Over the Waters (16 page)

Brizjanti, Haiti, January 26

W
ith the sun hot on her shoulders, Samantha Courtney shooed two cackling hens out of her path as she lugged a pasteboard carton of clothing across the lawn to the office. One of the American charities that supported them had sent a large shipment, and she and the older girls had spent a pleasurable afternoon in the dormitory yesterday trying on dresses and skirts, and bestowing their own hand-me-downs on the little girls.

Even after outfitting forty girls, there were three huge boxes of clothing left over. Madame Phil at Hope House would no doubt be delighted to have them. Maybe she could get Henri to come and cart them over after church.

She'd hardly slept last night looking forward to this morning. Not only would the girls be excited to wear their new dresses to Sunday school, but somehow Valerie had managed to get Max Jordan to agree to go to church with them. She could have hugged Valerie Austin when she told her last night. In fact, the minute she saw the girl, she probably would do just that. She couldn't imagine what magic words she'd used to persuade him, but whatever they were, her heart was filled with gladness.

It had been good to have Josh's dad here these last two weeks. Until she had delivered Josh's final message to his father, she hadn't realized how heavily her failure had weighed on her. It seemed a bit of the sadness had left Dr. Jordan's eyes since that first day she'd picked him up at the airport. It was good to see.

Oh, Josh...If only you could be here. A lump rose in her throat and she closed her eyes. Josh's sweet face appeared as clearly as though he were standing before her.

A wave of sorrow surged through her. She'd thought she was doing so well--moving on after losing Joshua. No, she corrected herself. After losing the
possibility
of Joshua.

She swallowed back the tears, opened her eyes and looked around her. The lawn was full of laughing children, decked out like lilies and lined up for the walk to Sunday school, children who were just a little better off because Dr. Joshua Jordan had touched their lives.

Behind them, the whitewashed wall of the compound shone in the sun. Josh had slapped on more than one shiny coat of that paint. In a few months it would chip and fade and need replacing. But he'd done his part in the brief season he had called this corner of the earth home. He'd made his mark on the world. And it was a bold and shining mark.

She set the cardboard box on the ground at her feet and tipped her chin to the sky, letting the sun kiss her face. The rubbery fronds of a lofty palm swayed overhead. Laughter bubbled up as she remembered Joshua's pathetic attempt to shimmy up that tree the way the native boys did whenever they had a hankering for a coconut.

Josh's clumsy efforts had had Samantha and the children in stitches, but he'd nearly required stitches of another kind when halfway up, he'd plummeted twenty feet with a sickening thud!

Samantha's heart had practically stopped beating. But he'd jumped up, brushed himself off and scrambled up the trunk of the palm again. The little girls had tattled on him, though, and Madame Duval came running from the office and chewed him out but good.

"How you ever came to be a doctor is beyond me," she clucked, hands on ample hips. "You are lucky your head did not break open like that coconut. Though I daresay you've proved to us all that you have no brains to spill!"

In private that night Joshua had mimicked the feisty Haitian woman, and he and Samantha laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.

She sighed. It was a good memory, one she could glue to the Joshua page of her heart and turn to when she was tempted to forget how many precious things her life had contained.

She scooped up the box again. Balancing it on one shoulder, she went to join the Sunday school parade.

Max closed the door to his room and locked it before starting across the courtyard. He'd never felt his camera or computer equipment were at risk in his room, but Samantha had encouraged him to take precautions nevertheless. "No sense in tempting one of the kids," she told him the first day she'd shown him to his room. Joshua's old room.

He suddenly felt introspective. His steps slowed on the worn path to the main office and he bent his head and tucked his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. His time here was nearly over. Had he accomplished what he came for? He'd come wanting to ease the terrible wound of his son's death.

No. That wasn't exactly right. It wasn't Joshua's death that made him ache. It was the regrets over Josh's life. Over the fact that, as a father, he'd lost the opportunity to ever make things right with his only son. His only child. Had anything changed?

