Because We Are: A Novel of Haiti (34 page)

She was still here all of these six months after the disaster. The doctor passed by the orderly and took his notes, reviewing them with hawkish intensity before entering the exam room.

Libète looked her up and down. She appeared much as she had in January: silvery short hair, wearing a simple blue dress, her body draped in a pristine white coat. Libète moved to watch the doctor and Marie Rose from outside the room, hiding behind the doorjamb.

— Bonjou, madam, the doctor said as she sat on a creaky, rolling stool. May I ask your name?

— Bonjou, dokte. I’m called Marie Rose.

— Well, Marie Rose, I see your face is troubling you. Will you let me look at it?

Marie Rose timidly removed the small towel, revealing the swollen brow and blood-red eye. The doctor inclined her head and reached for a glove made from the same stretchy material as the condoms children blew up like balloons in Bwa Nèf.

— I am blind, in this eye, since waking up this morning.

— Hmm. And how did this happen? The doctor’s face was fixed, neutral, as she examined the eye more closely with her rubber hand.

— I live in Twa Bebe. I walked in the dark, foolishly, and fell.

— That’s not true! Libète blurted out, moving to make herself seen in the doorway.

The doctor spun around to look at the girl. Libète wondered if she might recognize her from all those months before when she had sought out Jak, but the doctor showed no signs of remembering.

— And who is this? the doctor asked Marie Rose. Your daughter?

— No, dokte. She is a neighbor.

— Marie Rose, your neighbor says that you did not fall. The doctor’s implication was met by silence. The white woman turned to Libète. Little neighbor, can you tell me what this kind lady cannot?

Libète saw Marie Rose’s downcast eyes. She knew she needed to be the strength Marie Rose could not muster.

— Her husband did it to her.

The doctor hunched to look the battered woman in the eye, but Marie Rose could not meet her stare.

— You have no reason to be afraid of me, my dear, no reason at all. The doctor’s voice was much changed, softer than before. She moved to sit next to Marie Rose on the examination table and reached an arm around her to give her a small, sideways embrace. What did he hurt you with?

— His fist.

— Why did he do it?

— He was drunk.

— But
why
did he do it?

— He gave no reason.

— He’s done this before?

— From time to time.

The doctor sighed.

— I am sorry for your suffering. I am not an eye expert, but I have seen similar injuries. You have a broken blood vessel, and I hope your eye will return to its normal color in two weeks or so. The wound is not too serious. We must also be patient with the swelling of your face, and it doesn’t appear you have any broken bones. We can give you pills to deal with the pain. The blindness — she paused — that is more difficult, but I believe it is more from your mind’s stresses than because of permanent damage. I would like to see you again soon to check on your wounds. Please return in three days. And you, little neighbor?

— Yes, dokte?

— Thank you for bringing her in.

**

Marie Rose was more self-assured on the way home, even happy, buoyed by new hope that her broken face and lost vision would be fleeting. As they neared home, she thanked Libète for her help.

—
Pa gen pwoblem
, Libète replied, it’s nothing. And she meant this.

They parted ways in the middle of the open road dividing their tents. Before Libète could re-enter her own, she heard a low, harsh voice bark at her new friend.

— Marie Rose? Is that you?

Libète turned to see Lionel pull aside his tent’s flap and step out in the open. He was of average height, but his body taut and sturdy like that of a powerful horse. Where have you been? He flung his words like rocks.

— Lopital, she replied. To get help—for my problems.

— You waste our little money getting treatment you don’t even need? he bellowed. You only have a little bump and bruise!

— I can’t see out of that eye, Lionel, and the treatment was
gratis
. Please. You are making others watch.

She was right. Neighbors up and down the lane were tuning in to this domestic drama.

— Let them. I don’t care. I only care about my wife going behind my back.

— I did not go behind you, Lionel. I did not.

Libète watched Marie Rose tremble as she said this. Lionel lifted his arm, and the woman flinched, preparing for a blow. Though he did not strike her, his hand went to her head, palming its back. He thrust her forward and down into the tent.

This is unacceptable
. Libète was off across the lane and stopped just out of Lionel’s reach.

