Cilla Lee-Jenkins: The Epic Story

by Susan Tan

  I was glad to have something to do. After a few minutes of thinking, I knew exactly what to draw. I used bright colors, just like Ye Ye loves. And when I was done, I wrote all our names in big letters.

  That night, when my dad came home, he looked tired. He sat down on the couch and said, “Come here, sweetie,” and reached out his arm. So I went over and cuddled. I kept my face hidden in his shoulder, though, because I wanted to be grown-up, but I knew my face didn’t look it.

  He hugged me tight and said everything my mom had said—that Ye Ye was going to be okay, and Nai Nai was in the hospital with him, and we’d go visit this weekend.

  But when I asked if that meant everything would be normal soon, he didn’t really answer.

  He gave me a hug good-night, but he didn’t come in to sit with me and talk about books and say good night, like he normally does. Instead, he talked on the phone, pacing up and down the hallway, talking first in Chinese to my Nai Nai, and then in English to my Auntie Eva, who lives in another city but is coming down this weekend to see Ye Ye.

  And when I got up to go to the bathroom, I saw my mom and dad standing in the hallway, and my mom was hugging my dad, and he had his head on her shoulder, and she was rubbing his back and saying, “It’s okay.” And I realized that he was crying.

  I tiptoed back to bed, and I lay there for a long, long time, before I fell asleep.

  * * *

  Today, after lots of phone calls with my Nai Nai, my dad said I could come visit in the hospital, though only for a few minutes. I told myself that it would be fine, and that there was nothing to worry about, and normal would come back the moment I saw him.

  But something was different when we got to the hospital. At first, I couldn’t figure out what. I’ve been in hospitals before—in fact, when Gwen was born, my mom had to stay there for a while. So I learned that hospitals can actually be nice places, with friendly people who make sure your mom is comfortable and smile when you walk by. When Essie was born and I had to go, I wasn’t scared at all, and I was actually excited for the hospital trip, because it meant I could meet Essie and see my mom.

  So I didn’t think I’d be nervous when I went to see Ye Ye, and I held the flowers we’d gotten him very tightly. I’d picked the colors—red and yellow, like his favorite tie.

  My dad knocked on a door, and we heard my Nai Nai say, “Come in.”

  The room was white and shiny. There was a curtain hung through the middle and another bed in the corner, with a stranger in it, behind the curtain. I saw my Nai Nai, giving me a tired smile from a chair by the wall. Auntie Eva was there next to her—she’d flown in late the night before. Usually, when I see her, I run to her, and she’s always smiling and ready with a funny joke. But today she looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

  And I didn’t run to her right away.

  I was too busy looking at the bed against the wall.

  There, surrounded by metal stands and tubes and machines, was my Ye Ye.

  Dad went to say hi to Ye Ye, with Gwen in one arm, and my mom took Essie to give Nai Nai and Auntie Eva a big hug. But I hung back, behind them. Because it was my Ye Ye. But it also seemed like it wasn’t.

  Ye Ye looked small, and more tired than I’d ever seen him. His face was white like paper, and there were needles in his arms. When he saw us and started to talk, only half of his mouth really moved, and only one of his eyes turned to look at me. Dad had warned me about this, but I hadn’t expected his face to look so tired and droopy and different, or for him to seem so small in that big hospital bed with all those sharp things poking at him. He wore a strange white hospital gown that wasn’t like the nice, colorful clothes that I know he loves.

  Gwen had been fussing, but when she saw Ye Ye, she started to cry, and it wasn’t just normal crying—she was scared of him.

  “Come say hello, sweetie,” my dad said, gesturing to me.

  I took a deep breath and walked over.

  “Hi, Ye Ye,” I said quietly. “We brought you flowers.”

  Ye Ye reached out his hand, and I took it. He gave it a squeeze and said, “Thank you, Cilla,” in a soft, slow way.

  Which was different than the way he usually talks, but still nice.

  I began to feel better.

  I put the flowers on the windowsill and went to give Nai Nai a hug. Ye Ye gestured to the window and said something softly in Chinese.

