amai’s contact.
Stared at his name.
Amai Landry.
It was 10:52 PM.
Too late to call.
I pressed the call button before I could talk myself out of it.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then his voice, “What’s wrong?”
Not hello. Not who is this?
Just, What’s wrong.
Like he’d been waiting.
“I—” My voice cracked. I cleared my throat.
Tried again. “I’m sorry. I know it’s late.
I just—the injection site is swollen, and I don’t know if that’s normal or if I did something wrong.
I read the pamphlet, but it says mild swelling is okay, but this doesn’t feel mild, and I don’t want to mess this up. ”
I was talking too fast. Filling the silence because I couldn’t stop myself.
“Slow down,” Amai said. His voice was calm. Steady. “Where’s the swelling?”
“My thigh. Where I did the injection tonight.”
“How big?”
“Like—” I looked down at it. “Like a quarter. Maybe bigger. And it’s hot. Really hot.”
“Send me a photo.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Take a picture of it and send it to me. Right now.”
I pulled the phone away from my ear, switched to the camera, and angled it toward my thigh. The lighting was bad, but I could see the raised red circle clearly.
I took the photo.
Sent it.
Waited.
The silence stretched.
Then, “Stay there. I’m sending someone.”
“What? No. It’s almost eleven. I don’t need?—”
“I don’t care what time it is.” His voice was firm. “You’re preparing to carry my child. Stay there.”
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone.
He’d hung up on me.
I sat there for a moment, processing.
He’s sending someone.
At 11 PM.
To the Seventh Ward.
For a swollen injection site.
I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified.
Forty-three minutes later, headlights swept across the front of the house.
I was standing at the window, my phone clutched in my hand, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
A black car pulled up to the curb—sleek, expensive, completely out of place on this street.
The driver’s side door opened.
A woman got out.
Fifties, maybe. Asian. Short silver hair. Wearing slacks and a blazer like she’d just come from an office, not like she’d been dragged out of bed at midnight.
She reached into the backseat and pulled out a black medical bag.
I heard Mama’s bedroom door open.
“Truth?” Her voice was groggy. Suspicious. “Who the hell is that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The woman walked up the front steps.
Knocked.
Mama appeared in the hallway in her robe and house shoes, her hair wrapped in a scarf, her face set in that expression that said somebody better start explaining real quick.
She pushed past me and opened the door.
“Who the hell are you?” Mama demanded.
The woman didn’t flinch. “Dr. Chen. Mr. Landry sent me.”
Mama’s eyes narrowed. “At damn near midnight?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mama looked at me. “Truth?”
I stepped forward. “It’s okay, Mama. I called him. About—” I gestured vaguely at my leg. “About the injections.”
Mama’s expression shifted from suspicion to something sharper. “The what?”
Dr. Chen glanced between us. “May I come in?”
I nodded quickly. “Yeah. Yes. Come in.”
Dr. Chen stepped inside. Mama closed the door behind her but didn’t move from her spot, arms crossed, watching everything.
“Where’s the injection site?” Dr. Chen asked.
I pointed to my thigh. “Here.”
“Sit down.”
I sat on the couch. Dr. Chen set her bag on the coffee table, pulled on a pair of gloves, and knelt in front of me.
Her hands were gentle as she examined the swollen area—pressing lightly, checking the temperature, looking at the edges.
“How long has it looked like this?” she asked.
“Since tonight. It was fine yesterday.”
“Any itching? Difficulty breathing? Dizziness?”
“No. Just—it’s hot. And it hurts a little.”
She nodded. “It’s a mild allergic reaction. Completely normal. Some people’s skin is more sensitive to the hormone. It’ll go down in a day or two.”
Relief flooded through me so fast I felt dizzy.
“So, I didn’t do it wrong?”
“No.” Dr. Chen looked up at me. “You did everything right. This is just your body adjusting.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small tube of cream. “Apply this twice a day. It’ll help with the swelling and the heat. And next time, try icing the area for ten minutes after you inject. That’ll minimize the reaction.”
I took the tube. “Thank you.”
Dr. Chen stood, stripped off her gloves, and packed her bag. “You’re doing fine. Don’t worry.”
She was out the door in less than twenty minutes.
Mama and I stood in the living room, staring at each other.
“Truth,” Mama said slowly. “What the fuck was that?”
I looked down at the tube of cream in my hand.
Then I looked back at her.
“Sit down, Mama.”
“I don’t wanna sit down. I wanna know why a doctor just showed up at my house at midnight because that man who sat in my yard eating all my crawfish sent her.”
“Sit down,” I said again. “Please.”
Mama sat.
I sat beside her.
And I told her everything.
The ad. The interview. The contract. The $250,000. The hormone injections. The IVF. The baby I was going to carry for a man I barely knew.
Mama didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t yell.
Just sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her face unreadable.
When I finished, the silence stretched so long I thought she might never speak again.
Then she said, quietly, “You signed a contract to have a baby for Amai Landry.”
“Yes.”
“The man who beat Phillip’s ass in the street.”
“Yes.”
“The man who just sent a doctor to my house at midnight.”
“Yes.”
Mama exhaled slowly. Shook her head.
“Truth, baby,” she said. “You have no idea what you just got yourself into.”
“I know.”
“No.” She looked at me. “You don’t.”
I didn’t argue.
Because she was right.
I didn’t know.
But I was already in it.
And there was no going back.
Later, after Mama went back to bed, I sat on my bed and pulled out my phone.
Typed, Thank you.
Sent it.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then, You call me if anything feels wrong. Anything. I don’t care what time it is.
I stared at that message.
Read it three times.
I don’t care what time it is.
Not ‘Only call if it’s serious.’
Not, ‘Try to handle it yourself first.’
Just, ‘Call me.’
Something in my chest cracked open.
Not wide.
Just enough to let a sliver of light in.
Enough to make me realize that this wasn’t just about the contract anymore.
This was about something else.
Something I didn’t have a name for yet.
But it was there.
And it was growing.