The older woman put a hand to her throat, closed her eyes and whispered, "Thank you, Father."
"Pastor Phil was looking for you and the girls," Valerie told her. "We split up to help him search. We were supposed to meet him back here a few minutes ago. I'm sure he's fine. Oh, Madame Phil--" she turned to Max "--this is Dr. Max Jordan. We were on the same flight from Miami. We just happened to run into each other at the market today. Dr. Jordan is from Chicago."
The pastor's wife put down the large plastic bucket she carried and extended a strong hand. "Betty Greene. Very nice to meet you, Doctor. Thanks for looking out for my girls." She let go of Max's hand and gripped Jaelle's shoulder. "Are you okay, sweetie? Valerie, what about you? No one was hurt?"
"We're fine," Valerie said. "Dr. Jordan is trying to find Madame Duval and a nurse from the home."
"Yes, Samantha Courtney," Max filled in.
"Oh, dear...Samantha? Marie and Samantha are both missing?"
Max nodded. "We all came to the market together. I recognized Valerie across the street and went to talk to her. That's when we heard the explosions. I haven't seen them since."
Madame Phil's brow crinkled. "Did they have any of the children with them?"
"No. It was just the three of us," he said.
"Well, knowing Marie, they probably ran all the way back to the orphanage."
Max thought surely she was kidding. It had taken them almost fifteen minutes to get here by tap-tap. Of course the way the gaudily painted "taxi" trucks snaked through Haitian traffic, one could probably get somewhere on foot almost as quickly. He didn't think Samantha would have left without finding him, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The pastor's wife looked upset enough as it was. "Do you have a way back to Brizjanti?" he asked her.
"We came by tap-tap. But with all this--" she spread her arms to encompass the city "--I doubt there's any transportation to be had. We can walk if we have to. We lost some of our things in all the commotion, so we've not much to carry. I did see a truck headed east a few minutes ago." She looked around her. "Things seem to have calmed down a bit now. Perhaps we can get a ride. But I won't leave Phil. This can't be doing his heart any good."
"Does he have a heart condition?" Max asked.
"Not that he'll admit to." She lowered her voice. "A doctor in Port-au-Prince diagnosed him with congestive heart failure several years ago. Phil pooh-poohed it. But even if that diagnosis is wrong, the man is almost eighty years old. He doesn't realize he simply can't handle things the way he used to."
Max wondered how one could possibly ever grow accustomed to turmoil such as they'd experienced today. Was this something the elderly couple had actually come to take for granted? He was surprised to hear that Pastor Phil was nearing eighty. He would have guessed the man to be in his late sixties. Ah, if he could be half that fit thirty years from now.
He watched Madame Phil. If anyone was a good judge of a woman's age, he was. Max seriously doubted Betty Greene had undergone any cosmetic surgery, and, her white hair notwithstanding, he wouldn't guess her to be much over sixty herself. Maybe dodging flying bullets and fleeing smoke-choked streets served as a sort of fountain of youth.
"Would you feel safe taking the girls and going on back to Brizjanti?" Max felt awkward giving orders. He hadn't been here a week. He didn't know the first thing about navigating this crazy culture, let alone the streets of this city. But someone had to take charge. "If you'll let Jaelle come with us to help translate, Valerie and I can stay and find your husband and the others. We'll get everyone back where they belong."
But Madame Phil put her hands on her hips and studied him. "You know the area well?"
"Not exactly. I--I'm assuming I'll have your husband and the others to navigate for me when we start back."
"I wouldn't make that assumption, Dr. Jordan."
He looked to Valerie for explanation, but she gave a barely perceptible shrug that said she was as clueless as he. "What do you suggest, Madame Phil?"
A new air of confidence lit Betty Greene's eyes. "I suggest we speak to our Father about it."
Did she mean her husband? Good grief, had the man had a cell phone on him the entire time?
Pastor Phil's wife reached for Valerie's hand, and they both bowed their heads.
