9780063056534

Four
I finally got Iesha on the phone Saturday night.
“I need a break, Maverick,” she said, and her voice was real rough. “I
been crying all the time, and my head get in these real dark places. He don’t
need to be around me.”
It sounded like what Keisha went through after she had Andreanna. I
think Ma called it “postpartum depression.”
“You seen a doctor?” I asked Iesha.
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“NNah, for real. Dre’s girl dealt with that and—”
“I said I don’t need a doctor, Maverick! I’m handling it myself.”
“Fine.” Wasn’t no point in arguing. “How long you think you need?”
The phone line got real quiet. NNext thing I knew, I got the dial tone.
I told Ma what happened.
“That poor child. Postpartum is rough,” she said. “Yolanda’s probably
not getting her any help either. Jesus. We may need to prepare to have the
baby for a while, Maverick. Might need to call Cousin Gary and discuss
some options.”
Maaaan, that fool is the worst. He a lawyer and live in the suburbs with
his white wife and their kids. Ask me when he come around the fam?
NNever. He think we ghetto and want his money. Cornball ass. Don’t nobody
want his money.
I don’t want his help either. Iesha need a little break, that’s all. I pray to
God I’m right, ’cause it’s only been two days, and this boy putting me
through it. That first night was hell. He wanted to be held most of the time
or else he’d cry, so I basically kept him in my arms. When I put him in his
crib, he woke up every hour. That meant I had to wake up and feed him or
change his diaper. I never seen so much poop in my life.
Saturday and Sunday, it was the same thing. Crying, pooping, peeing.
Crying, pooping, peeing. I’m exhausted after one weekend.
Today finna be real interesting. It’s Monday, and Ma going back to
work, meaning I gotta take care of my son by myself. At least this weekend