After the events of September 11, Max had thought his son would come to his senses and return to the States, but if anything, the national tragedy had hardened Josh's resolve.
He hadn't spoken to his son since a terse long-distance conversation September 15 when Max was finally able to get a call through to Brizjanti, the small village where Joshua was working at an orphanage. Max had all but demanded that Joshua return home. Josh had informed him curtly that he had no such intention.
Max shook his head in a futile attempt to erase the disturbing memory. Turning, he leaned again over Dori's desk and swallowed back a sigh. "Okay. Next?"
Chapter Two
Brizjanti, Haiti, December 23
Dr. Joshua Jordan shaded his eyes and looked into the clear azure sky. The Haitian sun burned through his white cotton shirt and a stinging bead of sweat skated down his back and slid under the waistband of his khaki trousers. He peeled the knotted blue bandanna off his head and swabbed his face and neck with it.
"Are you okay?"
He turned to see Samantha Courtney studying him with a worried frown.
"Hey." He flashed a reassuring smile. "I'm fine. But that sun is a beast today. It's almost Christmas. It should be snowing."
"In your Chicago maybe. That's one thing I do not miss about home."
"Yeah, I don't suppose I'd miss North Dakota winters either." He narrowed his eyes playfully at her. "But why is it you're not even breaking a sweat?"
She shrugged. "You get used to it."
"Well, it's been four months and I'm still waiting."
"You went home," Samantha said matter-of-factly. "You're back to square one now."
He smiled. "Oh, is that how it works?" Though he'd only gone back to the States for two weeks, she hadn't been happy about him leaving. He suspected she'd been afraid he'd let his father talk him out of returning to Haiti. She needn't have worried. If what he saw as his divine calling to Haiti hadn't been enough to compel him to return, his growing love for Samantha would have. Maybe he should tell her that. But they'd only known each other a few months. He'd seen too many vows broken in his short life. He wanted to be sure about her before he went making promises he couldn't keep.
He gave his forehead one last swipe and retied the bandanna around his brow. "Ready?"
"Whenever you are."
"Why don't we start with the little boys' dormitory? Hang on, let me grab the meds." He ducked into the lean-to that served as a temporary clinic and rummaged in the crates of supplies that had been shipped from the States. He was lucky they'd been able to get the vaccines and medical supplies into the country before Monday's attempted coup on the presidential palace had brought things to a standstill at the airport in Port-au-Prince.
No. Not lucky, he amended, blessed. God had been with him every step of the way, from making standby on the last flight out of Miami, to getting into Brizjanti before the violence erupted in Port-au-Prince, to being able to be with Samantha again.
She was special. So unlike the girls he'd been attracted to before his eyes had been opened. He stood at the door now and watched her through its barred window. Her hair was what some might have described as dishwater blond, but the island sun had streaked it with highlights no salon could duplicate. He liked her fresh, natural good looks. The women he'd dated previously seemed to spend half their time obsessing over their makeup and manicures, and working on suntans that would ultimately send them running to his father's clinic before they were forty.
He stepped into the courtyard, and propped the cooler full of vaccines and syringes on one shoulder. "Ready?"
"Whenever you are, Dr. Jordan. Are you sure you don't want to get one of the older girls to help?"
"No. We'll be okay..." The rest of his sentence remained unspoken, but he knew that by now she could read his mind as though his thoughts were tattooed across his forehead. They'd argued about it more than once--his fears that the children with AIDS would infect the others. She was more pragmatic, believing the risk was worth training the older girls in various nursing skills.
Duval Children's Home, like all the orphanages in Haiti, was seriously overcrowded. Finding enough beds was a constant challenge. It wasn't practical to quarantine the HIV kids, but there had to be some other solution.
He followed Samantha, crossing the compound with long strides to match hers. She walked with a self-confidence that belied her twenty-two years. Five months ago, when he arrived in Brizjanti the first time, he'd guessed her to be his own age. He would miss her when he had to go back to the States again next month.
