Chapter twenty-two
FOUND
SABAN
“Nothing is hotter than Alabama but hell.” Muttering, I get off my chopper in front of St. Augustus, but I don’t cross myself. Even if I remembered being Catholic, I don’t remember ever practicing the faith when I was little.
It’s quiet here now that I’ve shut my engine off.
I know that if anyone is inside; they heard me.
It’s not the type of eerie quiet that makes you wary, like some of the older homes and properties around here steeped in blood and history, like the courthouse where they used to have public hangings.
No, this place gives off a sense of peace.
Inhaling, I smell the honeysuckle in the air. There’s also a light breeze that gives me a break from the stifling heat.
The stairs are sturdier than they looked the last time I was here helping with the planting. It seems like Peace has the parishioners and the community doing their spiritual duty for the church alright.
Smiling to myself, I open the door, letting myself in. The silence continues until I enter the sanctuary. There I hear the most lovely voice singing, “When the spirit of the Lord comes upon my heart, I will dance like David danced…”
Standing back, I watch the novice belt out the entire song with the same enthusiasm I’ve seen when the Second Baptist Church choir performs at the local festivals.
Turning just as she finishes on a high note, both spiritual and vocally, seeing me, she covers her face, blushing.
“Oh.” Pulling down her headphones until they circle her neck, she grins at me. “Saban, it’s so good to see you.”
“Hi.” Dragging it out nervously. “I was wondering if you could help me with something.” Starting up the aisle, I come to a stop in front of her.
Locs are pulled back into a high bun, with a scarf holding them in place. She has on an apron covering a white blouse and a black skirt. I assume it’s her regular uniform. Pulling the gloves off her hands, she tucks them and a bottle labeled linseed oil into the pocket of her apron.
“How can I be of help?” Dipping her head to the side in question, she waits for my response.
Ugh,” I groan. “This sounds silly, but I was wondering if you could help me figure out what this tune is. Long story, but I have these nightmares, and for as long as I can remember, I’ve hummed this tune, and it calms me.” I give her a little shrug, my throat tightening.
This is as much as I’ve ever shared with anyone outside of Snake about my past.
“Oh, how precious. Of course, I will help you. Come, let’s go out back so the smell of the polish doesn’t overwhelm us, non?” Giving me a wink, she leads the way out to the garden.
“It’s really flourishing.” Marveling at the blooms that have taken over in the short weeks after the planting, I look at Peace in astonishment.
“Crimson and Clover say they have blessed hands, and I believe them. Father George says it’s the sprinklers Cruz Construction put in place.” We both laugh at the nonsense.
“So the tune is.” Softly humming the few notes, I watch her for any signs of recognition.
“Hmm,” her face scrunches up. “Can you do it again?” This time she turns away as if not to be distracted by looking at me.
“Maybe —” she hums a melody that is similar. I listen, then she adds words, and it’s as if something cracks inside me.
Tears flood my eyes as not only the melody and words come flooding in the sensation of warmth and love. A soft bosom to rest my head. Strong arms that offer comfort and safety.
“Ohmygoodness.” Not realizing nor caring, I sob into the arms of a woman I barely know as she softly sings the lullaby I intrinsically know my parents sang to me.
Dodo ti pitit manman
Dodo ti pitit papa
Si li pa dodo, krab la va manje
Si li pa dodo, krab la va manje
Manman ou pa la, I ale la rivyè
Papa ou pa la, krab la va manje
Si li pa dodo, krab la va manje
Si li pa dodo, krab la va maje
I don’t no, how long she holds me. After a while, I pull away, looking like a sobbing mess.
“I’m so sorry.” Embarrassment flushes my face hot. With the sun already hammering down on us like we’re some construction project. A builder finally got to do, I know I look horrendous and probably a little touched.
“No worries. I guess now you remember the song?” The kindness in her voice dispels some of the anxiety I feel crying like that.
Already nodding as she reaches out and squeezes my hand for comfort, I have to bite back the emotion that’s fighting to be unleashed, holding it tightly to my chest instead. Wanting to hold on to the feeling of what I felt as she song the lyrics.
“It took me a minute to catch the tune. I'm not an infant anymore. But it is a very popular lullaby back home.” She looks at me like she wants to say more, but she hesitates.
“What?” Puzzled, I look at her. She doesn't seem like the type of person who holds back what she thinks or feels, and I think that's why I was immediately drawn to her.
Her expression is an open book, and I can tell that she wants to say more or ask me more questions.
I feel like crying on her like a two-year-old kind of forges a bond.
She laughs when I tell her that. Raising her hands and I surrender kind of way.
“It's just that, and I'm not sure, but I think I may know who your people are. My family comes from the Limbe Province. Have you ever heard of that?" She looks at me hopefully, but all I can do is shake my head, no.
“All I know is that I'm Haitian. I don't remember where I'm from. I don't remember a lot. I lost my memory of the events surrounding my parents’ leaving and our coming to Columbia.” I shrug, feeling helpless.
