12. Mahasin
Mahasin
T he sky was clear and beautiful, the sun rejuvenating on my skin. Normally, on a day like this, I’d run to the bookstore, cop a new read, and spend the afternoon lounging in the park. But today? I wanted to go home, pull down my blackout curtains, and curl up in bed.
I’d only been at Serenity for a few hours, but my head was already spinning—like I was on my fourteenth patient and trying to convince her that mixing her pee with baking soda wasn’t a trustworthy way to predict her baby’s gender.
Shaking my head and clearing my throat for what felt like the millionth time, I slid the ultrasound wand across my patient’s belly and did my best to explain what we were seeing on the monitor.
Saliva kept rushing to my mouth, and I couldn’t swallow fast enough. I just knew I was about to throw up. The baby’s heartbeat thumped through the speakers—steady, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh —making my ears ring.
Shit… do I have COVID? I thought to myself, trying not to panic.
“Dr. St. James, you good?” Amber asked, eyebrows arching over her mask.
“I’m fine,” I said quickly—too quickly—because I was afraid if I opened my mouth any longer, I’d set free the vomit monster climbing up my throat. “Just need some water.”
She raised one eyebrow like The Rock, and I already knew it was because she didn’t believe a damn word I said.
Finishing the scan, I smiled at my patient and reassured her, “Your baby is growing perfectly, and I’m proud of you for cutting back on the sweets.” As Amber began wiping the jelly off her belly, I slipped out of the room like a kid about to catch an old-school ass-whupping.
By the time I made it to the sink in my private bathroom, the vomit had already hit my esophagus. I barely made it in time.
I threw cold water on my face and rinsed my mouth with mouthwash.
Back in my office, I grabbed a cold bottle of water from the mini fridge and dropped down on the plush lounge couch like I’d just survived a war.
Cracking it open, I pressed the bottle to the side of my neck, letting the chill settle my nerves before taking a few slow sips.
Amber came in a few minutes later, casually eating grapes, but her eyes were locked on me like I owed her money—and answers. She had that look. That “bitch, I know something ain't right with your ass” look.
“Either your foundation doesn’t match your neck, or you pale as hell.
You sure you ain’t catching something?” she said, propping her ass on my custom Roche Bobois desk like she paid for it.
“And don’t lie either—I love you, but it’s three things I ain’t sharing with your ass: French fries and germs.”
“What’s the third?” I asked, feeling sluggish as hell.
“What?” she blinked, caught off guard.
“You said three things you wouldn’t share. You only listed two.”
“Oh. Dick.” She waved her hand as if it were something light. “But bitch, stop deflecting. You sick?”
“I just have a hunger headache,” I mumbled. “Didn’t eat breakfast, and now I’m late for lunch.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, squinting. “Or maybe somebody’s eating the food for you.”
She grinned like she knew something I hadn’t even figured out yet.
“Girl, what?” I frowned.
She pointed toward my midsection. “I’m not saying you’re fat, but that belly looks kind of plump today. You pregnant?”
I laughed—then choked on my water. “You got to be having sex to get pregnant, Amber.”
“And Mr. One-Night-Stand doesn’t count?”
“Amber, please. Gage and I happened a little over three months ago. I’m a board-certified OBGYN. Wouldn’t I know sooner than my best friend, pointing out what is obviously my about-to-get-my-period belly, that I was pregnant?” I quizzed.
“Well, Ms. Board-Certified OBGYN,” she said, hands on her hips, neck rolling, “that ass looks a little over three months pregnant. And certified people fuck up all the time in their profession. I mean—who is telling these dentists to put them big ass chiclets in these celebrities’ mouths?”
We laughed in unison.
“And did you forget I am also your personal assistant ?” Amber continued. “The last few shopping orders ain’t have them expensive ass cotton pads you like on them.” She snapped her fingers like she solved a murder.
My laugh faded. Suddenly, I was back in April at RYZE—being rolled around the dance floor in a cart full of roses, the music—my favorite love song, his voice in my ear.
Then back in Gage’s penthouse…Letting that virgin dick turn my ass every way but loose.
I cooed—actually cooed—at the memory of the orgasms he gave me, lapping this pussy like a cat drinking warm milk from a saucer.
“See? Look at your hot ass, moaning just thinking about your baby daddy,” Amber laughed.
“Bitch, shut up. It was one time. One fantastic time. And I know my body. I wasn’t ovulating.”
