Pushing the Boundaries (Off Limits) Read online

  I shake my head. “Yeah…about that.”

  “About what? You’re here at a clinic internship. Surely she’ll be proud of that?”

  “She sort of forced me here. I mean, I’ll help and all, but I have ulterior motives.”

  “Oh boy, this sounds juicy. Is it that you’re here to marry a cute Haitian interpreter?” She winks.

  “Ha! Funny.” I take a quick peek back at my mother who seems to be deep into whatever it is she’s reading, and Dr. Stone’s loud voice—as he explains how he gets by without ever learning the native language here (he’s a champion charades player!)—will cover any of the secrets I’m about to tell Ava.

  “Mom wants me to study premed in college. I have other plans.”

  “Spill!” she whispers excitedly.

  I lean in and let my voice go as low as possible. I don’t know if I should trust Ava, I hardly know her, but she makes it sound so exciting. I look around one more time before deciding it’s worth the risk. “I’ve been accepted to a few colleges, all with great premed programs. Except one. One my mother knows nothing about. Problem is, she won’t ever pay for me to go to art school. But there is this photography scholarship competition…”

  “Oh! Photography? And Mom’s not on board?”

  “No way. Art school is a waste of money.”

  “But if you win the scholarship…”

  “Exactly. But I have to do it without her knowing, or she won’t let me take my camera around.”

  “Sneaky, sneaky.”

  I shrug.

  “Well, you’ve found yourself a great model,” Ava says, and at first I think she’s talking about herself, but then she looks over at the driver—aka the hot Haitian interpreter.

  “Um, no! My mother would kill me. Besides, he really isn’t my type.”

  “Yeah, right. You were practically drooling when he was packing up the luggage.”

  I roll my eyes and look up at the boy—Elias.

  I shake my head and look away. “I’m here to get into art school and appease my mother—not find more ways to piss her off.” I don’t tell Ava that I’m also looking to get away from them. My mother and father. That’s my own business. The last thing I want or need is to let anyone else get close. Relationships are just another way for you to get hurt.

  “Okay, okay. But you have to admit, he’s pretty nice to look at.”

  I can’t help it, I let out a laugh. She’s right. He is.

  Chapter Four

  Elias

  I pull through the crazy crowded streets of Port-au-Prince, working to focus my mind on the streets and nothing else. I have always hated this city, too big and crowded, and I am still not used to driving such a large vehicle. And that is not even considering I have Americans—the most precious of cargos—in my hands. My palms sweat.

  I almost—almost—forget the American girl. The one who watched me at the airport. The one who said I was “cute.” I am not sure I even know what that means. I have only ever heard it used to describe children and dogs. But somehow I get the feeling it meant something more. Maybe it was the look her mother gave her, or the way her cheeks grew red, or maybe it was just what I want to think.

  I slam on the brakes and the horn at the same time as a tap-tap pulls out right in front of me.

  “Ehhhh!” Luke hollers at me, telling me to be more careful or I’ll get fired. I shouldn’t have ever put that thought into his head.

  “Shush,” I say. He doesn’t know that anything happened at the airport. I am not really sure if anything did happen. But I do know that I am glad he doesn’t understand much English because I certainly do not need his input on this one.

  I remember Mr. Rowland’s message. Don’t get too close to the Americans.

  I glance back at the girl through the rearview mirror, and my chest flutters a little. Her skin isn’t quite as fair as the others’, but it is her eyes that catch my attention. Deep brown and big. Beautiful.

  I blink and focus back on the road.

  This girl can only be bad news.

  My palms are sweating, heart pounding, as I finally come to a stop in front of Mr. Rowland’s house. I feel so relieved that this part of the day is over.

  Maybe one day I will get used to it, though I doubt it.

  “Is this where we’re staying?” one of the Americans asks. My mouth is too dry to respond. I should respond. I need them to trust me, know that I’m here to help them. But I say nothing, and it feels like a failure.

