Over the Waters (11 page)

Betty Greene nodded, her eyes glazed with tears. The teakettle started a low whine, and Betty brightened and jumped up to move it off the burner. "Come, let's see if Phil is awake. Follow me."

Valerie rose and followed her down a short hallway behind the kitchen. Betty knocked softly before opening the door to the small bedroom. "Oh, good. You're awake. Look who's come to visit." She stepped back to allow Valerie to enter.

Phil Greene was propped on pillows in the bed, his face gray and bristled with whiskers. Valerie raised her hand in greeting and forced a smile, but she was startled by the change in his appearance overnight. "Hi there. I'm sorry you're not feeling well."

He patted a weak hand over his chest. "Aw, it's this old ticker of mine. Completely unreliable."

She merely nodded, unsure how to respond.

Betty touched her arm. "I'm going to go fix our tea," she whispered.

Pastor Phil lifted a hand over the covers and motioned toward the straight-backed chair that sat beside the bed. "Pull that chair out and sit for a minute."

She did as he instructed, but she wished Betty would come back and rescue her. The pastor's face was pale and drawn and she wasn't sure he would even feel like talking, or what she should say if he did.

But he relieved her of the burden. "I'm sorry about the scare we had at the market last week. I never would have suggested we go there if I'd known things were heating up in the city."

"Oh, please don't apologize. It wasn't your fault. And I knew Haiti was a dangerous place when I came. I...counted the cost, I guess you could say."

He looked her in the eye, then nodded, apparently satisfied with what he saw there. "Good for you. But I feel responsible for my guests. I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to you while you were here helping us."

"Please don't give it another thought. I'm fine." She smiled.

"Now I have a good story to tell when I get back."

"I just hope that's the only story of that kind you have to tell," he said, fingering the edge of the light blanket that covered him. "I haven't had much chance to catch any news, but Betty said things have settled down some in the city."

Valerie nodded. "That's what I heard, too...when Madame Duval was here yesterday."

Pastor Phil looked into her eyes again, his gaze piercing, but the gentleness and sincerity in his expression clear. "We're very grateful you came, Valerie. You've been a great help to us. If Betty had her way, we'd keep you here as long as we could get away with it." He chuckled softly.

Before Valerie could stutter a reply, Betty appeared in the doorway. "I have tea ready, Valerie. Phil, are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I'm fine. You ladies go have your tea."

Valerie rose and reached out to touch Pastor Phil's hand.

"You hurry up and get better. I'll be praying for you."

"Thank you. Please do pray for me. I..." He thumped his chest. "This old heart could use all the prayers it can get."

Valerie followed Betty back to the kitchenette, but the older woman's expression was grim.

"Is everything okay?"

Betty Greene sat down and shook her head slowly. "My husband is the prayingest man I know, but it's not like him to allow that he could use prayers for his health. I don't like this one bit."

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 21

"P
lease, Madame Duval, I'm begging you." Samantha Courtney sat on the other side of Marie Duval's desk using every ounce of self-restraint she possessed to keep from dropping to her knees in supplication.

"Samantha, you know we are full to capacity. Beyond full." The older woman's voice was compassionate, but stern.

"There simply is no place to put another one."

"What about Josh's room?" She flushed. "Dr. Jordan's room, I mean. He'll be leaving soon and--"

But Madame Duval was already wagging her head. The black springs of hair on her scalp swayed in agreement. "If we have no place to house the missionaries and doctors who come to help, then we can't even care properly for the children we have."

"He could have my room." It was a last, desperate bid. She was already crammed into a space in the girls' dorm not much bigger than the walk-in closet of the Minnesota farmhouse she'd grown up in.

Madame Duval rested her elbows on the desk and steepled slender mahogany fingers. "I'm sorry, Samantha. We can't save them all, child."

The compassion in Madame Duval's eyes made Samantha sorry she'd forced the woman to deny her request.

But she had to try. "He's special. He just is. I don't know how to explain it." Her voice broke and she pushed away the image of the little boy she'd befriended outside the gates of the orphanage.

Sporting the orange-tinged hair that signaled acute malnutrition, and severely disfigured with a gaping cleft lip, he couldn't even smile his thanks for the hunk of bread she snuck him whenever she could. But he had a spark in his eyes that spoke more than any smile. The child had completely captured her heart.

She'd inquired of some of the villagers who lived nearby and discovered that the little boy had no family. He slept wherever he could lay his head and begged for every scrap of food he ate. Though it was hard to judge, Samantha estimated he was no more than five or six. It broke her heart that one so small could be among Haiti's multitude of street children. She could only guess at the cruelty he endured from the other children.

