Out of the corner of my vision, I notice the faded maroon Camry with bits of rust and sanded unpainted gray patches suddenly pulling off the main street to park at the curb just in front of me. In the glare of the early afternoon, I am holding my young son by his right hand and we are walking on the pavement towards the private customers’ car park, along Independence Avenue, in San Fernando.
Not yet four, Zubin is again absent from school, being sick with another severe round of influenza, in the endless battle of ceaseless childhood illnesses that seemed to torment us each month with our migration from Barbados to Trinidad. On our way from the doctors, with us trying hard to entice our feverish son to think of food, he eventually agrees to Chinese so we stop at a favourite eating place amidst the hilly contours of the busy main southern city.
My husband, Tony, is merely a few yards away, oblivious, waiting within the Pagoda restaurant to pay our bill for a delicious meal, having urged me to go ahead and switch on the air conditioning in the hot vehicle to help keep Zubin’s temperature down during the far drive home. It is after the lunch rush and the short stretch of pavement is empty in the lull. I am aware no one is behind me but ever conscious of traffic speeding past on the road I keep my son on the inside. Growing up in southern Georgetown and having to often tread through tough areas like the many adjoining hazardous streets of notorious Albouystown as a child and teenager, have left me with a natural nose for peril and a wary sense of preservation.