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.