The bare earth underfoot was baked hard like clay, and their footsteps stirred up little gray puffs of dust around their ankles. For some reason, Josh thought of his mother. She'd be mailing him grass seed by the ton if she could see the barren landscape of this country.
They reached the little boys' dormitory and Samantha rapped sharply on the door before pushing it open.
A thin little boy with skin brown as cocoa looked up from the sketch he was drawing. He gave a shout of glee, pushed back his chair and ran toward them. "Miss Samantha!"
"Hey, Jean-Louis. How's it going?" She put up a palm and gave him an American high five.
"Hey, Dr. Josh." The boy's greeting for Josh was more reserved.
Jean-Louis had been dumped at the home five years ago. He was probably seven years old now, but he wasn't much taller than most five-year-olds in the States. Like a growing number of the children--a number that haunted Joshua's dreams--Jean-Louis was HIV-positive.
Within seconds, a dozen other boys swarmed them. "What you doing here today?" six-year-old Marcus asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
Josh laughed and rubbed Marcus's sun-blanched black hair. "We're going to give you some good medicine today. So you won't get sick."
Marcus took a step back and his eyes grew round. "Not a shot, no?"
"Don't worry, buddy. It will only sting for a minute. Like a mosquito."
"That is what you say last time." Marcus rubbed the flesh on his upper arm as though he'd just been stung.
"No. Last time I told you a bee sting. A mosquito is not so bad, eh?"
Marcus looked dubious.
Josh was still surprised by how jealous he felt of the children's unabashed love for Samantha and Madame Duval, the director of the orphanage. Dr. Josh had inflicted too much pain for the children to trust him completely, though the boys had warmed to him since he'd started playing soccer with them every morning during recess. He smiled at the thought.
Samantha eyed him. "What's so funny?"
He shrugged. "Sorry. I didn't realize I was smiling out loud."
She laughed. "Well, it must have been a good thought."
"I was thinking about what stiff competition you are."
"Ha! That's only because I carry C-A-N-D-Y in my pockets."
"Careful. I don't think spelling is going to cut it anymore. Madame Duval gave out a whole bunch of spelling awards last week and a couple of her best pupils are within earshot. Not to mention that the next dentist we manage to get down here is going to be none too happy with you."
"Well, let him duke it out with me. A piece of peppermint once in a while isn't going to ruin anybody's teeth."
Marcus perked up. "Peppermint? Miss Samantha have peppermint?"
Samantha rolled her eyes. "Not today, Marc. Maybe Sunday...if you're a good boy."
He beamed, showing perfectly even, milk-white teeth. "I be a good boy!"
She tousled his hair. "I know you will. Now why don't you run and tell Miss Alice we need all the babies in here."
"You shoot only the babies?" Marcus looked hopeful.
Josh raised an eyebrow and Samantha laughed.
"Goodness, Marc! Don't say it like that. You'll give Dr. Josh a heart attack." Her voice turned serious. "All the boys will get a shot--big boys, too. A vaccination--so you won't get sick. We'll do the babies first."
Marcus looked worried, but he trotted off like a devoted puppy, while Sa
mantha helped Josh set up a makeshift examining table.
Marcus returned a minute later with the preschool teacher in tow. Alice Volcy carried a baby in each arm and a toddler shadowed her, clutching the hem of her skirt for support.
"Kijan ou ye, Jean-Michael?" Josh bent to catch the little boy's eye and tell him his name. "M rele Dr. Jordan."
Jean-Michael gave a shy smile, but dipped his head and refused to look at Josh.
Joshua lifted the toddler onto the makeshift examining table and pushed up the tattered, filthy sleeve of Jean-Michael's T-shirt. Samantha cleansed the little boy's upper arm with an alcohol wipe. Jean-Michael kept his bright smile trained on her.
Josh spoke in low tones. "M pap fe ou mal, non. I'm not going to hurt you."
