Pushing the Boundaries (Off Limits) Page 5

  Just a few more minutes, and we’ll both have made it through.

  I turn the camera toward myself and click the shutter, then show the picture to Rene.

  “Myra,” she says.

  I nod. “Myra.”

  With one last snip, Dr. Stone is finished. “Stay with her,” he says and then rushes off.

  “Ava,” I say to the girl, pointing to Ava, who’s now kneeling beside me. “Rene,” I say, pointing to the girl.

  “Hi, Rene,” Ava says.

  Rene doesn’t speak but looks into Ava’s eyes like there’s something fascinating there.

  A moment later Dr. Stone, Elias, and Rene’s mother file back into the little cubicle. Ava and I scoot out and let them talk. The girl will need a bit more treatment after the stitches, but the instruction is most important. They both need to understand what they have to do.

  We reenter the cubicle as Dr. Stone washes his hands, prepping for his next patient.

  “What’s a bὸkὸr?” I ask him.

  He spins, surprise written in his wide eyes. Then he blinks and nods. “Oh, yes. I think you would call them a witch doctor, though they don’t like that term. It’s complicated. They practice vodou and use it to attempt to cure various ailments. Sometimes it doesn’t go well.”

  “There are vodou priests around here? Like nearby?” That sounds so incredibly cool, though the Muslim in me should be horrified.

  “I think it’s time you take a break,” a familiar, accented voice says behind me. I jump and turn to Mother. “You did well. Go play.”

  She says “go play” like I’m twelve and had to finish my homework before I was allowed to play hide-and-seek with my friends. I blink at her, knowing she’s just trying to push me away from my curiosity.

  I give her an evil grin, and her smile falls. “Yes, ma’am,” I say, ready to take advantage of the opportunity. I rush outside, eager to get away from the clinic and explore the town. Maybe even find the witch doctor.

  The hot sun hits me just in time to see Rene walking through the clinic gate with her mother. I wave, and she waves back, a big smile on her face.

  Well, maybe this doctor stuff isn’t all bad.

  Chapter Twelve

  Elias

  Myra mesmerizes me.

  I watch her talking to the little girl while Dr. Stone works on the girl’s arm. Myra smiles playfully. She looks lighter, happier than I’ve seen her before. A way she never looks with her own people. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve seen her actually speak to her mother.

  I like watching her like this. I like the light in her eyes.

  But she has no interest in befriending me, she’s already made that clear. My curiosity must stop here.

  I turn away and make my way around the clinic to check if anyone is in need of an interpreter. In a place like this there is so much confusion there is almost always someone who needs me. But right now, everything seems to be going smoothly.

  Myra and another girl head out into the open air. Maybe it was an act. She does not care about the girl, she only cares about…what? I don’t know enough about her to guess, and the truth is, it is unfair for me to assume she is callous just because she doesn’t like me.

  Maybe Mr. Rowland is right. Getting to know the Americans only complicates things. It makes me think too much, distracts me.

  Since there does not seem to be much work for me inside at the moment, I head outside, where local children play. The clinic lot is one of the only grassy fields for miles, so children always show up to play, even when they don’t need medical care.

  A large group of children play soccer in the field with an American boy. Another group, mostly girls, are on the dirt path jumping rope. Even out here, things appear to be going well without me. I am much unneeded today.

  Until I notice Myra walking toward the open gate, toward the street. She wears her camera around her neck, and I think she must be trying to get a picture of the clinic from the outside. Until I see her mother following her. She grabs Myra by her upper arm, and they begin a heated conversation. I’m too far to hear what is being said, but it is clear neither party is happy.

  Myra looks right at me, and my stomach jumps into my throat. I should not be watching this. It is not my business. I turn away quickly, but then she calls me. “Elias!”

  I swallow, my head spinning. This girl definitely has an effect on me. I walk toward them, unsure what in the world they could possibly need from me.

  “It’s not safe, Myra. This isn’t up for discussion.”

  “But if I go with Elias, I’ll be fine. He knows this place and can keep me safe, right?” Myra turns to me, her eyes pleading.

  I blink. “What?”

  “No, Myra,” her mother says without even looking at me.

  Myra ignores her and speaks to me. “You’re going to take me out onto the street. Not far, just enough for me to see what it’s like outside the clinic.”

  Now her mother turns to me. “Tell her, Elias. It’s not safe.”

  Regardless of what dangers might lie outside the clinic lot, I know Mr. Rowland’s stand on this. The Americans are to stay together in designated areas. No wandering off the path.

  If I let her do it, I run the risk of being in more trouble with Mr. Rowland. Her curiosity is not worth my job.

  “I am sorry. She’s right. I cannot take you.” I say it flatly, because I’d actually love to show off my home and the things the Americans never seem to notice when they are so preoccupied with “saving” us.

  What they do is very valuable, but there is much more that Haiti can give back than what they allow. They let their fear hinder their opportunity to see this island for what it is.

  Myra deflates. Not just her shoulders, though that’s the most obvious, but her entire face, her whole body. Like all of the energy, all of the spark, drains from her body.

