Chapter 14: Don't Fall Back!

The last time I had stopped by her apartment after work, I had told Carmen I would be taking a day off. Things had gotten a lot lighter at the office, and I wanted to take some time off to recuperate from all my overtime hours.

Carmen didn’t seem to understand how I could take a day off if I needed it. I explained it was only because the tight deadlines had passed. Before, I had been taking work home for weeks, laboring on Excel spreadsheets at the kitchen table until the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, though, it seemed like she thought I wasn’t telling her the truth about who I was, and what in the world I was doing. I knew suspicion was a survival skill that could help keep a child like her alive on these streets, but it felt like a wall I kept colliding with, no matter how I tried to earn her trust.

I told Carmen I would come by the next morning and give her an update about the search for her birth certificate. But since I didn’t hear from anyone  the next day until around 11am, it was nearly lunch time when I walked to her apartment.

She had already left, the shirtless neighbor told me, as I stared at the padlock on her door. She was one of several tenants in a “hotel” where she paid a daily rate of $3.75 a day to live in a cramped, dark 2^nd floor room with only a tiny window to let in some air from the street below. The ceiling was so low in most of the room, that I had to bend low at the waist or crawl on hands and knees just to get in.

But not today, because no one was there.

On the way back to my own apartment, I stopped to see Andre's stepdad, Virgilio, who is a security guard at a famous building about halfway between her apartment and mind. The building was just at the junction of the nice neighborhoods and the more difficult ones, but the little stock yard Virgilio guarded was paved with mud and frequented by street dogs. Andre’s dad slept inside one of the old houses used to store props and old supplies, on an old mattress. Once, I had seen smoke arising from the side of the house, which was overgrown with weeds. Andre told me that he would build a fire there to cook whatever food he could buy with his earnings from polishing shoes and selling limoncillos, or a small fruit, to tourists visiting the nearby Palacio Nacional, or the Dominican equivalent to the White House.  

I slid open the heavy iron door. By now Virgilio, his friend Richard, and even the dogs knew me. Stepping between puddles and thanking him for the chair he always offered me, I asked if he had seen Carmen today. She would often come by the stock yard during the day, to escape the heat of the apartment, and spend time with her friend Andre.

Virgilio said he hadn’t seen Carmen that day, but that Andre would be back any moment.

I told him to tell Andre I would bring him lunch—a casserole I had made the night before.

But by the time I packed the lunch and returned to the stockyard, Andre had already left. On a whim, I decided to check the malecón for Carmen. I went to her usual spot on the boardwalk, this time taking public transportation instead of jogging, since it was the hot part of the afternoon. I didn’t want to see her there, but I figured I would enjoy the sunshine on the waves and the lull before the rush hour traffic either way.

She was there. I think we were both surprised and a bit dismayed to see each other. But I just smiled and sat down anyway.

We ate the lunch I had packed. I could tell she didn’t relish my roasted vegetable cheese casserole as much  as I did. But it was food, so she ate it, with a bit of reluctance.

As we finished, I said, gently but without reluctance,

“If you decided to "dejar esto" or leave this life like you told me, what happened today?”

She confessed that she had a debt of 1100 pesos of rent to pay in the apartment and she was going to get kicked out if she didn't pay that day.

“But, I haven’t seen any "clientes" today because I keep telling them I won’t do what they’re asking for, because I’m "recien parida"—I just gave birth.”

“Well, that’s good,” I conceded. You have to give yourself some rest.”

She confessed she was still worn out from the labor, now about two weeks ago.

She agreed to walk back with me.

I said, “Let’s ask God to provide for your rent.”

“I did. I asked him this morning,” she said.

We talked about how God answers prayer, how He is merciful, and how He is faithful even when we are unfaithful. But how she never needs to go back to prostitution when she needs something, because her Father will take care of her.

Although I almost never carry more than 300 pesos with me anywhere on the streets, I had exactly 1100 pesos (about $27) and some change in my pocket. I’ve learned not to question the nudge to generosity in certain moments, although I had previously decided not to make our relationship based on money. But this seemed like a desperate situation, and I felt peace from God about giving. 

“Carmen,” I began. “I think God is providing for you by sending me here to find you today, with exactly the money you need. I don’t imagine this will happen again, but I feel this is a special situation and God wants to show you His special provision today. If I pay this it's so that you can have a place to stay while we wait for things to work out for you to move as you asked, but don't go back to prostitution, ok? God will always provide a way out.”

“Si.”

I didn’t feel like a hypocrite saying God would provide a way out, because I was proving it to her this time. I wouldn’t always be the one to prove it to her, but that’s because provision comes from God, not from any human. I tried to explain it a bit without complicating things too much.

As we walked up one of the side streets through a nicer neighborhood, we passed a white SUV.

“That’s him. That guy hasn’t left me alone all day,” Carmen said. “I told him I wouldn’t do what he wanted, but he wouldn’t give up. He just kept coming back and pressuring me.”

I looked into the bright, new vehicle and wondered what kind of job and family this man had. I wondered who else rode with him that car. I wondered what kind of double life he lived. I wondered what kind of perversion would make him persist in harassing a 14 year-old girl who had just given birth.

