Page 24 of In The Game

“So, what?” I know what she means, but I don’t want to say it.

“Did you talk to Barrett?” I don’t want to discuss it.

I close my eyes; it hurts to say it. “He doesn’t want to be involved.”

“Told you. Men are worthless pieces of shit.”

I want to respond yes, but I can’t bring myself to. My heart aches and the shame is crippling. I can’t bring myself to mention the DMs. I’ll never speak of those messages to anyone.

“Look, I didn’t have any help raising you. Not a fucking penny. No child support, no five bucks in a birthday card, nothin’.”

This has been said to me a thousand times. I sigh. “I know, Mom.”

“Just sayin’... you’re no different from me. I did it all by myself. And if I can do it with what little I had, then you can do it.”

But I wanted to be different from her. And I will be. Mothers are supposed to love their childrenfirstand foremost. That’s how I will love my child. I rub the lower section of my stomach.

“Thanks,” I say half-heartedly.

“You’re welcome, sugar. I love you. But I meant what I said about that job. You’re a mom now. Time to grow up.”

I shake my head. He was never meant to be more than a lesson learned, and it’s a mistake I will never make again. I’m done.

* * *

The following Monday, I grab the business card off my fridge and dial the number.

“Hi, Rob. My name is Raleigh, we met at Drip during the Citra event.”

“Hey, Raleigh.” I hear the smile in his voice. “I was hoping you’d call…”

NINE

30 weeks later…

Who the fuck invented Pitocin? A man, that’s who. It must have been a man. This is the worst thing to happen ever in the history of humanity. My contractions are so intense I can hardly breathe, and I keep throwing up. Is this normal? Is it supposed to be like this? They said the drug would help induce labor, but it feels like the baby is trying to blow through my stomach cavity à la the chestburster scene fromAlien.

“How we doing, Raleigh?” my nurse Heather checks in.

“Why isn’t the epidural working?” Sweat drips from my face.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Sometimes they don’t take.”

I choke as two contractions meet, then grab the emesis bag and vomit. Saying these contractions are powerful is an understatement. They’re unnatural.

“This is some fucking bullshit, Heather.” I spit in the bag. “You know that, right?”

“It is bullshit, you’re right, girl. What can I get you?”

“A better anesthesiologist would be nice, gahhhhh!” I squint and try not to focus on the pain. “But I’ll settle for another…heating pad.” I twist off the blue plastic emesis bag and hand it to her. “And a new one of these.”

“You got it. Let me check to see where you’re at.”

Please say I’m dilated. Please say I can push or something.I don’t know how much more pain I can take.I’m running out of energy. I always envisioned the birth of my first child would be spent with my husband by my side squeezing my hand and helping me practice my breathing exercises. Instead, it’s just me. No husband. No mother. No aunt. No friend. I didn’t realize I would be ostracized by my friends when I became pregnant. It’s like they were afraid they’d catch it and end up with their own babies somehow. I’ve never felt so alone. Except for Heather. She’s an angel from heaven.

“You’re at a four.” She sounds disappointed.

“A four! How can I only be at a four?!” I was at a four six hours ago. Tears roll down my face, and I sob. “I can’t do this!”

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