She'd spoken with Father Barker at St. Nicola House on the other side of Brizjanti. St. Nicola, too, had every bed filled. She planned to approach the Greenes at Hope House, as well, but she knew they'd have the same response as Madame Duval. There wasn't room in Brizjanti's orphanages for another healthy child, let alone one with such severe medical needs.

Samantha had a fleeting daydream wherein she took her dilemma to Joshua Jordan. Even after a year, there was still a Josh-sized ache in her heart. She couldn't help but think that Josh would have found a way to help that little boy.

"They're
all
special, Samantha." Madame Duval's voice cut through her thoughts. "You know that."

She shook away the fantasy and swiped at the tears that had fallen despite her will. "I know...I know. I'm sorry."

"There's no reason to be sorry for a compassionate heart, my dear." Marie Duval pushed back her chair and stood, tacitly dismissing her. "But you must not let it keep you from the work God has prepared in advance for you to do. He does not expect more."

Samantha forced a smile. Had she not read similar words in the book of Ephesians this morning?

But what about little Birdy? The boy spoke only in guttural grunts, and none of the villagers seemed to have a name for him. But Samantha had christened him Birdy in her mind because he reminded her of a hungry baby robin with his mouth always waiting for a worm. It was, perhaps, a tactless name, inspired as it was by his deformity. She hadn't intended it unkindly when she first began to think of him as Birdy.

She sighed and followed the orphanage director to the door. There was more to do here than she had hours in the day. And Madame Duval had asked her to accompany Dr. Jordan to Hope House today for a clinic.

God would have to see to Birdy.

Max sat on the edge of the concrete slab where the girls from the orphanage usually did the laundry. He took a sip of black coffee from the thick pottery mug. It was fragrant and rich and he let it sit in his mouth for a second longer than usual. He wasn't accustomed to having time to savor a cup of coffee. In Chicago his days were full from the time he hit the gym at 6:00 a.m. until he came home to watch the news, and jump online and check his stock portfolio one last time before turning out the lights at ten thirty-five.

Here, the hands of the clock did not dictate. The roosters got things going at the first hint of dawn, and there was plenty of work to fill each day. But after the older children were off to school, breakfast was a leisurely affair with plenty of time spent lingering over coffee.

The day's activities were determined by the weather, the capricious electricity, and the availability of supplies. Jobs seemed to be viewed more as entertainment than work in this poor village. Maybe that was
why
it was poor, Max mused. He marveled that there still existed so primitive a society in a place where American influence was so prevalent. It wasn't as though they were ignorant of technology's strides in the world. They had connections to the outside world--television, telephones, even computers.

But nothing could be depended upon. And no one seemed to think it was a big deal. The few times he'd managed to get an Internet connection in the evenings, he was lucky if he could view half his stock hotlist before he got bumped offline.

His top-of-the-line cell phone had been pretty dependable and he'd been able to check his office messages by remote each day. The main clinic was closed this week and Dori was on vacation. There were some messages concerning two plastic-surgery patients, but nothing the doctors on call couldn't handle.

He had a raft of appointment requests. Business was booming. Dori was supposed to come in once or twice and answer messages and schedule appointments, so he'd be making up for lost days when he got back. That would be good. There was too much time to think here.

On Sunday everyone from the orphanage had gone to church in the village. He'd managed to bow out, but the eerie silence that enveloped him when they'd left him alone in the compound was at least as uncomfortable as he'd imagined the church service to be.

He took another sip of coffee, trying to make it last. Even when Marie Duval or Samantha gave him an assignment, there was always time for contemplation here without the blare of television or radio.

He looked across the yard to the hydrant, the stage for last Wednesday night's water fight. He smiled to himself. How long had it been since he'd cut up like that? An image came unexpectedly to his mind. He closed his eyes, wanting to blank it out. But it only grew sharper behind his shuttered eyelids. Joshua was about five and they were in the backyard of the house in Palo Alto. Hard to believe they'd ever lived in such a tiny place.

It had been beastly hot that day, and on a whim Max had gone out to buy one of those little molded plastic wading pools. This one was shaped like a frog. He remembered it in vivid detail. He'd come home and filled it up while Janie had helped Josh get his swim trunks on. They'd spent the afternoon splashing in the pool, laughing and squealing as they threw cold water on each other. Josh and Max conspired to turn the garden hose on Janie, who'd retreated to a corner of the lawn with a thick novel. The look of sheer triumph his son flashed him when they successfully sprayed Mommy was etched on Max's memory forever. Was that perhaps the last time father and son had been in agreement?

The thought jolted him and sadness drenched him the way that garden hose had soaked Janie.

He opened his eyes. Now he knew why every idle minute threatened him. Too much time to think about Joshua. Not that simply being in this place wasn't a constant reminder. And after all, he had come here because of Joshua. Too late now to back out on the job he'd come here to do: grieve his son. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but he hadn't thought it would require so much of him. Grieving was hard work.

