Red Butterfly Read online

Em’s voice

  makes me jump.

  We watch Rosalie

  swim like a koi fish,

  slip away from the boys

  like she’s slick with scales.

  I’m not sure

  why Em

  would think

  Rosalie is luckier

  than she is.

  I’m not even sure

  why Em

  is talking

  to me.

  Even though it was a week ago,

  the memory of what

  she said

  forces my body

  stiff.

  She’s nice,

  I say

  stubbornly,

  remembering that

  Rosalie

  stood up for me.

  Em shrugs.

  And lucky.

  A flare of anger

  makes me brave.

  You’re lucky too.

  Em screws up her face.

  You’d never catch me

  wearing that suit.

  Why not?

  Because people would see my scar,

  she says.

  Unless I wear an old-lady suit,

  which I’m not willing to do.

  Rosalie’s scar is on her back,

  and nobody looks at your back.

  I didn’t know Em had a scar,

  but I say,

  It shouldn’t matter

  about your scar

  if you’re with your family.

  It’s ugly,

  she says.

  I’d rather play the piano

  . . . fully clothed.

  Where is your scar?

  I ask.

  You mean you don’t know?

  Rosalie didn’t tell you?

  I shake my head.

  Well, if you have to know.

  She rolls her eyes

  in a way that makes me think

  she was waiting for me to ask

  and yanks down her shirt collar.

  A fat pink line

  descends down the center

  of her chest.

  There.

  Happy?

  What happened?

  I ask.

  Open-heart surgery

  when I was two,

  she says.

  I was a blue baby.

  Brave

  I’m still mad at Em.

  But something else

  slowly

  bites away my anger.

  She has fears too.

  It’s hard to hate her

  when we’re so much alike.

  Reading

  I stare at Mama’s curling, happy name

  inside the Pride and Prejudice cover.

  Then slowly

  turn the page.

  It is a truth universally acknowledged . . .

  The book falls closed

  almost,

  except for the second-to-last page,

  which yawns

  against the stub fingers

  on my right hand.

  There,

  surrounded in hearts and flowery swirls,

  are tiny handwritten words

  I’ve never seen before. . . .

  I’m too shocked to read

  at first,

  because how many times

  have I leafed

  through these pages

  and missed this?

  Words Mama wrote for me

  before she even knew me.

  Blue Baby

  At the kitchen table

  the next morning

  I ask the question

  that’s been knocking around

  in my brain,

  the question I’ve been too afraid to ask

  because I don’t want to face

  Em’s flare of disdain.

  What’s a blue baby?

  It’s a dangerous question,

  considering Em

  is scowling into her cereal bowl.

  Exactly what it sounds like,

  she says

  without looking up.

  My skin was

  literally

  blue.

  That’s why my birth parents

  didn’t want me.

  Oh, Em,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  stirring peanut butter.

  Don’t say it that way.

  It’s the truth, isn’t it?

  Em shouts.

  I mean,

  it’s a fact,

  MOM.

  Em scoots back her chair

  and leaves,

  stomping up the back stairs.

  I feel the tick

  of guilt

  for causing trouble,

  but I push it down

  because there are lots of ways

  to deal with sadness.

  Em doesn’t have to be this way.

  Then abruptly she’s back,

  shoving a photo album

  under my nose

  with a picture of a baby

  in padded clothing,

  hair shaved short,

  sitting on a colorful nursery floor,

  lips,

  rims of fingernails

  all tinged blue,

  but smiling,

  hands clapping,

  a short-haired

  chubby

  Emily.

  I was cute, right?

  Em says,

  setting her elbows on the table.

  I mean, despite the blueness?

  You were cute

  even with the blueness,

  I say,

  still shocked she came back,

  but also surprised

  by her smile.

  We’re just thankful you’re okay,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  smearing peanut butter

  over a slice of bread.

  We’re thankful

  a scar

  is all you have

  to remind us

  you were sick.

