by Hannah Bent
‘Good morning, darling,’ Dad said, and I ran to him, instantly forgetting about my search for the Actinote. Dad told me it was too hot out and that I should go back inside, but I didn’t want to. The smell of Mum’s sickness lingered in the house like sour milk.
Dad continued to work, moving from the jasmine bush to nearby plants, and I followed. Banana leaf, bauhinia, hibiscus, coral plant – he named them all and I listened, concentrating as hard as I could. In that moment, he reminded me of Grandpa. They both loved their gardens but for different reasons.
Eventually, though, the heat got too much for me, and I went to rest under the shade of the old banyan tree.
‘Pretty tree, tree pretty.’
Harper.
I got up and followed the sound of her voice. On the other side of the trunk, she was spinning under drooping branches. She wore a pink floral skirt which puffed out as she twirled. She lost her balance and fell in a heap, laughing. Her hands ran over the roots beside her as she whispered to the tree. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but watching her, it was as if she had become a part of the tree. Banyan branches, vines and roots looked like they had curled around her protectively, and were whispering back to her. I frowned. I was the one who worked so hard to make sense of nature, I was the one who loved to study it, yet it was as if she was a part of it in a way I could never be.
In a huff, I stomped back to the other side of the banyan. As I rested my head against the rough trunk, something furry swiped against my ear. In a fright, I swatted it away with the back of my hand.
‘Careful,’ Dad warned. I hadn’t noticed his approach. His body was as still as a deer when it hears the crackling of leaves. I followed his gaze to a butterfly. It fluttered and swooped in pockets of warm air, showing off flecks of black and lemon yellow.
‘Looks like a golden birdwing,’ he said. ‘They’re rare in Hong Kong.’
I was surprised that Dad could identify butterflies; he rarely showed any interest when I related what Grandpa had taught me. Yet now he was smiling, something he seldom did since Mum had become sick.
I jumped up and raced into the kitchen. Rummaging in the cupboard under the sink where Wài Pó kept her jars to pickle chillies, I chose the biggest one I could find. Although I didn’t have a butterfly net like Grandpa used in Cornwall, I thought it might still work.
Moving as quietly as I could, I walked barefoot through the garden. I searched and searched and finally saw the birdwing hovering by an orange tree. I moved slowly towards the insect but the butterfly seemed to sense my presence and it spiralled upwards and away. My hand held high, I moved in circles after it, but the golden birdwing was too quick for me. In a second, it was gone.
The back of my shirt was soaked with sweat. I swallowed hard, trying to push down the rising lump of tears in my throat. I thought of Mum, Dad and Wài Pó, and how they had changed. It was as if they were all sick now, with a kind of tiredness that made them move about the house like they were carrying mountains on their backs. I hated the fact that there was nothing I could do to make them feel better.
I was marching back towards the house when I saw Harper sitting on one of the small stones that led to Mum’s pagoda, eating an orange. On her nose was the birdwing. Its wings breathed slowly in and out. It wasn’t fair – Harper wasn’t even trying to catch the butterfly!
She was laughing and babbling as I moved slowly towards her, jar in hand, ready.
‘Shh,’ I whispered and she obediently fell silent. Gently scooping the creature into the jar, I slammed the lid shut. The butterfly tumbled against the glass walls. I closed my eyes tightly and counted to ten. When I opened them, the birdwing was still. Harper began to sob.
‘No, no, no,’ she cried. ‘Poor fairy-fly. Poor fairy-fly.’
‘Stop crying,’ I scolded, then I ran back across the garden screaming, ‘Daddy, Daddy, look what I have for you.’
Dad was sitting on the porch, sipping a glass of iced water. He put down the glass and took the jar from me, his lips tight. He unscrewed the lid and gently rattled the jar, urging the butterfly out. Its wings began to flutter in short bursts but instead of flying away it moved in drunken circles and then went still.