“I only recovered a little of my memory the other day after seeing Kandie when she escaped Nathaniel Simpson.”
“You probably noticed when we met I looked at you oddly—” When I nod she continues, “I have a distant cousin.
She's much older than me, and though I only saw her a few times growing up,” her face takes on this faraway look.
“She was always kind to me, and she had the most beautiful smile.
When I saw you, I couldn't stop thinking about your smile. The smile reminded me so much of Angelique. Does that name sound familiar to you, Angelique?”
It doesn't, but I want it to be so. I want that so badly, yet I cannot lie.
“No.” Nose stinging and more tears threatening to fall, I shake my head. “I can't remember.”
Reaching out, she grasps my hands. Her grip is strong, almost unyielding.
“I reached out to the diocese from our region, and I asked one of the nuns to check the christening records from about the time I thought you’d have a christening.
She went back starting twenty-two years, but she found your name. It's just about 20 years ago.
Sabine Marie Toussaint was born on December eighteenth, two thousand five, to Angelique and Pierre Toussaint of the Limbe Province, Haiti. She sent me these.”
My heart is thudding so hard I can feel the pulsating in my ears.
Everything is drowned out as I look at the documents that were scanned and sent to Peace.
I'm astounded. Wonder permeates every fiber of my being as I look at the words until they become blurry. I knew the trauma I’ve been through robbed me of my memory of my parents.
I knew I was a survivor and a victor because I was still alive and went unmolested.
Still, that was a part of me that always longed to know.
About my family, my parents and where I was from.
Not only because it was ripped from me — my heritage, my people, causing me to cobble together a new life, and an existence not my own.
Though I was welcomed by el Diablo, Snake, Lourdes and Angel, a part of me always felt hollow.
But I was never ungrateful for their becoming my family. At least now I know my parents’ names.
“I – I don't know what to say. Mési, mèsi anpil. You gave me my parents back.” An overwhelming sense of gratitude fills me as I look at Peace.
“There's more." Another smile breaks across her face, making her look even more beautiful. “After the inquiry, I thought it was over, but then Sister Celestine called me to tell me that your parents survived.” The reality I’ve lived for the last ten years shatters before my eyes.
“But,” words dry up on my tongue. Snake said there was no way they could've survived that attack.
In fact, the reports that we received were that there were no living victims, including us, which allowed us to escape the national police.
They thought they had killed everyone who had witnessed their crimes.
Unlike Hadrián, my parents had no resources.
They had no one they could turn to for help to get them out of the country. So how did they do it?
“How?” Looking at her, I can't allow myself to believe it. I can't allow my hope to be shattered right after I learned their names.
“I don't have all the details but they are alive. They came to America seeking asylum and are now US citizens.” Her eyes are brimming with unshed tears as she tells me this.
My thoughts spiral. “How long have they been here? What do they think happened to me?”
“I don't know the full story.” Her face takes on a somber cast. “They think you were trafficked and made a Restavek. Many don't survive more than two years, so they think you passed away.”
Deep, blinding sorrow falls upon my spirit. My poor parents. All they wanted was to give me a better life, and now to be left thinking their decisions led to my death had to be the worst feeling imaginable.
We sit for a long time as she shares more information with me. “They are in New Orleans, and they own a restaurant. It’s modest, but they've done well. You now also have two sisters and a brother. I don't know their ages. I’ve not been in contact with my family for many years.”
She doesn't fill me in on why, and I know there's a story there, but I don't pry.
She's already done so much for me in the short time that we've known each other.
I don't wanna do anything that makes her feel uncomfortable.
I know what it's like not wanting to share your past and feeling like there's no one you can trust with your secrets.
My mind is reeling at the knowledge that I have a whole family just two states away.
I can't help but cringe at the thought of them seeing me looking like a biker chick with tattoos from my ankles to my throat.
I can't imagine what two God-fearing Catholics would think of their daughter shacking up with a man almost ten years her senior.
“When will you contact them?” She asks after giving me their information so I can put it in my phone.
We walk around the building to the front where my bike is parked before I can answer.
“I don't know. This is all so much to process right now.” I don't say it was really bothering me that they'd be disappointed when they saw me. “I’m not the little girl who was lost to them all those years ago. I became something else. I had to survive.”I hear the panicked worry in my voice. I can already feel myself spiraling.
“Saban.” She says coming up to my bike as I get on. “I know this was a lot to take in, but don't let too much time pass. You've already missed so much. "
Nodding, starting my bike, I pull on my helmet. Revving my engine instead of throwing her words back at her because I don't know her story. I just know there is one. Neither can I just jump into this new Saban’s world order of my life only to be rejected.
I'm a big enough girl now to know that we paint rosy pictures of the realities we want to have. I did that for years with Snake, hoping he'd take notice of me, only to face distance and reputation by him every time we get close to something real.
I don't know if I'm able to take that from people who were supposed to love me from the start. I just can't.