before taking a sip. “How did you sleep last night, Mireille?”
That uncomfortable heat returned to my face, the whole of my upper body. I narrowed my eyes. I wanted to kick him under the table but my leg wouldn’t reach. “I slept fine, Michael, and you?”
He grinned widely. “Best sleep of my life.”
I arched an eyebrow, stopped pretending to be irritated, leaned forward. “The best?”
Michael leaned forward too. “The very best.”
I took a sip of my own coffee, too hot, bitter, excellent. “It must have been the island air.”
“I hope I sleep that well every night while I am here.”
Even though my cheeks burned, I couldn’t stop myself. “I hope so too. I really do.” My fever returned.
My mother set her newspaper down. “Honestly, Mireille.”
Michael and my father bonded instantly over their mutual love of concrete and all things construction. That afternoon, we drove out to the provinces where my father was building an orphanage and a school in Jérémie for an American NGO. Jérémie is remote and isolated, about 125 miles from Port-au-Prince. It took hours and hours to get there—abominable roads. Michael and I sat in the backseat of my father’s Land Cruiser, sweating, our thighs sticking to the leather seats. It was too hot to even hold hands or sit close to each other. His hair clung to his face, which was even redder than it had been at the airport. My father had the air-conditioning on but it did little to cool us.
My mother turned around, looked at Michael, and said, “ Il est rouge comme une tomate .”
I glared at her.
Michael wiped his forehead. “Is it always this hot?”
From the front seat, my father nodded. “We are blessed with a lot of sun.”
The roads became narrower and narrower, less paved, jolting us back and forth. About thirty miles from Jérémie, we had to drive across a dry riverbed where children ran and played and chased our vehicle. A stray goat ambled by. Michael waved eagerly at the kids, his forehead against the glass.
“When it rains, this riverbed floods,” my father said, “and then no one can get to Jérémie.”
Michael and I looked out our windows and up into the cloudless sky.
We walked through the construction site and my father puffed his chest out, shook Michael’s shoulder excitedly. “You see,” he said, “there is much work to be done but great things are happening here.”
Michael smiled politely but as we drove through Jérémie to get to the construction site, he saw the run-down buildings, paint peeling, the streets filthy, and crowded with so many people mobbing our car whenever they could. He could only shake his head, over and over, muttering, “This is unbelievable.” He did not know how to make sense of any of it. Neither did I.
My mother and I stood in a nearly finished classroom trying to stay cool while the men continued surveying the site, talking about the long-term viability of structural integrity and completion schedules and other matters that were beyond our understanding.
“Your young man is nothing like your father,” she said.
I smiled. “No. No, he isn’t.”
On the drive back to Port-au-Prince, we passed the schoolchildren again, seven or eight little boys in T-shirts and shorts, playing soccer near the edge of the dry riverbed, shrieking happily as one scored.
“Stop the car,” Michael said.
We slowed. My father turned around. “What is it?”
“I just want to get out for a minute.”
My father frowned but stopped. Michael jumped out of the car and walked toward the children rolling his sleeves up. I got out and stood near the edge of the makeshift pitch, watching my boyfriend as I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand. One of the young boys kicked the soccer ball toward Michael and soon he was playing with those boys like he was a child himself. When he scored a goal, he threw his hands in the air and started running around in a circle. The little boys followed, their hands in
That uncomfortable heat returned to my face, the whole of my upper body. I narrowed my eyes. I wanted to kick him under the table but my leg wouldn’t reach. “I slept fine, Michael, and you?”
He grinned widely. “Best sleep of my life.”
I arched an eyebrow, stopped pretending to be irritated, leaned forward. “The best?”
Michael leaned forward too. “The very best.”
I took a sip of my own coffee, too hot, bitter, excellent. “It must have been the island air.”
“I hope I sleep that well every night while I am here.”
Even though my cheeks burned, I couldn’t stop myself. “I hope so too. I really do.” My fever returned.
My mother set her newspaper down. “Honestly, Mireille.”
Michael and my father bonded instantly over their mutual love of concrete and all things construction. That afternoon, we drove out to the provinces where my father was building an orphanage and a school in Jérémie for an American NGO. Jérémie is remote and isolated, about 125 miles from Port-au-Prince. It took hours and hours to get there—abominable roads. Michael and I sat in the backseat of my father’s Land Cruiser, sweating, our thighs sticking to the leather seats. It was too hot to even hold hands or sit close to each other. His hair clung to his face, which was even redder than it had been at the airport. My father had the air-conditioning on but it did little to cool us.
My mother turned around, looked at Michael, and said, “ Il est rouge comme une tomate .”
I glared at her.
Michael wiped his forehead. “Is it always this hot?”
From the front seat, my father nodded. “We are blessed with a lot of sun.”
The roads became narrower and narrower, less paved, jolting us back and forth. About thirty miles from Jérémie, we had to drive across a dry riverbed where children ran and played and chased our vehicle. A stray goat ambled by. Michael waved eagerly at the kids, his forehead against the glass.
“When it rains, this riverbed floods,” my father said, “and then no one can get to Jérémie.”
Michael and I looked out our windows and up into the cloudless sky.
We walked through the construction site and my father puffed his chest out, shook Michael’s shoulder excitedly. “You see,” he said, “there is much work to be done but great things are happening here.”
Michael smiled politely but as we drove through Jérémie to get to the construction site, he saw the run-down buildings, paint peeling, the streets filthy, and crowded with so many people mobbing our car whenever they could. He could only shake his head, over and over, muttering, “This is unbelievable.” He did not know how to make sense of any of it. Neither did I.
My mother and I stood in a nearly finished classroom trying to stay cool while the men continued surveying the site, talking about the long-term viability of structural integrity and completion schedules and other matters that were beyond our understanding.
“Your young man is nothing like your father,” she said.
I smiled. “No. No, he isn’t.”
On the drive back to Port-au-Prince, we passed the schoolchildren again, seven or eight little boys in T-shirts and shorts, playing soccer near the edge of the dry riverbed, shrieking happily as one scored.
“Stop the car,” Michael said.
We slowed. My father turned around. “What is it?”
“I just want to get out for a minute.”
My father frowned but stopped. Michael jumped out of the car and walked toward the children rolling his sleeves up. I got out and stood near the edge of the makeshift pitch, watching my boyfriend as I shielded my eyes from the sun with my hand. One of the young boys kicked the soccer ball toward Michael and soon he was playing with those boys like he was a child himself. When he scored a goal, he threw his hands in the air and started running around in a circle. The little boys followed, their hands in
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