FOR ROSEMARY AND THERESA
MY SISTERS, MY FRIENDS
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
HAITIAN CREOLE ALPHABET AND PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
GLOSSARY OF FOREIGN PHRASES
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
Under my bare feet,
brown, brittle grass
prickles and stings.
Bubbles of dirt
crumble and snap.
Slowly, carefully,
I climb the dusty hill
like Gogo taught me—
One foot forward—
stop.
The other foot forward—
stop.
I stretch out my left arm.
My right hand
hovers close to my head,
ready to catch the bucket
if it tips or slides.
Slowly, steadily,
I climb and climb,
careful not to move my head.
Careful not to spill
the smallest drop of water.
Twice a day,
I carry water
from the ravine
without spilling.
Each morning,
I sweep the floor
and empty
the chamber pots.
At night,
I pile charcoal
to make the cooking fire.
In August, Manman
will have her baby.
If I work hard
and help Manman,
maybe this time
our baby will live.
As I walk past the alley,
my best friends call to me,
Julie Marie and Nadia,
playful as children,
singing,
jumping rope,
laughing.
Julie Marie’s brothers
Jacques and Daniel Louis
dart and dash
in crazy circles,
begging Banza,
our scraggly neighborhood dog,
to chase them.
Laughing and hooting,
they hide behind rusted barrels
and heaps of mud and garbage.
I wish I could
jump rope and laugh
with my friends.
But I have no brother
or sister to help with chores.
Even on Saturday,
there’s no play
until all my work is done.
Mwen dwe travay, I call,
moving only my eyes.
I have work to do!
At the sound of my voice,
Banza runs to me.
His thin yellow body
nuzzles my leg.
I have nothing to give you,
Banza, I say,
still looking straight ahead.
Banza’s mangy tail wags.
He trots beside me anyway.
Banza is good company.
He listens to me sing
when I feel like singing,
and lets me grumble
when I feel like grumbling.
Manman tells me
to stay away
from the scabby dogs
that wander through
our neighborhood.
She calls them
unpredictable and dangerous.
But Banza isn’t dangerous.
He’s my friend.
Right, Banza? I say.
Ou se zanmi mwen.
You’re my friend.
Banza nudges me
with his giant ginger-colored paw.
Manman doesn’t understand.
She worries about everything.
Gogo tells me to be patient with her.
Papa says things will be different
when the baby comes.
Everything will be better
when the baby comes.
Two more hills to climb.
I pass Julie Marie’s house
and hear her manman singing.
Banza leaves me to explore
an abandoned cooking pit.
A heavy throbbing
sinks into my neck
and spreads
across my shoulders.
Gogo says, Happy thoughts
soothe aches better
than willow bark and clover.
So while I walk,
I think about tomorrow,
my favorite day.
On Sundays, Gogo helps me
with my chores.
On Sundays, Papa is home.
On Sundays, everyone parades
to the big white church
between the President’s Palace
and Papa’s supermarket,
where we all pray together.
I link arms with Nadia
and Julie Marie.
Behind us, grown-ups
carry babies and sing.
In church,
colors from the glass window
dance on my white skirt.
The priest kisses the altar
and sings, Bondye bon!
Bondye bon! we all sing.
We raise our arms
and clap our hands.
Bondye bon! God is good!
Beside me, Manman rubs her belly.
Her voice is low and sad.
Bondye bon, I pray.
Please let this baby live.
Even colorful church thoughts
don’t cheer me.
My arms are stiff with holding,
my mouth is dry as the dirt
under my feet.
The sun presses against my neck
like a burning rock.
One more hill, and I’ll be home.
Beside me a row of thirsty shacks
leans against the mountain
like faded cardboard weeds.
Gogo says, Weeds are flowers
too poor for fancy clothes.
Just like me! I say.
Gogo shakes her head.
A kind heart
is the fanciest dress of all.
Gogo likes to talk in riddles.
