The Bitter Side of Sweet

by Tara Sullivan

“Well,” prompts Khadija, poking me in the side. “Aren’t you going to ask how?”

  I groan, eyes closed. Life was bad enough when I only had one kid to pester me.

  “Fine. How are you going to get us out of here quickly?”

  She smiles.

  “On the pisteur’s truck,” she says.

  My eyes crack open. She has my attention.

  “This has got to be the worst idea ever,” I hiss at Khadija from our hiding spot behind a big copse of trees. “Even worse than my ideas.”

  “Shush,” she says. “You’re just jealous you didn’t come up with it first.”

  I scowl and hold Seydou tighter against my side. He tries to push away, but I don’t let him. I am not jealous that I didn’t come up with this idea first: it’s madness. However, as we crouch here, too near the dusty track for comfort, I have to admit that there is a faint chance I might get jealous—if it works.

  There are a lot of ifs. If the pisteur stayed behind to help the bosses put out the fire for long enough that we’re still ahead of him, and if he doesn’t decide to spend the rest of the day at the farm, and if he hasn’t joined the search party, and if he doesn’t take some other trail we don’t know about, and if we don’t get caught or killed before he gets here, then maybe Khadija’s plan has a chance of working.

  When I hear the rumble of an engine in the distance, at first I can’t believe my ears. Then all my muscles tense. Seydou stops struggling. Khadija holds her breath.

  My eyes dart around the path in front of us. A large branch is blocking the road, as if it had fallen there. All of our footprints are carefully smoothed out. The leaves and bushes to the sides of the road have been carefully rearranged so that it doesn’t look like anyone has been through them. The noise gets louder. There’s no way he should be able to tell that we set up the roadblock, but even so, my heart hammers in my ears. I duck my head out of sight as the pisteur’s pickup truck rounds the bend. When it slows, I have to remind myself that this is what we wanted, this is what we planned.

  He’s not coming to find you, I repeat in my head, over and over again as I hear the truck slow to a stop a little ways past us. I hear the metallic creaking of the driver’s door opening. I hear him curse to himself as he surveys the branch.

  A shove on the side of my head makes me focus again. Khadija waves wildly, pointing at the road. Right. This is no time to get lost in daydreaming about what the driver’s doing.

  I peek around the side of the tree and see the pisteur grab one end of the branch to haul it out of his way. His blue shirt pulls across his huge chest as he does so. He’s even bigger up close. Focused on the task, he’s facing away from the road behind him. I grab Seydou by his good arm and grip my machete in the other, my hands suddenly sweaty. We scramble as quietly as we can through the bush, Khadija behind us.

  Carefully, we creep up the red dirt track to the back of the truck. I let go of Seydou long enough to make a platform with my hands for Khadija’s foot and boost her into the small space left on the floor of the truck between the tower of burlap sacks and the tailgate.

  Moussa won’t be pleased we couldn’t fill the truck all the way. The thought flits through me like a butterfly through a sunbeam—a flash, then gone.

  Khadija safely inside, I hand her my machete and then grab Seydou around the waist. As I do, I peek between the tires, and what I see makes my heart stop. The road ahead is already clear: the pisteur managed to move the branch in the few minutes we’ve already used and now the toes of his boots are walking to his open cab door. I only have a few seconds before he drives off and leaves us. Hurriedly, I boost Seydou as high as I can. Khadija grabs him under the armpits, looping her arms around his chest. He braces his bad arm away from her, moaning softly. Just as I hear the driver’s door close and the engine cough to life, I realize Seydou’s not strong enough to hoist himself up and Khadija’s not strong enough to pull him inside.

