Dear Haiti, Love Alaine

by Maika Moulite

  With all these garbled ideas of colorism swirling in my mind, I’d sent Florence an email asking if she needed help with anything and tacked on the darkest fist emoji for good measure. Her response was sufficiently shady.

  From: Florence Jean-Pierre

  To: Alaine Beauparlant

  Subject: Re: Greetings from the Intern

  Hi Alaine,

  So happy you’re a part of the team but I’m good for now. I’ll be sure to reach out as soon as I think of something.

  FJP

  P.S. Professional tip! Work emails aren’t the best place to use smiley faces and the like. Thanks again!

  ANTOINE, CHIEF TECHNOLOGY OFFICER

  Antoine was apparently based in Palo Alto with the rest of the nerds (Tati Estelle’s words, not mine) and was in Haiti for meetings the day I started. He left soon after the Trifecta met up in my aunt’s corner office. I took the liberty of shooting him an email and never heard back.

  From: Alaine Beauparlant

  To: Antoine Rochelle

  Subject: Greetings from the Intern

  Hi Antoine,

  I’m Alaine, the new intern. I wanted to introduce myself virtually. I’ve just gotten set up with some of the accounts and I noticed an email from a Patron hoping to meet her Pal. What if we set up individual or group visits between our users? And maybe we could have virtual hangouts where we schedule times to get Pals without internet access to our offices? We could even go to them and make a trip of it! I’d love to get your feedback and look forward to working together.

  Best,

  Alaine Beauparlant

  PATRON PAL CONTACT US PAGE

  Questions? Comments? Suggestions?

  We’re open to them all and actively seek out ways to improve the PATRON PAL experience. Tell us how we can help you here:

  From: Beverly Ingraham

  Location: Plano, Texas

  To: @PP GENERAL QUESTIONS INBOX

  Hello—I’m following up on a request I made a month ago. I checked the FAQs but didn’t see anything so I figured I’d send this your way again. I’m sure you receive so many emails. My family and I love this app and my children even have their own Pal, Fabiola. Is there a way we can meet her in person? I think that would really drill home the importance of charity to them. Thanks.

  THIERRY, CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER

  The most noteworthy aspect of Thierry’s appearance was his rings. He wore two thick silver bands on each hand (pinkie, ring finger, duh) and a diamond ring on a chain around his beefy neck. I wondered if he was going for menacing, as well as tacky. Thierry was inaudible through the glass walls of his office, but I could clearly see the long, throbbing veins bulging out of his neck whenever he was particularly aggravated. I refused to get close enough to confirm for myself, but I suspected the murky, smeared clouds on the otherwise transparent cubicle had accumulated from the spittle spraying from his mouth as he stood up to survey the small office from behind the clear wall. He’d pace a few steps before stopping, legs spread in a power pose that would make Amy Cuddy proud. The way he shouted into the phone when discussing something as simple as probably a budget report made me think he wasn’t above striking the person on the other end of the receiver with a bejeweled backhand.

  “Thierry is a gentle giant,” Tati Estelle said when I asked about his...er...passionate outbursts. “He means well but isn’t afraid to get his point across.”

  I walked up to his office on my second day and took a deep breath before tapping firmly. He intimidated me, but I was the daughter of Celeste Beauparlant (who once went viral after grilling the country’s most prominent “men’s rights” advocates on her show during a contentious interview. “Men’s rights—It’s redundant, Jerry!” trended on Twitter for a full twenty-four hours and several Etsy shops popped up selling mugs and hats with lines like “You have a superfluity problem” and “Trust me, it’s you.” She later went on Late Night with Seth Meyers and he surprised her with a sweatshirt that read “Crawl back to your mother’s basement”). So I wasn’t going to let anyone stop me from doing my job—even if that job was just asking if I had one, and that answer was probably “no.”

  Thierry lounged with his legs crossed on the desk, his computer resting precariously beside his feet. He motioned for me to come in.

  “Hi there! I’m Alaine, the new intern. Do you need anything at the moment?”

  “Yeah...” My heart soared. “I’ll take one of those Cubanos at the truck.” It sank.

  Tati Estelle strolled by on her cell phone and gave us a thumbs-up.

  From Alaine Beauparlant

  To: Jason Williams

  Subject: I concede.

  Seems like I’ll take you up on that food truck offer after all.

  Alaine

  -----------Message-----------

  From: Jason Williams

  To: Alaine Beauparlant

  Subject: Re: I concede.

  Awesome! You’ll love it (either that or you’ll starve lol)

  JW

  Google Search History

  Jason Williams

  Jason Williams +Haiti

  Jason Williams +PATRON PAL

  Who is Jason Williams -football player -basketball player

  Is it cheesy to say “it’s a date”

  Food trucks in Haiti

  Dating in the workplace yay or nay

  Saturday, January 30

  POSTCARD FROM DAD TO ME

  Aly,

  Greetings from the NE 24th Street bodega! I was unaware that our neighbors down the street sold postcards but a prophet isn’t without honor except in his own town.

