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Malika had been adamant about not wanting a baby shower, but Channing insisted. She compromised and said a sprinkle was okay, with a few caveats. There would be no games consisting of toilet paper. There would be no diaper cakes. The playlist would play whatever. No Supremes’ “Baby Love” or “Baby, Baby” by Amy Grant. The latter, she remembered loving as a toddler and singing along with Malinda whenever the video came on, one of the few good memories of her sister she could hold on to.
“Mom’s gonna be here anyway,” Channing said. “So she can help.”
It was an early Saturday in December and Malika didn’t want anyone in her apartment. She didn’t want the decorations either. All of the blue. The balloon garlands in various shades of blue, with a gold one here and there as an accent color. The transparent balloons with the metallic blue confetti inside. She wanted to be grateful; she hated ingrates. But showers were just extra. She didn’t see the point..
Malika walked two blocks in the opposite direction of Channing’s apartment so she could get there via bus. Walking the 0.9 mile would have resulted in the electrifying lightning crotch that had been flaring up when she took more than two steps. It would have ignited a burn so hot, she would have had to stay put, wherever she was, standing there until the pain subsided. It was 10:20 on a Saturday morning. There was already a line for a bus at the Roosevelt/74th St. station.
An elderly woman offered Malika a seat, taking notice of the protruding belly through her black, puffy nylon coat. Malika felt bad. The woman looked nearly Granny Dot’s age. Leathery skin, sunken eyes. She almost declined, but her thighs and knees and ankles begged for relief. The bus ride took less than five minutes, but the slow, one block walk from 35th Avenue to 34th lasted almost ten. She’d take several steps, wince from a cramp, then slowly continue the journey.
One of the supers was outside of the building, fixing the fence around the garbage cans, complaining about something in Spanglish. When he saw Malika, his eyes enlarged. “Whoa! You’s about to pop! You alright, moms?”
She nodded, smiled, and told him to have a good one. Ringing the buzzer even though she still had her key, she prayed the shower would be brief and the games nonexistent. Channing had never asked for his keys back. Ever. Had Malika had any keys to offer, she would have requested them after every single breakup.
A female voice answered and buzzed her up. She recognized it as Mabel Chong’s. She had taken the red eye from LA and started cooking as soon as she walked into her son’s home. Malika wasn’t keen on being around airplane germs, but she assumed that Mrs. Chong, being the refined woman that she was, had taken a shower and washed them away.
It took everything out of Malika to make it up to the second floor landing. She just needed to repeat what she had just done two more times. She gripped the railing with both hands, temporarily pushing out of her mind the amount of germs that spread across each square inch she touched. When she got to the third floor, she glanced down at her feet, then quickly stopped staring at them. She thought they looked like prosthetics from a movie. The only shoes that fit anymore were high-top sneakers she kept unlaced.
Once at Channing’s door, she heaved and propped herself against the wall near his entrance. Mrs. Chong opened the door before Malika had a chance to knock.
“My goodness! You look terrible! What happened?” Malika twisted her eyebrows at her and killed the eye roll she desperately wanted to deliver. “I meant, you look pretty, but the walk up these stairs takes a lot of you. Come in. Come in.”
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