  I hate the disappointment on her face. I hate that I put it there.

  She takes in a breath and then storms away from us both. My breath is shaky.

  Dr. Chaudhary grips my shoulder with strong fingers. “I’m sorry about her. She’s just a bit spirited.” She smiles. “Keep your distance from her, and you’ll be fine.”

  I don’t speak, just let my brain work through what I just heard. I’m usually very good at understanding Americans’ speech. Dr. Chaudhary’s accent poses an extra challenge, but I’m not sure if that’s the reason her words feel so strange. Difficult to settle. I can’t help but feel that there was a threat hidden beneath them.

  Stay away from Myra, or else. Or something. Or maybe it is just the fact that I do not want to stay away from her.

  Luckily Dr. Chaudhary turns away, giving me my moment of contemplation. I take in a long breath and then head over to the playing children, which happens to be where Myra went.

  Knowing it is in my best interest to take Dr. Chaudhary’s words to heart and keep my distance, I head across the lot to the children playing football—soccer, to the Americans. I join in by stealing the ball and racing across the field toward the other goal. I don’t even know who is on what team, but the children don’t seem to mind. They laugh and squeal and chase me down until one of them finally trips me, sending the ball flying.

  It’s a nice distraction from the beautiful American girl playing a hand game with two young Haitian girls.

  My stomach flips as I watch her. I turn back to the game and chase down the ball again, only to be tripped up by a girl in pigtails. You’d think I was being nice and letting them win, but no, I am a failure of a Haitian because I’m terrible at football.

  A loud whistle gets my attention, and I look to see Dr. Stone waving me over. It’s time for the Americans’ lunch.

  I rush over and announce the break period to those still waiting in the clinic. Then I pause. I’d like to go out and continue playing with my own people. Where I don’t have to be “on” all the time. But the food is more important, so I follow the Americans through the back and onto the closed-off patio
where their lunch is served.

  I sit on the concrete ground with my sandwich and pretend I’m not there. The meat, a delicacy I’m not quite used to, is heavy on my stomach. But that is fine, because I only need a few bites anyway. When no one is looking I slip the remainder of my sandwich into my pocket, then pretend to be finished.

  I’m the first to leave the area, mostly because I find it awkward sitting among people I’m not supposed to connect with, and partially because an hour is entirely too long to be waiting around. I can’t even imagine what could possibly take them that long.

  Myra and her mother join the group just as I leave.

  I rejoin the soccer game until the heat pounds down on me and the Americans reopen the clinic. I head inside to help reorganize. The doctors sit in the stalls while interns change places and find a new job. It makes everything just a tad more hectic at the beginning of each “shift.”

  Once things are under control I head back outside to find Myra sitting in the shade under the only tree, staring down at her camera.

  Against my better judgment, I head in her direction.

  She does not look up as I approach, and since I have no idea what to say, I do not speak. For a moment I feel awkward, like something should be said, but then the air around me seems to relax and I realize she does not expect anything—maybe does not even want anything from me.

  As much as that is disappointing, it is also a relief.

  I sit under the tree a few feet away from her and watch the children playing. Finally, I realize there is a question burning inside me.

  “Why do you want to go outside the clinic so badly?”

  She looks up, her eyes full of curiosity. She looks out at the children playing all around us, and for a moment I think she’s not going to answer me. Maybe we have moved from her not wanting to be friends to wanting nothing to do with me at all. Then, finally, she speaks.

  “Remember when you told me that what we see isn’t even close to the real Haiti? That there’s so much more to be seen?”

  I nod, remembering the moment. Wishing I could go back to that and figure out what I’d done wrong.

  “I want to see it. I want to see the heart of this place. I don’t want to only see what my mother thinks is ‘appropriate.’ I want the truth.” She turns away from me, and I consider her words. I would love to show her. But there is no way I can risk it.

  “Maybe there is a way I can show you the real Haiti without going outside the walls.”

  She looks at me, a confused but hopeful look filling those huge brown eyes. My stomach twists, and I smile. Maybe this part will be worth the risk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Myra

  One hand reaches for my camera, pulling it closer, while the other is pulled away by rough fingers. I smile as he pulls me across the grass toward the children playing in the field.

  I like the feeling of his skin on mine, even something as simple as his fingers. But I can’t help but keep a lookout for my mother. She might not be the strictest of Muslim women, but she doesn’t seem to do well with the whole “boy” thing.

  A touch this simple might mean a whole lot more to her.

  We stop at the edge of the soccer game. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll learn from this. Still, I pull out my camera and snap a few photos. Two boys fighting for the ball, one barefoot, the other in ratty tennis shoes.

  An overly serious face as he competes with another child for the ball.

  A look of pure happiness as a defender hangs back and relaxes, the ball, and most of the players, going down the field.

  “This,” Elias says, “is Haiti. You’ll find this exact scene across the country. Except they won’t always be able to find grass to play on. That’s one thing that brings the children here.”

  “They come here for the grass?”

  Elias nods. “In the city, grass can be hard to come by. It’s either dirt, concrete, or a farmer’s field.”

