Nobody knows where I am. Nobody really cares either- it’s still daylight. How far away could I get anyway, elementary school age caregiver to my cousin, not even a year old? As long as I stay in town, everything is fine. But I want to get out of the house. Fourteen people are living there, with barely any food, no clean water, and a mother who can’t take care of us anymore. She’s been sick for over a year now. And whatever it is that she’s got, I don’t think you can fix it.

I wander around the neighborhood until I get to the place where the missionaries live. The girls, a few years older than me, come outside and greet me- along with their little brother. Their Spanish is garbled and slow, but I can usually understand what they’re trying to say. Their short, simple sentences have improved since I first met them. Before, they pointed and used their hands to talk more than they used their mouths.

They ask “how are you” and I shrug. I tell them I’m okay. My cousin wiggles around in my arms. “He still isn’t named yet?” they ask, probably hoping that they can call him something besides “baby” soon. I tell them no, but that we’re thinking of something to call him. Truly, it’s just easier to wait for naming until they’re a little older. Then it’s usually safe to stop worrying about if something is going to happen to them or not. The younger sister, the one with the thick, wavy hair, goes and gets the baby an orange to suck on. They never ask if we’re hungry. They just seem to know, and they feed us.

I reach out and touch the older girl’s hair. Much longer than mine, and a much lighter color, I just can’t help myself. She smiles. I wonder briefly if she would tell me to stop, if she thought I would understand. But I don’t think so. I tell her how pretty it is. She tries to tell me how she loves my straight black hair. I laugh. I say “everyone who lives here has black hair.” She says she knows, but that light hair makes her different. She seems sad now, and I don’t understand. There are worse things to think about than whether or not you like your hair. Lots of things are worse than that.

As we finish drinking lemonade on their porch, the air is empty, but the younger girl fills it with excitement quickly, like always. “Let’s go play soccer,” she says. “And the baby?” I hear the other ask in English. At least, I think that’s what she says, because they stay sitting down. Of course I have to watch him, but sometimes they forget. They only have one brother, after all, no cousins or extended family living with them.

They are different, but still good. Sometimes all they do is talk about Jesus. I used to think it was because they thought I didn’t know about him. I know Christmas and Easter, and that’s all there is to know. But now I realize they talk about Jesus even between each other. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.

They take my cousin just inside the doorway and let him play with some blocks. I hear my name. I look up. I was lost in thought for a minute. “Oh,” I say. “Sorry. I forgot I have to go into the village and buy something for my mom.” They nod, so they must understand. I get up and pick up my cousin. Their mother comes outside and asks how my family is, specifically my own mom. “She’s not doing so great. She’s not getting any better.” I take a deep breath. “She will though.” I try to smile.

A baby in my arms and a quarter in my pocket, I walk down the road, still thinking about what makes them different. White skin, light eyes, and maybe even Jesus.

I love church. I really do. I just hate speaking in public.

So. Just picture me biting my nails off in despair, frustration, and, ultimately, fear. And looking so scared that I might throw up. And sliding my feet in and out and in and out of my highly uncomfortable, even painful, “church shoes.”

“Madeline?”

Panic sets in. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I just can’t do it.

“Madeline,”

No! I can’t!

“Madeline.”

Deep breath. And somehow, it just happens. I’m getting up, and I’m walking towards the stage. Up the dreaded carpeted stairs. And now I’m standing behind the wooden podium. I’m handed the microphone. Which almost slips out of my sweaty palms. And then I open my mouth.

“Um…” I look down. Uh-oh.

No! No, no, no, no! I can’t be! My shoes! Where are they? Am I really standing in front of everyone in my stockings?! This is not how I die! Is it? Is it?!

“Um,” I look back up. Bzillions and bzillions of people are staring right at me. Really. I’m not exaggerating. The last thing I would ever do is exaggerate. Especially when I’m nervous.

“Um!” And that’s it. That’s when it happens. I look straight up, take a deep breath, picture myself screaming, “I volunteer for tribute!” and say,

“Well, like they said: we have Girls’ Bible Study every Tuesday night at 6:00. We have anywhere from four to twelve kids show up, but a total of fifteen girls have come to the program. Two of the girls are Christian, three of them are Catholic, and the rest of them claim no religion at all. We look at an English lesson, learn the words to some contemporary Christian music, and Abigail makes snacks and stuff for us to eat. Then we read out of the Bible, talk about what the passage means, and sometimes even act it out. It’s definitely been a great way to get to know the girls and for them to get to know God.”

And then I breathe again.

And then I go find my shoes.

So All May Know,

Madeline Studebaker

“Elijah’s face is red, so red,” Abigail shrieked. “Look at this!”

I looked.

Suddenly I didn’t care about the time limit on the history test I was taking. Suddenly there wasn’t anything else that mattered.

Jumping up from my desk, looking at my baby brother, I realized it was something serious. This was not a mosquito bite, or a plant sap he’d rubbed on himself. And I had no idea what it was.

I tuned Abigail out, lifting up Elijah’s shirt. His neck, shoulders and arms were covered in red blotches, and it was travelling down the front of his chest.

“And look at his arm- it’s all blotchy and…” The panic in her voice was only rising.

“Mom!” I called. “Momma!”

“She is asleep,” Elijah told me. “Do not wake her up.” He seemed to feel fine. Talking nonstop and building with Legos. But looking at him…

Abigail grabbed him and carried him to our parents’ room. “Hey, you guys need to look at this,” I said, shaking them, trying to keep my voice steady. But I’ll be honest– it wasn’t steady at all.

Passports, cash, Benedryl, and everything else was packed into a backpack. We yanked on Elijah’s shoes.

“His eyes,” whispered Dad. They were absolutely bloodshot.

Dialing the number of a local taxi, I only prayed he would be available. Please, please…

“Mr. William… puedes venir… recogernos… estamos en la casa… llevarnos a Tena…”

It only took three or four minutes. But it felt like a lifetime. Because Elijah was getting worse.

Translating shakily. Adding in where I could. Smiling at Elijah, who now had a fever.

Día de los Niños Holiday. Chupetes. Colada. Pescado.

Pescado! Fish! We ate that weird fish at Diego’s Restaurant!

“He’s having a reaction… allergic?” we explained in our broken Spanish.

“Allergic. Was it food he ate?” the taxi driver asked.

“We think so. His eyes are really red.”

I did not like how fast he started driving.

Elijah had stopped talking. He stopped answering. He stopped everything.

I was praying. And praying and praying. But I still wanted more than anything to get to the hospital with my baby brother.

“William– más rápido,” Mom ordered, aware of the traffic. We turned quickly onto a side road.

Finally in Clínica Galenus, we rushed past everyone into the emergency room. My heart had stopped inside of me.

“Allergic reaction,” said the doctor in English. The rest was in Spanish.

When he said, “I’ve got to give him a shot.” Elijah climbed into Mom’s arms and we had to pry him off.

“It won’t hurt,” I told him. “I remember shots. I used to have them when I was little, too. They’re all good,” I told him. He nodded.

Little by little, the red botches from his legs to his arms disappeared. The solid red coloring of his face and neck lessened. I started to relax.

“Hey, you sure took that shot well!” I said, holding him up, looking into his eyes. They had quickly cleared from the blurry red they had been only minutes ago.

“He shot me in the butt,” Elijah informed me, disdainfully.

“Yeah, I know. You feelin’ better though?” I asked.

“I felt fine! I told you all I was fine and you didn’t believe me!”

It’s good to have the old Elijah back.

-Madeline Studebaker