Dad rose. He picked up his pruning shears and, without a word, walked away from me to the other side of the garden. I saw him lift Harper into his arms, his hand rubbing her back in soothing circles until she was calm.
I stared at the computer screen, at the photo of the prisoner about to be executed. Did he have a family? A wife? Children? Was his mother still alive? His father? I recoiled from the thought but I couldn’t stop staring at the picture. I needed to remind myself that he was real.
‘What are you doing?’
I looked up. Irene was standing in the open doorway. In her hand, she held a suitcase.
‘I’m leaving now,’ she said. ‘I know you think I don’t care, but please, Marlowe, for Harper’s sake, for your father’s… for all of your sakes, do not go down this path.’
She walked away. I heard the front door open and close.
The house felt lighter with her gone.
Harper
At night-time, when the world is sleeping and it is past midnight, the spark of writing often visits me. But tonight, even though I want to write, I can’t.
In Storytelling 101 they say this is called ‘writer’s block’ and some things that will help this are:
1) Going for a walk
2) Reading your favourite novel
3) Something called ‘free writing’, where you write everything that is in your brain so that it spills onto the paper like emptying a rubbish bin.
But I can’t do any of these things. My eyes are sleepy. My body is tired and sore and my mind feels like a cloud about to burst with bluey blue rain. All I can hear is the sound of beeping machines around me, louder than the sound of my writing sparks at night.
Marlowe
I couldn’t sleep.
Again.
The sun would rise in an hour or two anyway.
Irene had unsettled me.
Had I driven her away?
Dad would wake up soon. How would he feel when he realised she’d gone?
But I wanted her gone.
Even though I knew that made me a horrid person.
For all of your sakes, do not go down this path.
There was that too. If I pursued the transplant, knowing what I did, how would I sleep at night?
But how would I ever forgive myself if I didn’t do everything I could to save Harper’s life? Dad and Wài Pó had said that Harper didn’t want a transplant – but Harper thought her heart would heal on its own, and that she would live happily ever after with Louis. Besides, I had promised Mum that I would look after my sister, and I intended to keep that promise. As for the money, well, I had an answer for that too. I would use the money Mum had left me to pay for Harper’s heart and lung transplant in China. She had told me that I was to use it to follow my own dreams, but if it meant the difference between Harper surviving or not, I was sure I knew what she would want me to do.
I rose from my bed and went to the wardrobe. From the top shelf, I removed a shoebox. Inside were letters from Mum – one for every birthday she missed until I turned eighteen. Opening the box, I lifted the bundle of papers to my nose and inhaled. Nothing of her sweet fragrance was left.
Even though she had died years ago, I still felt like I was losing pieces of her every day.
I read the last letter, written in blue ink, wanting to be sure I was about to make the right decision.
I have left you some money that will be made available to you now, as you turn eighteen. I want you to use it to follow your dreams, as I was able to follow mine. Physical possessions, health and relationships can come and go, but an education, a fulfilling career, can never be taken from you…
I had already used some of the money to support myself while I pursued my PhD in London. I had been planning to save the rest to use as I continu
ed my research, but there was just enough to use for Harper’s transplant instead.
I swallowed. I would have to let Professor Lipin know.
I walked through the silent house to Dad’s study, and settled myself in front of the computer once more. When I signed into my email account, a series of unread messages from Olly came up:
Have been trying to call.
What’s going on?
Are you okay?
Please tell me you’re okay.
My chest ached. I found it hard to keep things from Olly, but how could I tell him what I was about to do, pursuing the transplant in China? Would he think less of me? I didn’t want to risk it, not with him. More importantly, I was scared he might talk me out of it. I wrote him a brief message, telling him I was fine and would call tomorrow. I didn’t want to have to lie to him but that was probably what I would end up doing.
I started composing a letter to Professor Lipin, explaining that, due to personal and financial reasons, I would not be returning to the university to finish my PhD. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I hovered the cursor over the send button.