He looked around the grounds of the orphanage where Josh had spent his last days. He had no doubt now that his son had been happy, had felt fulfilled and alive and complete in his life here. Max understood now what Josh had tried to tell him. And the stories Samantha had told him about Josh confirmed it. But more than that, he had seen with his own eyes as Samantha and Valerie Austin demonstrated firsthand what it meant to live for a cause you believed in, something bigger than wealth and what the world defined as success.

So yes. He supposed he had found what he came looking for. Here, he had been able to grieve his son in a way that allowed him to move on. He would still give anything--
everything,
which was considerable in Dr. Maximilian Jordan's case--to have a chance to talk to Josh one more time. To have a chance to part on better terms. To tell his son one last time--or would it have been for the first time?--that he loved him.

At least now, Max finally felt he knew his son well enough to trust that Josh would not have held his sins against him. Valerie had said as much yesterday.

He was glad she had convinced him to attend church with them this morning. It seemed fitting on this last full day he would spend in the Haitian orphanage. And he knew it would have made Joshua happy.

He could hear the children at breakfast in the dining room. He'd eaten some fruit earlier, wanting plenty of time to start packing before they left for church.

Out of habit, he went to the front gate to look out. Though he knew the high walls and locked gates were a necessity here, they made him a little claustrophobic and anxious for the expansive lake vista he'd have from his house and the view of the city from his seventeenth-floor office back home.

He heard a low whine and a shadowed movement made him glance to the right. There, at the edge of the property, its belly low to the ground in a subservient pose, was the dog. Max wished he'd brought a scrap of food from the kitchen. The dog hadn't been around in a couple days and Max hadn't given it much thought.

Now he noticed that the outline of the animal's ribs protruded through its sparse coat. It looked up at him with hopeful eyes. Again, he couldn't help but think of the word
loyalty.
This dog wasn't merely a beggar. Max sensed that the animal would not hold it against him that he hadn't brought food. And he imagined the dog would die defending him if that proved necessary. And not because Max had thrown it a couple of bones, but just...because.

Another sound, high-pitched and more human, came from the stumpy shrubbery beyond. A flash of light caught his eye and he squinted against it.

A small boy stood watching him. His dark skin was chalky from lack of soap and water and moisture--and probably from malnutrition. His hair, longish and matted to his scalp, was bleached to a dull gray-black. He held a shard of glass that caught the sun when he tilted it this way and that.

Max became aware that the child was staring up at him, but he barely noticed the boy's eyes, for his mouth--or rather the place where his mouth and nose should have been--made Max's breath catch in his throat.

The child had a cleft lip and palate as severe as any he'd come across in all the textbooks on reconstructive surgery he'd studied.

This must be Samantha's Birdy. She'd told Max about the pathetic child for whom she felt such an affinity. Samantha believed the boy to be homeless, and had been badgering Madame Duval to take him into the orphanage. But Max doubted a child with such a severe handicap could survive on his own. Probably his family sent him out to beg. From what little he knew of the Haitian culture and the voodoo religion, he assumed the boy and his family had been ostracized for being under a curse or possessed by an evil spirit or something. Regardless, without medical attention, he doubted the boy had a chance in the world to survive to adulthood.

Instinctively, he reached into his pocket, in search of a piece of candy or gum to offer. Could the boy even eat properly with his deformity? His hands came up empty, and when he looked up and met the black, shining eyes, the child turned and ran.

"Hey!" His shout only made the boy run faster.

Depression blanketed him. What a horrible, hopeless place this was. It overwhelmed him to think about what it would take to make a measurable difference here. The three homes in Brizjanti were filled to capacity, and still, the streets teemed with homeless children. It reminded him of trying to keep his lawn free of leaves last fall. He'd spent an entire Saturday raking and bagging and dumping the debris from the massive oak trees rimming his lakefront property. Afterwards he'd stood admiring a spotless green carpet of fescue. But that night, the trees had shed the last of their clothes. And no sooner had he raked those up, than the wind kicked up and blew the neighbors' leaves onto his lawn.