  Some days I don’t like it,

  Em says,

  lacing

  her long fingers,

  the fingers I would love to have

  to play the piano.

  But I’m sure you don’t

  like having your hand

  that way either.

  I duck my hand

  under the table.

  It’s okay,

  Em says.

  People’ll get used to it,

  you know.

  It’s too hot here

  to go around in

  long sleeves

  all the time.

  Too hot

  never to go swimming, either,

  I say.

  Em tips her head.

  You got me there.

  Learning

  Em teaches me a song

  to play for Mama,

  for when Mrs. Gurnsey

  lets me open the computer again.

  It has twinkly notes

  up high

  that I make

  one by one

  with my nubs of fingers

  and deep notes

  down low

  I pound with my regular hand.

  All my fingers are happy

  when I play,

  even the not-quite-formed ones.

  Finished

  Mrs. Gurnsey scrubs

  the toilet with a brush

  to make the inside

  bleachy clean.

  I lay Mama’s Pride and Prejudice

  on the counter

  next to one of the sinks.

  (They have two

  right next to each other

  so they can brush their teeth

  separately

  but together.)

  I’m done,

  I say.

  Mrs. Gurnsey raises

  her head.

  Done?

  With Pride and Prejudice,

  I say.

  Sorry I didn’t
let you read it with me.

  That’s okay.

  She sits back on her haunches,

  the toilet brush dangling

  into the bowl.

  She blinks

  like waking up.

  Well, congratulations.

  I think we should celebrate,

  maybe rent the movie

  and do popcorn?

  Okay.

  Under the Surface

  I practice piano

  every day

  and Mrs. Gurnsey’s

  smile

  is a light

  that starts in her eyes

  and glows out her cheeks

  and through the shining strands

  of her hair,

  falling forward

  into her face

  as she leans over the open lid

  to watch the

  piano hammers

  plunk

  every time

  I press a note.

  I think your mama in Montana

  needs to hear this,

  she says.

  I smile,

  a smile that’s been

  waiting

  under the surface

  since the music began.

  Return

  I return

  the granola bars

  two

  by

  two.

  Mrs. Gurnsey

  only says,

  peering at the pile

  while she makes her shopping list,

  Wow, I guess I bought

  a few too many granola bars.

  Dreams

  Next week I’m

  starting piano lessons

  with Emily’s teacher.

  I’ll wear

  my new sleeveless dress

  because she’ll get used to

  seeing my hand

  the way it is.

  Every song I learn

  I’ll play for Mama

  through the computer.

  But Mrs. Gurnsey gets to hear it

  first, because

  I’m getting used to her smile.

  Dear Toby

  Sorry it took me

  so long to say hello

  but

  (I couldn’t think of you

  without the

  churning ache

  of missing).

  I’m doing fine

  (now

  not before

  but now

  okay

  getting there).

  The Gurnseys are nice,

  their house is a mansion,

  and I have my own

  (quiet)

  room

  with carpet

  and shelves of books

  and birds on the wall.

  I’m learning

  to play

  piano

  (even with my

  stubby hand—

  it’s possible!)

  which is fun

  (and

  hard

  sometimes

  but

  beautiful).

  I have two sisters

  who are also from

  China

  and about my age

  (though

  they’re as

  different

  from me

  and different

  from each other

  as people

  can be)

  but you probably

  already knew that.

  Next year I’ll start

  seventh grade

  (with three hundred

  other kids

  my age

  who don’t

  know

  anything

  about me

  and might not

  like me

  and I’ll have

  to wear short sleeves

  because it will be hot

  and I’ll have to run

  in PE)

  with my sister Emily.

  How is Lin Lin?

  How is Yang Zi?

  How is Tianjin?

  Are you busy?

  Say HI to everyone for me.

  Sincerely,

  Kara

  Return Letter

  On the kitchen table

  lies an envelope, unopened,

  with Chinese stamps!

  The written words are

  small, precise,

  and a photo slides out

  of the neatly folded paper,

  a photo that sharpens the breath

  in my lungs.