Help.
I picked up the phone and dialled Shanghai. It wasn’t quite 6 am, but Bì Yù was an early riser, and I was sure she wouldn’t mind…
Her voice sounded groggy on the other end of the line.
‘Dà jiě.’ It was the first time I had spoken in Chinese since Mum died.
‘Mèi mei! I’ve been trying to call you but you haven’t been answering your phone. Is everything okay? How’s Harper?’
‘Harper’s stable for now.’ I apologised for not calling sooner then said, ‘Remember how you said if I ever needed anything I should call? Well, I’ve found a way to help Harper…’
I told her how Anita had suggested we go to China, how quickly Harper could get a heart in Shanghai. I asked her to be my translator.
To my surprise, instead of trying to dissuade me she said, ‘Sure! I’d be happy to. The medical system is very good in China.’
I was relieved that she didn’t ask about the source of the organs, and I didn’t volunteer the information.
‘So, is it okay if I transfer you the money? Then I can take out the renminbi when I get there.’
‘Can’t Uncle James pay by card? Why go to all the trouble of transferring cash?’
I hadn’t thought this through. How was I supposed to convince her to help me with only half the truth?
‘Here’s the thing,’ I said. ‘Dad and Wài Pó aren’t exactly on board with this, so it would be best if we kept it between us for now.’
She didn’t say anything.
‘Bì Yù?’
‘What’s going on, Marlowe? Why can’t they know?’
Think fast.
‘Dad doesn’t have enough money, so I’m using my inheritance. Please don’t tell Uncle Bĭng Wén and Aunt Lĭ Nà. I know they’ll want to help and Dad won’t be okay with that.’
It was only half a lie, I told myself.
‘But, Marlowe, Mum and Dad would be happy to help. We’re family, remember? And we have the money.’
‘No, please, they can’t know,’ I said desperately. ‘You know Dad – he can be quite proud.’
Losing face. Whether she liked what I was doing or not, losing face was something Bì Yù would understand. Pride was something her father took seriously.
‘Okay.’
Phew.
‘Mèi mei, I’m so sorry to hear about Uncle James and the family situation. I can understand he might be ashamed, but please give this some thought. That money is your inheritance. Your mā ma would have wanted that to be kept just for you.’
‘All right, I’ll think about it,’ I lied.
‘Just let me know when you book your flights. You can stay with me.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘And you won’t tell your parents we’re coming, right?’
There was a long pause.
‘Dà jiě, please.’
‘Okay, okay. But you know Mum – she can always tell when I’m hiding something.’
She was right; Aunt Lĭ Nà was incredibly perceptive.
‘Don’t worry, it won’t be for long,’ I said, trying to reassure myself as much as her.
When we’d hung up, I returned to the letter I’d written Professor Lipin. This has to be done. I took a breath, closed my eyes and clicked send.
I had one more call to make. I needed a translator in Hong Kong I could trust to speak with the broker, Mr Zhāng, and Uncle Johnny was the only person I could think of. I checked the time: 6.15 am. Way too early for him.
I went back upstairs and crawled into bed although I wasn’t expecting to sleep. I was lying to my family and making Bì Yù do the same, and that didn’t sit easily with me. And more than that, there was the ethical dilemma. Was I really right to go against Harper’s wishes and save her life, possibly at the expense of another life?
But then I thought of Mum and the promise I’d made. I thought of Harper building a happy life with Louis.
My body was heavy and I felt as if I were falling again, but this time I closed my eyes and let myself go.
When I next opened my eyes it was 10.30 am. I’d overslept.
I reached for my phone on the bedside table and dialled Uncle Johnny’s mobile.
‘I need your help,’ I said without preamble.
‘Good morning to you too, Marlowe. How’s Harper?’
I explained that she was back in hospital, but stable for the moment. ‘How’s the article coming along?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t made much headway yet. I’ve had a colleague look into it but it is not being treated with much urgency.’
