Chapter 23
August
For a little over thirty minutes, my phone rang constantly nonstop.
I was too doped up to see who was calling.
Thanks to getting my stoma infected last week, I was in the hospital for two days for observation before being discharged with antibiotics and more pain pills.
Grabbing my ringing phone, which stopped soon as I put it to my face, I slumped onto the hot, firm pillow, yawning.
“Get the fuck up, August Senior! I know you heard that ugly ass device ringing left and fucking right!” Mona bellowed from the hallway, turning on the second brightest light in the house.
“Am I dreamin’?” I asked lowly, looking toward the door, squinting.
“August motherfucking Abbott Senior! Get the fuck up!” Mona bellowed, stepping into the door threshold, looking amazing in all-black tactical gear, combat boots, and a mask dangling from the front of her jeans.
“Get … the … fuck … up … August Senior. We need to get to Louisville, Kentucky, fast as fuck, an’ we don’t need to be on a plane to get there,” she sassed, stepping into the room, turning on the bright light and tossing the duffel bag at me.
Disoriented as fuck, I stammered, “What … what’s the issue?”
“Germoney called me from August Junior’s phone.
She was frantic as hell while telling me that our son was struggling to keep his eyes open.
She said that he hadn’t come to their group study session in a week.
She decided to check on him. When she found our boy, barely responsive with his pants and drawls at his ankles, she took him to the hospital.
She saw a familiar bottle that was once in her mother’s bathroom.
Said she firmly believed whatever was in that bottle belonged to her mother because her mother went on a rampage two weeks before school started because it went missing.
She informed me that she was very sure her cousin, Deminika Henry, was the one who stole the medication, and was very sure she was the one who gave it to August Junior.
She was very clear that this cousin of hers didn’t like that August Junior had rejected her.
I needed to see who this bitch was, so I demanded Germoney to send me a picture of this cousin.
She was in the middle of all those bitches who had the googly eyes when y’all were walking down the hallway.
You’ve heard the details. Get the fuck up, so we can go to our son before doing a lot of gotdamn damage,” she spoke sternly, glaring at me.
I couldn’t wrap my head around any of the shit she said, let alone get out of bed to put on my clothes.
Stepping into the room, Mona growled, long and hard. Tilting her head to the right, she spat, “Our son was date raped, bitch! Get up!”
The deep stirring in my guts resembled a swirling ship in an unruly sea.
My feet were no longer on the bed as I eyed the duffel bag with my ‘get down and dirty’ equipment.
I couldn’t think about what my son was feeling or how much trouble his body was in to be barely responsive from a bitch who didn’t understand no meant no.
“I’ll be in my truck,” Mona voiced, turning on her heels. “If you flinch at me, your children and I will spend the fuck out of your life insurance money. Don’t breathe too much in my direction. Don’t strike up any conversations if they don’t have anything to do with our kids or my pregnancy.”
While dressing as fast as I could without disturbing the colostomy bag, I said, “I’m never going to hurt you again.
I’m getting help. I need my family back, Mona.
I won’t press the issue now. But when I’m one hundred percent comfortable in my skin …
I’m going to work my ass off to make you my wife again. ”
“That shit you are spitting sounds good,” she replied sarcastically, out of the room.
I’m sho’ Thiago’s shit sound better than mine, huh? I thought, unable to grit my teeth or become angry about a situation I was certain would turn out good-ugly, especially if I got my mind right enough for everyone to see I was the man I was supposed to be.
Thiago’s conversation last night was very interesting. Yet, I wasn’t at my best to humble him. I was confident it would come. I didn’t know how long it would take.
Twenty minutes later, I hobbled toward Mona’s lifted truck.
Walking around the front, I expected the passenger door to open.
When it never opened, I swallowed hard and thought, I made this bed.
I … made … this … bed. I gotta fix this shit up.
Make it pretty an’ comfortable. Thiago can’t have my bed. It’s fo’ me an’ me only.
After opening the door, I looked at the black rail and sighed. “Fuck.”
