by Hannah Bent
I sighed and looked at my watch. Time was running out. I looked around my sister’s room, trying to think of a way to convince her. There was a collection of porcelain dolls on a shelf, arranged in pairs ‘so they can whisper to each other at night’; shrivelling plants and odd things that she kept ceremonially by the window – I never understood what she was trying to do with them; a bookcase full of books. On the walls were colourful paintings she’d made at the vocational centre and photos of everyone she loved: our parents, Wài Pó, Louis, me, her friends, our cousin Bì Yù… And then I knew what to do.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I’ve messed up. I’ve already booked us the tickets to Shanghai and told cousin Bì Yù we were coming…’
‘Bì Yù?’ Harper lifted her head. ‘I haven’t seen her in so long.’
‘And now she’s expecting us. I don’t want to disappoint her. How about we just go and see her and I’ll bring you back in a few days? I don’t want to waste the money I spent on the ticket either.’
I felt terrible about manipulating her, but it was for a good cause, I reminded myself.
‘And you know that story you wrote about the plum tree in China? Well, maybe we could go and visit your special plum tree in Zhōngshān Park together, as inspiration for your writing.’
Harper flung back the covers. ‘Every writer needs inspiration. And I would love to see Bì Yù.’ She sat up. ‘We would only go for a few days, right?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And no hospitals, okay?’
I nodded.
‘Okay, let’s go to Shanghai. But we have to bring my writing book. I am sure I will have a lot of stories to write down on this trip.’ She reached into her bedside table and retrieved her creative writing book. ‘Oh, but I’ll have to tell Louis that I’m going.’
‘I already told Louis,’ I said hastily. ‘He’s excited for you.’ The lying made me nauseated. ‘But if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late.’
I helped her out of bed and got her dressed.
When I went to turn off her lamp as were leaving the room, she grabbed hold of my hand.
‘Leave it on, Marlowe.’ She pointed to her porcelain dolls. ‘So they don’t miss me when I’m gone.’
Part Two
Harper
Marlowe and I are sitting in a very nice aeroplane called Cathay Pacific. I have a window seat and I can see that this plane is flying high in the sky. Its wings are not made of feathers but the same kind of shiny hard stuff as a car or a fridge or a microwave.
In between us is a kind lady named Susan Tong. She told me she is called a ‘flight nurse’. This means she is here to help my sore chest on the flight. I noticed she is very good at helping me with my oxygen mask. She has round glasses and her eyes look like little planets from outer space. She is quick and clever at reading the signs of my body and puts an extra blanket on my lap to keep me warm.
There are four other people travelling with us who are a bit sick like me, and a man with small eyes and a toothpick in his mouth, who Marlowe knows. He gives me a strange feeling, like ice running down the back of my neck. I don’t talk to him, but I would like to ask the other people what their names are.
Suddenly, we all wobble in our seats and the plane shakes. I feel a shiver in my belly and chest.
‘Are you all right, Harper?’ Susan asks.
‘Harper?’ Marlowe looks at me. The blacks of her eyes are small and serious. This means that she is feeling panic. ‘It’s only turbulence, there’s no need to worry,’ she says, holding the sides of her seat tightly.
‘I am fine,’ I say. ‘You should relax.’ But I know that she can’t relax, because I see her moving a lot in her seat. I think it would be nice if Susan took care of her too. So I ask her to please give Marlowe my blanket – not for warmth, but for comfort and love. Susan smiles and unwraps a new blanket for my sister, who takes it and puts it around her shoulders.
The plane calms down again and becomes still. I look at the night clouds under the moon outside my window. They are in the shape of a woman with round hips and long hair. I feel an itch in my fingertips. I get out my autobiographical storybook and let the ink from my pen fall onto the page.
There was a beutiful lady who onse upon a time had a sore chest and was sick. She didn’t know it yet but she had majic powers.
I stop and put my pen down for a minute. The word ‘magic’ is not quite right. I think in my brain about other words I can use. I see a tiger in the snow, like in the National Geographic programs that Marlowe watches. It jumps into the air and catches a bird from the sky. The tiger runs fast. In my mind, I can see its strong muscles move under its fur.