He drained the last of the coffee and took his mug to the kitchen. A young Haitian woman stood at the sink, her hands immersed in frothy water. She offered him the broad, friendly smile he'd come to expect from these people.

"You like more coffee, no?" she asked, lifting her hands from the suds and turning toward the coffeemaker on the counter.

He patted his belly. "Oh, no. I've had plenty, thank you. Just bringing you my cup." He set it on the counter beside her.

She beamed anew. "Thank you very much."

What kind of work ethic prompted such a response? As though he'd done
her
the favor. He shook his head, thanked her again for the coffee, and went back outside.

Back in his room he assembled medical supplies to take to
Orphelinat d'Espoir
, or Hope House as it was called. Pastor Phil told him it had been almost eight months since they'd had a doctor in to do routine checkups. So someone else had been there since Joshua. Why hadn't they returned? Max wondered if that doctor was dead now, too. Had he or she been young and idealistic like Joshua Jordan, coming foolishly, but with honorable intentions?

He was surprised to realize he'd moved from emphasizing the foolishness of his son's actions to granting him "honorable intentions." Perhaps it was a step in the right direction.

He hoisted the duffel bag, heavy with medicines and supplies, over one shoulder and shut and locked the door behind him. Marie Duval had agreed to let Samantha accompany him to Hope House today, so he would have a nurse to assist. He headed across the lawn toward the main building in search of her.

V
alerie scrubbed the Masonite surfaces of two long folding tables with hot soapy water. Caustic fumes from the chlorine bleach rose to sting her nostrils and throat. Betty Greene had left Pastor Phil's bedside long enough to help her and Sarah set up a temporary clinic in the dining hall. After breakfast, they'd hung crisp, white sheets from the ceiling to form a private "examination room" in one corner. Sarah and Valerie had been appointed to help Dr. Jordan and Samantha Courtney, who were due to arrive any minute now.

Valerie felt the odd sensation of butterflies in her stomach. Not sure what she was so nervous about, she tried to concentrate on the work at hand. It wasn't as if she was going to be conducting the examinations herself.

She wrung out the cloth and wiped harder. A whisper of a breeze from the open windows caused the sheets to shudder. Already it was warm, but at least they'd be out of the sun all day.

"Good morning." Max Jordan's voice boomed from the doorway.

She peeked out from the tent of snowy sheets and greeted him. Samantha stood beside him, wearing a white nurse's uniform. Max wore a lab coat over his blue jeans and blue chambray shirt. It took her aback a little to see him looking the part of a physician.

He surveyed their handiwork, then stepped into the makeshift examination room. He turned, smiling. "You've turned this into a very nice little clinic."

"Well, I wish we had a more private room," Betty told him, "but with seventy-four children, there just isn't a large enough space to spare. We've used this setup for other clinics and it's worked pretty well. If there's anything you need that you don't see here, please let us know. Or if you want to rearrange the tables...?"

"No, no...Everything looks great." He glanced up at a group of colorful mobiles dangling from the ceiling over the examination table. "These will be a nice distraction for the children."

Valerie had helped Sarah hang the mobiles in the dining room after breakfast.

Betty smiled. "Aren't they nice? Actually, your son is the one who gave us the idea."

"Oh?" Max Jordan looked at her askance, seeming genuinely surprised.

And pleased, Valerie thought. "Who made them?" she asked Betty.

"The older children did. After Dr. Jordan--the
young
Dr. Jordan--" she threw Max a smile "--brought the mobiles from Marie's orphanage, we had the kids here make some. We only get them out for the clinics so they'll still be a novelty."

"Well, it was a good idea." Max chuckled. "Most of my patients are in their forties and fifties, but I just might have to try something like this in my own office."

"Is there anything else you need before we start bringing the children in?" Betty asked.

He surveyed the room. "No. I think we're ready."

"We usually bring them five or six at a time, so there aren't too many distractions," Betty said.

"That sounds fine." Max turned to Samantha. "Can you think of anything? You're the expert here."

Samantha shook her head. "No. Everything looks good." She gave some quick instructions to Valerie and Sarah.

Though the girl was almost ten years younger than Valerie, she had maturity beyond her years, and confidence Valerie envied. Samantha knew what she'd been created to do and she had apparently jumped in with both feet.

Betty crossed her arms and looked over the clinic setup. "It looks like you have everything under control here. I need to go check on Phil." She unfolded her arms and reached to put a hand on Max's arm. "Dr. Jordan, would you be so kind as to stop in and check on my husband when you're finished with the clinic? That is, if it's not too late."