“Ya dumb ass should’ve learned how to get in and out of a car … instead of moping around like a bitch pregnant by a nigga who don’t want her or the baby,” Mona sassed, glaring at me as I placed the crutch inside. I chose not to respond. The less I said, the better.
Once I was inside, grunting and grimacing, Mona didn’t allow me to carefully lean over to grab the door before she reversed.
I gritted my teeth and glared at her. Slamming on the brakes, she jerked her head in my direction.
The amount of fire and anguish in her eyes, the dangerous twitch of her glossy, juicy bottom lip, and her hand clamped on her Glock were enough reasons for me to calmly say, “It woulda been nice to close the door.”
“It would be nice if I didn’t feel that our son needs his broken ass father. This trip would be much better,” she sassed as I closed the door and placed the seatbelt over my body. “But since we love him … you loving him more … it was the right thing to do. Involving you.”
“Mona,” I held out, slumping my head on the headrest as she continued to back out of the driveway fast.
“I don’t want to hear shit. It’s been a little over a month since you spoke to or saw our daughter. So, shut the fuck up,” she spat, skirting down the road and unmuting her radio.
Pastor Troy’s “Who, What, When, Where” blasted, bringing me to a time when I was a head rocking, weed smoking, and rapping nigga. That thuggish shit wasn’t anywhere near me.
I was stuck against the seat, unsure of my life’s purpose, uncertain how I could look my son in the face after what I did to Mona and our home, and fearful of what I would do when I heard my son’s voice or what the doctor had to say about his condition.
To be unpredictable wasn’t a good thing for anyone, especially a mentally tossed-up nigga who had his life figured out to the fucking T.
Closing my eyes, enjoying the bass beating through my skin, shaking up my blood, I exhaled sharply. Relaxing in the seat, it was time to drop to my knees and let the Man above enter my life for good.
God, I’m suffering on a bigger scale, but at this moment …
I ain’t come to You fo’ me. I’m comin’ to You ‘bout my son. I’on know what kinda health condition he in …
or what his mental gon’ be like. Can You spare my kid if You punishin’ him fo’ me killin’ Annalyse an’ abusin’ Mona? Don’t let my son atone fo’ my actions.
As I opened my eyes, seeing Mona driving faster to glide underneath a yellow traffic light, the music stopped. Seeing Thiago’s name on her display screen hit differently than in the past. My fingers curled into the thick materials covering my legs as I gritted my teeth.
You can’t react. One task at a time, I thought as Mona cleared her throat, slid under the light, hopped in the left lane, and pressed the answer button on her touch-screen radio.
In a calm tone, which didn’t suggest she was interested in the nigga who recently filed for divorce, Mona said, “Hello.”
“I see them lights flashin’ an’ you shittin’ an’ gettin’ it. What’s the problem?” He breathed thickly, exhaling weed smoke.
“August Junior needs his parents, and a nineteen-year-old needs to see me. The uprooted, evil, sadistic, unethical Mona Beezus Averhart,” she voiced creepier than Tony Todd speaking as Candyman.
“One, what the fuck happened to him?” Thiago hissed as she drove rapidly onto the ramp.
“Date raped,” she answered, causing my stomach to tighten while my nails dug into my palms.
“Two, is August Senior wit’ you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m proud of you fo’ makin’ sho’ he’s involved,” Thiago spoke sincerely.
“No need to be proud. He’s his father.”
“Three, do I need to make it easy fo’ you to slide through states at high speeds?”
“I don’t need help from someone who caused me to be abused by my soon-to-be ex-husband, lost one of my twin children, and has me waking up at night in cold sweats.
I feel as if I’m being choked, dragged, spit on, and shoved against a tub …
drowning in water, pain, and nasty slurs.
Can you please stop asking to help me, knowing you gotta call your chief to make that shit happen?
” she asked as if she was close to clenching her teeth.
Indeed, she gripped her gun tighter. My heart twisted as my stomach sank from the harsh truth of how she’s not sleeping peacefully. My feelings were bad as my shoulders grew heavier, making me feel that my presence wasn’t great for her, mentally and physically.