  I’d like to see those options too, but I can appreciate what he’s giving me. Some little things are nearly the same all over the country. A simple game, a simple ball, brings them together.

  I snap a picture of the ball flying and three kids trying to hit it with their heads at the same time. Elias laughs as two of the children fall to ground with loud, angry grunts.

  “They think they are playing for the World Cup.”

  I smile. I realize this isn’t just a silly game. To these kids, they’re professionals. This is an escape for them. A dream.

  The boy next to me grabs my attention. Discreetly, I take one step back, looking for the right angle, and snap one last picture. A perfect capture of the wonder in Elias’s eyes as he watches the kids play.

  I wonder what memories lie there. What hopes and dreams for the future. What important people he’s thinking of.

  “What else?” I ask.

  Elias blinks, and I’m almost sorry I broke him from his concentration. There was something beautiful, something deep, there.

  “Right!” he says, jumping into action. His rough fingers grab my wrist again, and I follow as he pulls me toward a little girl sitting on the concrete outside the clinic.

  He shares a rumbled conversation with her. Even though I wish I knew what was being said, I must admit I like hearing Elias’s voice, especially in his native tongue. It’s deep and gentle and makes the strange language sound smooth, like poetry.

  I lift my camera and snap another picture of Elias’s face.

  He doesn’t notice.

  “This is Julie,” he tells me. “Her mother sweeps the church down the street. That is her only job, but she is grateful. Her father travels, looking for construction work. Her favorite thing to do is go to the beach and watch the waves.”

  I sigh. I want to see the waves. I imagine the picture I could get of this beautiful little girl playing in the tumbling waves of the beach.

  “What do you want to ask her?”

  I take in a breath and look at the state of her clothing and skin, tight over her bony figure. “When was her last meal?”

  Elias pauses. For a moment I think he’s not going to ask the question. Finally, Creole rumbles out of his mouth. I poise the camera to get the expression on the girl’s face when she acknowledges the question, but it doesn’t change. She simply shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

  As we walk away, I reach for Elias’s arm, pulling him back. “Was there something wrong with that question?”

  He shakes his head and looks straight into my eyes with an intensity I’m not near ready for. I look down at my feet. “No, it is a fair question. It is just…”

  “What?” I ask, daring to look back at him again. This time, he looks beyond me.

  “There is a lot more to this place, these people, than how much they have. What and when they eat is important, in a way, but not in getting to know who they are.”

  His words hit me in the gut, a blow deeper than I would have ever thought. It pierces me. Wounds me.

  They are more than their circumstances.

  How did I not see that before?

  “That is what Americans often miss,” he continues. “They come expecting poor children, and that is all they see. They don’t listen to the stories, the songs, admire the craftsmanship of the artwork or acknowledge what sacrifices went into every stroke, every curve, every twist.”

  I nod. My discomfort dissipates as I listen to his words and recognize an earnest passion in his tone. He isn’t just teaching me something about his people. There is a deeper truth to his words. Somehow, they hit home with me personally, and the hole in my stomach fills with understanding.

  “Thank you.”

  He looks up, surprised. The flecks of gold in his eyes glisten. Again with that deep look. So intense, like he’s trying to see me. Really see me. Beyond my thick walls.

  Somehow I feel like if I let him look long enough, he’ll get past them. No one has ever gotten past those walls, and yet, this Haitian boy with intense eyes seems to be
threatening to bulldoze through them without even trying.

  Problem is, I’m not sure he’d like what he sees when he does.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elias

  Myra tries so hard to hide her compassion, disguise it as logical curiosity, but very occasionally, her carefully guarded expressions fall, exposing the real beauty underneath.

  “Why are you so intent on finding out more about my country?” I ask her as we sit beneath the tree, quietly watching the buzz around the clinic. I feel like I am asking the same questions over and over, but each time I get just a little bit deeper, a little closer to the truth.

  “Is that a strange thing?”

  I smile and play with a blade of grass, trying not to spook her. Scare her into retreating again. “No, I love that you’re interested in finding more, I’m just curious what it is that motivates you.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, and I resist the urge to look at her, to study her face.

  “Why do you save food from every meal?” she asks suddenly.

  I look up quickly, eyebrows pulled down low. She’s changing the subject, away from her and onto me, but that is not the only thing that bothers me. It is that she noticed.

  “What?” My heart pounds, though I’m not entirely sure why. I do suspect that Mr. Rowland wouldn’t be happy if he knew I was giving away the food they give me, but not enough to get me in any real trouble.

  “Yesterday and today you wrapped up more than half your lunch and put it in your pocket, and that night on the roof your pockets were bulging with rolls.”

  “Maybe I just save them for later.”

  She shrugs. “I’m not trying to interrogate you or anything. I’m just curious.”

  I sigh. “I do not feel right eating that much food. I do not need it all. So I take it home for my family, or neighbors, depending.”

  “Neighbors?”

  I nod. “A family of seven is difficult to feed.”

  “They don’t mind? Taking handouts?”

  “Handouts?”

  “Most people are proud and do not like accepting help, even when they need it.”