After Haiti gained its independence in 1804, the United States refused to acknowledge Haiti, because it was thought that a free Black republic would encourage American slaves to revolt against their masters.

  According to Mr. Casimir, it was Lincoln who sent the first United States ambassador to Haiti in 1862. Later he picked Frederick Douglass, a Black American, to be his representative there.

  I am filling my head with all this information in order to forget for a few minutes that it’s been seven days since we have seen or heard from Moy.

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 13

  Gary is back. It seems that he was not involved in the shooting after all.

  LATER

  Still no word from Moy. Papa went to Saint Jerome’s to see if Moy had gone to his classes there. He hadn’t.

  I wish Moy had told me the name of the girl who was letting him paint in her apartment. Maybe Papa could have found out where she lives.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 14

  Papa brought Manman a bouquet of roses because it is Saint Valentine’s Day. At school some of the girls wore red. Even Immacula wore a red scarf with her black dress.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  Moy came by tonight right before we went to bed. I was so happy to see him again. His sneakers were covered with paint and he looked a little thinner, but otherwise he seemed fine.

  He and Papa didn’t say much to each other during the visit, but I could tell Papa was relieved to see him.

  Manman was happy beyond her wildest dreams. Papa stayed alone in the living room while Manman and I took Moy to the kitchen to fill up a plate of food for him.

  She asked him where he was staying. He said he was with a friend from school. He was going to get a job and maybe continue school while working.

  “Our Moy, you are truly a man now,” Manman said, clutching the hand he was not using to eat.

  “When are you coming to see us again?” I asked Moy.

  “Soon,” he said, gently tapping me on the head, the way he always has. “You know, if I didn’t see my sister for too long, I would be too sad to live.”

  It was just like Moy to say something like that when you were least expecting it.

  “Come see us soon,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said.

  After he finished eating, Moy collected a few of his things, and with a nod toward Papa, who kept his eyes on the living room floor, he left again, but not before slipping me a piece of paper with a phone number where I can call if I need to reach him.

  After Moy left, Manman and Papa got into an argument.

  Manman asked Papa why he hadn’t even said a single word to Moy.

  Papa said he didn’t want to talk to someone so stubborn.

  “Oh yes, he is very stubborn,” Manman said. “You and he are fruits from the same tree.”

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 16

  In homeroom, Immacula looked very agitated and worried. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me that her landlord had come over again, looking for her mother.

  Immacula’s mother has been working both a day and a night job since Immacula’s father died.

  Immacula is often late for school because she has to get her younger sisters ready as well as herself. Whenever one of Immacula’s sisters is sick, Immacula must stay home. This is why she is often absent from school.

  Immacula’s landlord has repeatedly told Mrs. Cadet that he does not like the idea of minors being home alone so much. He is worried that without adult supervision, the girls could damage his property. Last night he threatened to throw them out or call the authorities if Mrs. Cadet does not change her situation.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 17

  I called Moy. A girl answered the phone and then passed it to him.

  He said Manman had called him earlier that day, too. They had talked about his decision to live on his own and he felt that, slowly, Manman was accepting it.

  “So you’re never coming back to live with us?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 18

  I wrote this letter to Papa the night I saw him cry. Today I gave it to him.

  Dearest Papa,

  Granpè Nozial once told me that God’s tears can save us as well as drown us, but man’s tears can hurt no one. With all respect to Granpè Nozial, maybe he was wrong. At least just a little. Your tears hurt me very much.

  Papa, while we were apart, I cried both tears of joy and tears of sadness. On the days before I was to come see you, I cried both.

  Papa, even if you feel that we don’t know each other so well anymore, please know this: We love you very much and when you were gone we missed you every day. I know this is true for you as well because you never stopped telling us in your cassettes. Perhaps it is harder for you to tell us now, without an ocean between us, but I know in my heart that it is no less true.

  These are the things that you and I now share. Since I have been here in New York, I now know what it is like to live an ocean away from people you love, to not be able to see them or talk to them whenever you want to. I know what it is like to not be able to share with them your reactions to the places you are seeing, the things that are happening in your life, the ideas that are in your head, the progress you are making as well as the difficulties you are facing. I have felt what it is like to watch a loved one in pain, even to blame yourself for the pain, without being able to do very much about it.

  Papa, I appreciate all you have done for us and one day I hope to make you proud. I know we cannot return to the past and be the way we were in Beau Jour, but whatever family meant there and whatever it means now, I know we can be that, too.

  Papa, remember when I was little and would wake up crying, thinking I had heard Galipòt at our front door? You would whisper, “Cécé, many things like Galipòt exist only in the streams of our dreams. They cannot hurt us.” I want to say the same to you now, Papa. Five years of absence cannot hurt us. Besides, we are no longer a three-legged horse. We have now found our fourth and it is you.