Oh, that Father. Before he could form another thought, he found himself in a circle of praying women, a little Haitian child tightly clasping each of his hands.
"Father God." Betty Greene's voice was unwavering.
"Now, as always, we need your help. Please, Lord, help us find Phil and the girls. Keep Marie and Samantha safe and lead us all safely home before dark."
Max had bowed his head out of respect, but now he lifted his chin and peered through hooded eyes. In the middle of the street--in the middle of the search--they were going to stop and pray?
Madame Phil went on. "Be with all those who are separated from loved ones today. May they know that you are watching out for them, and that you love them with an everlasting love. Our only desire is to glorify you, dear Father, and we give--"
"Betty! Valerie!"
Max turned to see the entire missing contingent walking toward them! Pastor Phil, Madame Duval, Samantha and the girls from the orphanage ran toward them. Max almost laughed. Their thirty-second prayer had worked like some sort of magic voodoo incantation.
Betty Greene rushed to embrace her husband. The pastor looked weary, but unharmed. Samantha and the girls wore broad smiles.
They all converged in a tight knot at the side of the street and exchanged introductions.
"Let's get out of here," Pastor Phil said. "Is there anything you must have before we go, Betty?"
"Well, we're terribly low on sugar, and we may have to make do without toilet paper for a few days, but nothing is going to be open anyway. Let's just go home."
Pastor Phil looked at his watch, then up the street. Max followed his line of sight. The traffic had thinned and there were no tap-taps in sight.
"Are you up for a walk, Betty?" The pastor put a protective arm around his wife.
"I'm fine. But what about you? You look exhausted."
He let out a deep sigh, but shook his head. "I'm okay. I can make it a ways. Let's start walking and maybe we can catch a ride farther down the road."
They redistributed the few bags and buckets they'd managed to hang on to in the uproar and started down the road, walking two by two. The Haitian girls led the way, chattering to Samantha in high-pitched Creole. Behind them, Pastor and Madame Phil talked quietly with Madame Duval.
The sun was high in the sky and hot on their backs. Max fell in step beside Valerie Austin. "What a day," he said, wiping his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt.
"You can say that again." She squinted against the sun's glare and grinned at him. "It kind of puts the question of the toilet paper supply in a whole new perspective, doesn't it?"
He laughed. "I hadn't thought of it that way."
She shifted the plastic pail she was carrying to her other hand.
"Here," Max said, sliding the sack of yams he carried off his shoulder. "Let me trade you. That looks heavy."
"Oh, thank you, but it's really not that bad. Maybe I should learn to carry it on my head the way the Haitian women do."
She lifted the bucket with both hands and set it atop her head. She walked a short distance holding the bucket in place, then moved her hands ever so slowly away from the bucket, dipping her knees and sidestepping in an effort to keep it balanced. She hadn't gone three steps when the bucket took a dive. Squealing, she reached out and caught it before it hit the ground, but a small netting bag fell out and split open, sending onions rolling into the street.
Max laughed as Valerie zigzagged back and forth chasing down errant onions. He bent to gather up several of the paper-skinned bulbs and returned them to Valerie's bucket.
"Oh dear," she moaned when they'd finally corralled all the produce. "The cooks aren't going to be very happy with me when they see wh
at I did to their onions."
He studied her, wondering if she was serious. Surely a few gourdes worth of wasted groceries wasn't worth getting all bent out of shape over.
"Hey, you two!" Madame Phil shouted. "Better catch up!"
Max looked up to see the rest of their little party several hundred feet ahead. He turned to Valerie. "Do you know how to get back to the orphanage?"
She gave him a sidewise glance and shook her head. "I couldn't find the way if my life depended on it."
"Then we'd better not get lost." Laughing, he took off at a jog. Valerie ran to catch up.
In spite of the rather sober turn the day had taken, Max felt strangely carefree and lighthearted. It was odd living at such a lackadaisical pace. Odd, but rather nice.
"So how did you happen to come to Haiti, Valerie?"