  Panic flashes over Khadija’s face, mirrored, I’m sure, by mine. I hear the groan of gears and scrabble at the truck, leaving Khadija to hold Seydou’s weight alone. The truck lurches forward. Khadija is straining with the effort of holding my brother off the road but I can’t help her. I’m gripping the top of the tailgate with only my fingertips, jogging behind the truck, trying to jump up and get a toehold on the bumperless back. I need to get in, but the track is bad, ruined by runoff, and each jostle of the truck over the rough piste threatens to knock me loose. The idea of losing my chance for freedom—and my brother—makes me try even harder. I gather every ounce of strength I have left in me and heave myself in. As soon as I land I whirl around to where Seydou is dangling, slapping against the tailgate with every bump. Luckily the pisteur’s truck is so old its motor is loud enough to cover his cries. I lean dangerously far out and link my arms under his armpits. Khadija lets go and worms from between us. I brace against the truck and lever Seydou in.

  Just then the truck hits a particularly bad pothole and lurches to the side, sending the three of us flying to land in a heap against the wall of burlap sacks protecting us from discovery.

  “Amadou?” Seydou gasps, his face pulled tight by the pain. “Ow, Amadou, ow!”

  I push myself into a sitting position and lift him off my chest so that he’s not lying on his arm anymore. I rub his back with my free hand.

  “Shh, Seydou. It’s okay.” I’m startled to realize that, for the first time in months, I may not actually be lying to him.

  “Why does it still hurt?” He sobs. His eyes, glazed with pain and fever, take in the unfamiliar setting. The small clear triangle of corrugated metal we’re sitting in. The sacks around him, the sun blazing down.

  “I don’t know,” I say, feeling my panic fade like the nighttime bush noises do at dawn. “But it’s going to be okay, Seydou. We’re getting out. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

  “Hurry,” says Seydou, head resting hot and sticky on my chest, crusty bandaged arm cradled protectively between us.

  Looking over his head, I see the rutted trail behind us being slowly swallowed by the bush. I lean against the sacks and feel a smile pulling at the sides of my mouth. I close my eyes and say, “Okay, now I’m jealous I didn’t come up with this first.”

  Beside me I hear Khadija laugh. And so we sit, battered and exhausted, propped together in the lurching truck as the pisteur unknowingly drives us to freedom.

  14

  I jolt awake, who knows how long later, when the pisteur rattles the truck over a dried riverbed. I can’t believe I fell asleep when I should have been measuring our distance from the farm and keeping watch. I shake my head and prop myself up so I can see out. The sun is on the other side of the sky and the shadows’ slope tells me it’s late afternoon and that we’re heading southeast.

  I know that we’re way past where Moussa or the other bosses would think to look for us. But now I have a new worry: the pisteur himself. Soon he’s either going to get to his destination or find somewhere to stop. He certainly isn’t going to drive forever through the bush after dark: he’ll need to eat and rest. I don’t know what lies in the Ivory Coast to the south of the farm where we were, but we’re moving fast in the wrong direction.

  For a moment I hesitate, then I shake Khadija awake.

  She bolts upright, slapping my arm away.

  “Take it easy,” I say. “It’s just me.”

  For a moment her eyes dart around and all her muscles strain against the thin blue fabric of her dress as she gathers herself to run. Then she takes a shaky breath.

  “Sorry.”

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  “Mun kéra?”

  “Well, don’t get upset, because I think your idea was a great one and this truck has worked really well for us so far, but I think we need to leave.”

  Khadija considers, staring out.

  “Now?”

  “So
on, at least. Before he stops and finds us. I mean, it’s really good that he’s taking us so far from camp, but we’re just going to have to retrace our steps to go north. The farther he takes us south, the more we’re going to have to walk to get to where we need to be. If the pisteur catches us, we’re done for. And if he pulls into a town to get something to eat or to spend the night, then we’re even more likely to be seen jumping out.”

  Idly, I rest my hand on Seydou’s head. Instantly, I forget about needing to get out of the truck. We have a bigger problem.

  “He’s burning up,” I gasp.

  Khadija puts her hand on his face, then leans away.

  Under both of our hands, his eyes open sluggishly, but he looks glazed.

  “If only we hadn’t lost the med kit,” Khadija mumbles helplessly. “Do you have any water left?”

  “Ayi. We drank all the water when we were on the trail.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the water bottle. Then, because it felt good to get rid of that, I empty out my other pocket as well.

