Butterfly Tears

by Zoë S. Roy

  As she pushed open the door, she detected an unfamiliar scent. Paul’s clothes were lying in a jumble on top of the hamper. She picked up his shirt and sniffed it: Paul’s cologne was mixed with an unfamiliar scent. Where did the other fragrance come from? Another woman? She shuddered at the thought and felt her heart sink.

  “Mommy, can I have breakfast?” Ida asked, running from the bathroom to the kitchen. Ida was already sitting expectantly at the table when Sunni joined her.

  From the cupboard, Sunni took a box of Corn Flakes and Rice Krispies and placed both on the table. She set a bowl of milk and a spoon in front of her daughter. “Ida, eat anything you like.”

  “Mommy, I don’t want milk. I just want to drink sweet water.”

  “As you like.” Sunni passed her the sugar bowl.

  Sunni moved stiffly to the telephone on the wall next to the refrigerator. She lifted the receiver, and holding the cord, pulled the phone with her into the bathroom, where she dialled an overseas number.

  “Sunflower,” Sunni greeted her friend with her nickname. “It’s me.”

  “Sunni!” her friend called out with surprise and welcome in her voice. “I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  Sunni did not know how to begin the conversation. “What’s up?” she asked, as though there were nothing bothering her at all.

  “Do you remember Dalan?” asked Sunflower.

  “Sure,” Sunni said, mildly curious. “Why? Did something happen to her?”

  “She cut her wrists!”

  “What?” Sunni shivered. “Was she found in time?”

  “No. I’m afraid it was too late.”

  “Why did she do it?”

  “Her husband was having an affair with another woman, and Dalan didn’t want a divorce.”

  “Only in China...” Sunni sighed, her voice trailing off.

  Sunflower changed her tone. “Hey, these kinds of things must happen in the States, too, right?”

  “What things? And just to remind you, I’m in Montreal, Canada, not the United States.” Sunni was a little disappointed with her friend, who seemed not remember where Sunni lived. “Do you mean suicides?”

  “Canada and the United States are on the same continent. They aren’t such different countries to me. And no, not suicide. I mean extramarital affairs.”

  “Maybe, but people don’t kill themselves just because their partners are cheating. They just get a divorce.”

  “Hey, Sunni, are you thinking about a divorce?” Sunflower asked with a chuckle. “Don’t rush into it. We haven’t met your husband yet.”

  “Now that you ask, can you keep a secret?” Sunni lowered her voice. “I really need a shoulder to lean on right now.”

  “No problem,” Sunflower replied, concern in her voice.

  “I’m sure Paul has another woman. But I am not sure what to do about it.”

  “Are you positive? Don’t suspect him without evidence,” Sunflower replied matter-of-factly. “The truth is people do what they want when they have freedom to do so. A rich man might well have a couple of mistresses. Good thing my hubby is poor and can’t afford to have an affair even if he wants to. Anyway, nowadays nobody believes in traditional love or in long-term relationships anymore. Don’t people over there feel the same way?”

  “I don’t think so. But I don’t have the time to debate this right now. We can talk about family relationships in this society some other time.”

  Sunni remembered that Sunflower had always been interested in women’s issues and had wanted to work with the Provincial Women’s Federation. But the Federation would only hire Communist Party members. Sunflower did not get the job because she hadn’t joined the Party. She got married shortly afterward.

  “You have a job, don’t you?” asked Sunflower.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “If Paul is having an affair and doesn’t want to stop, just divorce him. It’s easy to solve the problem over there. Divorced women over there don’t get a lot of pressure from families and friends to stay together, do they?”

  It bothered Sunni that Sunflower kept referring to her situation as “over there.” Their worlds were not so different and she resented the implication that infidelity and divorce might be somehow less significant, or trivial, for women in North America. The collapse of a marriage she felt would be painful to anyone, anywhere. She wasn’t sure how to respond, so she simply shrugged Sunflower off with an unconvincing reply, “You may be right. Thanks for your help.”

