The officer pulled out a plastic bag with the wad of hundred-dollar bills inside. “Obviously, this isn’t nothing!” he yelled.
Pastor Joe looked at the ground. The police officer looked over at me. “Who is that?” he asked, pointing to the child on my lap.
“Gabriel,” said Pastor Joe.
“Gabriel who?”
Pastor Joe looked at me, puzzled. I returned his stare, equally confused, and then I felt a quick flash of anger. You don’t know his last name. You were about to sell me a child from your orphanage, and you don’t even know his last name. Sick.
The officer walked out, and more police arrived, some of their faces familiar. At last, I thought, and breathed deep. The new group of police officers began to argue loudly with the officers at the station, wondering why Pastor Joe and I were being questioned in the same room. I had seen enough television shows to know that wasn’t exactly the correct procedure. The next thing I knew, Gabriel and I were being whisked away to another room. My possessions were returned to me in a plastic bag, and, relieved, I thought my time was over as they led me down a hallway and sat me in a chair outside the common holding cell, full of people. I tried not to turn around because I didn’t want to see the hands sticking out between the bars. The gray walls were greasy, and the stench from inside was revolting.
The men inside were directing comments my way. “I haven’t seen my family in three days,” said one. “They don’t know where I am.”
“I’ve been in here for nine days, and they haven’t even told me why,” said another man. On and on it went, the desperate men inside the locked cell, trying to plead their cases to the back of my head. My heart hurt, thinking about the injustices locked up in that tiny, dark, five-by-five-foot space.
Finally I couldn’t take it any longer and grabbed some granola bars from my purse to silence their pleas. “I’m so sorry. I really can’t help right now,” I whispered in Creole, holding out the granola bars. As the hands frantically grabbed at mine, the police officer sitting at his desk down the hall realized that spot was probably not the best place for Gabriel and me to sit. He walked over, and after I stood, he picked up the chair and moved me to a corner away from the holding cell.
We sat and waited. Minutes turned into hours, and Gabriel fell asleep on my shoulder. I waited, smelling the men in the holding cell and listening to their occasional listless comments. Finally an officer yelled at me to follow. I got up from my chair with a now very grouchy and exhausted two-year-old and was led down the hall and out a door to another car. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the orphanage,” someone shouted from behind.
“What? Why are we going to the orphanage?” I asked, but no one listened, and we were hustled into the car. A man hopped in the front seat, and we zoomed away at the head of a caravan of cars. When the line of cars pulled up in front of the orphanage, I was one of the first out of the car. Approaching the gate, I thought I heard something strange. Is that . . . music?
A group of people followed behind me. Suddenly someone bulldozed his way to the front. My mouth literally dropped open as I saw Pastor Joe approaching. I was told I wouldn’t have to see him again, and here he was, pushing his way through people to open the gate of the orphanage. He looked exhausted and angry. He furiously swung the gate open, and the officers and I followed him down the dark, narrow concrete hallway. I do hear music. And . . . cheering?
I was completely confused when we emerged into the back courtyard to the sounds of children yelling and cheering. “My father’s coming! My father’s coming!” their voices rang out. I’d never heard anything like that on any of my visits.
I looked around in complete disbelief. Balloons and streamers filled the dusty courtyard. Benches and chairs I’d never seen before were lined up around the edges. It was a surreal moment, and I looked around at the orphanage kids playing card games, playing bingo, and coloring with crayons. They were wearing newer, nicer clothes. The kids I’d seen with burns on their arms and legs wore long-sleeved shirts and pants to cover up their scars. The children with fungal infections on their scalps were wearing hooded sweatshirts.
I just stood, looking around for a few minutes and then, pinched myself, literally, thinking it was a bad, sick dream. I had visited this place dozens and dozens of times and had never seen anything like this before, even when American teams had been visiting.
Investigators came in and questioned the workers, once again not separating anyone. “Do the children eat? Do they like it here? Are they beaten?”
The answers were the same, sounding carefully rehearsed. “Yes, they eat. No, they are not beaten. Yes, they love their father, Pastor Joe.”
Then they questioned the children while the workers watched their responses like hawks.
I felt sick.
My eyes landed on one sweet little girl named Sarah. I had cleaned her wounds so many times, and now she looked up at me, her eyes hollow and defeated. “Hi,” I whispered. She half smiled, then turned her eyes away quickly.
Investigators and official observers were milling around, and I overheard them remarking on how sweet and nice the orphanage was. I couldn’t take it any longer and stormed out, full of confusion and anger at how the sting was turning out. I could feel the acid coming up my throat and couldn’t hold it back anymore. It felt as though evil was winning. I made it just outside the gate, put Gabriel down on the ground, and began vomiting.
What happened? What went wrong? I wondered. How many of these people understand what is happening here? Do they want to cover up the abuse and the darkness of this orphanage? I could not understand it.
I remembered previously, during a few of our large meetings, receiving texts from some of the lead investigators that showed their suspicion of corruption. I would open the text in the midst of a meeting about Son of God and read, “The man in the yellow shirt on your left is part of it.” Or “The man on the right in the blue shirt is trying to cover up his role in this scam.” I had known there was corruption, but I honestly didn’t think that we’d go this far and hit a wall.