“I really don’t want to go back to this life,” Carmen said. “I am really looking forward to going to school.” It was something she mentioned all the time those days. She would always say,

“It seems like the Lily House is such a beautiful place.” I held onto her words. I couldn’t think about the SUVs and the return to the malecón.

“We have to hope in God,” I told Carmen.

I just wanted her to be at Lily House, but we still didn’t have the birth certificate.

We prayed together for good news—and for strength and healing in the meantime. 

Chapter 13: A Glimpse of the Dream

In a bold move of faith, we scheduled a visit to the safe house before hearing back from the government agencies about Carmen’s birth certificate.

Carmen told me she didn’t want to visit—why not move in right away?

“I want you to see it, think about it, and make your own decision,” I explained. “No one is making any decision for you. So, take your time.”

I arrived at Carmen’s apartment at 7AM. She was wearing the sparkly floral shirt I had decided was just youthful and innocent enough for a teenager, but too much so for me. She wore it with pride, along with some matching teal leggings.

We got on the 8AM bus. 80 pesos ($2) and 45 minutes later, I asked the driver to let us off in the small beach town of Juan Dolió, and walked to the sign that read “Plaza Leche y Miel”, which translates, Milk and Honey Plaza.

After traversing the long gravel path up to a two-story building that looked like a small school, brightly colored in typical Dominican fashion, I asked a young woman for “Erica”.

“O, si. Dame un segundo.” I could barely wait to meet the woman who was fighting this battle with me from afar, the one who was meeting with Children’s Services, who was prepared to open her arms and receive Carmen into the safe house she helped run.

Erica had set up three chairs in the threadbare grass under a large almond tree in the backyard.

She looked Carmen in the eyes and smiled.

What ensued was a description of the rules and inner workings of Lily House—the good and the bad—along with Erica’s sincere assurance that they would do their best to love her, and teach her about God’s love and healing. The whole time she spoke, Erica held a big Bible in her hands.

“Because you are 14, you will be put in school. You will get to learn a trade in the afternoon as well if you would like, but the main focus will be school. Is that okay with you?”

“Yes! I want to go to school!” Carmen answered.

“OK, perfect! Now, all I ask of you…” Erica paused for emphasis.

Everything that came out of Erica’s mouth was said in a firm but loving and soft tone that inspired confidence instead of mistrust or fear. The grace of God was all about her.

“All I ask,” Erica continued, “Is that you tell us the truth. We need correct information in order to make this work for both of us. We will tell you the truth, and we ask you to do the same with us. Can you do that?”

“Yes,”  Carmen answered.

I sighed with relief inwardly, thinking of the times she had been lied to and the lies I knew she had told me, but hoping her verbal commitment to truth would be one of the first steps to healing.

“Today is your opportunity to see things for yourself, and decide if the Lily House is a place you want to be,”  Erica explained.

“Oh, it is,” Carmen interjected.

“Take your time,” Erica cautioned. “Of course, we want you here! But only if you want to be here. Part of making wise decisions for your life means taking time and thinking about things. I want you to think about it for at least 2 days before you make a final decision, ok? But first, have a look around!”

Before we began our tour, Erica found some women cleaning the bathroom.

“Today is cleaning day, and everyone pitches in,” she explained. “Ladies, would you mind introducing yourselves to Carmen, and telling her the absolute best and worst parts of being a part of The Lily House?”

The women laughed.

They were. They honestly said they enjoyed living and working there.

“Sometimes it’s hard to not leave the premises unaccompanied for the first few weeks, for example. But if you can stand the difficulty in the beginning, it is more than worth it.”

Erica had explained that while no one was forced to stay, they weren’t allowed to come and go without notice, either. If they wanted to stay, they would need to stay on Lily House’s terms, which were just meant to preserve structure and provide protection and true healing. But if at any point a woman wanted to go, she was free to go.

After touring the living quarters, the daycare, the dining room, the salon, the coffee shop, the sewing center, and the jewelry making room, Carmen could only say,

“It’s beautiful here. I love it.”

But her favorite part was definitely the jewelry-making.

Before we could leave, Carmen wanted to get her hair done at the salon. I decided to treat her. She unpinned her thin, short hair from its tiny knot at the nape of her neck. What happened next reminded me why Dominican salons populate the streets of New York city thousands of miles away.

“You look beautiful!” everyone told her. It was true. Carmen has an effortless beauty, hair fixed or not.

As we walked to the bus stop in town, holding plastic bags over our heads, the driving rain threatened to undo the style, but I knew it was worth every peso.

We shared earphones again on the bus ride back. I played songs of hope and praise in Spanish, as we both stared out the window at the rain. It was the quietest I had ever been around Carmen—so careful not to try to influence her against her will, and yet so desperate that she make the right decision. I prayed silently for God to bring it to pass, all the while wondering why it took so much longer to get back than it had to get there.

Finally we made it back home. It was tough to leave Carmen in her filthy apartment again, after having caught a glimpse of the dream, and hearing from Carmen’s own lips that it was “a beautiful place.”

I prayed every day after that—for the birth certificate, but most of all for Carmen.

God, please keep her steadfast. Don’t let the hope that’s been born in her die.