— Who do you think you are? Huh? Treating your wife that way?

— Who do you think you are, you little bitch? Mind your business and I’ll mind mine.

— This
is
my business, you prick. She’s my friend and you’re the mutt here, treating her this way.

Lionel clenched his jaw and swung backhand. Libète tried to duck as Marie Rose shrieked a loud “
non,
” but his blow connected with her left cheek, sending Libète to the ground. This was enough for the watching voyeurs to finally intervene. Three men surrounded Lionel and held him back from the little girl while several women protested from afar.

— Lionel, you can’t do that!

— Leave her be. Leave her be!

— Hit someone else’s child, huh? You should be ashamed.

Libète stood up, wiped herself off, and nursed her sore jaw with her right hand. She shot a murderous look at Lionel, who locked eyes with her and sneered, his upper lip twitching. The men started to push him away from the scene he caused. He strode with the gait of a gangster, shoulders squared with a ridiculous swagger, brushing off the arms of the nervous intervenors.

Libète looked to Marie Rose, visible through the opening of her tent, too shamed to meet her eyes. She turned to watch Lionel continue down the lane.

— Bastard, Libète muttered.

The sky is dark and billowy now, the night before the hurricane is to hit Port-au-Prince. Winds gather in strength, spreading a grim air into every lane, every corner, every crack.

Libète comes upon her Uncle attempting to tear down their tent. He has already shifted many of their things onto a borrowed cart.

— Libète, I need your help to move this.

She looks around and sees many people struggling to collect what they can and the others who have no place to go and no choice but to weather the storm in tents already struggling to stand in the furious winds.

— René will let us stay at his place till it passes, her Uncle says. She begins to pick up pots and their stove to add them to the cart and looks across to see Lionel working to reinforce his tent with more lines and stakes. She grimaces at the man, and makes sure he sees her do so. He is now the one unable to meet Libète’s eyes.

— Uncle, I’m happy to help you move, but I will not stay at René’s. I will go to be with Elize instead. He may need help if something were to happen in the storm.

He nods reluctantly, knowing this would be a useless fight to pick.

The rain starts to fall, slow at first. Everyone’s labor speeds, each wondering quietly which of their neighbors they will see again after the great storm has passed.

Kite kantik, pran priyè

Leave the hymn, take up the prayer

Doktè pa janm trete tèt li

A doctor never treats herself

— We have been spared great misfortune, my dear friends, Pastor Formétus says, addressing the congregants of the Peace and Solidarity Church of God. But not spared our great responsibility to one another.

The church building was still unfinished, appearing just as it had before the quake. Much like the missional work of its congregation, it was always underway: a sack of concrete donated here, some bricks and mortar there—always moving forward yet never reaching completion.

Libète sits at the back in her fraying white church dress that seems to be shrinking more each week. The air is humid and sticky, the Sun seeming to shine brighter than usual in an effort to dry up puddles and crack the mud left in Hurricane Tomas’ wake.

Libète wipes her damp brow with her wrist, craning her neck to hear the pastor’s words. Going to services was different now that it was no longer imposed by her aunt. With the church as one of the few ties to her life before the quake, the pastor’s words seemed more relevant now. Or maybe she had just developed ears to hear them.

The worship is notable this morning, and lasts for much of the service. There is much emphasis on prayer for their beleaguered country and gratitude that God saw fit to spare Port-au-Prince, and the hundreds of thousands of tent dwellers, from the full brunt of Hurricane Tomas’ wind and rain as it spiraled off course, giving a glancing blow to the capitol. But the news of deliverance is tempered by word of another threat, one less understood.

A disease is creeping down from the countryside,
kolera
they call it, and people—many, many people—are starting to die.

— The hurricane made life more difficult for us, Pastor Formétus says. But God heard our prayers and spared us. You see, he places upon us only what we can bear—no more. Though grief after grief is piled high upon us, we still know and trust that God is
good
.

The declaration was met by a few meager hallelujahs.

— Or do we believe this? In this moment, do you doubt this truth?

