When I stared into the tiny flickering flame of the tea candle tonight, an image of you and where you are finally surfaced in my mind. You told me to trust every vision, every tingling of my skin, every ringing in my ear, every itch in my palms. They’re all signs. They’re all the language of the lwas.
But I’ve heard no whispers since the moment you were pulled away from me. How could the lwas not have given us a sign that this would happen, Manman? Were we too blinded and distracted by the excitement? This vision of you now is the only thing I have to hold.
I can see you. You’re on a bed on top of another bed. And a thin layer of itchy fabric is barely enough to cover your body. It’s your first night, but you’ve made some friends—two men and one woman. And they are black, black like you—black as if they’ve sat in the hot midday sun for most of their lives selling any- and everything they could find just to make enough money to buy a plane ticket out of that hot sun. They’re from Senegal, Guinea, and Cote d’Ivoire, because they speak a broken French just like you.
Matant Jo doesn’t let me speak French or Creole. When you come to this side, Manman, we will speak nothing but Creole. It will help me hold on to a piece of home.
Kenbe fem, Manman. Hold tight.
Fabiola
FOUR
I TURN ON the bathroom-sink faucet and let the cold water wash over my hand. In Port-au-Prince, we had a well in the front yard. By this time, I would’ve had to wash and rinse out the bucket from the bathroom to bring it outside and pull clean water up from the well. Then I’d have to carry it back into the house and pour the well water into the tub for my bath. I can balance a bucket on top of my head, too. But I won’t let my cousins see that.
“Why’d you spin around like that with the white mug in your hands?” Chantal asks when I step back into her bedroom as she makes her bed.
“You saw that? I thought you were asleep,” I say. I’m already dressed, wearing one of Donna’s uniforms: a gray skirt, a plain button-down white shirt, and a navy V-neck sweater. I want to go see my mother at the detention center in New Jersey. But I’m going to school. School in America. Finally. Manman had insisted that we arrive on a weekend so that I could start school the following Monday. She didn’t want me to miss a day of this real American education.
“You woke me up whispering to that statue and cross. Then I saw you take the mug and spin around. What were you doing?”
“Saluting the four directions—east, west, north, and south. It’s for Papa Legba. Are we going to New Jersey after school?”
“Fabiola, I’m sorry. New Jersey’s ten hours away.” She pulls a thick sweater down over her head. “My mother is handling it right now, and you don’t even know it. And who is Papa Legba?”
“He is the lwa of crossroads. When there’s no way, Papa Legba will make a way. He opens doors and unlocks gates,” I say. “I have to pray to him so he can help my mother come to this side.”
Donna barges into the bedroom. “Chant, you got an extra pair of tights?” Her black lace bra pushes her breasts up so high that they almost touch her chin.
I search her eyes for any hint of what happened last night, but they’re bright, as if she’s had a good night’s sleep. But I know for sure that she just about fell out of that white car.
Pri comes in behind her. “Yo, Fab? You know how to braid?”
I nod and try hard not to stare at the white fabric wrapped around Pri’s chest. It presses her breasts down against her rib cage until she looks like a box. The François and Toussaint women are busty. It should force us to only straighten our backs and walk with our heads held high. But one twin wears her breasts like a trophy, while the other tries to make them disappear.
“Donna, I’ve never seen those clothes before. You’re seriously gonna wear lace thongs and a push-up bra to school?” Chantal steps closer to her. “Did you just buy those with money that you don’t have?” she says through clenched teeth.
“Chant, chill. There’s plenty of money to go around—we’ll make it work,” Donna says, tightening the straps of her new bra.
“If she went shopping, then I’m going shopping,” Pri says.
“Y’all are out of control. For real. As far as I’m concerned, there is no money. Fab needs clothes and school supplies,” Chantal says, pointing to me, then at her sisters. “And you already know what’s happening to the rest of it.”
“Why are you the only one who gets to decide how we spend our money?” Pri whines.
“’Cause I’m responsible, that’s why,” Chantal says. “And we have a deal.”
Both Pri and Donna start arguing with Chantal. They yell and put their hands in her face. Chantal does the same; she doesn’t back down. I can’t make out the words, their reasons or logic. All I know is that there is enough money in this house for three sisters to fight over it.
“What do you want for breakfast?” I ask, trying to stop the fight. But they don’t listen to me.
Quietly, I head downstairs.
There are only eggs and sliced bread. There are no plantains and avocados to make a complete Haitian breakfast. My first meal in America is one that I make for myself and eat by myself. I wonder if this is a sign of things to come.
There are footsteps upstairs. A door slams. A toilet flushes. A faucet runs. A door slams again. Then, nothing.
After washing the dishes, I fidget with the remote in the living room. Then I hear voices and cars outside. I pull back the curtains and this little slice of Detroit opens up to me—an empty paved road and small houses with only a narrow space separating one from the other.
On the opposite corner, at the edge of the lot, is a wide and short building whose graffiti-covered wall faces our house. Above it is a sign that reads LIQUOR BEER WINE PIZZA CHECK CASHING. At the other corner is a smaller building with a sign that reads HOUSE OF GOD. I stare at the liquor place, then the God place, and back.
I see the signpost at the corner, right in front of our house: American Street and Joy Road.
At the other end of the block is a house that has wooden slats for windows. It reminds me of the abandoned new houses in Port-au-Prince, where the owner had enough money to build them but not enough money to put in windows and doors. It looks like a tomb made for djab—angry spirits that haunt the night.
Farther to the right are vacant spaces where houses should be. They make gaping holes on the block, like missing teeth.
A few more cars start to drive down the block. The world here is awake. Manman is awake, too, for sure.
Finally, someone comes down the stairs. Pri. “Can you please braid my hair?” she asks, wearing a pair of baggy khaki pants. Her white shirt is buttoned all the way up to her neck and hangs loose over her shoulders.
I sit on the couch and she sits on a floor pillow in front of me while the news is on the TV. Donna walks by with her hair even longer than before. Her lips are redder and her eyelashes are longer, too. I contemplate asking to switch uniform skirts with her since hers is too short and mine is so long. “Is she going to a club after school?” I ask Pri.
“No. She just dresses like a ho. And I’m the only one who can call her that, you hear?”