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There was music, laughter, so many sounds of the imaginary life. In the near distance, children splashed at the water’s edge. We made our way to an empty space and I sat quietly on the couch, brushing stray grains of sand away from me. Handsome young men with smooth brown skin, wearing tight white polo shirts and blue shorts, scurried between each little encampment with trays of tall fruity drinks and fresh food.
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Most of them were filled with people pretending that this is Haiti, that our gates and high walls can keep us safe. They could see me but they could not see me.Īt Club Indigo, there is a large veranda overlooking the beach and then, down a narrow staircase, the beach itself, lined with canopied outdoor sofas. I held my tote bag filled with our towels and toys for Christophe, a change of clothes, tightly against my body. People stared as we walked through the club. News of a kidnapping always travels fast in Port-au-Prince. I held my breath until we arrived at the beach unharmed, but I was not afraid because I understood the worst of what could happen. The armed men in the front seats turned their heads in unison every few minutes, scanning the streets for new dangers. I could hear the terrible whine of the horn that wouldn’t stop because Michael had fallen, limp, against the steering wheel. I held my breath for a very long time and closed my eyes and sat perfectly still. I wanted to climb inside him where he would keep me safe.Īs we drove out of the gates at the foot of my parents’ driveway, I held my breath. I reached for him, clasped his neck in my hand, pressed my forehead to his cheek, mouthing the words, “Thank you,” against his skin. “We’re going to the damn beach,” he said.
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My irritation wove itself into the muscles in my forehead. “And you clearly need medical attention.” “That is not a good idea,” my father said, the way he says everything, as if there is only one truth, his truth. “When I was taken, we were on our way to the beach so I want to go to the beach.” The wild mess of curls on his head had blond highlights. Christophe rested his head against his father’s chest. I stared at Michael as he held Christophe. Nadine tried to put him in my arms but I shook my head. Nadine came into the dining room with Christophe in her arms. I said, “I’d like to go to the beach today.” Soon the house would be filled with relatives and family friends and business acquaintances, all wanting to pay their respects, to come look at the freak beneath the circus tent, to revel that once more it wasn’t them taken to a dark terrible place in the slums. I no longer recognized his features or saw myself in him. He kept stirring his coffee, the spoon scraping the porcelain over and over until my mother shot him a look. I was so hungry, the kind of hungry where you feel sharp and unsteady, but there was nothing I could do about it. I drank coffee and the heat of it only made my throat hurt more. You must eat.” I was hungry but I could not eat, did not want anything in my mouth. My mother placed a length of bread on the small plate in front of me. The women in my family are all the same in the stupidest ways.
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She knew I wouldn’t say anything to her or my father about what happened. She said, “It is good to have you home.” “Damn right it is,” Michael said. She spread marmalade over her fresh bread and made a small noise under her breath. My mother looked me up and down and arched an eyebrow. They could see me but they could not see me. I wore layers and layers of clothing so I could hide in plain sight. I knew too much about the kind of man he was. I could not bring myself to look at my father. The tension between my father and my husband lingered thickly. The morning after my kidnappers freed me, Michael and I sat with my parents for breakfast. They drink tea and coffee and talk about what they have planned for the day: meetings, shopping, dinner, a party. They have Nadine, one of their maids, prepare them avoine or fruit salad or bagels or scrambled eggs. Every morning, my parents eat breakfast together.