"Of course. I'd be glad to. I'm not a heart specialist, but I'll do what I can."

"I'd be ever so grateful."

"What
is
your specialty?" Valerie ventured, curious.

He cleared his throat, not meeting her eyes. "I'm a plastic surgeon."

"Really? That must be very rewarding work. And interesting..."

He shrugged, one corner of his mouth twisting in a cynical quirk. "Well, it's not like I'm saving lives or anything."

"I'm sure your patients would disagree." Valerie thought of her cousin who'd been disfigured in a terrible car crash as a teenager. Plastic surgery had worked miracles to diminish the hideous scars the accident had left on Patricia Austin's face. Patty was happily married now and the mother of three precious children.

"I don't know..." Max dipped his head, then looked up as if he were going to say something else. He stopped, clearing his throat again. "Most of my work is...elective...cosmetic."

"Oh," Valerie said. Max's slumped shoulders and averted eyes made her feel as if she'd embarrassed him, but she didn't know what to say to smooth things over. She was admittedly surprised to learn that Max was a plastic surgeon. Especially one whose surgeries were mostly elective. Didn't that mean facelifts and liposuction? Or breast implants and tummy tucks? She gave a little inward shiver. That would have been her very last guess. For some reason, she'd been picturing Max as a family practice physician, or maybe a pediatrician. After all, he was working with the children at the orphanages.

An awkward hush fell upon them. Max and Samantha went on getting the supplies arranged on a cart Betty brought from the kitchen. Valerie stood by feeling useless and in the way.

Betty Greene finally broke the silence, turning to the young Haitian woman who was arranging a row of folding chairs. "Sarah, I'm leaving now. Would you tell Alice we're ready for the first group of children?"

A few minutes later, the door to the courtyard opened and Sarah and another Haitian woman came in, each leading two little girls by the hand. Three others followed behind, whispering among themselves. Monique and Daphney, who had been Valerie's escorts to breakfast nearly every morning, were first in line. They tucked their chins and peered up at her from beneath thick, black lashes, looking nervous and excited at the same time.

Valerie pushed aside her uneasiness over the exchange with Max and went to take Daphney's hand. "Good morning." She knelt and smiled, touching the crisp white collar of the little girl's dress. "What a pretty dress! Are you ready to let the doctor check you?" She looked over her shoulder at Sarah. "Can you interpret for me, please, Sarah?"

Sarah spoke to Daphney in Creole and the little girl nodded, twisting the hem of her dress in one tight little fist.

"We're going to go into the doctor's office," she said, as if she were describing Disneyland.

Sarah interpreted and Valerie led Daphney behind the sheet. She lifted her gently onto the table. Daphney's eyes widened in surprise. The children would never dream of sitting on a dining table under normal circumstances.

On the opposite side of the curtain, a burst of nervous giggles came from the other girls in line.

Valerie patted Daphney's knee reassuringly. "It's okay. We'll be finished in just a minute. Daphney, this is Dr. Jordan."

She stepped back and Max and Samantha moved to flank the little girl.

"You're going to have to be my mouth and my ears, Samantha," Max said.

"Sure." She spoke quietly to the girl, pointing to a tongue depressor and demonstrating how she wanted Daphney to open her mouth wide.

"M pap fe ou mal, non,"
she said. "I'm not going to hurt you." Valerie was sure the translation was for her and Max's benefit.

She felt jealous of the young nurse's ability to communicate with the children. Betty had given her a Creole dictionary, but she wished she'd studied it more thoroughly last night.

Dr. Jordan checked the child's ears, nose and throat. Valerie watched, intrigued as his large, strong hands palpated the little girl's neck efficiently, but with immense tenderness. He flashed the beam of his little penlight on her hand, making her giggle. Then he shone it into her eyes, his expression serious again. He listened to her heart, then her lungs, repeating Samantha's Creole words, asking Daphney to take a deep breath.

Samantha gave her an oral dose of polio vaccine, praised her for being so good and lifted her down from the table.

Valerie took her hand and led her out to the row of folding chairs before presenting her with a peppermint.

Daphney beamed and whispered in excited staccato to the other girls.
"Siret! Siret!"

They didn't have enough of the vaccine for all the children who needed it, but at least there was plenty of peppermint candy to go around, thanks to some good-hearted missionary guild that had sent it in a Christmas care package.

Dr. Jordan gave each child the same studied attention as he'd given Daphney, yet they made good progress.

As the morning wore on, Valerie relaxed and began to enjoy the tasks she'd been assigned. For some odd reason, even though she was merely assisting, this work felt more productive, more genuinely helpful than the painting and sewing and rocking of babies she'd done so far. If only she'd become a doctor or a nurse, then she might truly have something to offer here.