“Christmas Eve 1492. The Santa Maria struck a reef and ran aground right here in northern Haiti. The ship was sinking. All was lost.” The host paused again, smiling into the camera. “Then they came. The Taino Indians who ruled this land. They saved Columbus and his men, but they could not save the ship.”
Renée wanted to scream at him to get to the point already, but even she was transfixed as the story unfolded.
“For five hundred years, treasure hunters, pirates, and scientists have all searched for the remains of the Santa Maria without success. It sunk to the bottom of the ocean, never to be heard from again. Until today.”
The camera panned out to reveal a ship in the distance. “Behind me stands a research vessel owned and operated by UNESCO or the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. They are here at the invitation of the Haitian government to assess whether wreckage found at the bottom of the ocean is in fact the remains of the Santa Maria.”
The host gestured off camera and a woman walked into view. “I’m joined now by Dr. Felicia Viellegas, an underwater archaeologist and renowned expert on Iberian shipwrecks. She is also the head of the UNESCO mission.” He thrust a microphone at the woman. “Dr. Viellegas, you’ve been digging through the wreckage for two weeks. What do you hope to accomplish?”
Dr. Viellegas had the look of a scientist, with her hair pulled back into a tight bun and dark-rimmed glasses shielding her eyes. “We’re here to assess in a neutral and scientific manner whether the wreckage found here are the remains of the Santa Maria.”
“And have you made your assessment?”
“We have,” she said with a nod.
The host stared into the camera. “We’ll be back with that answer after the break.”
Renée groaned, then checked to make sure her VCR was recording. She was saving the tape for John—he didn’t have access to television in prison.
A shadow flittered across her face at the thought of John. He paid dearly for his relationship with Gigi. He was so consumed with pain and guilt that when the investigators questioned him, he readily confessed to the affair. The US Navy showed leniency, given his role in apprehending a woman responsible for multiple murders, but he still had to serve a year-long prison sentence, and his military career was over.
As tough as that had been on him, it couldn’t compare to the guilt he felt at pointing a gun on the woman he loved—and killing her mother.
“We’re back, ladies and gentlemen. Before the break, Dr. Viellegas, you stated that you’ve evaluated the wreckage found here. What is your determination?”
Dr. Viellegas adjusted her glasses. “After completing a multitude of tests, we can state with one hundred percent certainty that the wreckage in these waters is not the remains of the Santa Maria. That ship is likely lost to history.”
With a disappointed groan, Renée turned off the television. The mystery of Columbus’s sunken ship would not be solved today.
The phone rang. She reached for it. “Hello?”
“We won,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“What?” It was impossible to believe her own ears.
“We won,” George Koh repeated. “Damn it, we won!”
She laughed. George was a dignified man and a law professor. He didn’t often curse. “You’re not kidding?” she demanded. “We actually won?”
George seemed to understand her need for reassurance. “Judge Sterling said—and I quote—‘The Haitians’ plight is a tragedy of immense proportions, and their continued detainment is totally unacceptable to this court.’ Totally unacceptable! Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t.” She closed her eyes and felt the sting of tears. A federal judge concluded that detaining refugees in what amounted to prison camps was “unacceptable.” They had worked so hard for this moment. A wave of gratitude swept over her. She could never have done this without George.
Just two days after returning to Boston, she’d found herself standing in George Koh’s kitchen in New Haven begging for help. She had driven through a Connecticut blizzard—the frozen temperature a rude awakening after the sweltering heat of Guantanamo—and parked herself in his driveway, unannounced. A few minutes later, George’s wife rapped on her car window, concerned she might be hurt. Renée babbled incoherently about Haitians and Guantanamo and the US Constitution, of all things. Wendy, herself a public interest lawyer, took pity on her and dragged her into the house.
The smell of spaghetti sauce greeted them. Renée’s stomach grumbled as she followed Wendy into the kitchen. George stood at the stove stirring a pot of lasagna noodles while his eighteen-month-old daughter happily banged a wooden spoon against a cast-iron skillet. He glanced up, the steam from the pot fogging his glasses.
“Lunch?” he asked.
She couldn’t resist. Over a plate of the best lasagna she’d ever tasted, Renée told them about Lucie, Pierre, and Yvette. She would have shared the story of every single one of the now 310 HIV-positive Haitians who were being kept on Guantanamo, but George stopped her with a single word.
“Yes,” he said.
“Yes?” she parroted, her eyes bouncing from husband to wife and back again. “I’m talking about filing a lawsuit against the Justice Department. They won’t take this lightly, they’ll come after us. Hard. Don’t you need some time to think about it?” She almost kicked herself as soon as the words came out of her mouth. What the hell was she doing giving him a chance to back out? She needed him.
But he had so much to lose. He had a comfortable life as a tenured law professor at Yale, a beautiful house, and a family to support. And if that wasn’t enough, rumors were flying that if Democratic candidate Bill Clinton took the White House, George was destined for a high-level position in the US State Department. Why would he jeopardize all of that for a ragtag bunch of Haitian refugees he had never even met?