There was a beutiful lady who onse upon a time had a sore chest and was sick. She didn’t know it yet but she had majic powers corage.
Yes! That’s it! Now I can feel the energy of my blood all over my body, warm and smooth, filling all my corners with the heat and colour. I have an electric idea. I look back through all the pages of my autobiographical storybook and I write the beginning of the beautiful woman’s journey.
Even though the yung woman was sick in her chest, she found her corage and desided to go on a jorney. Her body filled up with power like a leeping white tiger.
My hand hurts. My head hurts. I put down my pen, close my book and stop my Shakespeare writing for now.
Marlowe
Lions, six of them, were sitting around me on hot concrete. In the distance, buildings touched the sky – unfamiliar buildings, not Hong Kong buildings. I placed my hand on the back of the closest male; his hair was coarse beneath my skin. My body was tight, still. Both afraid and mesmerised, I did not move. Goosebumps rose like a rash up the sides of my arms. Suddenly, I felt cold.
The lion stood, positioned himself, then urinated on the side of my body. The warmth was soothing. I reached for him, unafraid now. His animal breath was close and hot as I leaned in to touch his mane. The lion placed his paw on my chest, slowly pushing the air from my lungs. He lowered his head to my navel. A low and steady growl rumbled at the base of his throat and then his teeth sank into my hip. Pain pierced my belly and shot through to the base of my thighs.
I opened my eyes. Another cramp gripped me and I clutched my abdomen.
‘Are you okay?’ Susan placed her hand on my shoulder.
‘Fine.’ I stood. My seat was marked with blood. Immediately my cheeks felt hot.
‘Oh dear.’ Harper pointed. ‘You’ve got your period.’
‘Shh,’ I hissed before frantically rubbing the spot on my seat until my hands burned, but the thing about blood is it always stains.
Harper removed the oxygen tube from under her nose and told me it might make me feel better if I tried it. Immediately, I reached over to fix it back on, but Susan got there first, swiftly placing the tube back in place.
I wrapped the arms of my jumper around my waist. ‘I won’t be long. Will you be all right, Harper?’
‘Yes, I will be fine. Susan is a kind lady who knows how to help me.’
As she spoke, her chest rose and fell heavily, carrying air through her lungs as if it were filled with stones.
Another cramp rippled through my belly. You have too much yīn in your belly, Wài Pó whispered, not enough yáng. This is no good for childbirth. Just as well, I thought, as I shoved two Panadol in my mouth.
As I walked down the aisle, I passed Mr Zhāng. He was drinking a whisky and reading the in-flight magazine. His eyes were like black orbs. When I looked at them, I felt like I was walking through empty tunnels that led nowhere. He seemed so casual, so carefree, sitting there. I wondered what he had done with our deposit, along with the money he’d collected from the three other sick ‘clients’ who were seated in the rows behind him. There were two men who looked to be in their late fifties and one woman. Their presence made me feel both comforted and on edge.
In a small bathroom cubicle that reeked of lemon air freshener, I cleaned myself. The lighting was dim, and the walls
vibrated with the drone of the engine. I placed the toilet lid down, disinfected it with a soapy tissue and sat. Arms wrapped tightly around my waist, I found myself rocking back and forth. Only in this strange kind of silence did I realise how thin I had become, how loose my shirt was, how my jeans slid down my hips. I left the bathroom and headed straight for the galley.
I asked for a snack, and the flight attendant gave me a packet of Pop-Pan crackers which I ate quickly, leaving nothing but a tiny morsel of seaweed and a few crumbs in the foil wrapper.
‘Nĭ hěn è!’
I turned. An old lady was telling me I was very hungry in Chinese. She then asked if I was from Shanghai.
I shook my head and smiled sheepishly at the lady, then hurried back down the aisle to my seat.