  I’m not usually this nervous. I need to break out of it before I ruin this opportunity.

  “Yes,” Dr. Chaudhary says. “This will be our home away from home.”

  She speaks differently than the other Americans. I’ve heard that she’s not really American but from another country. I am not sure what that makes her daughter. She sure seems American.

  “Awesome!” one of the boys proclaims.

  I am surprised by his reaction. Mr. Rowland’s house is one of the nicest I have seen with my own eyes. It might as well be a palace—two stories with a wraparound balcony on both floors. The concrete walls are covered in chip-free, bright blue paint, the color of the ocean. And it is very large. Massive. It could home a hundred Haitians, but it is created for the foreigners to come visit.

  So, sure, it is definitely “awesome” to me. But to Americans? Isn’t this what they’re used to? What they expect?

  I hop out of the van and open the doors for the Americans without a word. My mouth still feels like it’s filled with concrete. They pile out, oohing and ahhing at the house. Dr. Chaudhary’s daughter pulls a large camera up to her face, and it flashes, bright enough to make me blink even though I’m not in the picture.

  I walk about the group, standing between them and the house, hoping at some point they will look at me so I can lead them inside.

  They pay no attention. Even my brother is among them, walking around pretending to speak English. It is pure gibberish, but the Americans at least seem to find it amusing.

  I clear my throat. No one turns.

  “Excuse me,” I say.

  Nothing.

  Finally, Dr. Stone lets out a whistle so loud I cover my ears to protect them from the piercing pain. That gets their attention. They all go silent and turn to the doctor. “Follow the boy,” he says, and as simple as that they turn and follow me inside the house.

  We walk in, and since I don’t see Mr. Rowland around anywhere I suggest the group sit at the entryway, where there are several cushioned chairs, then I walk through the house to find someone.

  I hate this house. It’s so big and clean and beautiful. I’m certain I could never belong here. Or any place like it. In the kitchen I find a Haitian woman working at the sink.

  “Mr. Rowland?” I ask.

  She smiles at me sincerely. “On floor two.”

  I take a deep breath, thank her, and go to find him. I finally find him sitting at a large desk on the second floor.

  “Elias!” he says loudly, surprised. “What are you doing here? What happened?” He stands quickly.

  “I…brought the Americans.”

  “Where are they?” he asks, his face frozen. Tense. His voice is strained, and I get the feeling that I’ve done something wrong. I’m just not quite sure what.

  “Downstairs, sir, waiting on you.”

  He stops and turns to me slowly. “And you didn’t call me…why?”

  “I…”

  He grabs my arm firmly, squeezing. “They’re waiting on me…like I’m late? Like this is my fault?” His voice squeaks on the last word, like he might explode from stress.

  Swallowing, I look down at his hand on my arm. I don’t like the way my arm is pressured under his clean fingers, but there isn’t anything I can do. Mr. Rowland is the keeper of my future. The keeper of my family’s well-being.

  So I swallow and look back to him. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  I’m still unsure of what exactly is so bad. What I did wrong. Surely the Americans can
wait a few moments?

  He releases my arm, fury still in his eyes, and jogs down the steps, leaving me behind. Taking in a deep breath, I remind myself that I can do this. This job is the only thing I have keeping my family afloat.

  I’ll just make sure not to disappoint Mr. Rowland again, and I won’t have any more problems.

  That should be easy.

  Chapter Five

  Myra

  The fans are running, blowing the sticky air around the room, but it’s not enough. I pull my coarse hair up into a ponytail in a futile attempt to cool myself down. It does feel good, the air moving on my newly exposed neck, but I know it’s no use in this humidity. I might as well just let the sweat come.

  I glance at my mother who, despite the headscarf she always sports, looks completely comfortable. For the first time, I wonder if that’s why she seems to love this place so much—it reminds her of Pakistan. Of home. Blood-sucking humidity and all.

