My mother has changed as well. I would not say that she is happy, but the grief that normally clouds her features is missing, as if she slid out of her shadow and hid it someplace secret and dark. We have talked more in two weeks than in the past two years and, while this makes me happy, it also makes me sad, because we can never make up for the conversations we did not have and soon cannot have. We will write, and someday Yves and I will save enough money to bring my mother to us in Miami, but nothing will ever make up for the wide expanse between now and then.
By the time we reach our home, Yves and I are drenched in sweat. It is hot, yes, but this is a different kind of sweat. It reeks of fear and unspeakable tension. We stare at each other as we cross the threshold, each mindful of the fact that everything we are doing, we are doing for the last time. My mother is moving about the kitchen, muttering to herself. Our suitcases rest next to the kitchen table, and it all seems rather innocent, as if we are simply going to the country for a few days, and not across an entire ocean. I cannot wrap my mind around the concept of crossing an ocean. All I know is this small island and the few feet of water I wade in when I am at the beach. Haiti is not a perfect home, but it is a home nonetheless. I am surprised that I feel such overwhelming melancholy at a time when I should be feeling nothing but hope.
Last night, Yves told me that he never wants to return, that he will never look back. Lying in bed, my legs wrapped around his, my lips against the sharpness of his collarbone, I burst into tears.
“Chère, whats wrong? he asked, gently wiping my tears away with the soft pads of his thumbs.
“I don’t like it when you talk like that.”
Yves stiffened. “I love my country and I love my people, but I cannot bear the thought of returning to this place where I cannot work or feel like a man or even breathe. I mean you no insult when I say this, but you cannot possibly understand.”
I wanted to protest, but as I lay there, my head pounding, I realized that I probably couldn’t understand what it was like for a man in this country, where men have so many expectations placed upon them that they can never hope to meet. There are expectations of women here, but in some strange way it is easier for us, because it is in our nature, for better or worse, to do what is expected of us. And yet there are times when it is not easier, times like that moment when I wanted to tell Yves that we should stay and fight to make things better, stay with our loved ones, just stay.
I have saved a little money for my mother. It started with the five gourdes from the red-faced American, and then most of my paycheck and anything else I could come up with. This money will not make up for the loss of a daughter and a son-in-law, but it is all I have to offer. After we leave, she is going to stay with her sister in Petit Goave. I am glad for this, because I could not bear the thought of her alone in this stifling little house, day after day. I am afraid she would just shrivel up and die like that. I am afraid she will shrivel up and die, regardless.
I walk around the house slowly, memorizing each detail, running my hands along the walls, tracing each crack in the floor with my toes. Yves is businesslike and distant as he remakes our bed, fetches a few groceries for my mother, hides our passports in the lining of his suitcase. My mother watches us but we are all silent. I don’t think any of us can bear to hear the sound of one another’s voices and I don’t think we know why. Finally, a few minutes past midnight, it is time. My mother clasps Yves’s hands between her smaller, more brittle ones. She urges him to take care of me, take care of himself. His voice cracks as he assures her that he will, that the three of us won’t be apart long. She embraces me tightly, so tightly that again my arms tingle, but I say nothing. I hold her, kissing the top of her head, promising to write as soon as we arrive in Miami, promising to write every single day, promising to send for her as soon as possible. I make so many promises I cannot promise to keep.
And then, we are gone. My mother does not stand in the doorway, waving, as she might were this a movie. We do not look back and we do not cry. Yves carries our suitcases and quickly we make our way to a deserted beach where there are perhaps thirty others, looking as scared as Yves and I. There is a boat – large, and far sturdier than I had imagined, for which I am thankful. I have been plagued by nightmares of a boat made from weak and rotting wood, leaking and sinking into the sea, the hollow echo of screams the only thing left behind. Yves greets a few of his friends, but stays by my side. “We’re moving on up,” I quip, and Yves laughs, loudly. I see the priest Yves promised would bless this journey. He is only a few years older than us, so to me, he appears painfully young. He has only a small knapsack and a Bible so worn it looks like the pages might fall apart at the lightest touch. His voice is quiet and calm as he ushers us onto the boat. Below deck there are several small cabins, and Yves seems to know instinctively which one is ours. At this moment, I realize that Yves has spent a great deal of money to arrange this passage for us. I know he has his secret, but I am momentarily irritated that he has kept something this important from me. He stands near the small bed, his arms shyly crossed over his chest, and I see an expression on his face I don’t think I have ever seen before. He is proud, his eyes watery, chin jutting forward. And I know that I will never regret this decision, no matter what happens to us, because I have waited my entire life to see my husband like this. In many ways, I am seeing him for the first time.
Little more than two hours after the boat sets sail, I am above deck leaning over the railing, heaving what little food is in my stomach into the ocean. Even on the water, the air is hot and stifling. We are still close to Haiti, but I had hoped that the moment we set upon the ocean, I would be granted one sweet breath of cool air. Yves is cradling me against him between my bouts of nausea, promising that this sickness will pass, promising this is but a small price to pay. I am tired of promises, but they are all we have to offer each other. I tell him to leave me alone, and as his body slackens against me, I can tell he is hurt, but I have too many things happening in my mind to comfort him when I need to comfort myself more. I brush my lips across his knuckles and tell him I’ll meet him in our cabin soon. He leaves, reluctantly, and when I am alone, I close my eyes, inhaling the salt of the sea deep into my lungs, hoping that smelling this thick salty air is another one of those things I am doing for the last time.
I think of my mother and father and I think that being here on this boat may well be the closest I will ever come to knowing my father, knowing what he wanted for his family. My head is splitting because my thoughts are thrown in so many directions. All I want is a little peace, and I never feel more peaceful than when I am with Yves. Wiping my lips with the back of my hand, ignoring the strong taste of bile lingering in the back of my throat, I return below deck to find Yves sitting on the end of the bed, rubbing his forehead.
I place the palm of my hand against the back of his neck. It is warm and slick with sweat. “What’s wrong?”
He looks up, but not at me. “I’m worried about you.”
I push him further onto the bed and straddle his lap. He closes his eyes and I caress his eyelids with my fingers, enjoying the curl of his eyelashes and the way it tickles my skin. He is such a beautiful man, but I do not tell him this. He would most likely take it the wrong way. At the very least, it would make him uncomfortable. It is a strange thing in some men, this fear of their own beauty. I lift his chin with one finger and trace his lips with my tongue. They are cracked but soft. His hands tremble but he grips my shoulders firmly. I am amazed at how little is spoken between us, yet how much is said. We quickly slip out of our clothes and his thighs flex between mine. The sensation of his muscle against my flesh is a powerful one that makes my entire body tremble.