  Your daughter, Celiane

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 19

  This morning, while driving me to school, Papa thanked me for my letter. His eyes were moist as he asked me what I thought he should do about Moy.

  “I think you should talk to him,” I said.

  “I will try,” he said. “For you.”

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 20

  After the threats from the landlord to throw them out or call the authorities, Immacula’s mother is now sleeping at home with her daughters a few times a week. Immacula looks as though a huge burden has been lifted from her shoulders. Even though she still only wears black clothes, she smiles more often now.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 21

  After supper tonight, Papa had Manman call Moy to ask him to come over so the two of them could talk. I think this was the happiest telephone call Manman has made since talking to Papa from the Teleco in Léogâne.

  THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 22

  Moy came over and had supper with us. After a very long and heavy silence, Papa finally asked him how he was.

  Moy said he was fine. He had found a job at a laundromat and had gone back to his classes at Saint Jerome’s, since he realized he needed to speak English better in order to communicate with the customers.

  Papa advised Moy to save his money, not to waste his pay.

  Papa said one way Moy could save money was to come back to live with us. After all, we were going to move upstairs next month and have an extra room.

  Moy thought about this for a while, then said, “I didn’t like it when you told me you were going to send me back to Haiti. You leave me behind, then you send for me, then you threaten to send me back again. I am not a package. I am your son. I am a man. I had to do all the things you used to do in Beau Jour after you left. I had to step in and take your place. I am a man.”

  Papa said nothing for a while. He was sitting there quietly, thinking about what Moy had said.

  “Okay, so you are a man,” he finally spoke up. “But you will find that it’s not so easy being a man.”

  “It has not been so easy being a boy, either,” Moy said.

  It was not the image I had in mind of their meeting—of handshakes and kind words—but at least before he left, Moy said he would think about living with us again, if Papa stopped treating him like a child.

  FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 23

  I met Immacula’s mother this afternoon. I stopped by Immacula’s apartment to pick up a book she wanted to lend me for the weekend, when we found her mother standing outside, waiting for the school bus to bring Immacula’s sisters home.

  Immacula’s mother is much livelier than I expected, much more jovial than Immacula, her white professional home attendant frock reminding me of Tante Rose’s nursing uniform.

  When Immacula introduced us, her mother leaned down for me to kiss her cheek. After I kissed her, she kept her head down so Immacula could kiss her as well. There is awkwardness between her and Immacula, like two strangers who are just getting to know each other.

  LATER

  Franck came by to remind us that the three-bedroom apartment upstairs will be free at the end of the month. Even though we knew this was coming, we have been waiting anxiously for Franck’s official announcement to begin packing.

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 24

  The people upstairs are moving. I can hear the sound of furniture being moved. Soon the apartment will be ours.

  SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 25

  The new apartment is now empty. We went up to look at it this evening. It is bigger, of course, with larger windows to bring in more light. It is also a little quieter because we are two stories above the ground.

  Papa immediately began to scrape the walls to prepare them for repainting. Manman and I swept the floors and scrubbed the bathroom and the kitchen, gathering every speck of dust from the old residents and throwing them away.

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 26

  I received another letter from Thérèse, still with no return address. She said she might not write again because she cannot afford the postage.

  Thérèse was still living and working in the home of the vetiver businessman. She was able to go to school some nights, a class run by foreign missionaries.

  I sensed that she wanted to make things sound much better than they were. Just as I might have exaggerated my misfortunes had I gotten another chance to write to her. Perhaps she envied me, and frankly, I felt grateful not to be in her place.

  With the newly packed boxes piled up all around me, I sat in my room for a long time with Thérèse’s letter pressed against my heart.

  In my mind I could hear Thérèse’s wonderful laugh. I wondered if she still had that deep and free laugh, which just exploded from her body like thunder and lightning from the sky. I hoped against hope that Thérèse would laugh again. And as if I were suddenly possessed by Thérèse’s spirit, I raised Thérèse’s letter to my throat, opened my mouth as wide as I could, pushed my head back, and laughed and laughed and laughed Thérèse’s laugh. My whole body shook. My neck swiveled. My chest rattled. I waved my hands in the air, as though they were dancing.

  Manman walked into the room and saw me sitting on the edge of the bed with Thérèse’s letter held against my throat.

  “Are you well?” she asked.

  I said, “I am laughing rather than crying for Thérèse.”

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 27

  Moy brought the girl at whose apartment he has been painting to meet us. She is not a girl at all, but a woman. According to Moy, she is twenty-five years old, a whole six years older than he is. She is pretty, though not as pretty as Thérèse. She’s shy and speaks in a very low voice.

  Somehow, when Moy announced that he was coming back to live with us, at least until he saved enough money to rent a place of his own from Franck, she seemed a little happy.

  Neither Manman or Papa appeared to like her, but they were both polite to her and didn’t say anything bad about her after she left.