He leveled the syringe, pinched the muscle taut on the boy's skinny arm and gently inserted the needle. As the vaccine entered, Jean-Michael's coffee-bean eyes widened and a look of panic sparked in their dark depths. Josh quickly removed the needle and rubbed the spot briskly. "There. Fini. All done."
"You are a very brave boy," Samantha cooed in Creole. She smoothed a hand over his short tufts of hair, lifted him from the table and, in one smooth motion, set him on the ground. He toddled off to the playroom and she took one of the babies from Alice's arms and set him on the table.
Josh flashed Samantha a smile. "You've got this down to a science, don't you?"
"Hey, I didn't work on a factory assembly line all through college for nothing."
He smiled at the image her words evoked, of curly-haired Haitian babies lined up on a conveyor belt, arms outstretched for vaccinations.
They worked together throughout the morning, and by the time the lunch bell beckoned them to the dining room, they had immunized fifty-three of the boys and had moved the supplies to the girls' dormitory.
In the dining room, the shabby artificial tree festooned in colorful construction-paper chains reminded Josh again that despite temperatures in the high eighties, tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
It would be strange to spend Christmas in Haiti. He hated to leave his mother alone for the holidays, but of course she had Gary now. And the boys, Josh's half brothers. He admired his stepfather, but in spite of his lack of a relationship with his father, Josh had never allowed Gary to become more than a friend.
He hadn't spent a Christmas with Max Jordan in years, but still, the holidays always seemed to make memories of his father harder to push away. Lately, the bitterness and resentment he'd nurtured so carefully were being replaced by something else. Something he couldn't quite identify, but suspected was compassion. And maybe forgiveness. He understood now how miserable his father was. The man probably didn't even realize it, just as Josh hadn't realized his own emptiness before his eyes had been opened.
He thought Mom understood his newfound faith--or at least was happy that he was happy. But Dad had made it clear that he was none too thrilled with his only heir's decision to give up the residency in Iowa to come down here. Well, sure he wasn't happy about it. After all, the great Dr. Botox had footed the considerable bill for medical school. Not that Max Jordan had been pleased about any of Josh's choices in life. Even when he'd managed to graduate high school a semester early and finish med school as one of the youngest graduates in the history of the college, the great Dr. Maximilian Jordan had remained unimpressed. Josh was beginning to accept that there was nothing he could ever do that would please his dad. The man was a stone.
Josh released a sigh. Now that he'd dedicated his life to a heavenly Father, it didn't matter quite so much.
Chapter Three
Brizjanti, Haiti, December 28
Christmas was barely past and the entire orphanage staff was dealing with a rash of flu and respiratory ailments that had laid low dozens of children and nearly half the already skeleton staff.
Samantha Courtney jogged across the compound of the children's home, holding her fingers to her temples. She felt a headache of monumental proportions coming on, but she didn't have time to think about that right now.
She was worried about Josh. He was sicker than a dog, but refused to lie down for even a minute. With the staff shortage and all the sick kids, he'd been putting in longer hours than ever. Her despair at the thought of him going back to the States next month had turned to gratitude that he would finally get the rest and medical care he needed himself.
As she opened the door to the girls' dormitory, a brown lizard that had been sunning itself on the threshold scurried beneath the building. She walked through the playroom to the bunkroom. The air inside was stale, but ten degrees cooler, thanks to the thick, whitewashed cinder block walls. Sunshine poured through the windows and across the precious lumps that filled half a dozen triple-tiered bunk beds.
Josh was sitting on the edge of one mattress, his head bent beneath the bunk overhead. A stethoscope plugged his ears, and Samantha could see by the set of his shoulders that he didn't like what he was hearing in little Kala Loutrel's chest.
Samantha cleared her throat softly to announce her presence.
Josh pulled the stethoscope from his ears and wrapped the instrument around his neck. He squeezed the little girl's toes affectionately and turned to Samantha, his brow creased with worry. "Let's go out there," he mouthed, nodding in the direction of the playroom.