  Sunni put the phone down. The news of Dalan’s suicide was disturbing. Dalan had been in charge of extracurricular activities at the university they both attended. She had spent several weekends teaching Sunni how to waltz. Sunni remembered those days twirling around the university gymnasium with great fondness. They had laughed uproariously every time they inadvertently stepped on each other’s toes. When Sunni left China, Dalan’s son had already turned two. Dalan and her husband still seemed very much in love and satisfied with their lives. People thought of them as a good match.

  A decade later, Dalan’s teenaged boy was motherless. Sunni was lost in these thoughts when she trudged out of the bathroom and sat down at the table beside Ida.

  “Mommy, look at this!” Ida exclaimed gleefully, turning to see her mother’s reaction to the tree she had shaped out of Rice Krispies. “Can I wake up Daddy now?” she cajoled.

  Sunni reached out to her, pulling her close. “Who do you love? Mommy or Daddy?”

  “Both.”

  “Who do you love more?”

  “Sometimes, Mommy. Sometimes, Daddy.” Ida caressed Sunni’s face. “Why are you crying, Mommy?”

  “One of Mommy’s old friends is dead.”

  “Why? Can’t a doctor cure the dead?”

  “No, no, they can’t.”

  “Was your friend very old?”

  “Yes,” Sunni replied, knowing that she should not try to talk about Dalan’s suicide with her daughter.

  “Mommy, when are we going to the movie?” Ida asked, slipping off her lap and running toward the front door where their coats hung on hooks.

  “Soon,” Sunni replied, composing herself. “Can you play for a couple of minutes by yourself?”

  Sunni returned to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face. The running water sounded to her like someone weeping. Even when she thought she had turned the faucet off, the water continued to drip like blood being shed into the sink.

  Sunni felt exactly the desperation Dalan must have experienced in order to blindly slice at her skin, the blood rushing out like a relief of sorts. She could picture Dalan’s son. The boy was crying out, “Please! I want my mom back!”

  Sunni blinked her eyes rapidly in an attempt to erase the image from her mind. She made her way to the kitchen where she drank some juice, and her tightened throat finally relaxed.

  She sat motionless for a moment, clutching her glass. Then she decided to check on Paul in the bedroom.

  He was still sleeping like a baby. She felt her hand clench into a fist and she realized that all she wanted was to hit him. When her fist almost reached his head, she opened her palm instead, moving it like a small piece of cloth over his eyes. His head tilting away, Paul muttered, “No … no. Go away.”

  “Get up. It’s nearly ten.”

  “I need more sleep,” he said, removing Sunni’s hand from his forehead and turning to face the wall.

  “Ida’s waiting for us to take her to the IMAX,” Sunni insisted.

  “Why don’t you go by yourselves? … I’m tired,” he said, pulling the blanket over his head.

  “Damn you!” she hissed, her hand pressing against his shoulder, wanting it to hurt him, knowing it was a futile gesture.

  Sunni and Ida left the apartment building and joined the crowds on the bustling street. They hopped onto a bus, t
ransferred to the subway, and finally reached Le Vieux-Port. Ida’s excitement was palpable.

  They entered the cinema and found their seats. The movie was about a European boy coming by boat to find his grandmother in New York. With one hand, Ida held onto a bag of popcorn, while she stretched the other toward the waves crashing around the ship on the screen. It felt as though the waves were hurtling toward them, threatening to swallow them whole. Even Sunni was mesmerized by the rushing water. She blinked rapidly, as though she could avoid the current pulling her first toward land, and then inextricably out to sea. Suddenly, she thought she spotted Crazy Wen climbing out of the water, walking purposely toward her, a childhood nightmare coming back to haunt her.

  ***

  In Sunni’s dreams, half of Crazy Wen’s head rose out of the water as the waves rolled to shore, spent and serene. Five-year-old Sunni gazed at that half-face and imagined Crazy Wen sucking air into his lungs as he swam, so that she felt less terrified. But suddenly, Wen’s head floated toward her, bubbles popping from his mouth that seemed to shout, “Don’t be afraid. I’m not … not crazy.”

  “Are you … are you still alive?” Sunni stammered.

  “Ha! I died a while ago.” His mouth spouted a cluster of bubbles.