Haiti's children were a never-ending autumn.

Max sighed and went to join the group gathering for the walk to church.

V
alerie watched Max Jordan's face carefully. Max sat two rows in front of her at the other end of the pew. She'd hoped to get to sit with him during church, but Madame Duval's group had already been seated by the time the procession from Hope House arrived.

The young Haitian pastor preached in Creole, but occasionally, he broke his stride to stop and translate bits of his sermon into broken English. When he gave a scripture reference in English, she followed along in the crisp, slim New Testament in her lap. It was one of several Bibles her church had sent as gifts to Hope House. They'd been packed in her luggage and she'd almost forgotten about them until that day Max had brought her bags to the orphanage. For some reason she'd carried this volume to church today instead of her own falling-apart, much-marked-in Bible.

She couldn't read Max's expression as he listened to the preacher. It was either supreme boredom or deep contemplation. She prayed for the latter.

The large children's choir closed the service with a rousing hymn, and when one little girl in the front row clapped her hands with glee at the last amen, Max laughed along with the rest of the congregation.

Valerie wished he would laugh more often. She so wanted Max to find the truth he was looking for before his feet left Haitian soil. It was a good sign that he was here today. A very good sign.

After church Valerie looked for Max in the crowd milling outside the door. She spotted him talking with Samantha Courtney and started over to speak to them.

"There she is," Max and Samantha said in unison when they saw her walking toward them.

"I thought my ears were burning," Valerie said. "Were you talking about me?"

Samantha smiled. "Can you come and have lunch with us? Madame Duval said she tried to call you this morning but the phones were out and she hated to bother Madame Phil on her cell phone in case Pastor Phil wasn't well."

"He's doing a little better," Valerie said. "But Betty didn't want to leave him alone, so she stayed home this morning. They were going to have their own little church service, I think."

"Could you have lunch with us then?" Samantha repeated, her eyes sparking like an eager teenager's. "I already talked to Sarah and Jaelle and they said they'd let Madame Phil know."

"Oh. Well, sure. If you've got it all arranged. I'd like that. Thank you." She turned to Max. "Good morning. What did you think of the service?"

"Well, I enjoyed the parts I could understand." He winked and pointed to her head, grinning. "Nice hat, by the way."

She reached up and touched her hair. "Oh! I forgot." She unfastened the bobby pins that held a white lace handkerchief in place atop her head. She wore it as a head covering to honor the Haitian church's adherence to their interpretation of a biblical passage.

"I'm just teasing you," Max said. "It looks...nice."

Samantha slipped the hankie from her own dark-blond hair. "I need to go help Madame Duval round up the children. I'll see you two back at the orphanage, okay?"

"Can we help with the kids?" Valerie asked, folding her handkerchief and tucking it into the pocket of her skirt.

"Oh, no. We're fine." The young nurse laughed. "We have a system."

"Okay...if you're sure."

"We'll see you at lunch, then." Samantha jogged over to corral a cluster of children who'd ventured too near the edge of the street.

Max nodded in the direction of Duval Children's Home. "Shall we?"

"Sure." Valerie fell in step beside him. "So you fly out Tuesday?"

"Yes," he said. "I'll go to Port-au-Prince in the morning."

"I suppose you'll be glad to get back to Chicago."

"I suppose I will," he said. "I almost can't remember what home is like. Except that it's like comparing apples and oranges."

"America to Haiti, you mean? Yes..." She looked around her. "This is another world, isn't it?"

"It's another planet."

She laughed and nodded her agreement. "It's been good for me though. My time here."

He glanced over at her, curiosity in his eyes. "Good? How so?"

Now that the words were out she regretted having been so transparent. She thought about her answer. "Well, selfishly, because it's gotten my mind off what I now realize was a pretty minor problem."

"Your...broken engagement."

She nodded. "But more than that, it's made me see everything--my life, my faith, even...my destiny--with different eyes. I think we--I--get so bogged down by stupid little things...things that don't really matter. Being here has helped me see things in a more realistic perspective. I hope I won't
ever
obsess again about what I'm going to eat for lunch or whether I'm having a bad-hair day or what dress I'm going to wear for--"

"That's easy for you to say," Max laughed. "You only
have
two dresses."