For years I had avoided speaking in my mother’s mother tongue; the memories it evoked were too raw. But I knew that Bì Yù couldn’t be with us every minute of the day, and although Harper could speak, I didn’t want her getting too involved, so for Harper’s sake I would have to try. The shiny red corner of a Chinese–English dictionary stuck out of my handbag, a reluctant purchase from the bookstore in the departures lounge. I drew it out and opened the cover. I had the sensation that I had opened a door as Mum’s voice came spilling out in Chinese. I could hear her singing folk songs, reading me the stories that were read to her as a child. I could hear her whispering that she loved me.
The pilot announced our descent to Shanghai Pudong airport.
‘Zhōng Guó,’ I mouthed. China. I turned to check Harper, but Susan was already tending to her.
A young woman who sat in the row next to mine, peeled an orange with her thumb, its zest flavoured the stale air. Next to her was a small boy who could have easily been her son.
I flipped through the pages. ‘Chéng zi.’ Orange.
I recalled how Mum used to peel oranges for me as a child.
With a heavy thud, the plane touched down. The tyres screeched along the tarmac.
‘Wǒ mén huí jiā le,’ the young woman said to the boy. ‘We’ve come home.’
‘Jiā,’ I repeated.
‘Wǒ mén huí jiā le.’ The little boy grabbed another segment of orange from his mother.
‘Jiā,’ I said again, a little louder this time.
Harper turned towards me. Breathlessly she said: ‘It’s nice to hear you speak.’ She took my hand in hers.
Suddenly, the woman looked at me and smiled. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
I froze. ‘England.’
The woman tilted her head to one side. ‘Eh?’
I remembered what my mother had taught me. ‘Yīng Guó.’ It was only half a lie.
We followed Mr Zhāng through the arrivals hall. There were security guards in every corner, watching. Harper’s wheelchair squeaked incessantly, drawing unwanted attention. I tried to ignore the narrowed eyes staring at her. Was it fear I could read on their faces? Or was it pity? Even though they were gawking at her and not at me, I felt exposed. If this was what I was feeling, I couldn’t imagine what must be going through her mind. Did she notice? I put my hand on her shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze, something Dad would do.
The three other clients of Mr Zhāng were able to walk and they followed behind us, talking jovially as if part of a holiday tour group. Chinese words rolled around their tongues like hot food, always moving never lingering. I wished desperately they would just be quiet.
‘I don’t want to be in this thing.’ Harper folded her arms squarely across her chest. ‘Wheelchairs are for old, old, old people.’
A skinny man walked up close to her, too close, staring without blinking. The crowd pushed him on, but his head remained turned in her direction.
‘He likes my outfit,’ Harper announced.
I gripped the handles, pushing faster. I no longer felt exposed and vulnerable; now I was downright irritated. ‘Nearly there,’ I said.
Outside the arrivals hall, the air was thick with cigarette smoke. Cold wind grazed the side of my face. I adjusted the scarf around Harper’s neck, then tightened my own.
‘It’s very important to stay warm, Harper. It’s colder here than in Hong Kong.’
At the pick-up zone, a cacophony of car horns was blasting. Harper placed her hands over her ears. I too felt assaulted by the noise.
‘Biǎo meì!’ Sister cousins!
Bì Yù was standing next to her little red Honda, waving.
I had told her that we would make our own way to her apartment. I’d wanted to avoid introducing her to Mr Zhāng until it was absolutely necessary.
Harper called to her and waved excitedly. I looked at Mr Zhāng and then back at Bì Yù. Frowning, he said something that I didn’t understand in rough Chinese.
Bì Yù ran towards us, smiling. Her apple cheeks were framed by shoulder-length black hair, with a streak of electric blue. As her gaze moved from me to Harper, her face tightened and dropped. She kneeled in front of Harper, so that they were at eye level, and put a palm on my sister’s cheek.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Harper said. She patted the blue streak in Bì Yù’s hair and laughed.
Bì Yù’s smile was strained now. She seemed at a loss for words.
‘I like your necklace.’ Harper, who was never at a loss, filled the silence, touching Bì Yù’s turquoise beads.