  I’m glad you’re having fun but I must say, dear, I briefly experienced angina when you called the eighties and nineties vintage. This sounds cliché, but that era seems like it was just yesterday. I don’t think you expected to have your paternal death awareness theory tested out so early.

  Love you (and of course I mean it),

  Dad

  P.S. Knowing you and your mother, you’ll be bonding faster than you think

  Monday, February 1

  From: Tatiana Hippolyte

  To: Alaine Beauparlant

  Subject: Re: Hey Girl!

  Hi Alaine,

  I got your postcard—my first time getting one! It was actually kind of cool. Anyway, I completely understand being busy. They must have you running around all over to meet family and see the sights. And I’m so jealous that you’re eating all that yummy food. Ugh! You should def try and bring me some goodies back from your trip. I want all the coconut-filled kassav that you can stuff in your suitcase! Please and thank you.

  So...um...I don’t know how to say this, but there are rumors that something’s happening with your mom. Is she okay? It might just be gossip but I wanted to check in and let you know that I’m thinking about you and hope everything is all right. I know that you’re on punishment, but if you’re able to sneak away for a quick call, email, text message, whatever—I’m here!

  Love ya,

  Tatiana

  Wednesday, February 3

  The Life and Times of Alaine Beauparlant

  Today was a good day. Until it wasn’t.

  “It’s important to stay intimately connected with our Pals,” Tati Estelle intoned in a meeting yesterday. The whole office was going to sign up new Pals at a village barbecue, and she’d invited Mom to join us and “get out of that old house.” My research on the best way to approach life with someone with Alzheimer’s was never ending. I read a blog series from a woman who would wake up at 5:00 a.m. to go running with her mother because she knew how much she loved it. The running shifted to walking, and then they eventually stopped once her mother’s body couldn’t take the strain on her muscles. That was a surprise to me. I’d always imag
ined Alzheimer’s to be a curse reserved strictly for the mind. I spent so little time with my own mom that I wasn’t sure what she would want me to wake her up at five in the morning to do. Luckily, she got up that morning on her own with a mission, which was making breakfast.

  Mom. Threw. Down. French toast with fried eggs, loaded with tomatoes, chives, and onions. I’m not sure it’s possible for Haitians to eat if there isn’t a side of plantains with every meal, so she boiled a couple of those too.

  Any fears of awkward silences were unfounded. Mom and Tati Estelle took turns sharing stories of growing up. Mom and Tati Estelle at fifteen stealing the neighbor’s cat Mimi as payback for telling their parents how late they had stayed out one Friday night. Mom and Tati Estelle stealing their mother’s convertible that same Friday their parents were away. Mom and Tati Estelle forced to undergo pinisyon and locked in their rooms for a month. I was impressed.

  “Roseline had to sneak us books so we didn’t go crazy,” my mom said.

  “Who’s Roseline?” I asked curiously. The air shifted in the room.

  “She was our restavek,” Tati Estelle said quickly. “A house girl. She stayed with us.”

  “Why?”

  She just shrugged. Her eyes begged me to say no more. Our easy conversation sputtered to a stop at the mention of Roseline, whoever she was. But before that, I watched in fascination as my mother and aunt teased each other and finished each other’s sentences.

  Mom rarely visited Haiti and Tati Estelle was living her own life, giving Haiti’s image a face-lift, so she didn’t fly out to DC much. Yet they’d fallen into the rhythm that comes so easily for twins. I loved how close Dad and I were (“The dos amigos,” he liked to joke) and I wasn’t obsessed with the idea of having another sibling...but growing up, I would sometimes imagine having a built-in friend on retainer, ready to spend time with me on the days he would work late. I wondered how Tati Estelle felt, knowing that there would come a time when their twin-tuition would no longer be the same, a day when she would look into the mirror that was her sister’s face and not recognize the person who stared back at her.

  “Tell her the story of when you first met Andres,” my mom said between sips of orange juice.

  “That was such a long time ago,” my aunt said quietly.

  I glanced uneasily between Tati Estelle and my mom. I didn’t know much about how their paths crossed with Senator Venegas when they were younger. And while I was curious, I could tell my mother was not thinking of the last time she had interacted with him.

  “Come on. It’s hilarious!” Mom pressed.

  “All right, all right.” My aunt cleared her throat. “Once upon a time—”

  “No! You’re saying it wrong.”

  “Dammit. I must’ve forgotten. Oh well, we’ve got to get going.”

  I gathered the plates and cups and moved to the sink, where I turned on the faucet to rinse them off before scrubbing.

  “Bon Dieu!” Mom said.

  I nearly dropped a plate.

  “What is it?”

  She wordlessly lifted up a watch from the refrigerator and slipped it on.

  “I thought I lost this forever ago and it’s been here this whole time. At least it still works.”

  I smiled tightly and turned to my washing.

