Motherhood In Paradise

by Katharine M. Hikel

Every day, she walked the mile-long beach. Not like the visitors wandering barefoot in and out of the water before going back to lounge around the pool in our swimwear. She wore sturdy white shoes, a white cap with a brim over a white headscarf, dark shades against the dazzling Caribbean sun, and a fresh white shirt. Work clothes.

She carried about forty pounds of merchandise, in a big shoulder bag and on plastic hangers draped over her arms. T-shirts and tank tops, bearing the name of the island or the local beer, folded neatly and stacked in plastic shopping bags. A small case of jewelry made from shells and beads. Bright scarves and wraps – the sarongs that we all covered up with when we went from our lounge chairs to the bar for a round of coconut crushes for the kids, or a couple of Cuba Libres for ourselves. All her wares were neat and clean, and tidily arranged.

She lugs this paraphernalia, along with her cell phone, drinking water, and a few personal items, up and down the beach, selling at the three vacation spots along the way, every day for the six months or so of the active tourist season. She rarely takes a day off during that time.

I got to know her, as women get to know each other, through our children. I was in the pool with mine and everyone else's, organizing them into swimming and jumping and breath-holding activities, so they'd get to know each other and quit pestering me, so I could do what I like to do in a warm beachy climate – read, snooze, swim in the ocean, and write in my notebooks. The kids, all white, from colder climates, only needed a little encouragement and a few introductions to get it going.

As I was getting out, someone touched my arm. "I want to be in," she grinned – a trim, athletic-looking little gal in a Nike racing suit with her hair in neat cornrows. Dazzling white teeth, black satin skin. "OK," I said. "What's your name?"

Luly, thirteen, spoke American English, and joined in easily as kids do, so it took me a while to figure out that she wasn't a hotel guest, though she was on school break like everyone else. Her mother, as a beach vendor, wasn't allowed on the hotel grounds. At the end of the day I saw her waiting by the gate.

"That's my mom," Luly said.

Luly herself, as the daughter of a beach vendor, wasn't supposed to be at the pool – but the staff, all Antiguan, let her be. As a non-guest, Luly couldn't get a cold drink at the bar, or lunch from the grill – but the staff loaded my tray with all the provisions I could carry, for anybody I wanted to feed. Luly sat in the shade, blending in like one of the little cats who crept up for a bit of hot dog or chicken, then went off somewhere invisible to eat it.
I saw her mother, Aurora, at an umbrella table on the beach one blistering day, not looking too well. I got her something to drink. She told me the security guard, a Jamaican man, was coming down on her for sitting too long, so I got him a drink, too.

She sat for a long time. Her skin is very dark, but I found myself thinking she looked pale. She asked, softly, "Could you get me something to eat?" in accents much more Antiguan than her daughter's. I noticed that she had a broken front tooth, and that the wisps of hair under her bandana were silvery gray, like mine.

The barbecue chef gave me a package to go, and I carried it to her. Her respirations seemed regular; her hands, touching mine, were cool. I didn't check her pulse. I couldn't tell what was going on – there was such a huge amount of information I couldn't get. What I knew for sure was that she was a fifty-something-year-old woman, physically exhausted, in a precarious economic situation.

She wouldn't stay to lunch, as she feared consequences from security. She packed up, and walked down the beach where she could sit with friends. She asked if I would be there tomorrow.

Every day, I saw Luly at the pool, and made sure that she, along with the other kids, had lunch, drinks, and the lovely thin sandwiches that the Antiguan staff made for English tea. Every day, I saw Aurora outside the gate; I smuggled food and drink, bribed the guard, and bought some token merchandise, as conducting a sale allowed her more sitting time.
As we sat, she talked – nervously, at first, as the gap between us was as weird for her as it was for me. But it got to be funny. "I'll see you tomorrow, here in my office," she kidded. I liked it when she reminded me, "Get Luly something too, will you?" I said, "Yaah," as in, what do you think I am, a dope? She laughed. We were loosening up.

My departure time loomed. "You could bring me the toiletries from your room. Maybe you could send Luly someting fa school." She was tense and quiet, trying not to sound desperate.

We exchanged addresses and phone numbers. I wondered, Could I do this? Walk the beach every day, not getting past the gates even to check my kid? What if my survival depended upon strangers; on constantly watching, pressing, begging for the least advantage for myself, for my child? I think it would make me sick.

I wondered what would become of Luly if something happened to Aurora. I wonder if she would call me.

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