Wendy merely snorted at the question while George’s eyes gleamed with amusement. This was a man who enjoyed a good fight.
“Someone’s got to tell the American people what’s being done in their name,” he said.
From that day forward, he worked tirelessly to make sure that happened.
“What about the HIV plaintiffs?” she asked now, almost afraid to hear the answer.
There was a rustling sound as George turned the pages of the judicial order. “Dr. Cosgrove’s testimony was indispensable. You’re going to love this. Judge Sterling said, ‘Defendant INS deliberately ignored the medical advice of US military doctors that all persons with a T-cell count below two hundred or percentages below thirteen be transported to the United States for treatment. Such actions constitute deliberate indifference to the Haitians’ medical needs in violation of their due process rights . . .’”
He kept talking, but she was too excited to hear anything else. They had done it. They had really done it. After months of research, writing briefs, and drafting affidavits, after endless train rides to New Haven, often with a cranky Marie-Thérèse in tow, they had finally done it. It didn’t feel real.
“When will the refugees be transferred stateside?” she asked. Lucie would be overjoyed.
“We still need to deal with the Supreme Court case.”
Of course, nothing about this case was easy. When you poke a sleeping tiger, it wakes up roaring. A few weeks after they filed their complaint in federal district court the president issued the “Kennebunkport Order,” an Executive Order directing the US Coast Guard to return all Haitians intercepted at sea without benefit of any hearing at all.
George called an emergency meeting that same day. Twenty people crowded his kitchen, eating lasagna and talking legal strategy.
“We’ve got to file a temporary restraining order,” George insisted. “We need a court order to stop these repatriations.”
Renée nodded warily. She could already guess what was coming.
George turned to her. “I need you to argue the TRO.”
There it was, the moment
of truth. “I can’t,” she replied miserably.
The kitchen fell silent. George Koh was a force of nature; you didn’t deny him anything.
George dropped his fork. “Why not?”
From the moment they filed their complaint in Brooklyn, she’d known this would happen. She had fought long and hard to have the case filed in Massachusetts, Connecticut, or even Washington, DC—anywhere but New York. She lost that fight because New York was the sensible choice. It held the promise of liberal judges, a cosmopolitan population, and a sizable Haitian community. If they stood any chance of winning, it would be in New York.
But she would never step foot in that state again. Not for anything. “I can’t go to Brooklyn,” she said, all too aware that that was no answer at all.
George’s brows furrowed. “You can’t go to Brooklyn? What are you talking about?”
She stared miserably at the man who had gotten this case farther than she had ever imagined. How could she explain this to him? An image flashed in her mind—a dark room, a looming figure, the smell of urine overwhelming her senses. She could feel the panic rising. She swallowed hard, reminding herself that she was okay. She was safe. Nothing could hurt her as long as she stayed away from New York.
“I can’t do it, George. I wish I could, but—”
“Hundreds of people will be returned to Port-au-Prince because of this order. They won’t even have the relative safety of Guantanamo to protect them. What could you possibly have to do that is more important than getting that damn TRO?”
Renée stared mutely at her plate of lasagna, the sauce now a clump of red covered with a white, congealed mass of cheese. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
George stomped out of the kitchen without another word.
She did everything she could to help alleviate the burden on him, but in the end, he was the one to argue their case. And they had won, at least for now.
“You’ll help me argue the Supreme Court case?” George asked, bringing Renée back from her memories.
“Of course,” she said. Going to Washington, DC, was not a problem.
“Good,” George said. “I’ll send you the documents, so we can get started tomorrow. This is just the beginning, but it’s a promising start.”
They hung up a few minutes later, and Renée leaped from the couch. She dug through her CDs and found what she was looking for. A moment later, Kem Pa Sote reverberated through the living room. She found herself dancing and laughing until she fell into an exhausted heap on the floor.
The bell rang. She went to the door still laughing.
On her doorstep stood Rose Fleurie.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The Return
What are you doing here?” Renée asked as she pulled Rose in for a tight embrace. The older woman smelled of talcum powder and sunshine.
Rose hugged her just as hard. “I had to know you are oke,” she murmured.
Renée pulled back far enough to look at her. Rose was as beautiful as ever, but she now looked every one of her fifty-four years. Faint lines edged her mouth, and her eyes were shadowed pools reflecting pain and loss.
“What’s wrong?” Renée asked.
Rose evaded her eyes. “I have been traveling all day, and I am tired.”
“Forgive my rudeness.” Renée caught Rose’s arm in one hand and her suitcase in the other and pulled them inside. “Why don’t you head over to the living room? I’ll bring some refreshments.”
Rose ignored the invitation and followed Renée to the kitchen where she took a seat at the table and kept her dark eyes fixed on her hostess.
Renée felt strangely unsettled as she rummaged in her cabinet for plates and glasses. The last time she was with Rose, the woman had been declared dead. For a moment, they were back in that place, the waves rushing over them while marines swarmed the beach shouting commands. She could hear their pounding feet, feel the wind and rain whip at her. Through all of it, she had remained focused on one thing. Rose. She had pushed air into her lungs, pounded on her chest. Anything to get her to take in a single breath.