  “But, you’re speaking,” she whispered.

  “Why not? Haven’t you heard the story of Liang and Zhu?”

  “Yes. My grandma told me they turned into butterflies.” Thinking about the story suddenly erased her fears. “Are you going to turn into a butterfly?”

  “Into a butterfly? That’s a nice story, but I’m a ghost now.”

  “There’re no ghosts in the world. You lie!”

  “Look out! What’s that?”

  Sunni managed to open her eyes, but saw nothing. The body in the water had vanished, and Elephant Trunk Hill no longer existed. Crazy Wen’s huge head gradually drifted across the sky, his long hair fluttering with the wind. His mouth was a large black hole with a half-red and half-white tongue stretching toward Sunni.

  “Mom! Grandma!” Sunni screamed and fled. Lightning flashed, and she kicked off her quilt.

  “Wake up! Wake up Sunni!” Her grandmother rushed into her room and pulled Sunni into her arms, gently rocking her back to sleep.

  “I’m scared…,” Sunni said, slowly drifting off to sleep.

  “Shhhh, it’s nothing, just a dream,” said her grandmother, as she slipped Sunni back under the covers and pulled the quilt over her shoulders.

  She tiptoed out of the room, but no sooner had she closed the door that Sunni shouted out again, “Crazy … Crazy Wen!” This time, she bolted upright and clutched the quilt with both hands, her face wet with sweat and tears.

  Her grandmother returned and switched on the light. “I’m here. Sweetie, you’ll be okay,” she said, wiping Sunni’s face with a handkerchief from the night table.

  “I dreamed of Crazy Wen, who was really scary,” Sunni said, her shoulders still quaking with fear.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to see Crazy Wen’s body in the water,” her grandmother chided.

  “I promise not to go see the dead anymore.”

  “I’ll stay here with you until you fall asleep,” Sunni’s grandmother said, climbing in beside her, and pulling the quilt up over both their shoulders. In a few minutes, she was snoring softly, but Sunni did not fall asleep again until just before dawn.

  ***

  “Mommy!” Ida pulled Sunni’s blouse. “That boy has found his grandma!”

  “Oh?” Sunni said, startled into the present. The screen displayed a scene of the boy with his grandmother’s family in New York. They were standing together, posing for a photograph.

  After the movie, Sunni took Ida to her favourite McDonald’s, where she could get a free toy with her meal. As Ida followed Sunni out of the restaurant, skipping happily along the sidewalk, she embraced her new little toy figure – a prince who matched the princess she had gotten on an earlier visit. It was obvious that Ida had enjoyed their Saturday outing, during which Sunni had finally arrived at a solution.

  When they reached home, Paul was on his way out.

  “Daddy! Look, I got a toy prince!” Ida exclaimed.

  “Good. That’s good, honey,” Paul said distractedly, patting Ida’s shoulder.

  “Do you have a minute?” Sunni asked Paul as she led her daughter into the apartment. “Ida, do you want to play with your new prince?”

  “Yes.” Ida said, clapping her hands as she ran into the living room.

  “Sunni, I left you a note on the dresser,” said Paul, his eyes not able to meet hers.

  Paul followed Sunni into the bedroom. She grabbed the note and read, “Sunni, I’ve thought this over carefully and I’ve decided to leave home for a while. If you can be rational, I can tell you the truth….”

  “Tell me now,” Sunni’s voice sounded calm as she forced him to meet her steely gaze.

  Paul closed the bedroom door. He looked at Sunni with caution. “My ex-girlfriend wants me back. We’ve been seeing each other for a while now. I … I don’t think I can stop seeing her, Sunni.”

  “So all this time you’ve been lying to me about coming home late, night after night?” Sunni quivered, her cheeks flushed with shame and anger.

  “I didn’t have any other way –”

  “What do you mean there was no other way? What about the truth? You say she came back? Why did she leave you in the first place?”

  “She wanted me to give up my Ph.D. studies and travel with her to South America. I didn’t agree so she got mad and left me.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “The same year I met you. She was very immature at that time…”

  “Now you are the one who is immature. You used me to replace her.” Sunni raised her voice. “Paul! You are not the man I thought you were. Just leave. I don’t think I want to ever see you again.”

