Pushing the Boundaries (Off Limits) Page 3
There are cinder-block walls all around the house, blocking us from the rest of the neighborhood. That seems to be a popular security method here. Cinder blocks are Haiti’s picket fences. At the top are shards of colorful glass dried within the concrete that holds the blocks together. Who needs barbed wire? I don’t think anyone is climbing over those walls. I snap a few pictures of the glass because it is pretty interesting, but after a few shots, I’m bored. The sun is setting, so I get a few of the sky with tree leaves in the forefront. Not bad, but it could be taken anywhere. Even in Florida. There’s nothing to show where I am.
I venture around the house. It feels empty, even though I can hear revving and honking and random joyous voices in the background. Too bad I can’t take a picture of the sounds. All of that is behind the walls. Where I am is perfectly still. Boring.
As I reach the end of the house I hear some clinking and then a few people come into view. There is an open window by the kitchen, from which I can hear the clinking of dishes, the slushing of water. Cleaning up after our mess. I sneak a peek inside and see an older Haitian woman happily slaving away, scrubbing dishes at a sink. She hums to herself, and I listen to the melody for a moment.
I don’t like how close to servants they seem, but I know it’s good that they employ Haitians. There are very few job opportunities in this country, that much I know. So every job changes the lives of those who receive them. This woman may be doing dirty work for Americans, but she’s likely able to keep food on her family’s table because of it.
Except it isn’t enough. How many other families struggle daily?
If only they could employ themselves instead of needing Americans to do it, because isn’t that the real problem? This country can’t sustain itself. They need more businesses, more education, more opportunity.
I pass the window and head to the back. There is a patch of grass that stretches about four feet before it hits another concrete wall. The tiniest yard ever, and absolutely nothing to take a picture of.
I go back inside, through the front—I don’t want to be a bother to anyone, let alone risk passing the doctors’ party inside.
Then I head to the only other place I think I might be able to find a good vantage point. Back up to the second floor and past our rooms, there is a door to the balcony. But before I reach it, I’m distracted by a set of stairs leading upward.
There isn’t a third floor, which means this can only lead to the roof.
Jackpot.
I rush up the winding steps and stop when I reach the top. The roof is flat concrete with only a few lawn chairs. But out in front of me is the country I’ve been waiting to see.
Sure, all around there are lots of these houses that are less than picturesque, but there are trees and cars and mountains in the background. It’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, but this is Haiti. Ugliness and all.
I snap a few pictures, but the sun is gone now and there isn’t enough light for me to get anything great. But somehow I’m not at all disappointed. I’m…relaxed.
The wind blows gently through my hair, the air growing cooler with each passing second. So I walk over to one of the flimsy lawn chairs and sit.
I breathe in the smell. It’s like lotion and fruit and salt and dirt and burning. The burning smell seems to be everywhere here, like there’s some kind of forest fire all around the country but no one really seems to care.
The smell bombards me, but right now I accept it. I breathe it in.
It’s the first time I feel a part of this strange place.
Far off, the constant honking continues. I hear one long beep, and it almost sounds like an elephant. I smile and close my eyes.
Chapter Six
Elias
I stay at Mr. Rowland’s house for dinner, but I have to hide my disgust. Watching the Americans shovel pasta into their mouths is more horrific than I would have thought.
I take my own fill because it might be my only chance at a meal this big for a month, but I slip a roll into my pants pocket when no one is looking. Dinner for Luke and Emilie.
I wait a while for Mr. Rowland to excuse me—the sun is setting and I would really like to go home soon—but he is in the middle of a conversation with the doctors. I cannot leave until he tells me I can, but interrupting him would lead to more trouble for me.
Good news is I know one place I can go to hide away until Mr. Rowland decides he can spare a moment for me.
The outside air is still as I ascend the stairs, but once I hit the roof a slight breeze brushes past me. The tickle distracts me just long enough for me not to notice the girl until she looks in my direction. Just long enough for me to miss my opportunity to back away unnoticed.
“Oh!” I say. “I am sorry. I did not realize anyone was here.” It’s Dr. Chaudhary’s daughter. Probably the most off-limits of all the Americans and yet the one I am most drawn to.
When she smiles there is a dimple in her chin.
“I’ll just go—”
“No!” she says quickly. “You have just as much a right to be here as I do.” She looks down at her feet. “More, actually.”
I wonder what she means. Surely she belongs in this house—even the roof—much more than I ever could?
I walk to meet her at the center of the roof and sit in one of the chairs. This is probably a really bad idea, and yet, I sit.
“You’re Elias, right?”
I nod. “You are Dr. Chaudhary’s daughter.”
She smirks, looking down at the camera in her hands. “Most people just call me Myra.”
“Right, I am sorry.” I swallow and look out into the distance. The city blares around us. Dark but lively. “This is my favorite place in the house,” I say, breaking the awkward silence.
“Why?” she asks, her eyes prying.
I give her an honest smile. “It’s the only place I feel I belong. Or at least, where I can pretend.”
“What do you mean?”
