Serafina's Promise

  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.