Consent (The Loan Shark Duet 2)

Nausea hits me on and off at all times of the day and night. Sometimes I vomit, and sometimes it’s only a sickening sensation in the pit of my stomach that lasts all day. I’m losing instead of gaining weight, which must be because of the vomiting. Our future may not look bright, right now, but I can work on it. We’re alive. All I have to do is get through this pregnancy and have a healthy baby.

It’s in April, during the first week of my second trimester, when I hand a well-groomed lady her dry-cleaning that I faint.

I come to my senses lying on my back on the floor. Someone is slapping my cheek. Shit, it stings. Ru is bent over me, speaking in loud, angry words.

“Stop shouting at her,” the lady says. “She needs a doctor.”

I push onto my elbows. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” The woman looks down to where my sweater has moved up, exposing the pants I keep closed with an elastic band. “You’re pregnant.”

This evokes a new marathon of words from my boss. He spurts them at me with animated hand signs, which mostly points at my stomach.

The woman pushes him away. “Stop it right this second or I’ll call social services.”

This shuts him up.

“You need to see a doctor,” the woman says.

“I’m fine, really.” I let her help me into a sitting position.

She purses her lips while studying me. “I’m taking you.”

“No, I just need a minute.”

“Don’t worry, I’m paying.”

I want to die of shame, but concern for my baby overrides my pride. “I have to tell my brother where I’m going, or he’ll worry.”

“I’ll wait.”

I tell Charlie to stay in our room and lock the door. When I get back to the front shop, Ru starts protesting again.

“I’m reporting you,” the woman says, waving a finger in his face.

Unhappy but pushed into a corner, he lets me go, leaving him in the lurch in the middle of a workday.

“I’m Cynthia,” she says as we get into her luxurious car.

I don’t reply, praying she won’t think I’m returning her kindness with rudeness. The less anyone knows, the better.

She drives me to a fancy clinic and introduces me to a lady friend who’s a gynecologist. When the receptionist asks for my identity document, I start to argue, but she tells me it’s standard procedure, and I can’t see a doctor if she hasn’t registered my details. I don’t have a choice but to hand mine over. Cynthia gives the receptionist my address, and when I say I don’t have a phone, she gives her the number of Ru’s shop.

As if understanding my fear, Cynthia pats my hands. “Don’t worry. This clinic is very discreet. No one will know you were here.”

After an ultrasound and blood tests, the doctor tells me I’m fine and my baby is healthy, but I’m undernourished. She prescribes vitamins and a protein shake, which my Samaritan pays for at the pharmacy.

“Thank you,” I say when Cynthia drops me off at the shop. “I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You’ve been pressing my husband’s shirts for over three months. Besides, I was going for an expensive lunch date with a friend. I’m happy to have used the money better.”

Not having more words, I exit the car and make my way back inside where I’m met with a very angry Ru.

He points at my stomach. “No baby. No want no baby. Go.” He waves his hands at me. “Out. Go.”

My hope shatters, and my world ends. “I’m okay, I promise. It won’t interfere with my work.”

“Out. Tomorrow. No baby.” He pushes me toward the backroom. “No baby. Tomorrow. Gone.”

I unlock the door and stumble inside in tears, finding Charlie on the bed playing solitaire. I look around the shabby but clean room with the cheap sheets I bought from the flea market and the boxes covered with colorful cloth that serves as our table. I don’t even know if the car is still in the bushes by the beach. Everything we had is gone, including my job.

“We’ll be fine,” I say, brushing my hand over Charlie’s head as I walk past him to the two-plate stove. “How about scrambled eggs for dinner?”

Charlie loves scrambled eggs. I turn my back on him so he doesn’t see my hopeless tears. Gripping the counter, I let them flow. It’s my fault we’re in this mess. If I hadn’t slipped up with my birth control, Charlie would’ve been safe, warm, and in bed with a full belly. I have to find a new way of putting a roof over our heads and food on the table, but I’m so, so tired. I don’t have the strength left to fight this never-ending battle of survival. How long before I let my brother and baby down? Tomorrow, we’re back in the street. Oh, God, what am I going to do?