“Can I come in?”

She looks me dead in the eye. “For what?”

“I think we should talk, Shanice.”

“What’s to talk about?”

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I say, reaching out to touch her, but she jumps back.

“I’m sure you are.” She says this in a sarcastic manner, then flops down on the edge of her bed, the very same spot she was sitting in minutes ago. There are drops of blood on her pink comforter that look like burgundy stars coming out of her fingertips. She leans back even farther and looks at me. “So where is he?”

“Gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’ll be back,” she says matter-of-factly.

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will.”

“He can’t come back.”

She looks at me again as if she doesn’t believe me. “Who’s going to stop him?”

“The police.”

“Don’t call them, Ma. Please. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because then the whole world will know.”

“The whole world won’t have to know. Shanice, baby,” I say slowly, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have believed me anyway.”

I bite my lip and flip the light switch on and off, but luckily the bulb has been blown out for some time. George promised to fix it weeks ago. Now I know why he hasn’t. “What would make you think that?”

“Because you believe everything he tells you.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. Even Granny said you’re a fool when it comes to men.”

“Did she really?”

“I agree with her,” she says, crossing her arms.

I feel like strangling her. Why on earth would Mama be discussing my relationships with my twelve-year-old daughter? “Your granny is not in a position to judge how I’ve handled myself.”

“But I am. I know how many of your boyfriends were already married, even the pervert who finally married you.”

“Let me tell you something to set the record straight, Shanice. After your father was killed, I was afraid to get too attached to any man, which is why I did things the way I did. I wasn’t trying to hurt anybody.”

“I don’t really care. All I know is, if you’d done what you were supposed to do with your husband, I wouldn’t have had to do it for you.”

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

I want to slap her into next week. How dare she talk to me this way, in this tone of voice. Besides, she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about. She’s probably in shock. Traumatized. Because this entire conversation isn’t even close to what I imagined. I came in here to comfort her. To try to understand what has happened. Which is why I decide to overlook the nasty things she’s saying. “Maybe you’re right.”

She looks genuinely surprised. As if she was ready and prepared for battle. “You’re getting fat.”

I want to tell her about the baby. The baby. What about the baby? What am I going to do with his baby? Don’t want anything of his. Nothing. But too much to think about right now. Forget this baby. Help that one over there. “Has he hurt you?” I ask.