She doesn’t know
the bad feelings
that circle and bump
in my mind
like a swarm of angry bees.
She doesn’t know
the secret swirling in my heart.
Only Julie Marie
knows my secret.
When I grow up,
I want to be a doctor
like Antoinette Solaine,
the woman with the red glasses
and the black bag
who tried to save Baby Pierre.
And to be a doctor,
I must go to school.
Julie Marie understands.
Julie Marie wants to be a doctor too.
Together we’ll open a clinic.
We’ll help the old people
who live too far from hospitals.
We’ll care for hungry babies
too fragile and weak to survive.
But every day Gogo says,
Help your manman.
Every day Papa says,
Manman needs you.
How will I ever go to school
if I must always help Manman?
Nadia’s mother has more babies
than Manman,
but while I go up and down,
back and forth
collecting water and gathering wood,
Nadia goes to school.
It’s not fair.
How will I ever be a doctor
if ther
e’s no time for school?
Yesterday at the ravine,
Nadia showed me and Julie Marie
her bright yellow notebook.
Be careful, don’t touch!
she commanded.
She slid her delicate hands
across the shiny cover.
A sniffy smile spread
across her perfectly round face.
These are my French words.
Educated people speak French.
Something like rotten wood
burned in the hollow
of my stomach.
Nadia didn’t notice.
Someday Serafina and I
will go to school too,
said Julie Marie.
She squeezed my hand.
Her dark eyes shined
like the seeds of the sapote fruit.
Tiny braids spiraled down
her forehead.
Papa says we look like sisters,
but Julie Marie is taller than me.
Her smile is wider than mine,
wider than the morning sky,
brighter than the white sun.
Well, the teacher gave me
the last yellow notebook,
Nadia said, holding hers
close to her heart.
The only ones left are gray.
Julie Marie smiled.
Outsides don’t matter, she said.
What matters is on the inside.
Still, my chest burned
and my face felt stuck.
Gogo is waiting to wash the dishes,
I said, and raced up the hill.
Speaking French
doesn’t mean you’re smart,
Gogo said when I told her
about Nadia and her notebook
and being educated.
The only real wisdom
is kindness.
I want to believe
what Gogo says,
but kindness alone
won’t make me a doctor.
The first time I met Antoinette Solaine,
Pierre was only a few days old.
Thin, papery skin hung off his bones,
and he never cried.
Manman and I walked all morning
to bring him to a doctor.
When the sun was high in the sky,
we reached the white stone building
on the other side of the mountain,
down the hill from a great mango tree.
Manman unwrapped Pierre
and placed him on a long table.
A small, wiry woman
wearing a white coat
and red glasses greeted us.
Hello, my friends. Non mwen se
Antoinette Solaine.
She smiled when she talked,
and her voice rippled
like a bamboo flute.
She tugged a flattened silver bell
that hung from a pink tube
wrapped around her neck.
What have we here?
She pulled the tube apart,
stuck the ends into her ears,
and placed the silver bell
on Pierre’s small chest.
Her dark eyes squinted.
Would you like to listen
to your brother’s heart? she asked.
A gentle beat like a faraway drum
fluttered through the pink tubes.
Your brother’s heart is very weak,
Antoinette Solaine said.
But we’ll try to make it stronger.
While Manman rewrapped Pierre,
Antoinette Solaine talked quietly.
If you don’t eat, Pierre doesn’t eat,
she said.
Manman looked down.
There isn’t always enough food,
she whispered.
Antoinette Solaine turned to me.
Her voice was gentle but strong.
Whatever little you have,
make sure your manman takes
her fair share.
I thought of all the times
Manman had given me
an extra scoop of rice.
I’m not that hungry,
she always said.
She’d shake her head
and tell me to eat
so I could grow up healthy
and strong.
And when Papa brought home
the blackened fruit
that wouldn’t sell
at the supermarket,
Manman would say,
Give it to Serafina.
She needs to eat more.