She followed him into the sunny room. The girls who had managed to stay healthy were in school or playing in the courtyard and the playroom was deserted. He stood in the middle of the room, head down, breathing as though he'd just sprinted all the way from Port-au-Prince. His face was flushed and she could hear the congestion in his lungs. He stripped the bandanna off his head and sopped the perspiration from his face.
"Are you okay, Josh? You really need to get some rest."
He waved her off. "I think Kala needs to be in the hospital. Her lungs are filling up...and I can't get her fever down."
"Have you talked to Madame Duval?"
He shook his head, grimacing.
Samantha knew the orphanage director would be reluctant to let Dr. Jordan send Kala into the city unless they'd exhausted every other avenue. With a shortage of medically trained staff and questionable sanitation, the city hospitals were too often a death sentence rather than a cure. Marie Duval had lost too many children to them already. "Do you want me to talk to her?"
"No. I'll do it." He picked at the knot in the bandanna, working the corners free. "I know what she'll say, but I'm afraid if we don't get Kala there this afternoon we'll end up having to make the trip in the dark." He glanced back through the open door to the bunkroom and lowered his voice. "She really needs to be on oxygen. And probably a chest tube..."
Samantha felt her heart stutter. "Is she really that bad?"
He didn't answer, but headed for the door, tying the bandanna back around his forehead as he went.
"Wait, Josh."
He kept walking and she trailed him into the courtyard. Halfway across the compound, he started coughing.
Samantha winced as she listened to his deep barking. "You should be in bed! You won't be any good to anyone if you wind up in the hospital yourself."
He held up a hand, waving her off again. But the coughing continued, unrelenting. Finally he stopped in his tracks and bent, hands on his thighs, struggling to catch his breath. He hacked for another full minute before he finally straightened. He looked at her with what she thought was supposed to be a sheepish grin, but instead was a scowl. "Maybe I will take a little nap after lunch."
She propped her hands on her hips and glared at him. "You haven't had lunch?"
He shook his head.
She gave a little growl. "It's almost two-thirty, Josh!" She went around behind him and grabbed his shoulders, giving him a push in the direction of the dining hall. "You're coming with me right this minute."
He allowed her to guide him across the yard and into the empty dining room. She pointed to the staff table and he slid onto the long bench, resting his elbows on the tabletop.
> In the kitchen she rummaged in the industrial-size refrigerator until she found a small pot of leftover rice and bean sauce. She pulled off the lid and took a whiff. It seemed fresh enough. She set the pan on a burner of the giant institutional stove and crossed the room in search of a can of chicken broth to thin the mixture into a soup. While it heated, she toasted two slices of stale bread and spread them with manba, good Haitian peanut butter.
Ten minutes later she sat across from Joshua at a long picnic-style table in the dining room watching with satisfaction as he slurped the steaming soup from a deep pottery bowl. "Taste good?"
"My taster isn't working so hot, but it sure feels good going down." He reached across the table and patted her hand.
"Thanks. I needed this."
She smiled. "Yes, you did. And as soon as you clean your plate I'm escorting you to your room and I'm not leaving until you're tucked in...and sleeping."
"Okay, whatever you say, Mom," he said around a mouthful of peanut butter. He sounded like a little boy. But the look in his eyes as they lingered on her was anything but boyish.
She looked away and scraped some stray bread crumbs into the palm of her hand. Josh finished his soup, and she gathered his bowl and spoon and headed for the kitchen.
She washed his dishes in soapy water and dried them. Looking out the pass-through into the dining hall, she watched Josh drag himself up from the bench. Her heart lurched as she realized that his clothes hung loosely on him. Why hadn't she noticed the deep shadows ringing his eyes before?
He started toward the kitchen and she looked away before he could catch her staring.
"Here, let me do that," he said, taking the dish from her hand. He finished drying it--or attempted to--with the soggy towel she'd just hung to air.
Over the Waters Page 2