She rolled her eyes. "It's kind of a long, boring story."
"Oh? Somehow that makes me think it's anything but."
"Trust me," she said, holding up a hand in protest.
"Now I'm really curious."
"Let's just say Haiti was...an unexpected detour." She dipped her head and bit her bottom lip. "I was supposed to be on my honeymoon this week."
He recoiled. That was the last thing he expected her to say. He wasn't sure how to respond. But a memory of his first glimpse of Valerie flashed through his mind--the sad woman in the seat across the aisle from him. It made sense now. "I...I'm sorry," he said finally.
"Oh, no. Please don't be. It wasn't exactly a joy going through it--the breakup, I mean--but I'm glad I'm here. It's definitely for the best." She shook her head, as though just realizing the truth of that statement herself. She cleared her throat.
"And what about you, Dr. Jordan? What brought you here?"
He hesitated. To his surprise, he realized that he wanted to tell her about Josh, to tell her things he'd never shared with anyone. He checked himself. He'd only known this woman for a few hours, and not exactly under circumstances that engendered intimate conversation. But there was something about this place that knocked life as he'd ever known it on its heels.
He was discovering so many things about himself--good things he'd never acknowledged, and unpleasant things he'd never faced. He had a disconcerting sense that something in his life was about to change drastically. It frightened him to his core. And yet somehow, at the same time it filled him with excitement.
Chapter Fourteen
Valerie felt the heat rise to her face. She couldn't believe she'd come so close to pouring out her whole pathetic story to Dr. Jordan. The man was practically a stranger. Still, he'd asked and she wanted to be honest.
Fortunately, she'd managed to deflect the question to him. Watching him now while their little procession walked along the side of the road toward Brizjanti, she thought he seemed as conflicted as she.
"What brought me here? Hmm..." Max raked a hand through his thick hair, an expression on his face that almost looked like distress.
"I...I didn't mean to pry, Dr. Jordan."
"Please, call me Max. And you're not prying. I'm just trying to decide...where to begin. Or maybe whether to begin."
She laughed softly. "And you think my story made you curious? Please, I'd like to know."
"What brought me here?" he said again. "To be honest, I'm not sure I know the answer to that question."
"Oh?"
He sighed and turned to her, as though he'd just made some historic decision. "My son was a doctor. He worked at Madame Duval's. Joshua died--" he seemed to choke on the word "--a year ago. He was a very happy young man. I guess...I wanted to know why."
Pastor Phil and Betty had mentioned the death of a young missionary doctor who'd been at Madame Duval's home. They'd lamented his loss, especially since the orphanages often shared missionary medical personnel and he had also treated the girls at Hope House. So Max Jordan was that doctor's father. Amazing.
She studied him. The few strands of gray peppering his temples were the only thing that convinced her Max could be old enough to have a son who was a doctor.
"Frankly..." He stopped, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow before looking up at her again. "I'm struggling with the fairness of someone as good as Joshua dying, while his old man is left to figure things out."
She was taken aback by the cynicism that chilled his voice. "I...I've heard it's especially hard to accept when a child dies before his parents." It felt like such a trite thing to say. "And have you discovered why your son was so happy?"
He grimaced and stared off into the distance. "I'm still working on that one. Actually, I suppose I'm still trying to figure out the purpose in his death."
"Oh, my. I can't imagine how hard that must be. Do you...have other children?"
"No. Joshua was my only son, my only child."
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I'm so sorry."
"It's funny...His mother seems to have dealt with it far better than I did. Strange, when for half of his life I only saw him for two weeks in the summer. His mother and I divorced when Josh was fourteen," he explained. "Janie has two young sons from her current marriage so I suppose that made it a bit easier for her to bear."
He apparently read the distress in her face because he shook his head and apologized. "I shouldn't have dumped all that on you."
Valerie didn't know what to say. Her heart went out to him, but she felt awkward and completely inadequate to know what to say to comfort him.