  “Oh!” gasps Khadija. I tense and glance around, trying to find the danger.

  “What? Where?” But when I look at Khadija, she’s not scouting the woods. She’s holding up the two little bottles from the small box that was in my pocket.

  “The med kit!” she squeals. “You didn’t lose it!”

  “Woo hoo,” I say acidly. “It’s tiny. He’s missing an arm. I also have half a box of matches and a machete if you’re going to get so excited about the stuff I’m carrying.”

  Khadija makes a face, then shakes a pill from each of the two little orange bottles into her hand. She leans forward.

  “Here,” she says to Seydou. “Take these.”

  “What are they?” I ask as he pushes against me, recoiling from her.

  “One’s an antibiotic. The other one is something that should help with the fever and the pain. I don’t know if this is the right dose or even if they’re expired, but he can’t keep fighting off infection without a little help and it’s all we’ve got.” She turns to Seydou. “Come on, Seydou, open your mouth.”

  “Ayi!” His voice is hard to hear because he has buried his face in my shirt. I hold out my hand and Khadija puts the pills into it.

  “You’re sure this will help?” I ask her, over his head.

  She nods.

  I look at the little box with a new respect.

  “Should we give him more?”

  “No. You don’t take pills all at once—it could make things worse!”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. Then, curious, I ask, “How do you know so much about pills?”

  She looks away. “I want to be a doctor when I grow up,” she admits.

  I stare at her blankly. Big dreams for a girl. Bigger dreams than anyone I’ve ever known would dare to dream, boy or girl. I wonder again where exactly she came from to have dreams so big. Seydou pushes his head harder into my chest, reminding me why I’m holding pills in the first place.

  With my free hand I turn Seydou’s head so that he’s looking me in the face.

  “You need to eat these pills,” I tell him.

  His jaw sets stubbornly, but this time I’m not going to give in like I did about the sleeping hut door.

  “This isn’t a choice,” I say. “Take them.” It’s the same tone of voice I used when I would tell him how to cut pods in a way that wouldn’t hurt him. The one I used when I would tell him to take pods out of my sack so that I would get punished instead of him. Seydou’s eyes darken, but he opens his mouth. Even in the midst of a fever, he knows that tone too.

  I pop the two pills in. He gags a little, but swallows, then opens wide to show me they’re gone.

  “Happy?” he grumbles.

  I ignore his tone and look at Khadija.

  “Are we happy, doctor?”

  “Well, actually . . .” Khadija says, fingering the roll of gauze from the kit. “While we’re at it, we should change the bandage, don’t you think? That one that’s on there now is really dirty.”

  “Ayi!” Seydou pulls away from me, grabbing his elbow stump to his chest. “Leave me alone! This is all your fault anyway! I took your stupid pills, now just leave me alone.”

  Khadija looks as though he slapped her. Seydou’s face is contorted with pain and anger. Khadija leans forward, laying her hand on his knee. He pulls it away.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  “Sorry doesn’t bring my arm back!”

  “I know,” she whispers. “But I want you to know that I’m sorry anyway.” She takes a deep breath. “I didn’t know what it would be like here. I had no idea what they would do to you . . . to Amadou . . . to all of us when I ran. I never wanted anyone to get hurt, I only wanted to get away.” She gives him a watery smile. “I’m glad that, when I finally did, you got away too. But I am sorry.”

  I hold my breath and keep out of this conversation. Seydou stares at her. Then, finally, he mumbles, “I guess, whoever cut me, it’s really his fault.” He looks at me. “Do you know who did it, Amadou?”

  “Ayi,” I answer, truthfully, glad beyond measure that I never asked. “You didn’t see who it was?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” he admits. “I was talking to Yussuf, who was working behind me, and reaching around a tree in front of me at the same time. Then I just remember the pain and waking up back at the camp.”

  My happiness at finding out that Yussuf wasn’t responsible surprises me.

  “You’re very brave, Seydou,” Khadija whispers, “and very fair. I ni cé.”