Now I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I couldn’t go back inside, so I decided to wait by the car. Then I saw him—one of the head investigators. Afraid of what I had just seen but still somehow bold, I walked right up to him and began telling him the truth. “This orphanage has never looked like this before. Someone obviously knew we were coming.”
“Well, we took away Pastor Joe’s phone,” he replied confidently.
I said it again, my certainty growing. “They knew we were coming. This place has never looked like this.”
Something in my voice seemed to get through to him, and he looked as if he actually believed me. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Not only am I sure; I am positive. I have many people who will tell you the same thing!”
The investigator turned away and made a few phone calls. Suddenly police officers, investigators, and officials began pouring out of the gate and piling into the cars to head back to the police station. I let out a deep breath, got into the car with Gabriel, and wondered what was going to happen next. So far, almost nothing was going as we had planned.
Within minutes of arriving back at the police station, someone walked up to me, said, “Thank you so much,” and began pulling at Gabriel, trying to take him away from me.
“What are you doing?” I was exhausted, confused, scared, and angry, and now this.
“The boy has to come with us now,” the voice said, trying to lift Gabriel up and out of my arms. I instinctively tightened my grip and backed away. Gabriel began to whimper and wail, then quickly launched into full-blown screams.
“He needs to go with us so we can do our paperwork,” a man said coldly, and then without any hesitation, reached over and violently ripped Gabriel out of my arms. I watched as Gabriel’s eyes filled with fear and his screams intensified.
Someone opened a car door, and the man holding Gabriel put him in the backseat, shut the door, a
nd went back inside the police station. Tears were streaming down my face as I stood there, waiting for someone to notice and to help. But there was no one. Gabriel was banging on the window at the glass separating us, still screaming.
I was considering opening the door and grabbing him out of the car to take him back when the man came back outside—shouting over Gabriel’s cries and my pleas. “We need to take him,” he said again harshly.
I melted. My courage and calm and peace and trust were all gone. My legs gave out, and I fell to my knees as the car pulled away with Gabriel. Some of the observers who’d been part of planning the sting came to me and lifted me up off the ground. Someone brought around a car to take me home, and as I got inside, I began to cry and scream, too, about how I would never see Gabriel again because I knew the corrupt officials were going to hide him from me.
The driver looked back at me and said quietly, “You will see him in five or six days. He will be okay.” But I knew he was lying, and my heart exploded in sorrow and anguish. I sobbed all the way home.
I dragged myself into my house, completely exhausted emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I collapsed in bed, with Micha curled up next to me, crying myself to sleep with my Bible in my arms. I could not believe what had just happened. It had been the longest and most heart-wrenching fourteen hours of my life.
It seemed like the end of everything. Nothing had gone according to plan. I’d been so afraid Pastor Joe would figure out who was behind the sting operation and that he would attack or even kill me, but nothing like that had happened. Instead, the attack came when I thought everything was over and we were safe. But we weren’t safe. Gabriel wasn’t safe. Now he was gone, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. But I knew I could never return to the orphanage.
The next day I got word that Pastor Joe had officially been arrested and was awaiting sentencing. But because the charade of nicely dressed children happily playing in a decorated courtyard had worked, the orphanage was going to stay open for business. Pastor Joe’s wife would be running it while he was in jail.
I felt sick to my stomach, and I knew the sting had not ended anything. Instead, it highlighted the undeniable corruption and confusion that revolves around child rights in Haiti. I knew that this was only the beginning of bringing the darkness to the light. I wasn’t going to let evil win.
FOURTEEN
Deux Enfants
However motherhood comes to you, it’s a miracle.
—Valerie Harper
Just days after the sting operation, I watched Micha close her eyes one night as her body relaxed snug in her bed, and she began to drift off to sleep. Her eyes popped open one last time, and she looked at me as she cuddled her pillow. I smiled at my precious daughter who had been living with me for barely a month. She smiled back, half asleep, and murmured, “Look, there’s room in my bed for another child.”
I stroked her soft cheek, laughed off her comment, and said, “Time to get some sleep, Micha.” But as I walked out of the darkened room, I felt a quick, deep pang, as if something important was missing.
A few minutes later I was relaxing outside in the backyard for a rare moment of quiet. I gazed at the Haitian night sky, so bright with stars. I smiled as I thought of Micha safely asleep in a soft, comfortable bed. For most of her life she’d been forced to sleep on a cardboard box under the kitchen table and, sometimes, even on the ground outside the blue tent.
Then her words came back to me. It was probably just an impulsive thought from a sweet, little seven-year-old girl, but I kept thinking about her words and couldn’t seem to let them go. Maybe there was something more to what she had said.
I hopped up and went back inside the house. I pulled open the drawer where I kept Micha’s paperwork. I had to look at her custody papers again. I unfolded a torn-up piece of loose-leaf paper and sat down to look. I started sweating, anxious and afraid for some reason. Again and again in my head I replayed the day I had received the death certificate for Michaëlle’s birth mother.