  “You can have anything you want, Sunni. And I promise to pay child support for Ida.” He drew a breath and added, “You’ve given me a lot these years. I feel guilty about leaving you and Ida, but I feel I don’t have any choice.”

  “You leave me no choice, either,” she said evenly as Paul trudged out of the bedroom. “You can go now,” she added, pointing to the door.

  Paul didn’t respond. When he passed the living room, he hesitated but didn’t stop. Picking up his briefcase from the couch, he pulled open the door, and stepped out of their lives.

  Sunni sat on the bed and quietly sobbed. Ida heard her and raced into the room with her toys. “Mommy, please don’t cry. I’ll play with you.” Ida’s hands gently caressed Sunni’s face. “You can have the prince and the princess, Mommy.”

  Sunni composed herself for Ida’s sake. Rising to her feet, she took Ida’s hands in her own. “Don’t worry, Ida. Mommy won’t cry anymore.” Taking several deep breaths, Sunni felt her heart pump with new energy. Her attention was suddenly drawn to the wall calendar hanging in the living room. Two butterflies with black spots on their creamy-coloured wings seemed to drift from out of her head and land delicately on the calendar’s glossy paper, becoming part of the scenic garden printed there. Sunni felt suddenly more awake than she had in a very long time. She knew that once she turned the page on the calendar, the image it displayed would be more real, and more beautiful than anything her memory might conjure from the past.

  “Let’s go Ida,” she said purposely, “We have much to do today.”

  Wild Onions

  SHA WAS ASSIGNED TO Red Rock Middle School as a seventh grader and moved into the dormitory in September of 1966. The school was located in Red Rock, a small town ten kilometres from her home in Chongqing City.

  After Sha and other new students deposited their luggage in their allotted dormitory rooms, a Red Guard, a girl of about sixteen, showed them around the campus. Noticing only e
mpty classrooms, Sha was puzzled. “Where are the students and teachers?”

  The Red Guard patted her shoulder and chuckled. “Do you know anything about the Cultural Revolution?”

  Sha nodded, remembering that teachers were under heavy criticism, and thus not allowed to teach; and then she shook her head, wondering why students were enrolled in the school if there were no classes.

  The Red Guard pointed at the posters on the wall that were crowded with large-sized Chinese characters hand-painted with an ink brush: “Look! As students this is what we do: We follow Chairman Mao’s instructions and criticize, and denounce, the feudalism, capitalism, and revisionism that was taught and spread in the schools before the Cultural Revolution.”

  “How do we do this?” asked another new student.

  “Read all the posters around the school; join in the Red Guards’ activities, and bring Maoism to every corner of the world.” The Red Guard waved her hand through the air as if she were literally spreading Maoism into every corner of the dormitory.

  “Can we join the Red Guards?”

  “No. We don’t accept anybody under fourteen. In addition, only students who are the children of workers, poor peasants, and/or revolutionary cadres are qualified to be Red Guards.”

  Sha’s heart skipped a beat. Her parents did not belong to any of those groups, and besides, she was not even thirteen years old.

  “But,” the Red Guard added, “you can come to help us. Our office is Room 109 in the administration building.”

  The following day, Sha made her way to Room 109. Like some of the other students, she copied the critical articles written by some of the Red Guards on large-sized paper with an ink brush. The students were told to make a few copies of each article and then post them in different locations, on and off campus. After a few weeks, Sha was pleased to find that her brush writing skills had improved considerably. Also, she dutifully read through the contents of all the large-character posters.

  Sha shared a huge room with twelve other girls. Some of her roommates were Red Guards. They asked Sha and the other girls to join them for the Loyalty Dance. To demonstrate their loyalty to Chairman Mao, the girls danced holding a red, heart-shaped piece of cardboard with the Chinese character for “loyalty” brushed on with gold paint. Sha practiced the dance with a group of girls who called themselves the Maoist Propaganda Team. Sometimes, they performed the dance on the village streets.