He continued:

Through hardships and evil, storms and sickness, I understand how you could forget his goodness. You struggle to see him in the world. But you mustn’t forget that he is here in our midst, suffering alongside us.

Have you seen a child die?

Are you homeless?

Have your friends deserted you?

Do you feel as if you are being crucified, each circumstance another nail driven in your flesh, drawing you closer to death?

You are in good company. Our Lord has felt these stings. All of them.

Christ is with you in your suffering. And as those who follow Christ, I have a joyful burden to remind you of. You have heard me say it many times, and I will say it many more: “
Nou sove, n’ ap sèvi
.” We’re saved, so we serve. We’ve said this in a spiritual sense before now. We are rescued from our sins, and so we are called to serve. But after the quake, this has taken on another meaning, no? We can be consumed by the losses and sorrows we have seen, or we can persevere, remembering that we were spared in the quake. We were spared in the hurricane. We have not been struck down by bullets. We have not died from cholera. We live on, and God is calling us to be his hands and feet today, tomorrow, and the day after.

Do you remember when Jesus says, “I tell you the truth, anyone who has faith in me will do what I have been doing. He will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father.” God has decided to use you—each of you, my friends—to spread his good news. To heal. To feed. To do works of justice, mercy, and peace that he has established in advance for you. So though you suffer, do not neglect this responsibility he has placed upon you!

Remember: Nou sove, n’ ap sèvi. Do not turn your backs on one another.

**

Since her rapprochement with Elize three weeks prior, Libète had resumed her practice of stopping in on Elize after church. Because she looked her best on Sunday, she felt better about walking the streets of Bwa Nèf without fear of an old neighbor commenting on how scrawny she had become.

Moving down Impasse Sara, it was impossible to miss the posters proving that elections were growing closer. Even more walls were covered with politicians, their stupid grins or put-on seriousness at every turn. But these were not alone now. Posters warning about cholera had sprung up too, almost overnight.

She looked closely at one of the most prevalent. It featured a smiling boy as he went about the process of washing his hands alongside his father, complete with written instructions.
Do they think we’re stupid? That we can’t figure out how to wash our hands? Give us clean water to wash with and drink and the problem would disappear.
She saw that the U.N. and several other prominent charities had sponsored the information campaign. She huffed.
Typical.

She continued on through the streets until they gave way and she reached the familiar, empty field leading to Elize’s shack.

— Elize! she called when outside. I’m here! She pulled aside the curtain and was surprised to see him laid flat upon his bed, shirtless, even though it was midday. Elize? Are you alright?

— Libète! he rasped weakly. I’m glad to see you.

— My God! Do you have the kolera? She rushed to his side, pushing aside faithful Titid who had been keeping watch over his master. Elize was dripping sweat.

— No, no. I am sure it’s just my old acquaintance malaria paying a visit. I have been here, just as you see me, since yesterday afternoon. There is much pain this time though, in my back especially. That is a new thing.

— Poor man! Let me get you a towel for your head. Libète moved to an old bucket, half-filled with cloudy water, and dipped a rag in it.
Better than nothing.
She wrung it out before returning to him and wiping his brow.

— We should turn this into a lesson. Why don’t you tell me about today’s sermon?

Libète sighed. As you wish. The pastor spoke about our respons—

— In French, Libète.

—
Oui, professeur
, Libète saluted. She told him all about the sermon, of being saved to serve. This took some time, and she picked up and left off as she milled about, preparing rice or wetting a towel to cool his burning head.

When she finished, the man, now curled up in a tawny blanket, had a question for her.

— So what do you make of your pastor’s challenge? Elize asked through chattering teeth.

— I suppose I’m saddened by it.

— Oh?

— This is a lesson I have learned before but turned my back on. Like I never learned it in the first place. Her thoughts drifted to poor Marie Rose, Lolo, Jak, and of course, Claire and Gaspar. I disappoint everyone I try to help.

— Do not be too sad. We learn and unlearn as life takes us through challenges. And life is long. You may have failed, or merely attempted the impossible. But Libète, you are already very wise to struggle with such things at so young an age. He paused and took a labored breath. The difficulty, for all of us, is to return to the lessons we’ve learned, to exercise the muscles of compassion and sacrifice over and over, especially when out of practice. It’s like an old and fat footballer returning to the game—once he steps upon the field again, he finds he hasn’t forgotten so much as he thought.

