My mother has always felt something dreadful was coming, and here it is, voices rising from the path. Gary, Gary, Gary, she thinks. Why did you insist on staying? My father: so sweet, so stubborn, so well-meaning. I’ll never forgive him, she thinks. And then: No God, No God. I’ll forgive him everything. Just let it be okay. Just let them be okay. She makes promises, extravagant ones. She promises God traits so entwined into her being that she cannot extract them — she will stop getting impatient, she will stop gossiping. She hustles down the path, holding each item up to God, as if He is looking for a trade, as if she only needs to offer up something big and delightful enough and God will return her daughters.

We are not so far down the path, maybe halfway down the hill. The noise is coming from my mouth mostly, gaping like a baby weaver’s. Tears and mucus are smeared across my face. Sonja too is crying, though she has not thought to pull me off the path. We are both rigid. Don’t move, don’t move a litany through our heads.

She still feels the fear constricting in her throat, still remember the bargains struck with God. Now held, she sees the gift of protection as a frail thing. She sees her own two daughters as foolish and impetuous and no more worthy than another. What role does luck play? What role does God?

I’m standing in a river of driver ants, my feet have vanished in the tide, my ankles nearly gone, my calves streaked, my arms and chest spotted. Ants are even crawling on my scalp. My legs are ablaze, the soldiers’ pincers as sound as sutures. They say if one is lacerated in the jungle, driver ants can close the wound.

A thousand needles against my skin, and my mother nearly smiles from the relief of it. She yanks me off the trail, my two flip flops lost in the boiling path, and scoops me against her side. I am a heavy burden and a loud one. My mother clucks her tongue in sympathy and brushes at my feet. She jogs for home.

I am still crying when my mother carries me into the bathroom and heaves me into the tub like a sack of cassava. She does not say, “good grief.” She does not say anything. She turns on the tap, we have no shower, and holds each foot under the precious flow. She cups the liquid in her palms and pours it over my body, stripping off my clothes as she goes. I am quieter, hiccupping. The tub fills with black, a film of ant clinging to ant. They try to crawl up the porcelain, back up my legs, some holding to my wet skin. It will be a long time before my mother can remove all the ants, wash them down the drain and wrap a towel around my body. It will be a long time before I pull off the last ant that has wedged itself behind my ear. Finally, I curl on the couch, looking down at my welts and whimpering. I am waiting to be scolded, but my mother sits silent on the couch and holds me to her side.

Later, Sonja and I go to our room to play. My mother returns to the couch. She picks up her Bible and flips easily to Psalms. I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. She still feels the fear constricting in her throat, still remember the bargains struck with God. Now held, she sees the gift of protection as a frail thing. She sees her own two daughters as foolish and impetuous and no more worthy than another. What role does luck play? What role does God? She turns her head toward the wall and weeps. She cries for the child who died in the mango tree, for the mother who is still mourning.