Page 6 of Juliet's Echo

“Yes, please,” my mother responded.

“Very well,” the doctor said. She quickly glanced over us all before continuing. “Her hearing test was inconclusive. She passed some parts and didn’t pass others. It’s too early to be alarmed; this happens sometimes. But we’ll want to monitor it and retest when she’s around three months old.”

Her words made me sick to my stomach — more weight breaking my bones to get to my heart. Another thing I couldn’t protect her from. Thank God, my parents continued to listen to Dr. Ross because I could no longer pay attention. I saw my mother accept some papers from the doctor, but I didn’t care to view them, at least not right now.

“Thank you, Dr. Ross,” my father said, shaking the doctor’s hand.

I walked to the bassinet and watched Juliet’s little chest rise and fall. I used my index finger to lightly rub the knuckles of her balled little fist. She was so warm, so innocent, and didn’t deserve all this heartache on the day of her birth.

A huge shadow approached me from behind, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Juliet.

“Own the game, son,” my father whispered into my ear.

Everything that came next would be for her.

Echo

Five years later...

Istood at the kitchen island, custom headphones in my ears, listening to the latest beats I'd created for Optimus Grind. Optimus was rap’s newest sensation, with three songs charting in Billboard’s Top 100. To add fuel to the fire, the top three spots were all his songs—all produced by HUSH.

He was also my right hand, so the rumors were that I blessed him with the best beats.

That was cap.

All my beats were fire.

Optimus had a lyrical flow that could make anything sound hypnotic. One time, he stood on stage and made a whole rap about the Muffin Man—straight bullshit—and caused a wholeinternet trend with people singing and rapping about a nigga from Drury Lane.

Chuckling at the memory, I stepped back to analyze the creation in front of me.

Honey-roasted turkey, pepper jack cheese, lettuce, pickles, chips, and a drizzle of hot honey all stacked between focaccia bread. That was how baby girl liked her sandwiches.

For someone who had never stepped foot in a corner store in Jersey, she somehow knew that putting chips on your sandwich was the only way to eat it. And not just any chip—gotta be the sour cream and cheddar Ruffles or the nacho cheese Doritos.

Yeah.

Baby girl had taste.

The smell of peace and innocence filled my nostrils while tiny pokes attacked my lower back. Still packaging her lunch, I smiled and said, “I smell Heaven.” Juliet never lost that newborn baby smell, at least to me she didn’t. Her scent always reminded me of what I lost and gained that day and the promise that I’d give her the world, by any means necessary.

Turning around, I was in awe of the vision of perfection, reminding me of her mother, Simone. A head full of dark brown, long hair styled in a high ponytail, loosely curled and held together by a bo-bo. No matter how my mother styled her hair, a bo-bo was a must, in honor of Simone’s signature hair accessory. Her deep brown skin, paired with her dark eyes, complemented her brown Cat & Jack sweatsuit, layered with a tan Gucci jacket and brown-and-cream Nike Dunks. My “Ju-Ju” had come a long way from the molded loaf of bread she used to look like. I’d say she evened out around three months of age, and there wasn’t a doll created that could compare to her beauty.

The pictures in Simone’s obituary showed she had been a beautiful baby, so Juliet’s small episode of ugliness had to have come from her daddy’s side. Tears threatened to pour from myeyes at the thought of Simone’s funeral. I spared no expense. The way the crowd overlapped with the mega church—with people in attendance ranging from our classmates to celebrities—you would’ve thought my best friend stopped the world the day she was laid to rest.

And as for that nigga Sloane, I did everything in my power to get him wiped from this earth. My last attempt had a few of my niggas from Philly kidnap Sloane’s doctor and torture him until he gave up valuable information. You see, a little shorty I used to hook up with worked at Summit First Credit Union, and I had her watching Sloane’s debit and credit card transactions. There was no movement for a while—at least nothing out of the ordinary. Just a few monthly payments and streaming subscriptions, nothing worth making a move over.

One day, a prescription was paid for that was issued by Dr. Alfred Haynes.

Dr. Haynes, through a bloody mouth and swollen-shut eyes, eventually let it be known that Sloane was in a mental facility. A judgment given by some George Jefferson-looking motherfucker, that Sloane’s parents knew. Those political connections allowed that murderous coward to kill Simone, get charged without a public trial, and disappear into some heavily guarded mental institution that apparently only houses high-profile patients—so it’s damn near off the grid.

Bullshit.

But to keep more innocent people from being hurt or killed—and to keep Juliet protected—it was an injustice I had to swallow.

I crouched down in front of Ju-Ju and placed rapid kisses on her left rosy cheek. That usually made her fall into a fit of loud giggles, but when she only gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, I signed, “You good?”

She nodded yes, her brown loose curls fluttering in the air. Nodding? This wasn’t like her. Ju-Ju was bold, courageous, and loud—whether it came from her vocal cords or her hands, you knew she was there and exactly what she demanded.