I let his words sink in for a moment before speaking again. ‘It doesn’t matter so much anymore.’ I told him about Anita and the broker who could arrange for a transplant to be performed in Shanghai. ‘Drop the article, this is something that could actually work… I would just need you to translate for me.’ Unlike Bì Yù, though, Uncle Johnny seemed wary.
‘Marlowe, do you realise what you’re getting yourself into?’
‘Yes, of course I do. It makes me feel sick; it keeps me up at night.’
But what choice did I have? It was either this or another funeral in a few months.
‘I don’t want to bury my sister.’ I blinked, hard.
‘I don’t want that for Harper either.’ Uncle Johnny’s words sounded softer, quieter. He seemed less anxious, more thoughtful. ‘I just want to make sure you’ve really thought this through. I don’t know much about how this works in China, but I can tell you that you would need to be very careful. It’s not a regulated industry.’
‘I know.’ Did I? Maybe not everything, but surely I knew enough.
‘You know I can’t come to China with you,’ he said.
‘That’s okay. Bì Yù will be helping me in Shanghai.’
A long pause. Come on, Uncle Johnny. ‘I made one promise to Mum before she passed, and that was to look after Harper. Everyone else has given up. Please, I can’t let her down…’ I couldn’t keep the desperation from my voice.
Uncle Johnny sighed. ‘Your mother would be so disappointed if she knew you weren’t able to speak Chinese anymore… Okay.’
Did he just say okay?
‘Really? You’ll do it?’
‘Let me know when and I’ll be there.’
I hung up feeling jubilant. And for the first time since the family dinner that had gone so horribly wrong, I felt hungry.
As I emerged from my bedroom, I could hear Dad on the phone.
‘Just come home, Irene, and we can talk about this in person,’ he was saying.
The pain in his voice startled me.
‘Well at least tell me where you are. Please, Irene…’
Had I done this?
I quickly retreated into my room and shut the door behind me.
Harper
Louis is sitting on my hospital bed with me, holding my hand. He is very quiet today, so I hav
e to ask him what’s wrong.
He looks out the window. ‘We are putting on a play at the vocational centre. It’s Romeo and Juliet, and they wanted me to be Romeo and you to be Juliet because we are in love.’
It is as if stars are exploding around me. I am so happy I squeeze Louis’s hand and laugh.
‘Happy, happy news! These are roles of a lifetime!’
Louis and me are the best at drama in our centre, and we have always wanted to play Romeo and Juliet. But Louis doesn’t look happy. I notice that he is sniffing in a sad way. I turn his face so that our eyes can meet and I see they are wet.
‘Why are you sad? We’ve been waiting for this for so long. Remember when we wrote a letter last term asking Mrs Green to let us do this play?’ I was talking so quickly it made me breathless.
‘But the play is on at the end of the term. That is three months and two days away.’
‘So?’ I have a strange feeling swirling around my belly and my brain. I don’t like it.
‘Do you remember what Stepmonster said?’ Louis asks.
The feeling is getting hot and it makes me frown. ‘Why are you talking about that?’ My voice is loud.
‘Well, I asked my mom and my dad about it and they said that maybe you will be too sick to do the play, and then they explained to me about that word.’
I do not need to ask him what word. I know what he is talking about. It makes me go tight all over my body and I want to shout at him but I can’t because I love him.
‘Dad says a nicer way to say that word is to say that someone passes away.’ He starts to cry and snot is coming out of his nose.
His sound is very loud and it is making me hotter and hotter and hotter until I have to put my hands over my ears and shout, ‘I am not passing away! No way. Not me!’
Louis puts his hands over his ears and shouts back. ‘But my mom and dad said you are. Also, I couldn’t save you with the cow’s heart.’
The beeping all around me is getting louder and the air around me is shrinking and hard to swallow.
‘I am not passing away and I WILL BE JULIET in the play.’