Serafina's Promise Page 10

  to the ravine.

  Where are you, Gogo?

  Where are you?

  Tiny stars twinkle

  in the cool, clear water.

  Suddenly I remember Manman.

  Manman is waiting for me.

  Manman needs water

  to make red beans and rice.

  Manman needs water to

  bathe Gregory.

  I lift my head.

  The mango tree is gone.

  The yellow fruit,

  my bucket,

  the clear water,

  all gone.

  Only a blur

  of uprooted trees

  and grass.

  Only the gritty taste

  of dirt

  and dusty rock.

  Only the fluttering

  of whiteflies

  in my stomach.

  Slowly I pull myself

  onto my knees.

  My head pounds.

  My stomach sways.

  I crawl through chunks

  of split rock,

  torn grass, and

  tiny pink flowers.

  What happened?

  The earth trembles again

  and I lay down.

  A sour taste

  like watery green mango

  fills my mouth,

  and I throw up dirt and water.

  Where am I?

  Far away, down the hill,

  I hear the sound

  of muffled wailing.

  For a long time,

  I lay there,

  waiting for the earth

  to grow still.

  Above the grass,

  a tiny yellow butterfly

  flutters aimlessly,

  like a flower petal

  ripped from its stem,

  looking for a place to land.

  The earth quiets.

  I pull myself up.

  My arms and knees

  burn and bleed.

  My uniform is torn

  and dirty.

  What happened?

  The path is gone,

  cluttered

  with broken stones

  and fallen trees.

  Is the earth angry

  with me

  because of my selfishness

  and almost-lies?

  I look down.

  My shoes and socks

  are gone, swallowed

  by the swaying giant.

  My shiny school shoes—

  how will I replace them?

  Which way do I walk?

  How will I ever

  find my way home?

  Questions whirl and twist

  in my mind

  like a tangled rat’s nest.

  Where are Manman,

  Gogo, and Gregory?

  Did they leave to look

  for Papa and me?

  Did the angry beast

  swallow our home?

  Should I stay here or go

  to the President’s Palace?

  If I stay where I am,

  will anyone find me?

  Softer than a lizard

  on a turnip leaf,

  I hear Gogo’s voice.

  If you want your eggs hatched,

  sit on them yourself!

  I stand up

  and slowly step

  sideways

  down the hillside.

  My bare feet slip

  on loose dirt

  and dry grass.

  I’ll go to Port-au-Prince.

  Papa will be waiting

  outside the President’s Palace.

  Manman, Gogo, and Gregory

  will find us there.

  Toppled trees stretch across

  the path like hungry giants

  eager to snatch me

  with their knobby limbs,

  to trap me

  in their tangled roots.

  I walk slowly, my legs weak

  and trembling.

  My heart beats

  like a trapped sparrow.

  My breath is barely

  able to squeeze through

  the tightness in my chest.

  What have I done?

  Again the ground rumbles

  and I fall.

  The grass I grab on to

  pulls from the earth.

  I bury my face

  in my hands

  and wait.

  My mouth and eyes

  are dry as dirt.

  My bruised arms

  itch and sting.

  I take a deep breath.

  Once more,

  I drag myself up and walk.

  With every step,

  my knees buckle and burn.

  I keep walking.

  The dry grass disappears.

  The litter of ripped trees

  changes to the litter

  of broken cement.

  The smell of garbage

  and burning wood

  chokes me.

  Outside their mangled shacks,

  mothers and children

  stand dazed and crying.

  Their frightened faces

  swirl around me.

  Babbling voices sputter

  and snap.

  What are they saying?

  What are they asking me?

  I need to find

  my papa.

  The soles of my feet

  burn and bleed,

  but I keep walking.

  Finally

  I reach the sobbing city.

  Through broken streets

  and blowing dust,

  I straggle and drift.

  Surrounded by wails

  and walking zombies,

  I stagger and limp.

  Where is the long iron fence

  of the President’s Palace?

  Papa will be waiting there.

  He’ll lift me in his arms,

  stroke my hair,

  and touch my face.

  You’re safe, Bondye bon,

  he’ll say.

  He’ll smell like hard work

  and fresh oranges.

  He’ll laugh

  like rolling coconuts.

  Manman will cover me

  in kisses.

  My brave girl, she’ll say.

  She’ll give Gregory

  to Gogo to hold,

  and hug me tight.