“You know your body, but you don’t know that unused super sperm that nigga had heating up in his ball sack all these years. His ass shot that club up, didn’t he?” she asked, smiling like a damn Cheshire cat.
I stared at her. She stared back.
I refused to admit I might have fucked up.
“When was your last period?” she asked first, breaking the silence.
“Last month. I think.” I unlocked my phone to check Aunt Rose, the period and ovulation tracker app I designed. I couldn’t wait to prove this nosy girl wrong.
“See? I had one in—” I stopped.
“March . ”
Amber fell out laughing. Like full performance. She slid off my desk and onto her knees like her body gave out.
“Girl, it’s July! You sure you're board-certified?”
Sucking my teeth, I stared at the screen—the little pink dots marking the week in March when I had my period. Nothing after that. My stomach dropped straight to my ass, and my chest tightened.
“Maybe I forgot to mark the next one,” I said weakly.
“And the three after that, too?” Amber asked, one eyebrow raised.
“Amber, please! I’m already freaking the fuck out. How the fuck could I be so fucking stupid? I know better. I knew better. Oh fuck.” The words tumbled out in rapid breaths, each one sharper than the last. If my head wasn’t already hurting, the shit was throbbing now.
“Aye. Look at me,” Amber said, standing and closing the space between us and taking both of my hands firmly in hers.
Her voice lost all the jokes, all the theatrics—just warmth.
“I was joking, okay? Is this a scary situation? Yes. But is it one we can handle together? Absolutely. Whatever happens, we figure out what’s best for Mahasin. Don’t beat yourself up. I got you.”
I exhaled hard, but my chest still felt tight.
“Yeah… you’re right. I’m fine.” I lied.
I moved through the rest of the afternoon on autopilot.
Every time I measured a belly, checked a cervix, or shared my Beethoven’s Baby Genius playlist—because who didn’t want their unborn listening to the genius that is Beethoven—I found myself clenching my eyes shut.
Would this be me soon? Watching my belly grow, putting headphones on my stomach to soothe my unborn with classical music, and praying somehow it made him or her a genius?
And was it even physically possible for me to check my own cervix?
“Dr. St. James?” My client’s voice broke through my thoughts. “You were saying?”
I cleared my throat. “Oh, right—sorry. The baby is completely turned, so it’s time for you to start modified yoga,” I said, regaining my composure.
“Take your time getting cleaned up, and while you’re scheduling your next appointment up front, grab a pampering brochure to pick your complimentary luxury service for months eight and nine. ”
“Thank you, Dr. St. James. I’ll see you next time!”
I smiled and waved goodbye before heading straight to my office.
The second the door shut, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath all day—because honestly, I had.
Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I unconsciously rubbed my small yet slightly protruding stomach.
How did I not notice the difference in my body?
Was I ready to be someone’s mother? Hell, I’d had unprotected sex with a man I barely knew, failed to track my period, and didn’t feel one single change in my body.
Clearly, I wasn’t even capable of being a responsible adult, let alone someone’s parent.
No. God wouldn’t do this to me. He wouldn’t give me the dating track record of Taylor Swift and make me a baby mama from a one-night stand. Would he?
My chest tightened, and I started hyperventilating at the thought. My grandma always said God had a sense of humor—but she never said I’d be the punchline. "Calm down, Mahasin", I told myself. You don’t even know if you’re pregnant yet.
Before I could catch my bearings, Amber came bursting into my office. “The last charts signed, and the center is now empty,” she said, running down the checklist. Then her eyebrow arched. “Are we off the clock?”
“Yes, Ambs, we’re off the clock,” I said with a smirk. Knowing her, that “off the clock” clarification was my warning—something ridiculous was about to follow.
Sure enough, she waved a digital pregnancy test she’d clearly swiped from the supply closet. “Well, get your little fast ass in the bathroom and dip this in some of that luxurious piss that comes from that vagina,” she teased. “You already know we are not going home without an answer.”
“Girl, ain’t Creed waiting on you to go to dinner tonight?” I asked, hoping she’d take the hint and leave me—and my pending meltdown—alone.
“Yeah, he is. But a bitch ain’t never been on time any other day. I like to keep my shit consistent.” She whispered the last line like we were conspiring, pushing me—digital test in hand—into the bathroom. “Go on, Ms. Board-Certified. Drop them pants like I’m Gage and tinkle in that cup.”
I sighed. “You’re relentless.”