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 28

  Gary’s mother brought him to class to tell Mr. Marius she was sending him back to Haiti to live with his grandmother. Dressed in a suit and tie, Gary looked as uncomfortable as I had been my first day.

  Mr. Marius wanted to take Gary’s mother outside to talk with her, but she said she wanted us to hear what she had to say. Then she turned to the class and addressed us all as Gary lowered his head and stared down at his well-polished shoes.

  “I only came for his records,” she said in a tearful voice, “but I thought I would bring him to his class to say good-bye. Maybe you can all learn from this. I know he is my child and I should keep him with me, but he is always getting into trouble and he has left me no choice. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  It was as if she was asking us all to forgive her.

  THURSDAY, MARCH 1

  Moy has been coming over at night and going up to the new apartment with us to clean and fix things. More and more, the new apartment is starting to look like it is truly ours. Papa and Moy have painted the walls a soft eggshell white. The bathroom and kitchen are spotless.

  SATURDAY, MARCH 3

  Today is our moving day. Moy had a bed delivered, a bed he had bought himself. Franck also came over to help us take our things upstairs.

  When Papa, Manman, and I went up, we found all the walls covered with Moy’s new paintings, most of which he had painted while he was gone.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the paintings. They were so beautiful and so true that they left me breathless.

  There it was, our voyage from Beau Jour to Brooklyn, starting with packing our things the night before leaving Beau Jour, our visit to the consulate, our plane ride and our reunion at the airport with Papa, our first walk in the snow, our first Brooklyn bus ride, the Christmas Mass, the stores and houses in our Brooklyn neighborhood.

  Manman walked through the apartment, staring at each canvas, as if reliving our journey, this time through Moy’s eyes. Papa looked at the paintings in amazement as though he couldn’t believe his own son had created them.

  “When did you have time to put them up on the walls?” Papa asked Moy.

  “I did it last night after the three of you went to bed,” Moy said.

  Franck had come over late in the night and helped Moy put up the paintings. Franck looked very proud of himself for having kept such an important secret.

  “Moy’s going to paint some murals in my restaurants,” Franck announced. “I think that would be good, don’t you, Victor?” he asked Papa.

  “Very good,” Papa said.

  Moy asked me to be “godmother” to his series of paintings and name them.

  All I could think of was the proverb “Behind the mountains are more mountains.”

  It seemed to fit. We had faced mountains of obstacles, but with help from family and friends seemed to have conquered them, at least for now.

  Moy liked my suggestion of the proverb. He said that his depiction of our journey would be called “Behind the Mountains.”

  One day Moy’s paintings will be in museums. I just know it. People will look at these paintings and say, “This is the story of the Espérance family. This is the ‘stream of their dreams.’ ”

  Then Moy and I will write a book together. Moy will tell our story in images. And I will tell even more of our story with words.

  When I was two years old, my father moved to the United States from Haiti, leaving behind my mother, myself, and my younger brother, André. Papa did not want to leave us; however, he had no choice but to do so, because we were poor and he was having trouble earning enough money to take care of us, as well as our extended family—my three aunts and two uncles—who occasionally turned to him for financial support.

  At the time my father left Haiti, in 1971, the country was going through a transition from the rule of François “Papa Doc” Duvalier, who had died after having been in power for fourteen years, to his nineteen-year-old son, Jean-Claude Duvalier, who had taken his place.

  Both Duvaliers had declared themselves “president for life” and imprisoned, killed, or sent into exile anyone who opposed them. Though my father was not a political exile, there were many others in our family, including my cousin Max, who had to flee Haiti at the same time because of their political views.

  Two years after my father left Haiti, he sent for my mother, leaving André and me behind in the care of my uncle Joseph and his wife, Tante Denise. André and I grew up in the Port-au-Prince neighborhood of Bel-Air, in a house filled with children whose parents had migrated to other countries—the United States, Canada, and the Dominican Republic—and had promised to send for them as soon as they were settled abroad.

  It took eight years for André and me to join our parents in the United States. This was mostly because our parents needed to change their status—they had overstayed tourist visas—then prove to the U.S. Immigration Service that they could support us without help from U.S. government programs. In the meantime, my brothers Kelly and Karl were born in Brooklyn, making us a family of two U.S.-born and two Haitian-born children. When I moved to the United States at age twelve, I missed Haiti very much.

  In spite of our poverty, which was alleviated by our parents’ sending us money from New York every month, and the pressures of the younger Duvalier’s dictatorship—our neighbors, parents of our friends, and teachers would sometimes disappear, never to be heard from again—André and I were able to have a decent childhood. We would spend our summers with family members who were living in rural provinces deep in the Haitian mountains, where the wide-open skies, the beautiful streams and rivers, the music of thumping rain on tin roofs, showered us with more beauty and freedom than the city ever allowed.