She giggled. "Not true, thanks to you. I did thank you for that, didn't I?"

"You did. About five times."

She loved seeing that man's smile.

The laughter of children floated from behind them and Max turned to look. "Uh-oh, here comes your fan club."

She glanced over her shoulder. Sarah and a group of children from Hope House caught up with them, and three little girls made a beeline for Valerie.

"Bonjou!"
she said, stopping to greet them.

Two of them grabbed her right hand and the third squeezed between Valerie and Max and took hold of her other hand, smiling up at her, eyes flashing with lively energy.

"Max, this is Monique and Daphney, and--" She couldn't remember the third girl's name, and bent to ask her.

The girl between them peeked up from under dark-lashed eyelids. "Mariana," she whispered.

"Mariana." Valerie relayed the name to Max. "Of course. You girls remember Dr. Jordan, don't you?" She didn't even attempt the Creole, but the trio seemed to understand, nodding and smiling up at Max.

They walked along with the girls for a few minutes before Mariana wiggled free from Valerie's grasp, do-si-doed to Max's other side and put her small hand in his.

He squirmed a little, seeming embarrassed by the attention, but he wrapped his hand around the child's and kept it there.

When they came to Madame Duval's, Sarah called for the little girls.

Daphney looked up at Valerie, pleading, but Valerie let loose the little hands and gave them each a quick hug. "You girls go with Sarah. I'll be there after naps." She butchered the Creole, but they seemed to understand after she made a pillow of her hands and pantomimed sleeping.

Max put a large hand on Mariana's head.
"Bonjou,"
he said, giving her a tender pat.

Valerie was touched, but pretended not to notice his sweet attentions to the little girl.

They waved to the parade going on to Hope House and walked to the entrance where Madame Duval's watchman was waiting for them with the gate swung wide.

Madame Duval had prepared a special going-away lunch for Max. He and Valerie and Samantha lingered at the table visiting for an hour before the orphanage director and Samantha excused themselves for afternoon naps. Max was grateful. He'd hoped for a few minutes alone with Valerie to say goodbye.

Just as he opened his mouth to begin his farewell speech, Samantha reappeared with two chilled bottles of pop. "Thought this might taste good," she said, handing them each a bottle. "Bye, Valerie. Max, I'll come down to say goodbye before you leave."

They thanked her and took appreciative swigs of the sweet drinks. The afternoon light shone through the colored glass, wet with condensation. The contents were refreshing.

"Let's take these to the shade of the back veranda," Max said, raising his bottle and standing to lead the way.

They walked through the dining room and Max pulled out a lawn chair for Valerie.

"Thank you." She slumped in the chair, kicked off her sandals and put her feet up on the empty chair beside her. They sat together in comfortable silence for several minutes.

Max leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. "You know, if I close my eyes, I could almost think I was in Santa Barbara." It had been months since he'd managed an escape to his California beach house.

Valerie laughed. "Santa Barbara in the dead of August, maybe."

The sun was high, but beginning its descent, and though a cool front had come through, it was still warm. The breeze was pleasant as long as you didn't inhale too deeply and get a whiff of the air off the bay.

He watched Valerie surreptitiously. She was not at all his type. Didn't fit the picture of the "woman of his dreams" in any way--not that he often envisaged a woman in his future. But if he had a woman in mind for somewhere down the road in life, that woman would have been far more glamorous, more cultured, better educated, certainly older. Would have been...The quirk of his thoughts brought him up short. It was the woman sitting beside him--sans makeup, tanned legs propped on the chair, sun-streaked hair in disarray--who'd literally invaded his dreams on many a recent night.

Stop it. She's too young for you. Besides, you'll never see her again after today.

Please don't let her read my mind,
he prayed. The realization startled him. Yes. He was
praying.

What kind of spell had this woman cast over him?