  Her hair will smell

  like burning charcoal

  and garden roots.

  The drums will beat gladly

  and we’ll dance.

  I move forward slowly,

  looking for my papa,

  listening for drumbeats.

  The city is filled

  with ash, dust,

  and open, empty arms.

  The air is thick

  with smoke, flame,

  burning wood, and straw.

  Around me,

  voices babble and weep.

  Sirens scream and wail.

  I cover my ears,

  but still I hear.

  The crowded streets

  heave in sorrow.

  A heavy dread

  slumps inside me.

  Where are the fence and path?

  Where is the big white church

  where we pray on Sundays,

  or the supermarket

  where Papa sells mangoes,

  sweet milk, and rice?

  Nothing looks the same.

  I keep walking.

  In every ash-covered face,

  I search for someone

  who is searching for me.

  Night comes.

  I walk beneath

  a ragged blanket

  of broken sobs

  and gray dust.

  Underground

  the beast rests,

  but the earth still shakes

  from grief.

  Where am I?

  Where should I go?

  Someone touches />
  my shoulder.

  Long, thin arms

  tug at me.

  Sleep here, petit mwen.

  It’s too dark

  for wandering.

  The woman’s spindly hands

  pat a bare, lumpy mattress.

  I lie down.

  Above me,

  stars weep smoky light.

  Beside me,

  bony arms keep watch.

  Trembling fingers

  pray on wooden beads.

  I think of Papa

  comforting Manman

  when the rains came.

  Look, he said,

  the stars still shine.

  Where are you now, Papa?

  Where are you, Manman,

  Gogo, and Gregory?

  Are you looking for me?

  Are you hurt?

  In the darkness,

  my thoughts tumble like

  falling stars—

  the rising water

  and the dead donkey,

  Nadia’s mother,

  Julie Marie,

  Granpè,

  the Tonton Macoutes,

  Baby Pierre, and

  Antoinette Solaine—

  too many to catch

  or follow.

  Shipwrecked,

  in a throbbing,

  mournful sea,

  my mattress

  floats

  toward morning.

  Stay with me,

  the thin-armed woman says

  when daylight wakes me.

  Don’t wander all alone.

  How can I stay?

  Manman’s words

  rustle in my head.

  Pa pèdi tan! Don’t dawdle.

  And Gogo’s words—

  If you want your eggs hatched,

  sit on them yourself.

  A siren wails.

  The thin-armed woman

  turns her head.

  I scurry away to look

  for Papa’s supermarket.

  Quickly I’m lost

  in mounds of crinkled tin,

  mountains of crushed stone,

  and a sea of broken people.

  Along the street

  and on the sidewalk,

  between crumbled buildings

  and crumpled cars,

  people cry

  and call for help.

  Is Papa one of them?

  And Julie Marie—

  is she buried beneath

  the rubble?

  Where are Manman

  and Gogo?

  Is Gregory safe?

  A woman kneels

  on the ground

  rocking a small

  dust-covered baby.

  Se lafendimonn! she says.

  It’s the end of the world.

  Is it the end of the world?

  Will the beast return

  to devour us all?

  I kneel down

  beside the woman

  and gaze at

  her quiet baby.

  I remember

  holding Gregory.

  I remember

  the rise and fall

  of his soft breath.

  I remember

  my promise

  to keep him safe,

  and Gogo’s soothing words,

  Babies are a blessing.

  Do blessings hide

  beneath a coat of dust?

  Gently I brush away

  the fine white ash

  on the baby’s face

  and say a prayer.

  As if to answer me,

  a square white car

  with dusty tires

  and a painted red cross

  on the door

  pulls up beside us.

  A small, wiry woman

  with red glasses gets out.

  In her hands is a blanket

  and a bottle of water.

  She stoops down

  to look at the baby.

  Is he hurt? she asks the woman.

  Are you hurt?

  The woman shakes her head.

  Non! Se pè mwen pè sèlman.

  I am only afraid.

  We are all afraid, the woman

  with glasses says,

  but we need to help each other.

  She wraps the baby

  in the clean blanket

  and gives his mother

  the bottle of water.

  Pa bwè vit. Drink slowly.

  Then she looks at my arms

  and my knee.

  We need to clean your wounds,

  she says.

  I can’t believe it’s her.

  Words crumble like dirt

  in my dry throat,

  but I push them out.

  Do you remember me?

  My name is Serafina.