  He glowers at her.

  “I’m still not happy with you for tricking me that first day and making Amadou get beaten. And I still don’t want you messing with my arm.”

  I’m kind of on his side for that one. Seydou’s shoulder and upper arm are thin, but wiry and strong from working in the fields. Then his elbow, scratched and scabby, but still there. And then nothing beyond that but a few centimeters of filthy bandage, peeling at the edges. I don’t want to take it off. The last thing I want to do is look at what’s left of Seydou’s arm.

  “Isn’t it good enough that it’s covered?” I ask, without much hope that she’ll agree.

  Khadija rolls her eyes. Then she turns to Seydou.

  “You probably don’t remember, but I was there the day your fever got so high you thought your eyes were being eaten by yellow spiders and you screamed for half an hour straight. The reason you got so sick from that first cut was that no one kept it clean. Do you want that to happen again?”

  I feel stupid once more.

  Seydou’s eyes dart between Khadija and me. His forgiveness of her is still awfully new and raw and he may not remember much about being sick, but he knows he almost died before. He’s not letting it out, but I can almost hear the fear screaming inside him as he remembers Moussa cutting off his arm.

  “Let’s get you better,” Khadija says softly, and touches his good side. This time he doesn’t pull away from her. Maybe he remembers more of his day with her than we thought.

  “Okay.” His voice is barely a whisper.

  Swallowing hard to fight the feeling of wanting to vomit, I look at Khadija again.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Khadija scoots over until she’s kneeling facing us.

  “Hold him.” She sighs. “Just in case.”

  I lock my arms around Seydou’s upper body, caging him against me. Khadija leans forward and picks at the edges of the bandage. Dirt and ash flake off and settle in his lap as she unwinds the gauze. Seydou turns his face into my chest and whimpers. The last layer of gauze lifts off and I’m left staring at the shiny stump where my brother’s arm should be.

  “Oh,” murmurs Khadija, “no stitches.”

  I look more closely. She’s right. The skin below his elbow is a tight, domed mound, sme
ared with something that looks and smells like papaya, but there are no stitches crossing it.

  “How—” I start.

  “He must have cauterized it.” She’s still mumbling, but then she sees the look I’m giving her and catches herself. “Um, Moussa must have used something to burn the wound shut. The flat side of a machete pulled out of the fire, maybe?”

  Seydou nods, not meeting our eyes.

  The image makes me sick. I can only imagine how much that must have hurt. Khadija is still talking.

  “. . . a good thing, really, because it’s kept the wound so clean under all that gauze. I really think it was the stitches before that caused it to fester.”

  I have trouble understanding her happiness. The skin is tight and angry and swollen and Seydou is arching against me, trying to be brave through the pain as his burned stump is exposed to the air. I have trouble thinking that anything about this is a good thing.

  Khadija lifts the bandage near her face and sniffs.

  “What is this?” she asks.

  “Papaya,” I say, glad to finally have something to say that Khadija doesn’t know. She looks quizzical. “Papaya or banana leaves. That’s what you use to wrap burns so that they don’t get too dry.” I point to the gauze she pulled off; dirt crusting the outside, blood and mashed fruit crusting the inside. “That way it doesn’t pull the skin off every time you change the dressing. That’s what we did at home anyway. Isn’t that what you’ll learn when you’re a doctor?”

  Khadija blinks.

  “I don’t know,” she says. She goes and looks into the little kit. “There’s nothing else in here,” she tells me, sounding disappointed.

  I shrug. It was too much to hope that box would solve all our problems. Khadija squints at the bandage we just took off.

  “Should we reuse some of the papaya?” she asks.

  “I guess. For now.”

  Gently, Khadija spreads a little of the mashed papaya over Seydou’s stump, and then uses some of the fresh gauze to wrap it again. He hisses with the pain, but doesn’t pull away.

  “Okay, I’m done,” she says softly to him once it’s wrapped. “That’s the best we can do for now.” She rubs his back. “You were really brave,” she whispers.