woman dressed in white emerged from the bottom of the spring and rose to a standing position; a colorful arc of light reflected above her.
I awoke from the dream drenched in sweat, thinking that I had been the woman in white. I quickly dismissed the thought. How could it have been me when I was the one looking into the water?
Mom placed her book on her lap, peered at me, and quietly asked, “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
“You were asleep for less than an hour. What happened?” Dad asked.
“I don’t know. I’m all wet.”
“But it’s not hot in here,” Mom said.
Afraid they might take me to some other Dr. Connelly, I said nothing about the dream that left me with fear, yet coupled with serenity. It seemed odd that I would have those unusual dreams when I thought about my mother. It occurred to me that it was time to find out why I was with the Winstons.
Questions I had forced myself to dismiss suddenly began to haunt me.
“Why did my birth mother give me up?” I asked, pulling the cover up to my neck.
“There is no limit to a mother’s sacrifice to protect her child,” Dad said.
“Why did you adopt me?”
Mom abruptly sat up, her kind eyes focused on me as she spoke. Her eyes were wet with sadness and nostalgia, or maybe it was joy. I don’t know.
Chapter 4
What we call our future is the shadow
that our past throws in front of us.
—Marcel Proust
Inspired by the American scholar Melville Herskovits, who wrote Life in a Haitian Valley, Margaret decided to study traditional Haitian beliefs. To help her with her field research, Latham wrote to his friend on her behalf. When Margaret, her husband, and Latham arrived in Haiti, Brahami, Latham’s friend, took them on short trips to nearby villages, mostly to Kenscoff and Furcy, where his family had properties. But Margaret soon faced the difficulty of finding peasants who were willing to contribute to the study. People were reluctant to talk to strangers because their comments could be misinterpreted and could be the cause of trouble with the authorities. The air was infected with fear.
Brahami and his guests were talking after dinner one evening, when Margaret expressed her disappointment. Granted, her husband had enriched his collection of paintings with primitive, abstract, and religious art that were expressions of the Haitian soul, but she hadn’t even begun her fieldwork. “I really need to meet peasants with traditional lifestyles,” Margaret insisted. “I’ve been here a week, and still there are no prospects.”
Brahami remembered a family that might be of help to Latham’s friend. “They don’t live close by and the roads are bad,” he said. “Besides, you won’t have any comforts there.”
“That’s no problem,” Margaret reassured Brahami. “Doing fieldwork means eating anything and sleeping anywhere.”
“I’ll drive you there early tomorrow morning. But I’m not sure how easy it will be for you to communicate with them.”
Margaret seemed worried. “Do they only speak Creole?”
“Someone there speaks French; not the most fluent French, but you’ll be able to communicate somewhat.”
* * *
Days later, Margaret and Hagathe sat under the shade of a mango tree, enjoying the afternoon breeze and the smell of ripe fruit. Margaret, who was anxious to move her research forward, asked Hagathe if she believed in vaudou.
Hagathe looked away. “We’re Catholics. We believe in God, our Granmèt.”
“Does being a Catholic mean a person cannot believe in vaudou?” Margaret asked, frowning, the thought of syncretism in the back of her mind.
“I don’t know, Madan Winston,” Hagathe replied and looked away again.
Margaret stared at the three-foot wooden cross in the yard and the bottle wrapped in black cloth that leaned against it. She would have to be patient, she thought.
Later that day, Margaret began another conversation with Hagathe, still hopeful to engage in talks about vaudou.
Not far away from where they sat, the son of one of Hagathe’s cousins held an old pot upside down between his legs and rhythmically beat on it with sticks. His younger brother, also holding a stick, beat on a bottle to the same rhythm. Young Iris danced. Margaret watched, and then turned to Hagathe. “Your daughter is a natural dancer,” she said.
Hagathe smiled faintly. “She’s a good child.”
“If you ever want her to visit the United States, she can always stay with us. My daughter Cynthia would enjoy her company.”
“That would be nice,” Hagathe said, “but I will never be able to come up with that kind of money.”
“Don’t worry. We can arrange that.”
“How many children do you have?” Hagathe asked, after a brief silence.
“I can’t have children. I adopted Cynthia when she was six weeks old,” Margaret said, as she applied lotion on her bare arms to protect her pale skin from the Caribbean sun.
“Does she know she’s adopted?”
“Of course,” Margaret replied. “We’re thinking about adopting another child soon.”
“You really like children?” The question sounded more like an observation.
“I do. I didn’t give birth to Cynthia, but I’m totally devoted to her.” Margaret spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “There’s the argument about heredity and environment. In some cases, heredity is more important, but it’s not always true,” she proffered.
“I don’t know what those words mean.”
“Let’s see.” Margaret paused. “Heredity refers to genes passed down through family lineage; environment implies conditions that surround a person.”
Hagathe nodded, but Margaret thought she looked as confused as before.
“I worry so much about my daughter,” Hagathe suddenly said. “I can’t sleep at night. Sometimes I walk around like a zombie, worrying about what might happen to her.”
“Why?”