A white van pulled up beside Mr Zhāng. The other clients got in. Mr Zhāng turned to us and spoke rapidly. He was making shooing movements towards Bì Yù. ‘That’s not very nice,’ Harper muttered.
Bì Yù looked at him and then at me. ‘Marlowe, who is this man? He says I can’t come with you. Where are you going?’
‘We’re going back to your house Bì Yù and I don’t think that we should invite him.’ Harper pointed at Mr Zhāng.
I pulled Bì Yù to one side and whispered: ‘His name is Mr Zhāng. He’s arranging Harper’s transplant.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Him?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I was expecting a doctor.’ I could see her mind ticking as she glanced at Mr Zhāng.
‘He’s taking us to see one.’
‘Now? It is so late.’ She spoke to him in rapid Chinese.
He shook his head violently and said something back.
Bì Yù’s forehead creased.
I took out my wallet, and discreetly pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.
‘Please tell him you’ll be very discreet if he lets you accompany us.’
She did as I asked.
Mr Zhāng spat his toothpick out and took the money.
‘He says I am to follow him in my car.’ She looked at me, her face troubled. ‘We’re going to the Shanghai Middle Hospital and are to meet him in the lobby.’
We were quiet on the drive to the hospital. My cousin gripped the steering wheel tightly and glanced frequently at the rear-view mirror. I followed her gaze to Harper, who sat in the back seat listening to music on the radio.
Outside my window, cars zipped past at high speed.
‘Bì Yù, let me explain,’ I said.
‘Later,’ she replied, looking once more at Harper. ‘Let’s talk later.’ I turned to look out the window. Shanghai grew more and more unfamiliar to me with each visit. There were more buildings than I remembered, and they were taller and closer together. Billboards along the side of the road advertised luxury cars, cigarettes and real estate.
I turned back to face Bì Yù. ‘You know I would never do anything to hurt Harper,’ I whispered. ‘I’m doing this to save her life.’
When the car stopped at a red light, she looked over at me and shook her head. The expression on her face said, We are not children anymore.
Bì Yù double-parked in the street outside the hospital. It had begun to hail, pebbles of ice pounding the roof and smacking against the windows. Harper had her hands over her ears.
‘You guys get out here,’ my cousin said. ‘I’ll go find a park and meet you inside.’
Harper peered out the windo
w. ‘This looks like a strange place to live,’ she said.
‘I don’t live here,’ Bì Yù said. ‘This is the hospital.’
I turned to look at my sister.
She looked back at me, wounded. ‘You promised, Marlowe. You promised no more hospitals.’
I couldn’t bear to see the pain and confusion on her face. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, reaching for the door.
‘I don’t want to go in there.’ Harper’s arms were crossed. ‘You said that we were here to visit Bì Yù. You promised no hospitals. You lied. Lying is hurtful and mean and horrid. Sisters don’t lie to each other.’ Shame made my cheeks burn. I got out of the car and walked around to the other side to open Harper’s door. The hail had stopped as quickly as it had started, but the air felt damp and cold. I couldn’t let it sink into Harper’s weak lungs.
‘Well,’ I said, trying not to let my frustration show, ‘let’s just get out of the car now and then we can discuss what to do next. We can’t stay here any longer. We’re causing a traffic jam.’
A car behind us sounded its horn but Harper just sat there, refusing to move.
Come on, Harper. Don’t do this now.
‘Go on, Harper,’ Bì Yù said. ‘I’ll meet you in there soon.’ How did she always manage to sound so calm?
A second car began to honk, but Harper still wouldn’t budge.
‘Kǎo hóng shǔ!’
I turned. At the entrance of the hospital was a man selling xiāo yè – late-night snacks. I saw Harper’s childhood favourites: steaming hot yams. Wài Pó would have called this a gift from heaven.
I ran over to the stall. The smoky air was thick and sweet above the man’s stove. I quickly purchased the yams and raced back to the car. Luckily, a place by the kerb had freed up further along the road, and Bì Yù had quickly claimed it.
Harper stuck her nose into the warm bag and inhaled.
‘Lying is bad,’ she said softly. ‘I am hurt in my heart that you did that.’