  “He says he loved the card, Cilla,” my dad said. “See it there by the window?”

  “Thanks,” I said with a smile. “I’m so glad. Did you like the walrus I drew for you on the front?”

  Ye Ye said something to my dad in Chinese. My dad answered, and Ye Ye spoke again.

  “Yes,” my dad said, turning to me. “He thought the colors were especially nice.”

  “Um, thanks.” I looked back and forth, finally realizing what was bothering me. “B-but,” I stammered, looking at Ye Ye, “why is Ye Ye telling you these things? Why isn’t he talking to me?”

  “Sweetie, let’s let your mom say hello,” my dad said. “Ye Ye needs to rest soon.”

  “Yes,” Nai Nai said, patting my back in a way that was supposed to be soothing. “Very tired.”

  I didn’t like this AT ALL.

  My dad took me out into the hallway.

  “But why was Ye Ye talking through you?” I asked again. I didn’t want to, but I could feel my voice getting upset. “Why was he just talking in Chinese? Why didn’t he talk to me?”

  “Well, this is a new thing we’re just learning,” my dad said, kneeling down and taking my hand in his. “You see, when a brain is hurt, parts of it get cut off, and especially parts that have to do with language. Sometimes, when people have strokes, they can’t talk at all. That’s not what happened to Ye Ye. But, it seems like, right now, his brain can only handle one language, so he’s gone back to his first one. Remember, he only learned English as a grown-up. And English is just too hard for him right now. He might get it back though. But for now, he’s going to be speaking mostly Chinese.”

  “You mean…” I couldn’t even find the words. “You mean,” I said, trying again. “You mean, he can’t talk to me anymore?”

  “Of course he can,” my dad said, pulling me into a hug. “It’s just that English is going to be hard for him. And, sweetie, you should know that he’s probably never going to be as fluent as he used to be. But there will always be someone there to help you translate, and he’ll never stop being your Ye Ye. Even this morning—”

  Just then, Nai Nai called my dad’s Chinese name. “The doctor will be here soon,” she said. “Can you help?”

  “Of course, be right in,” my dad said. “You okay, Cilla?” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but it’s going to be all right. Do you want to talk?”

  I shook my head. So my dad just gave me a big, tight hug. And then my Nai Nai called again, and my dad went into the room.

  I stood in the hallway, by myself, and watched the doctors and nurses walk by. Inside, I could hear the familiar sounds of my family—dad, Ye Ye, Auntie Eva, and Nai Nai, talking quietly in Chinese, Essie starting to fuss, and Gwendolyn asking for her Batman doll.

  I thought about Ye Ye, and how he looked in that hospital bed. And I thought about the stories he always tells me, and the books he reads to me, and the Wisdom he knows. When I was little, I was scared of monsters in my closet, so he made up a story about unicorns fighting the monsters, and it kept me safe. When I sometimes get mad at Gwendolyn, or jealous of her, Ye Ye always comes and sits with me, and we talk about my feelings. When Essie was born, Ye Ye taught me the songs he used to sing to his little cousin, and translated them into English for me. We made up a marching and singing game and paraded all over the house, singing in English and Chinese.

  I remembered all these things, and I thought about what life would be like if he couldn’t do them anymore.

  What would happen if we couldn’t tell stories, or talk, and how would he still be my Ye Ye, and how
would I be his Cilla and granddaughter and—?

  All of a sudden, it came to me.

  NONE of this is normal. But I’m not going to let it stay this way.

  I’m an Epic hero.

  And Epics are all about overcoming the odds.

  My dad says Ye Ye may never get his English back like it was before, but I know he will. Because I, Cilla Lee-Jenkins, future author extraordinaire, am going to teach it to him. And then he and I will ride victorious into the future. Into next year, and middle school, and a time when Ye Ye is back to being the one who teaches English and visits people who are lonely and can’t leave the house. Not the other way around.

  Back into the normal world. And the way everything is supposed to be.

  5

  IF THE PEN IS MIGHTIER THAN THE SWORD, THEN HOW COME I KEEP LOSING MY PEN?