  * * *

  I’m not sure how long the ride to Limbé was, but I thought I would never get out of that car. Fernand drove like he was auditioning for Fast & Furious 14: Haitian Cliff. He would’ve gotten the lead. “Ti Ameriken,” he said when I yelped at a particularly sharp right turn. “This is nothing compared to how the rest of the country drives.” I was never one to be carsick, but I kept my mouth firmly shut in case the plantains made their way back up. I reckoned my nausea here surpassed any of the discomfort my dad had claimed to have when he taught me how to drive two years ago. The road to the northern village we were visiting was a winding one with sections loosely blockaded from a steep ledge by wooden stakes. I obsessively inspected the gravel and dirt roads we sped on until I noticed the thick spikes were gone. I groaned. One overshot turn and we would tumble to a bloody death on the jagged rocks resting below. I shut my eyes to avoid them looking up at us.

  We made it to our destination, technically in one piece. PATRON PAL was adopting a new school into its program. L’Institution de St. Dominique LaCroix taught boys and girls in École Première, which would be the Haitian equivalent of grade school.

  “The vast majority of schools in Haiti are private,” Tati Estelle said, getting out of the car. “A solid ninety percent.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She sucked her teeth. “Why do you think?”

  “Money,” my mom and I said together. She winked at me.

  The company had chosen this school because it was one of the few public ones in the area, and in the second most important northern region after Au Cap. The private schools taught mainly in French because of the stigma of teaching Haitian Creole in the classroom. French had been Haiti’s official language for decades before Creole gained the same status. The fact remained that French was the language of the elite and some people used it to segregate themselves from the bulk of Haitians who couldn’t speak it. “Li pale franse” (s/he speaks French) was a favorite saying my dad would use when complaining about a colleague of his being deceitful. That was my cue to remind him that he also spoke it.

  “Alaine, there’s Jason. Go check in with him,” Tati Estelle said, pointing to where he stood in front of a table lined with name tags. “Your mom and I are going to make the rounds.”

  I thought we’d be early, but the front yard of the building was already bustling with activity. Clusters of children ran around in their blue uniforms, shrieking excitedly, playing a game that only they knew the rules of. Another group looked on enviously as its members waited in line to take their Pal portrait. The PATRON PAL team stood at various posts, manning the grill and tables with snacks and even small carnival games. The parents of these children must have dropped them off and gone on their way.

  Mom pursed her lips. “I could’ve stayed in DC if I wanted to endure insufferable schmoozing.”

  “Yes, well, pretend that you’re in DC, then,” Tati Estelle said with a wry smile.

  I left my mom and aunt to bicker among themselves and made my way over to where Jason stood shuffling the cards.

  “Need any help?”

  He looked up and smiled. My stomach squirmed.

  “Actually...yes. Could you get me a taco from—”

  I gave him a playful shove. “Ha ha.”

  “But seriously, I’ll take any assistance I can get right now,” he said. “I had one job. One. Staple the pictures of the kids to their intro bios so they can be transferred into the system later.”

  “And?”

  He sighed. “And I mixed them all up. Thierry took the pictures and Florence asked the questions.”

  We turned to where Thierry, clad in a ribbed tank and vest, was taking pictures of the remaining children. His rings flashed as much as any camera could. Florence stood beside him in a wide-brimmed straw hat to block out the harsh sun.

  “Stay still,” he barked to the child seated to be photographed.

  I slid half of the cards on the table into my hand and looked down at the top name-tag bio.

  “I take it the kids already interviewed are the ones currently terrorizing each other until their parents return for them?”

  “Yep.”

  “Let’s do this.”

  “You’re a lifesaver.”

  We fell into a comfortable silence as Jason picked the first card, CLEMENCE I., 8.

  “Hmm...let’s try that one,” I said.

  “The girl with the glasses?”

  I walked over and plopped myself beside the little girl sitting on a bench alone with a book. The tattered yellow-a
nd-brown cover was partly obstructed by her hand, but I saw DERLAND and took a guess.

  “I love that story,” I said.

  She looked at me uncertainly. “Alice?”

  “Alice was one of my favorite people growing up.”

  “That’s my sister’s name. Men avèk yon y pa yon i.”

  “I think I like that spelling more,” I replied in Creole. “Do you want to be a writer when you grow up?”

  “Yes,” she said shyly.

  “Ahh. Then you must be Clemence.” She nodded. Jason sifted through the small stack of snapshots he pulled from his pocket and stapled her picture to the index card that read:

  * * *

  PAL NAME:

  Clemence I.

  AGE:

  8

  LOCATION:

  Limbé, Haiti

  FUTURE ASPIRATIONS:

  I want to write stories.

  A LITTLE ABOUT YOUR PAL:

  Alyce is my little sister. She is 4. I like reading and writing.

  * * *

  “Merci, Clemence. Keep reading, it gets wild,” I said.

  Jason whistled as we set out to find NELSON V., 7. “Impressive. Are you, like, a child whisperer?”

  I laughed. “No. Just observant. She reminded me of myself.”

  “You’re not a timid bespectacled girl.”

  “No, but I do know a book nerd when I see one.”

  “Nice. Do you want to be a writer too?”

  “Yeah...a reporter. Having Celeste Beauparlant as a mother definitely complicates things though.”

  “I’m sure you’re an amazing writer.”

  “You don’t know that,” I said, suppressing a smile as I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “I mean, I am but there’s nothing that suggests to you that that’s true. I’m really more concerned with whether I want to live in her shadow by stepping onto her turf.”