My stomach was always hungry
so I took it.
Was it my fault
that Pierre was so small and weak?
Was it my fault
that his bones were tiny twigs,
or that his heartbeat
was hollow and far away?
Two weeks later, Antoinette Solaine
visited us in a square white car
with dusty tires
and a red cross painted on the door.
I’m sorry I could not come sooner,
she said.
She brought us a fresh mango,
a package of rice,
and a sweet yam for Manman.
But it was too late.
Already we had wrapped Pierre
in a clean white cloth.
We had said prayers
and buried him in our yard.
Already Papa’s mother and brother
had come with the priest
to cry with us
and mark Pierre’s grave
with a cross made of stones.
Already Gogo had come
from her sister’s house in Jacmel
to stay and comfort Manman.
Antoinette Solaine saw
the emptiness
in Manman’s arms and eyes.
She held Manman’s hand
and bowed her head.
Mwen regrèt sa, my friends,
I am so sorry.
For a long while
we held hands in the quiet.
Big tears rolled
down Manman’s cheeks.
Inside me,
something bruised
and broken
tumbled.
My whole body
felt hollow.
How could someone so small
leave so big a hole?
I couldn’t help but wonder,
Was it my fault Pierre died?
If I had given Manman my rice,
would he have lived?
Finally,
Antoinette Solaine spoke.
I brought you a present,
she whispered.
She opened her black bag
and pulled out a flattened silver bell
attached to a frayed black tube.
The stethoscope is broken,
but you can pretend.
Through our tears,
Manman and I smiled.
I placed the silver bell
on Manman’s chest
and listened.
In the quiet,
my own heart beat
its unspoken secret.
I promised myself
that one day
I would be a real doctor
like Antoinette Solaine.
Sometimes I think
Papa already knows my secret.
One time when Manman
burned her hand cooking,
Papa watched me smash
a plantain leaf
and press it against her
blistered skin.
You have a gift,
he said, smiling at me.
When I bring home
an injured insect,
or pretend to use my stethoscope
on a wounded bird,
or when Papa catches me
sneaking food to Banza,
he laughs his
rolling laugh
and says,
Your heart is too big
for your little body, Serafina.
He tilts his head and studies me.
Does Papa know my secret?
What would he say
if I told him?
Would he still say,
Help Manman.
Help Manman.
Help Manman!
Manman, I’m here! I call
when I finally reach home.
Manman draws open
our flowered-sheet door
and steps outside.
She helps lower the bucket
onto a patch of packed dirt
outside our small wooden hut.
Wonderful! Manman smiles.
You’re getting so strong!
Instantly the bees in my brain
turn to dust.
I follow Manman into
our front room.
An old tin table and a single
chair help prop up the slanted
wooden walls.
Three large pots and a stack
of dishes are piled in one corner.
In the other corner,
clean clothes hang neatly
across a stretch of tattered string.
In the back,
another sheet separates
one room into two,
a blanket on the floor
for Papa and Manman.
A blanket on the floor
for Gogo and me.
Nadia and Julie Marie
are jumping rope,
I say. May I join them?
Manman shakes her head.
I need you to gather more wood
and pile the charcoal.
Papa will be home soon.
Gogo comes in carrying the basket
of wild mint and thyme
she gathered from the field.
And we need you to help us
sort and bundle, Manman adds.
The bees in my brain wake up.
Maybe after din—
I hear Manman say,
but I’m already outside,
an angry buzz
roaring in my ears.
When Papa comes home,
his strong arms
scoop me into the air.
Three leaves, three roots,
he sings.
In the tiny space
between the table and the beds,
we twirl and dip.
Papa’s clean white shirt
billows as we turn.
My soft purple dress
floats and swirls.
To throw down is to forget.
Gogo sits in the doorway
brushing mud
from Papa’s worn-out shoes.
Outside, Manman rests one hand
on her growing belly
as she stirs red beans and rice.
To gather up is to remember.