  I know everyone says the pen is mightier than the sword, but this has always seemed a little suspicious to me. I mean, I LOVE pens, and I absolutely think that stories are the best things in the world.

  But no one brings a pen to slay a dragon—they bring a sword. Plus pens are just hard to keep track of, and heroes never lose their swords at the bottom of their backpacks, or forget them in their pants pockets and accidentally put them through the wash and make everything blue.

  So I’m not sure if I completely believe in this whole pen-and-sword thing.

  But, I can see how with Ye Ye, a pen is probably more helpful than a sword (even if a sword sounds more exciting).

  So that’s where I started when I visited Ye Ye in the hospital on the weekend.

  My parents kept saying that I didn’t have to go, because this is a long day of tests. Ye Ye will be moving to the rehab center soon, which is in another part of the hospital, where he’ll stay while he gets better.

  But I wanted to go. I wanted to keep Ye Ye company, and to be there with my Nai Nai and my dad. Plus, I figure it’s probably best to start as soon as possible with his lessons, so there’s that, too.

  I found myself pausing when we got to the door of Ye Ye’s room, and my stomach felt a little nervous. But I took a deep breath, and I reminded myself that it was going to be okay. I’m an Epic hero. And I was going to make everything better.

  “Ye Ye!” I said, sailing into the room, wielding my notebook in front of me like a sword (because that’s how you make a Dramatic entrance, as a hero). “How are you?” I asked, making sure to sound happy and upbeat so he would be too.

  “Cilla,” he said softly. He reached his hand out to me, and I took it, and he squeezed it. Which didn’t answer the question, but I knew we’d get there. And speaking of which—

  “I brought you a present!” I said, holding out my notebook. It was a brand-new blank one that Colleen had given me for my birthday. It was perfect, with a rainbow Steed (an Epic word for “horse”) on the front.

  “For soccer, Colleen uses Muscle Memory,” I explained. “It means your body remembers things that your brain doesn’t right away. Here—try writing something in English. Maybe the Muscle Memory will kick in!”

  I was excited, and waited with a big smile for Ye Ye to answer, and take the pen and write, right then and there.

  But Ye Ye just looked confused and asked my dad something in Chinese.

  “Um, sweetheart,” my dad said. “That’s not really how it works.” He saw how disappointed I looked and came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t even know if he can hold the pen right now,” he said, in a quieter voice.

  “Oh,” I said.

  I hadn’t considered that.

  Suddenly, I realized that this was going to be harder than I thought.

  I almost said so, too. But then I saw Ye Ye’s face. And how sad, and kind of lost he looked, as my dad and I had a conversation that he clearly couldn’t quite understand.

  “Don’t worry, Ye Ye,” I said, going over to sit on the side of his bed. “We’ll find another way. Here,” I opened the notebook. “I’ll draw a picture for you instead.”

  And he smiled and patted my hand, so I sat by him and drew.

  Ye Ye wasn’t actually in his room very long that day. He had lots of tests and scans and evaluations (all Synonyms, but also apparently all something different in hospitals), and I hadn’t realized quite how long these would take.

  My dad volunteered to keep Ye Ye company (which he explained, when I wanted to come, was really just sitting in waiting rooms).

  So that left me and my Nai Nai. She smiled at me, and I took her hand.

  I wanted to say something Wise or profound (a Synonym for “Wise”), that would let her know that everything was going to be okay, and I was going to help Ye Ye Triumph.

  But my plan hadn’t worked so well, and suddenly, I was less sure about how quickly I could make Ye Ye feel better.

  Which I didn’t really want to think about.

  So I said the next best thing, which was, “Colleen told me that hospitals have surprisingly good soft serve. Also, we should eat the green Jell-O, but not the red or yellow.”

  “Wah,” Nai Nai said, and even though she still looked tired, she smiled. “Soft serve before lunch? What an Adventure—let’s go!”

  And I grinned back, and took her hand, and we walked to the cafeteria.

  She bought the soft serve, which was really nice of her, and once I’m allowed to Babysit and make money I promised I’d buy her some too, because soft serve is the greatest.