I look out into the expanse that is Haiti. “It’s quiet. I like the quiet. I like that I can see much of the city here.”
She nods. “Me too. I like that the real Haiti is visible from here. Not just a house made for Americans.”
I smirk, I can’t help it. “This isn’t the real Haiti.” Out in front of us are a few houses, a handful of trees, and not much else. “This is a small, small piece of the puzzle. Haiti is much more than this.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her eyes on me, like she’s trying to see through my skull and into my brain.
I’m not exactly sure what I am doing here, with her. I feel comfortable for once, maybe that’s why I am still here. I hate how scared I am all of the time, how I walk on eggshells during this job. It’s so very much unlike me.
“Well, it’s more than I’ve seen so far. Besides, it’s the only place I can get away. Escape.”
“What are you trying to escape from?” I say it quickly, and then bite my tongue, remembering I’m not supposed to pry. It is rude.
She looks me in the eyes, and I see that they aren’t just brown. They have flecks of gold in them. I struggle to look away.
“Everything, everyone,” she says. “I’m always trying to escape.” She looks down at her hands, and I finally have a chance to really examine her. I haven’t ever had the opportunity to really get to know any Americans. I’m not really sure what to expect, but I suspect that she is going to surprise me anyway.
“Life can’t be easy if you’re always trying to hide.”
“I’ve become pretty good at it.” She pulls her camera a little closer.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. “Why wouldn’t you want them to see you? You’re beautiful.”
She blinks, and my stomach sinks.
br /> Too far.
I consider running away now, I know I should. I should stand and run down the steps. If Mr. Rowland finds out about this conversation, I’ll be in big trouble.
But that step was already over the line… Why not find out where it takes me? It’s not as if I can take it back now.
Her breathing is quicker, but she doesn’t break her gaze from mine. Finally, she lifts up her camera and snaps a picture, the flash blinding me.
I rub my eyes as realization hits me.
“You use the camera to keep everyone else at arm’s length,” I say quietly. I blink the yellow light from my eyes. Her camera is her weapon. Her filter. I got too close. I knew that, so why does it bother me that she pushed me away?
“Well, I…”
“It is fine. I am not supposed to make you uncomfortable, and I failed. I am sorry, it will not happen again.” I bow my head. And walk away.
Chapter Seven
Myra
The feeling in the pit of my stomach makes me squirm. Elias is gone, but his words stick with me. I put my camera down on the ground, something I’d usually never do.
My heart is still pounding. You’re beautiful, his voice whispers in my ear. And as is typical of me, I pushed him away in spectacular fashion.
I do it all the time. I do it on purpose.
But this time he called me on it. He saw me. In just minutes, he saw how deeply messed up I am.
I grab my camera quickly and head back down to my room, ready for a shower and bed. As much as I’m looking forward to a new day with new opportunity, I know tomorrow won’t be easy. It’s our first day at the clinic.
As I lay in bed, I hold my camera close to my chest.
I want to bring it with me, more than anything. But I know my mother will notice. She’s going to be watching me closely the first day.
I take in a deep breath and pack my camera deep inside my suitcase. One day of perfect future-doctor daughter, and she’ll let her guard down. I just need to show her I can do this right, then I’ll take my shot.
But that’s also going to include avoiding Elias.
The clinic is nothing like I expected. Stuffy, hot, packed with bodies—and dark. The only light comes from the open windows when the hot sun pours in. It’s not enough. I wonder why they don’t invest in real lights.
I walk down the long aisle, past hundreds of bodies packed into benches, waiting their turn to get their children vaccinated. The clinic always does a big event when they bring in new interns. Vaccines bring in people from miles away.
I itch to pull out my camera, but I know now isn’t the right time. My mom is on the prowl, and I need to keep up appearances, at least until she lets her guard down.
A part of me wants to run and hide. So many people, so packed together. Everything feels…unclean. Which is strange for a clinic. There is the familiar scent of formaldehyde in the background, if you can get past the sweat and distant smoke smells. I’m not sure which I hate more.
But a part of me wants to dig into these people’s lives and see them for who they really are. Problem is, I can’t do that without getting too close. Not without my camera.
“Myra!” my mother calls. “I need them in order!” She motions to a line of people, pushing and pulling to get ahead.
I rush over and motion them back. “Chill,” I say. “The needles aren’t going anywhere.” I know they won’t understand me so it doesn’t really matter what I say. At least there’s that. I don’t need to be on edge about keeping them comfortable with my words. Not like I could, anyway. It’s one less thing on my chest.
There are four stalls at the front of the big room, each with a chair and some shelves full of random medical supplies. I stand between the first stall and the group of people. A human barrier. We should invest in ropes or something.
“Next!” Dr. Carson calls.
I blink and stare at the pileup of Haitians in front of me. Each has a desperate look on their face, like getting those shots is the most important thing in the world.
“It’s okay.” I try a soothing tone. “You’ll all get a turn.”