  I sit on one of the cushioned seats, the only soft thing in the room so far as I can see. The ground is tile and the walls concrete. Still, it’s bright and open, with pictures hanging on the walls, potted plants with exotic-looking flowers flowing right out the open windows.

  I’m a bit shocked at how nice it is, really. We’re in the poorest country in the Western Hemisphere to deworm orphans and give vaccinations, feed the hungry and all that jazz. I didn’t exactly expect a lavish experience.

  Finally, a large man with tanned skin (that’s still nowhere near as dark as even the lightest Haitian) comes around the corner, a huge smile plastered on his face.

  “Welcome!” he calls to the group.

  My mother stands. “Mr. Rowland,” she says with a smile and nod. “How nice it is to see you again.” His hand flinches, like he started to hold it out to her then remembered she doesn’t touch men who are not family. My mother is rather strange about which traditions she keeps and which she doesn’t. I suspect touching anyone in a personal way (including her family) just freaks her out and she uses her culture as an excuse.

  “Dr. Chaudhary!” He smiles. “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Elias quietly joins the group as Mr. Rowland greets us all and asks us how our trip was. I find myself just watching him—Elias, I mean. Mr. Rowland’s voice drifts off into the background, and I watch the boy, staring at Mr. Rowland with a curious look on his face, like he’s sincerely surprised at his animated kindness. Finally, he casts his gaze to the ground, and it stays there.

  My gaze travels down his arms, clasped in front of him obediently. With his head bowed like that it almost looks like he’s praying. Maybe he is. I just wonder which god he’s speaking to and about what?

  “Myra!” My mother practically barks my name while somehow keeping it a whisper, and I jump to attention. She caught me watching Elias again.

  I swallow and notice the group has started filing out of the seating area and down a hall. Except my mother hasn’t moved. She just stares down at me, using her unusual height in her favor. She’s very talented at intimidation.

  “What?” I ask without looking at her. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

  She grunts, still not taking her eyes off of me. I take this as a yes and rush to rejoin the group. I’m not looking forward to the moment my mother finally gets me alone.

  I wrap my arm in Ava’s and match her stride. She smirks but doesn’t look at me.

  “You’re having a day, aren’t you?” she says quietly as Mr. Rowland shows us the kitchen and massive dining room and explains our meals to us.

  “You could say that.”

  We follow the group upstairs, where there is a large open space with more couches and a few bookshelves, surrounded by doors.

  Mr. Rowland explains that there are five rooms, each with a different number of beds. We can choose which rooms we’ll stay in, but no boys sharing with girls unless they’re family.

  There’s a pause, and then Mr. Rowland says, “What are you waiting for? Choose a room!”

  It’s a mad rush, and I’m the most frantic. I must pick a room apart from my mother. I pull Ava to the nearest room, which is, thankfully, a small one with only three beds. I drop my bag onto the closest bed but realize that with only me and Ava, there’s still space for one more. Space for my mother.

  Then good-girl Hope pops her head in.

  “Yes!” I yell.

  Hope jumps in surprise. “What?”

  “Oh, Hope!” I coo. “You have to room with us. It’ll be so nice with just us girls!”

  “What?” both Ava and Hope say at the same time.

  “You really want me to stay with you?” Hope asks. I nod vigorously. Make your choice quick, girlfriend, before my mother—

  A tall, womanly figure steps through the doorway. As stern and poised as ever.

  “You’ve chosen a room?” she asks, her bag still in her hand.

  “Yes, Mother. Ava, Hope, and I are going to stay together. Don’t you think that’s a fantastic idea? We can be lifelong friends!” I say, much too eagerly to be real, and my mother knows it. But this time, I’ve beaten her at her own game. She won’t disagree with me, not here, not in front of the others. There’s no argument she can give that won’t make her look bad.

  A fake smile spreads across her face. “A wonderful idea.” Then she turns to find a room of her own.

  I move my luggage and then flop on the bed. It’s even sticky hot in here. Sleeping tonight is going to be a blast.