— I don’t know. There’s so much need around me. And now these girls have been stolen. She shook her head. I want to help them, to help everyone, Elize, but don’t know how.

— As I said, you can’t be too disappointed when what’s impossible to grab eludes your grasp. Have you thought about the hospital?

— What about it?

— Maybe you should return to it.

— I don’t know if they would have me back.

— This is what I’ve told you, Libète! You are too quick to read an ending where it is not yet written! Broken things can be fixed, old things made new, dead things resurrected. But you must persist. He convulsed, again the fever taking hold. She grasped his hand and he patted hers to calm her. Remember your pastor’s advice and think of all that you have survived, Libète. And remember to serve.

It is a regular routine now. Libète digs up her tin, removes money for travel, begs food, and makes the long trip by taptap to visit Lolo.

Her first trip, two weeks after the quake, was the hardest. She feared how she might be received by him. She braced herself for his anger, though it never came. He was despondent, moving like the undead. He accepted her presence with indifference, asking about everyone on the outside. He wondered if anything had been discovered about Claire, but Libète had to tell him no, that the earthquake had scuttled any investigation.

Libète had intended to explain her fault that very day, if he didn’t know already. But she did not. She remained quiet, suffering the weight of hidden truth.

She approaches the gates of the prison, drenched from an August rain. A long line of waiting family members shelter under an outcrop, but there is no cover for those at the end. She takes her place. It seems like half her life is lived in lines these days, waiting for water, food, and medical care.

Because her guilt was still fresh after that first visit, and because Lolo did not despise her, Libète made the trip weekly out of faithful obligation. This took an unexpected toll.

Seeing him waste away each week was like adding a new sketch to a morbid flipbook. His cheeks became hollow and eyes sunken, his skin took an unhealthy pallor, and a sorry unkempt beard sprouted on his face. His clothes, the same he had worn the day she confronted him in the downtown apartment, were frayed and soiled. Seeing his wrists bound together while the two stood divided by a wall of iron bars made her guilt intolerable. So she did what was easy. Libète, like all the others, began to visit less.

Libète lifts her soaked bag of cobbled-together food for the guard to inspect. He looks in, nods, and calls over another guard to escort her into the visiting room.

Her last trip to the prison was a month ago, and the one before that two weeks prior. She was unnerved more now by his manner rather than his creeping deterioration—that had seemed to stabilize. His despondency and slow speech had been replaced by near hyperactivity. Where he was solemn before, resigned to life in prison, he fidgeted now, made melancholic jokes, antagonized the guards, and was more flippant than she had seen him before. He asked if she had learned anything about Claire’s murder and she replied with her customary answer. They exchanged small talk for a bit, and then Libète left.

She taps upon the iron bars as she waits today, nervous about how she will find Lolo. Manic? Dispirited? She listens to the quiet conversations of children visiting their fathers, wives their husbands, and parents their sons. She disguises her interest, wondering what it would be like to have a loved one visit her and seek out her well-being. She pushes these thoughts aside.

It was Elize’s coaxing that brought her here today. There was little else that could have done it. She felt the weight of responsibility, knowing that it was in her power to aid Lolo, even if only in small part, and that if she did not, few others would. Elize also impressed upon her that she should disclose her role in his imprisonment. Otherwise her guilt would bind her like shackles.

The door opens and the guard comes out, but without Lolo in tow.

— He is sick and unable to see visitors.

— Sick? What do you mean? With what?

— I can’t say.

— But, I need to see him—you see, I brought him food. It will help him with his sickness.

— Not today. I can take him the food.

She grimaces, knowing it is more likely to end up in the guard’s belly rather than Lolo’s. She hands it over anyway and leaves, her invisible chains trailing behind.

**

By the time Libète returned to Twa Bebe, the rains had abated and the Sun pierced through the sullen, grey sky. She was about to step into her tent before spotting Marie Rose’s. She resolved to check on her friend.