The day I received custody of Micha, I’d been given the paper and immediately put it away for safekeeping. It had seemed so fragile, as if it might dissolve right there in my hands. I had never read it because it was in French, the language of the courts and the government in Haiti. I had taken a little French in high school but didn’t remember enough to translate what the paper said. I had honestly never really thought about actually trying to read what it said.
But now I felt compelled to decipher it the best I could. Struggling over the faded letters, I tried to sound out the words using my French dictionary. I sighed. Why, oh why, didn’t I pay attention in French class? I sighed again, still sweating and feeling anxious. Then one sentence jumped off the paper and into my mind: “. . . Elle mort dans le presence de son mari avec deux enfants.”
I knew enfants meant children, and deux was two. After consulting my dictionary for the rest of the words, I spliced together the whole sentence. “. . . She died in the presence of her husband and two children.”
Wait. Two children? Two. Two?!
My emotions, already stirred up, were now supercharged, and a million questions flooded my mind. Micha has a brother or a sister? Where is he or she? What happened? When were they separated? Why hasn’t she talked about this before?
Sleep was impossible that night. I tossed and turned with the excitement and the fear I had about Micha having a sister or brother. One question in particular haunted me. Is she or he still alive?
The next morning the same tumultuous feelings and questions woke up with me. I prayed about what to say to Micha, and I knew my heart wouldn’t let me wait. Within minutes she was awake too. In the most calm and gentle way I could muster, I looked at Micha and asked, “Do you have a brother or a sister?”
Her eyes squinted a bit as if she was trying to awaken something from deep in her memory. I held my breath while she turned her head from side to side, looking around with eyes unseeing and still not saying anything. I held my breath and waited. Finally she answered.
“I think so,” she said slowly, looking up at me with wide eyes.
My heart leapt out of my chest. I asked her a few more questions, to see how sure she was, and got much of the same uncertain response.
I had kept Michaëlle’s biological father’s phone number, so I decided the next step was to call and ask him directly. I had to. I felt like I was holding my breath again while the phone rang. He answered the phone, and I asked, “Does Michaëlle have a brother or sister?”
“Wi. Yon ti sè.”
A little sister!
I knew the question I wanted to ask next, but I was afraid, my heart beating like crazy. I wasn’t sure where this would lead. I finally forced out the words in a rush.
“Do you know where Michaëlle’s sister is?”
He hesitated too. Then rambled, “I don’t know where she is, but I can try to find out.”
My words flew out faster than I could push them back in. “Please find her so she can come here and grow up with her sister.”
He agreed, and while I heard excitement in his voice, he said he didn’t know for sure where she was living. We hung up, and I tried to swallow back the tears. My head and heart have always fought this internal battle regarding adoption. From the very first time I learned Michaëlle’s story, I had a strong desire to help her escape the abusive situation she was in and then reunite her with her father. But that naïve fantasy changed when Micha stated bluntly that her dad had visited her several times and she had begged him to rescue her from the abuse. He listened to her pleas but had always gone away, leaving her there.
Michaëlle’s story had engraved itself on my heart as God started chiseling away my closed-minded stance that children with living biological parents should not be adopted. The more I’d prayed about this, the more God had given me peace, and I heard Him saying, She tried to tell her father, Megan. You’ve tried to explain her situation to him too. This child, Megan, is now your daughter.
In my heart of hearts, I knew her biological father could not give Michaëlle what she needed—food, safety, a chance to go to school. It broke me, but I understood that was why God brought us together that first day near the tree on Bellevue Mountain.
For the next month I waited and prayed for the calmness and the patience to let God do His work. I also prayed God would help Micha’s biological father find her sister and a way to get her to our house safely. God answered those prayers by protecting my heart, and Micha’s heart; so much so that though it took weeks, it seemed like only days when I received a call from Bernard. I barely had the chance to say Bonjou before Bernard rattled off something about how a little girl who looked so much like Micha was sitting on my front porch. Micha and I were running an errand. I looked over at her sitting next to me in the car and smiled, barely keeping back the tears, as I said, “Your sister is at our house.”
She sat up in her seat and smiled. “Are we going home?”
“Of course!” I looked at her, her back rigid with excitement.
We rode back in silence, though anticipation was rushing through my veins. When we arrived home, Bernard swung the gate wide open with a huge smile. Micha ran ahead of me and I followed, pausing on the stairs while she bounded up onto the porch.
“Jessica!” she shouted in joy, squatting down and wrapping her arms around a tiny girl sitting on the porch, her legs stretched out in front of her.
“Michaëlle!” the little girl yelped back.
No words can explain the moment of their reunion. Trying to describe it here can hardly do it justice. I will never know how many years or months had passed since they had seen each other. And I will never know their full story.
In the corner sat their father. He smiled, but I’m not sure he could even begin to understand the miracle that had just happened.
I climbed the stairs and sat down on the porch next to Jessica. She backed away from me, fear in her eyes. Her white dress edged in blue lace was several sizes too small, and her toes hung off the ends of her dirty white sandals. I started talking to her quietly, telling her my name as tears squeezed out of her eyes.
Miracle on Voodoo Mountain Page 10