  “I’ll go let Mrs. Carson know I have a room!” Hope says, alight with joy. I roll my eyes, but there are worse things than a too-happy good girl.

  “What was that about?” Ava asks in a whisper once Hope turns the corner.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t take the risk of rooming with my mom.”

  She shakes her head. “I was hoping to stay with my dad.”

  I blink. “Oh.”

  “We just don’t get to spend much time together, so this trip is supposed to be us…bonding or something.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, heart sinking. “I didn’t even think…” Seriously. I can’t even imagine wanting to share a room with my parents. I’d rather swallow a shard of glass. “You can change rooms, then, if you want.”

  She shrugs. “It’s not that big a deal. Rooming with the girls probably will be fun…even if Hope is one of them.” We smirk together.

  Ava and I spend a few minutes unpacking, and her father pops in to check on her. I notice the way her face lights up as she greets him. Is it weird that I find that so strange?

  They decide to walk around the house, taking a more detailed look at things, and I let them go. If she wants time with her dad she can have it. But now Ava is gone and Hope never came back, so I’m alone.

  Alone is vulnerable.

  My mother walks through the open door. I swear she can smell that vulnerability like a shark smells blood.

  “It’s time for us to talk.”

  “Lovely.” I sigh.

  “You must learn how to be a professional, Myra.”

  I swallow and continue to fold my clothes into the dresser as she sits on Ava’s bed.

  “You have nothing to say?”

  I shake my head.

  “No defense? You were acting like a love-drunk child today. You embarrassed me.”

  “It’s called hormones, Mom.”

  “I know what hormones are!” She’s even more pissed now. Great. I’m really good at defusing charged situations. Can’t you tell? I’m clearly the warm and fuzzy type. Everyone loves me.

  Not.

  “Hormones are not an excuse for continuing to act like a child.”

  I sigh, but just as I’m about to say a simple “yes, ma’am” and call it a day, she goes on.

  “And if you are going to be drooling over a boy, at least make it one of the American boys, boys who are to be doctors!”

  My eyes narrow, and I stand, not aggressively—boldly. I want her to understand what she just said. “Which is it that bothers you more,
that he’s Haitian or that he’s probably poor?”

  She blinks several times. I’ve offended her, but I’m not sorry because she was being offensive herself. “How dare you suggest…” She doesn’t finish, though. It’s important for me to marry well, I get it. But for her to point out one person as not good enough—it stings. She grits her teeth and turns from me. “You cannot drool all over a boy you’ve not even met yet. His status is irrelevant. Learn to be professional, or you will never succeed in becoming a doctor.”

  She stomps from the room then. I would like to tell her how much I don’t want to be a doctor. How sick people disgust me, with their open wounds and body fluids. Ick. How just because it’s what she wants doesn’t mean it has to be what I want. What I do is my choice. It’s my life.

  But saying those things, out loud, would ruin everything. I’d have to tell her why I’m really here. I’d have to tell her how much of a disappointment I really am.

  She knows, deep down.

  But saying the words out loud, that I’m not planning to let her run my life… It will destroy her. Us.

  Maybe that’s the real reason I can’t imagine wanting to spend time with my mother. Every word out of our mouths is another step closer to destroying the fragile relationship we have. Those secrets are the only things keeping us from ripping apart.

  A woman comes to the second floor and announces dinner. I listen as everyone rushes downstairs to the kitchen for their grub. I wait until it’s quiet. No one even notices that I didn’t join them.

  I don’t want to see my mother, or Elias. I don’t want to think about it, any of it. I’m eager to get started on my photography project, but I know there isn’t much for me to shoot while stuck in the house. I need to find the real beauty. The culture.

  I head straight to my bathroom, wash up quickly, do my prayers, and then head out.

  Then I pick up my camera, intent on trying. I want to uncover the heart of Haiti. I don’t know where I can find a good picture, but a little snooping might just get me something worth my time.