  Ye Ye came back later in the afternoon, and he was—as my dad had said he’d be—very, very tired. But he motioned me over before we left, and I gave him a sort-of-hug and tried not to get caught in the tube in his arm or think about how the hospital-gown fabric was nothing like the warm, fuzzy sweater vests Ye Ye loves to wear that feel nice and soft when you hug him.

  He didn’t seem like my Ye Ye at all.

  And I couldn’t wait until he was back.

  * * *

  I thought about the hospital, and what had gone wrong, all afternoon. My parents kept saying things like “Everything okay, sweetie?” and “Do you want to talk, Cilla?” But I didn’t. Because everything WASN’T okay, and there was nothing they could do—I’m the one who’s going to make this right for Ye Ye. Plus I kept thinking about how tired my Nai Nai looked and how much it reminded me of my dad. I didn’t want to add anything to their worries.

  So I said no.

  But, luckily, I got a great surprise, because the doorbell rang and it was my Grandma Jenkins, who had brought over a big pot of stew for Nai Nai at the hospital. My mom said, in this order:

  1. Aw, thanks, Mom! You shouldn’t have!

  2. Mom, that’s enough stew to feed a family for a week.

  3. Do you want to stay for dinner? Why don’t you have Dad drive over? And …

  4. (Sigh) Yes, of course he can bring the dog.

  This was all excellent, because it’s hard to feel sad when there’s a dog that’s happy to see you and runs in and jumps on your lap and licks your face. And we all love Daisy, my grandparents’ pug, even if my dad does say “Argh!” when she jumps on the couch and tries to lick his ears. But my mom says it’s good for him, plus he’s not allergic to Daisy (he’s allergic to all cats and some dogs too), so there’s no harm done.

  My Grandma kept saying that I’m being “very brave,” which was nice to hear, and hopefully true (because all Epic heroes are brave—it’s a rule). Plus then there were other people there to help when Gwen got upset because she wanted to show my dad a dragon puppet she’d made in day care, but he had to answer the phone because it was Nai Nai.

  This gave me some free time, so while all the adults were talking, I decided that I’d try to teach Daisy tricks, and she made excellent progress with jumping, especially when I held up pieces of stew for her to aim for. So I took this as proof that I’m a good teacher and that I’ll get the hang of this eventually.

  My grandparents left after dinner, Daisy whining behind them because she was sad to leave me (and all the stew I’d fed her).


  And while I was helping my parents clean, I learned other things about pens. For example, that they can fly VERY fast through the air when Gwen throws them, because she found one on the ground and got mad because my mom and I were cleaning, and my dad was holding Essie, and she wanted attention. So then she threw it, and it hit the vase my mom hates but my dad loves, and the vase fell and broke. But my mom didn’t seem to mind, and even said something like “About time” under her breath.

  So it was funny, and my mom and I glued the pieces together (and found almost all of them—you can barely tell the vase was broken at all). We sat in the living room, and my dad bounced Essie, and my mom read a picture book to Gwen, and Gwen said the words she knew. I sat on the floor and drew more pictures in my journal and listened, because even though I’m in fifth grade, you’re never too old to enjoy a good story.

  And my pens worked just fine, even though Daisy, it seems, had gotten into my pencil case sometime earlier and chewed on them.

  Which goes to show that the pen is actually pretty mighty (and impressively tough), after all.

  6

  A SUPER(HERO) STRATEGY

  When I got to school today, I knew I needed help. If Muscle Memory (and a trusty Steed!) couldn’t help Ye Ye, then I needed a plan, a strategy, a guaranteed way to teach English (and fast).

  And I knew exactly who to turn to.

  My mom had called the school, and all my friends’ parents, to tell them what had happened. So Colleen had called me over the weekend to see how I was (and that’s when she’d told me about the soft serve, too. See what I mean about her being a great friend? She always knows how to make things better).

  Colleen has spent time in hospitals because her grandma needed hip surgery, and Colleen and her family went to visit. So during morning worksheets, I told Colleen, Melissa, and Alien-Face all about the weekend, and that I’d already tried Muscle Memory and it hadn’t worked (also, that the soft serve WAS good).