L.A. Blues III Read Online Free

might guess. Up until now, I hadn’t told either Chica or Haviland that I was pregnant, but Chica seemed to have guessed from my vomiting. However, I didn’t confirm or deny my pregnancy when Chica asked me. I trusted Chica not to say anything; we’d held each other’s secrets since we were raised together in foster care. But I didn’t want big mouth Haviland to know—particularly if I terminated the pregnancy.
    To begin with, I was not the motherly type. Never wanted children after being a foster kid. Truthfully, I was afraid I wouldn’t know how to be a good mother.
    What would I do with a baby? But then I got down to the heart of it. What if the baby wasn’t Romero’s? Could I raise a rapist’s baby?
    One day I would be okay; the next, I’d be miserable. I’d even driven to an abortion clinic, not once, but twice, but the protesters surrounding it scared me off the first time, and the second time, I just sat in my car and cried.
    First of all, let me explain something. It wasn’t that I was religious or anything that stopped me each day. Maybe I didn’t want to be seen on the Internet or Instagram where someone snapped me on the camera going into the clinic. Don’t get me wrong. I’m no saint because of the reality show. I really don’t know what stopped me.
    In all my thirty-five years, I’d never been pregnant. For one, I didn’t even think I could get pregnant, since I’d been sexually active more or less (meaning I had periods of celibacy, particularly when I first got sober) since I was nineteen. I’ve been married twice, once where the marriage was annulled. I’d been single the last ten years. I generally used condoms, but the last time I was with Romero, he didn’t use one. I was drugged in Rio, so I don’t know what happened while I was out, but I do know I was tampered with downstairs in my cootie-cat.
    After being raised as a foster kid, even though I had a good foster home with Shirley and Chill, who were still my surrogate parents, I was leery of risking motherhood. As far as I was concerned, Venita, my biological mother, pushed us out into the world with no more concern than a cat has for kittens and we all wound up spread to the four winds. I had no role model of how to raise a child, other than the care my foster mother, Shirley, had given me. But, was that good enough to be a mother? But then I got down to the heart of the matter. What if the baby wasn’t Romero’s? Could I love that child?
    I cut my iPhone back on, but the signal was weak. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. A text message came across: I see where you put out a call on Facebook and Twitter for a biological sister named Righteousness. I think I might be that person.
    For a moment, everything around me fell silent. The world froze like children playing the game Red light/Green Light. I had to stop reading I was so floored. I sucked in a deep breath, gathered my wits about me, and continued to read the message.

    Hello, my name is Rachel Jackson .I saw your call on Twitter and Facebook for a female child born in Sybil Brand Institute in L.A. in 1986 named Righteousness de la Croix. I think I might be that woman . . . I now live in Ypsilanti, Michigan. You can call me at 734-999-1111. I was adopted at age ten through “Wednesday’s Child” through Fox 11 KTTV in Los Angeles. I am available in the evenings.

    She’d also sent an attached picture of herself. Right away, I could see some of my mother Venita’s features. Although she was what some black people would call a “redbone,” this Rachel had Venita’s cherry nose and slanted eyes.
    I text messaged back: You look like my mother. Let’s talk at 9:00 tonight. I will call you. I’m at a wedding on a ship. I can’t call you from here.
    Okay, she text messaged back.
    I was so excited, I forgot my unwanted pregnancy, I forgot my nausea, I forgot my