I point at a little girl with ratty braids and a pink ribbon in her hair. She looks scared, and I think that’s why I take pity on her. “It’ll be over soon, sweetie.” She doesn’t look comforted.
The little girl is pushed past me by an older man, and they rush over to Dr. Carson. I watch as a needle is shoved into her arm within seconds, and her wailing fills the room, which is impressive because it’s pretty loud to begin with.
“Next.”
“Next.”
“Next.”
They’re moving so fast now I just let people past, but then I have to stop them once the stalls get backed up. I need to pay attention to who has been waiting longest. It’s tough, but eventually I get a system going and things calm down just a tad.
I don’t mind this. I don’t have to watch the needle poking if I don’t want to, and I don’t need to try to awkwardly comfort people I don’t know. I just systematically keep the line in order.
Maybe I should just be a secretary for a doctor. I’m sure Mom would just love that.
After a few hours, the clinic closes for lunch. Apparently even when volunteering in third-world countries, doctors still expect their hour lunch.
We head into the back, where there’s a blocked-off patio so we can eat in peace. I don’t like it. I want to see the people. I want to see how they act, what they do, what they say. Even if I can’t understand it.
There are details that everyone else misses in opportunities like this. But here, I’m not sure what those details are yet, which makes me all the more eager to find out.
Munching on my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and plantain, a mini-banana-looking thing, I’m actually pretty relieved the lunch is simple. I’d hate to be devouring a steak while hanging around people who are all skin and bone.
Elias sits in the corner picking at his sandwich. It’s obvious he feels uncomfortable here with us.
I glance away quickly. I can’t get caught watching him again. Today I need to play the good girl. The future doctor my mother wants me to be. The longer I’m on her bad side, the less freedom I’ll have here. And I need freedom if I’m going to get the photo that will win me the contest.
I don’t know what I’m looking for yet, but the search is half the fun.
Elias wraps his mostly untouched sandwich and places it in his pocket. I don’t allow my eyes to linger, but that doesn’t stop my mind from wandering.
Chapter Eight
Elias
I count the minutes until this first day is over, wishing this was something I could enjoy. Meeting new people from a different place would be great—if it weren’t for Mr. Rowland’s threats hanging over me.
So I do my job, wandering around the clinic translating when I need to, talking with my people when I can. They, at least, are allowed to be my friends. And I know my presence calms them.
Not everyone likes the Americans’ clinic, but no one can argue with how much they help. Medical care is not exactly common. Many people do not have any access to care at all.
The clinics don’t solve everything, but they most certainly help.
A little girl’s high-pitched screaming grabs my attention, mostly because it’s not coming from the direction of the doctors. I turn and find Myra already kneeling in front of the young girl, who must be under four years old.
Myra’s trying to comfort her, but there is fear in her eyes. The confusion. The frustration. She doesn’t know how to help. She doesn’t know what is wrong.
I rush over to help because an awkward foreigner trying to calm a scared girl will do no good. The little girl’s cries turn to a whimper as I kneel down beside them both.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her in our native language.
“Manman,” she says. “Manman, manman, manman!” She starts to scream again.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” the American asks.
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“Her mother. She can’t find her mother.” I look around quickly, but no one seems to give us much attention. Her mother must not be near, or the screaming would clearly get her attention. “Stay here,” I tell the girl, before switching to English and turning to Myra. “Try to keep her calm, and I’ll go find her mother.”
I know I have to be quick or a meltdown will certainly come quick. I rush outside and listen for any calls. There are children playing soccer in the patch of grass in the corner of the clinic lot, a few more trying to catch bubbles from an American girl next to the clinic entrance.
I jog over to the entrance to the lot, a large gate open to the street. Walls surround the lot on every side except this one spot. I finally find a frantic woman grabbing the arm of every person she passes. Her voice is too panicked to understand, but I have a feeling I know who she’s looking for.
“Pitit fi?” I ask her from across the street. Her eyes grow wide in an instant, and she sprints toward me.
“Pitit fi. Wi!” She rushes over, grabbing my shoulder frantically. “Pitit fi mwen. Ki kote li ye?”
“Mwen jwenn li.” I guide her back to the clinic, jogging the whole way to get her there quickly. Her stress must be very high, and I don’t want to delay her.
We rush through the doors, but I stop when I don’t hear any crying. Searching the rows packed full of people waiting for their turn with the doctors, I finally find Myra sitting with the little girl on her lap. The girl has her head comfortably rested on Myra’s chest. As I approach, I hear her humming some kind of melody. They are both so much in their own world that they don’t notice us approaching until the mother sees them and screeches, “Nadia!”
The little girl’s head snaps up, and she hops from Myra’s lap and into her mother’s arms. They rush out from the clinic together, and I turn to Myra, who seems a bit stunned by the quick departure. Was she enjoying herself?
“You did well,” I say to her, which of course is an understatement. I am in awe of her ability to comfort the child so well. Most Americans would welcome playing with a child, but comforting a scared little girl missing her mother when you can’t even speak the same language… I can’t imagine many would have been capable of holding her together. Especially an American I accused of being closed off and callous.