Lola had her charity up and running by this point. She left me notes telling me to prepare for an official dinner she’d be having. Some of the wealthiest people in Florida were coming to the dinner to celebrate the charity.
Lola was no fool. Her charity wasn’t a real nonprofit organization. She pocketed most of the money that was donated, leaving just enough to pay her staff and to run events.
She was full of shit, but I kept my opinions to myself. After all, I didn’t care so long as I was getting paid on time.
Anyway, the day of her dinner party, something was wrong with me. I wasn’t feeling well and was a little queasy. I’d assumed I was having some first trimester sickness. There were many aromas floating through the house from Tonia and her cooking staff. Too many for my pregnant nose to keep up with.
I was getting the house ready with the caterers and making sure the servers were ready for the night with their white gloves and serving trays.
Lola wanted everything to be perfect. Many of the donors had never been to Lola’s home, so she had some new furniture and décor delivered. She wanted to show off her mansion, let everyone know she had it made.
It was June of 2010. The party was going to be an indoor-outdoor mingle, with special cocktails on the menu. A bar would be set up by the pool, with a bartender to serve guests and get them drunk and happy, and dinner would be in the dining room inside.
As I said, I wasn’t feeling well, and as day became night and stars cloaked the dark, lavender sky, I began to feel worse.
Lola traveled through the house, acting as if she were a queen. Her sequined red dress hugged her body tight, accentuating her hips and breasts.
She flirted with several of the male donors, ready for them to sign checks with her name on it. One thing I could say about Lola was that she was very committed. She had grace and charm when need be, and she knew how to talk a man into donating five hundred thousand dollars to support women in need as if she were a car salesman selling Ferraris to retired sixty-year-old men. It was that easy for her.
I think a lot of the men assumed they’d get a peek under that flashy dress of hers, and Lola ran with that. She led a lot of them on, making them believe they could have a piece of her if they donated to her charity.
As I checked in with the chef to make sure dinner was close to being served, a wave of nausea hit me, and I ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I couldn’t make it to my room, so I headed for the guest bathroom—the one Lola had decorated herself. Lola had decorated several rooms: her bedroom, her office, her thinking room with the big chandelier that I’d watched be installed, and this particular bathroom.
I puked my guts out in the toilet, hoping it would make me feel better. It didn’t. I sat on the commode for a while, holding my head, sweat building on my upper lip, trying to get myself together. I had to be perfect for this party—Lola needed me to be—and I tried, I really did, but then a pain came over me, one I’d never had before.
My stomach began to cramp, ten times worse than menstrual cramps. I stood up, and that was when I heard something pitter-patter on the floor. When I looked down, I saw blood.
“No,” I whispered. Not on Lola’s premium marble floors—the floors she’d spent sixteen thousand dollars on. I picked up the roll of toilet paper and pulled off a big wad, wiping up the blood, but all it did was smear, and more blood trickled down until eventually it became a small puddle around my feet.
I knew exactly what was happening. I’d been pushing myself too hard lately, trying to make sure the Maxwell home was stable so that I wouldn’t get fired. But it was too much for my body, apparently. My baby.
“Georgia!” I heard someone call. It was Lola. “Georgia! Where are you?”
I waddled to the door with tears in my eyes. She’d help me. I didn’t know what to do. “Lola,” I whisper-hissed as I cracked open the door.
She spotted me and I waved for her to come. She frowned, rushing my way. “What in the hell are you doing in there? I need you downstairs,” Lola said. “Dinner is supposed to be starting soon.”
I opened the door and she looked down at the floor and gasped. “Oh my God! What happened to you?”
“I think something is wrong with the baby, Lola. I need to go to the hospital.”