  She looks at my face.

  Serafina! Wi!

  Of course I remember you!

  Antoinette Solaine wraps

  her strong, clean hands

  around my dirty ones.

  Come with me, she says.

  Something inside me

  swells and shatters.

  Tears sting my eyes.

  She opens her car door

  and helps me crawl inside.

  Torn seats prickle my legs,

  but the warm smell of coconut

  welcomes me.

  She pulls a plastic bottle

  from a white box behind her seat.

  Pa bwè vit, she says,

  her voice lilting softly.

  Do you know that woman?

  she asks.

  I shake my head.

  I am going to check on her

  and her baby again.

  Stay here. I’ll be back.

  Cool water glides

  across my blistered lips

  and dry tongue.

  Dr. Solaine, I whisper

  when she returns.

  Is it the end of the world?

  Non! she assures me.

  Her brown eyes are soft

  like water from the ravine.

  Her voice is as gentle

  as the mourning dove.

  Youn tranbleman tè, she says.

  An earthquake.

  She climbs in beside me,

  pulls a cloth from her bag,

  wets it, and cleans my wounds.

  Even though they burn,

  I stay very still and

  watch how she works,

  so tender and calm.

  These aren’t so bad, she says.

  You were very lucky.

  I manage a smile.

  She strokes my cheek

  and puts her bag

  on the seat behind us.

  Then she stretches

  her right arm

  to protect me,

  as she slowly, carefully,

  steers her car

  onto the crowded road.

  Our clinic was spared, she says.

  So I came here,

  where I can be more helpful.

  Youn tranbleman tè.

  An earthquake.

  Even the word

  makes me shudder.

  Antoinette Solaine

  eyes my dusty uniform

  and smiles.

  I see you go to school,

  she says gently.

  Do you live in the city now?

  Is your school here?

  Words stick in my throat

  like sharp stones.

  How can I tell her

  that my school is outside the city,

  and that school is not how

  I thought it would be?

  That I don’t want to sing

  and count in French,

  I want to learn medicine!

  That I was looking for her

  and got lost?

  How can I tell her

  about the almost-lies

  that tumble inside me

  like whiteflies?

 
I look out the window.

  My school isn’t in the city, I say.

  I only came here to look for Papa.

  Whenever there’s trouble,

  he meets us at the President’s Palace.

  But the palace is gone!

  I looked, but I can’t find it.

  Antoinette Solaine reminds me of Papa.

  She just listens

  and doesn’t ask too many questions.

  I keep talking.

  Manman and Gogo were home

  waiting for me to return from school

  when the earthquake came.

  We have a new house now,

  hidden in the hills, far from the city.

  We moved when the flood

  washed away our old house.

  It’s quiet there, with lots of space.

  We even have a garden.

  Well, we had a garden….

  Antoinette Solaine’s voice

  is soft as honey.

  The worst earthquake damage

  is here in the city

  and neighboring villages.

  Your manman and Gogo should be safe.

  The tightness in my chest

  opens and I breathe deeply.

  I have a new brother too, I say.

  His name is Gregory.

  He’s sick.

  I was looking for you

  when the earthquake came.

  Antoinette Solaine’s eyes

  widen and glisten.

  What’s wrong with him?

  I tell her about the rash,

  how it spread and makes him cranky.

  I tell her about the paste

  Gogo and I made of aloe and water,

  how it soothed him

  but didn’t make him better.

  His belly is round and full,

  so I know he isn’t hungry.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with him.

  Sometimes even when we eat,

  Antoinette Solaine says,

  our bodies are hungry.

  Has his skin become scaly?

  No.

  Is his hair falling out?

  I shake my head.

  Is he still eating some?

  I nod.

  Then it is not too late….

  We’ll find your brother, she says,

  and if I can help him, I will.

  Dr. Solaine’s car moves

  slower than a turtle.

  Every inch, I scour the crowd

  for Papa.

  A woman with a red bandanna

  wrapped around her mouth and nose

  hangs on the shoulders

  of an old man in a torn shirt.

  A scrawny girl with wide,

  frightened eyes

  leans against a mound of rubble.

  One hand clutches a yellow cookie.

  The other grips her shoulder.

  The girl’s lips are white

  with dust.

  Her loose braids

  and even her eyelashes

  are white with dust.

  But under them,

  I see two gentle eyes,

  dark and shiny

  as the seeds

  of the sapote fruit.