As if he'd read her mind, he said, "I'm not looking for words of consolation. Things are just the way they are. I'm only trying to answer your question." He gave her a lopsided, boyish grin. "Bet you're sorry you asked now, huh?"
With that grin, she felt a layer of the invisible wall between them crumble. "No, I'm not sorry," she said. "I'm glad you told me. What happened to me wasn't anything nearly as tragic as your loss--your losses," she amended, thinking of his failed marriage. "But I am finding healing here." Her gaze panned the dilapidated buildings and the evidence of poverty all around them. "It's amazing how my perspective has changed already...just seeing the struggles these people face every day of their lives."
They walked on for another mile or so comparing their impressions of Haitian culture, sharing their experiences at the orphanages during their first week in the country, and then reliving the close call they'd had at the market earlier.
Valerie looked at her watch. "I wonder how much farther it is."
"I think we're getting close," Max said, pointing to a low, flat-roofed structure in the distance. "I remember that building with the fancy cutwork in the cinder block."
"Oh, good. My feet are killing me."
"Mine, too." He was quiet for a few minutes, then spoke abruptly. "I know you're right--what you said earlier about your perspective being different here. But...I guess that still doesn't answer my question of why Josh found such happiness here. He was raised with every material thing he could possibly desire. Every opportunity was his for the asking. And yet it was here, surrounded by poverty that he seemed finally to find what he was looking for. I don't get it."
An edge of bitterness remained in his voice and Valerie suddenly realized its origin: Max Jordan didn't believe in God. What in the world could she say to this highly educated man--a man probably fifteen years her senior--that would have any meaning at all? How odd that she'd come to Haiti on a mission trip, and the first person she had an opportunity to share the Lord with happened to be an American. God surely had a sense of humor.
"What's so funny?"
She winced, realizing that a smile was tugging at the corners of her mouth. She leveled her gaze at him and sighed. What did she have to lose? "Can I ask you something?"
He looked leery, but he nodded.
"Do you believe in God?"
He shrugged one shoulder. "Sure. I mean, I guess the term God is relative, but I definitely think a power higher than you or I exists."
"But your son was here as a medical mi
ssionary, right?"
"Yes. He..." Max cleared his throat. "Joshua had some sort of...religious experience. Frankly, he kind of went off the deep end. He made some irrational decisions in the process. He gave up a very promising residency to come here. After spending thousands of dollars to get through medical school, he wasn't making one dime here! In fact, he was hitting up people for funds to support him while he was--" He stopped abruptly and looked at her, then dropped his head. "Don't tell me...You paid your way here the same way?"
She grinned. "No, I already had the airline ticket--to the Bahamas actually, but it wasn't much to transfer it. And I used the money we'd saved for our honeymoon to cover the rest of my expenses. But you're right. Most mission work is accomplished through donations. So many times the people who have the desire and the calling to go can't afford it, but there are many others who can't go themselves, but they do have the money to send someone else. I think it's a pretty good system, actually."
Max shook his head, mouth drawn into a thin line. "I guess I just don't understand the mentality. I was taught that you don't accept charity unless there is absolutely no other choice."
"But I don't see it as charity--at least not toward the missionary. It only makes sense that--"
"I'm sorry." He waved her words away. "I didn't mean to open a big can of worms. And I shouldn't criticize the choice of people who come here on donated funds. There's certainly plenty of work to do here." He shrugged. "I don't know...Why don't we talk about something else?" He looked up at the sun, squinting against its intensity. "Lovely weather we're having, don't you think?"
She laughed at his lighthearted tone and wiped a film of perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand. "If you want to know the truth, it's a tad warm for my taste."
"Can we not even agree on the weather?" He heaved a sigh of frustration, but his smile told her he was joking.
"Seriously, though," Valerie said, not wanting to slough off the subject. "I hope you understand what a gift your son was giving by coming to Haiti to work. It's terrible that he died. I admit I don't understand why God lets things like that happen, but your son's life was not wasted."
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