Magic IRL

The Tempest Healer

The sound makes me physically recoil - a crack of thunder so loud that I nearly drop my groceries. So loud that I feel my heart pound and my stomach drop.

There are no raindrops, but I know they can't be far behind. I curse my lying weather app and double my pace into an awkward jog, buoyed down by bags of produce.

I used to love the rain. "It's what makes our people special," my mother used to say. That was back before the rain betrayed me.

My fellow pedestrians scurry across the sidewalk. The world is bathed in the crisp golden hue of sunlight on its last legs, soon to be overtaken by the dreary gray of an afternoon storm.

Inevitably, I feel the first drop. It's not much, but it's enough to overwhelm my emotional floodgates.

#

"It's called Haiti," I remember my mom telling me all those years ago.

Back then, words always sounded ominous.

"But why do they hate each other?" I asked.

She laughed. "No, honey, it's H-A-I-T-I, not hate-y."

"But why do we have to go?" I whined.

"There are sick people there who need our help," she said matter-of-factly.

It was always an easy choice for her. At least, she made it seem that way.

#

Port-au-Prince was the most beautiful place I had ever seen. As our plane descended toward the city, I smashed my face against the glass window. Pastel houses dotted the hilly landscape. Palm trees and lush greenery seemed to fill every crevice and idle space of the crowded city streets.

"Out to Cité Soleil?" asked the driver of our tap tap—a pink and green pickup truck serving as an informal taxi. "You sure that's where you want to go?"

"Yes, that's right," my mother said, clutching her suitcase.

"Not many tourists out that way," the driver said through a thick Creole accent.

Even as a child, I quickly understood the source of the driver's skepticism. The beautiful old buildings and pastel houses of Port-au-Prince soon gave way to shacks and crude structures held together by little more than duct tape and force of will.

We approached a large encampment on a hillside overlooking the ocean, a series of white tents and people wearing pale blue uniforms.

"No closer," our driver said a few blocks out. "This is where they keep the sick."

"Is this where they have cholera, mommy?" I asked as we pulled out suitcases toward the tent city.

"That's right, honey," she said, gazing up at the sky.

#

"Your living quarters are this way, ma'am," one of the men in pale blue uniforms told us, gesturing toward an unremarkable row of white tents.

"The epidemic is worse than we initially thought," he said in a funny accent, neither American nor Haitian. "The earthquake heavily damaged most of the commune's sanitation infrastructure, which wasn't great to begin with."

"How many are you currently treating?" my mother asked.

"Roughly 230 beds currently occupied," he said. "That's near our maximum capacity. The rest are being sent to local hospitals in the area."

My mother shook her head. "How's the forecast looking for the afternoon?"

"It's the wet season," the man replied. "There'll be plenty of rain."