Finally, she had.
Renée put a load of cheese and crackers onto a plate, filled two glasses with apple juice—Marie-Thérèse’s favorite—and carried the whole thing to the table. Rose took a sip of apple juice and smiled in appreciation.
“How is Gigi?” Renée asked.
“She is dead.”
Renée collapsed into the nearest chair. “What happened?” She could see Gigi as she had been on that day, lurching out of the water spewing hate and obscenities. John had tackled her to the ground, protecting Renée and Rose from further attack, and he’d saved Gigi’s life in the bargain. The marines had been ready to shoot.
Rose took another sip of apple juice. “She had a darkness in her that one. It settled deep in her bones. Nothing I did could take it away. But I could not let her rot in that hospital alone. She was my daughter.”
Gigi had been found mentally incompetent to stand trial. With all her talk of avenging Vodou Spirits, it was an easy decision. She was confined to the Florida State Hospital in Chattahoochee—or rather, she had been.
“How?” Renée asked. Despite everything, it hurt to know Gigi was dead.
“She wanted to die, and the people in that hospital could not stop her. I went to see her two days ago. She was gone. She had swallowed a bottle of pills.”
“You could not help her?”
“It was not their will.”
Renée didn’t ask who “they” were. She couldn’t pretend to understand how any of this worked, but she had her own experience of Rose’s power, and she was grateful for it. It was difficult to understand why that same power couldn’t have saved Gigi from her fate. She had suffered enough. Then again, so had Rose.
She placed a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“Mommy, I had a bad dream.”
She turned to find her little girl standing in the kitchen doorway clutching a pink teddy bear to her chest. She opened her arms, and Marie-Thérèse ran to her. “I’m sorry you had a bad dream,” she murmured in the little girl’s ear. “Can you say hello to our guest?”
Her daughter stared at Rose. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“Marie-Thérèse!” Renée admonished with a laugh. “You know how to introduce yourself.”
The little girl stuck out her hand. “I am Marie-Thérèse. What’s your name?”
Rose solemnly shook Marie-Thérèse’s hand. “I am your new auntie. You may call me Tantine Rose.”
“Why do you talk so funny, Tantine Rose?” Marie-Thérèse asked.
“Marie-Thérèse!” Renée said again, swallowing a horrified bark of laughter.
But Rose merely shrugged. “It is because I am Haitian, and I speak Kreyòl better than English. Do you speak Kreyòl ?”
The little girl shook her head.
“I can teach you,” Rose offered. “And you can teach me English.”
Marie-Thérèse nodded, then turned to her mother. “I’m hungry.”
Before Renée could respond, Rose reached out and took the little girl in her arms. “I will feed you. What do you like?”
“Can you make mac and cheese?” the little girl asked, wrapping her arms easily around Rose’s neck.
Rose sniffed in mock disdain. “Of course,” she said. “I am a chef.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone who makes mac and cheese very well.”
For the next hour, the kitchen rang with laughter as Marie-Thérèse helped her “Aunty Rose” prepare a mac and cheese dinner fit for royalty. By the time they were done, the little girl was covered in a fine dusting of white flour and grated cheese. She piled pasta on a spoon and took an experimental bite. “Mmm,” she said, smacking her lips. “That is so good.”
The two women laughed at her antics. Then, despite the protests, Renée marched Marie-Thérèse to the bathroom to clean up. It took several more readings of Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’
ll Go! before she fell asleep again.
Renée tiptoed out of the room and made her way to the kitchen. It was now sparkling clean but empty. She peeked in the entryway and found Rose’s suitcase missing. Where was she? She wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, would she?
A faint shuffling sound in the guest bedroom caught Renée’s attention. She walked over, relieved to find Rose—Tantine Rose—unpacking. “How long will you be visiting?” She would happily take whatever time Rose was willing to give.
Rose looked up. “I am not visiting.”
“You’re not?”
“My place is here with you and Marie-Thérèse.”
“You want to stay with us for good?”
Rose hung the last of her dresses and crossed the room to take Renée’s hand. “I will stay until I have done my duty.”
“Your duty?” Something tugged at Renée’s memory. “When I asked earlier, you said you had to know I was all right. What did you mean?”
Rose hesitated. “I know only that the ancestors have sent me to you, and they are never wrong about these things. I will stay for as long as you need me.”
“Is Marie-Thérèse in danger?” Renée demanded with the fierceness of a mama bear.
“She will be safe,” Rose said firmly. “I will make sure of it.”
“Thank you.” Renée stared at Rose a moment longer before asking, “Why me?” What had she ever done to draw the attention of the Spirits?
But Rose had no answers. “I do not ask such questions.”
Renée found herself enveloped in Rose’s warm embrace. She hugged the older woman back, but a tiny seed of fear bloomed. She tried to push it away, reminding herself she was safe. Her daughter was safe.
The only man who threatened her family was locked in a high-security mental institution in Brooklyn.
Forever.
When Death Comes for You Page 26