  Dear Kara,

  Fantastic to hear from you!

  I found this old photo

  of our

  Xiao Bo

  from about a year ago,

  before you came to the orphanage.

  I thought you would like

  to have it.

  It’s not the same around here

  without you two.

  We’re all doing as well

  as can be expected.

  Lin Lin sends

  her love

  and wants you to know

  she’s learned to roll.

  Had a funny thing happen

  the other day.

  One of the kids

  (won’t mention any names)

  brought me this and said

  she thought it might be yours,

  asked me to mail it to you.

  I think she’s right

  because I recall seeing it

  brightening your hair.

  Glad the red butterfly

  can find

  her proper

  home again.

  Don’t fret if the adjustment to your new life

  has been tough.

  Remember,

  it takes a while for a butterfly’s wings

  to dry.

  Affectionately yours,

  Toby

  Over My Shoulder

  Pretty,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  reaching past my shoulder

  to touch the gauze

  of the red butterfly’s

  wings.

  May I?

  she asks,

  picking up the photograph.

  Who are they?

  This is Toby,

  I say, pointing.

  And this is—

  my voice breaks—

  Xiao Bo.

  Mrs. Gurnsey scoots out a chair,

  settles beside me.

  Tell me about them,

  she says.

  The unsaid words

  have crushed my heart.

  I think

  finally

  it might be time

  to speak them.

  Epilogue

  ONE YEAR LATER

  Flying

  I’m flying

  over America

  with Mom,

  just the two of us,

  over trees

  and hills

  and rivers

  on our way to

  Missoula,

  Montana.

  (There aren’t as many mountains

  as I expected.

  Maybe someday

  when I’m older

  I will ride my bike

  from Tampa

  to Montana

  and back again.)

  I want to tell

  Mama

  so many things

  when I see her—

  about my new red bike

  that Mom lets me

  ride to school

  and my locker

  and how I got As

  in English and art

  and how my piano teacher

  says I have a gift

  and thinks someday

  I’ll play

  at Carnegie Hall.

  When the plane lands

  I feel the

  crash

  crash

  of my heart,

  want to dig my nails into the

  armrests />
  because I’m really

  actually here

  and I didn’t have to take a bus,

  sneak away,

  or live on granola bars.

  All I had to do was ask.

  From the jetway tunnel

  I catch a glimpse of them all

  behind a blue dividing rope.

  My feet slow.

  Mom’s hand squeezes my arm.

  Mama’s hair is dyed brown,

  cut short, but

  I knew that from our screen talks.

  Daddy is all blur and scruffy cheeks,

  and Jody is thinner—

  or maybe I’m just used to looking at Americans.

  Matthew and Madison

  are toothy smiles

  and blue, blinking eyes.

  Now my feet can’t hold still.

  I run

  run

  run

  and hurl myself into Mama’s

  waiting arms.

  Her clothes are different

  stiffer

  newer

  colorful

  scratchy

  and her perfume is thick.

  When I bury my face into her neck

  her dangling earrings

  tickle my cheek,

  the air around us filled with

  hello/oh, honey/how was your flight/this way,

  words people say when there are too many words.

  Through the blur,

  I notice

  Mom hanging back,

  timid,

  with a smile as fake

  as the Gucci purse

  from China

  that hangs on her arm.

  This is my new mom,

  Marilyn Gurnsey,

  I say in my

  BIG

  LOUD

  MONTANA

  voice

  that can be heard

  across mountain ranges.

  Mama extracts herself

  from me

  and stretches out her arms.

  She looks old,

  but beautiful,

  her face lit

  with a joy

  I forgot could live there,

  that I only ever saw

  in Hangzhou pictures.

  Thank you.

  Her voice whispers like a prayer

  as she grips Mom’s hand.

  Mom’s mouth opens,

  but all she can do is nod.

  Mama pulls her

  into a long,

  rocking

  hug.

  Then they

  reach for me

  and I come

  to nestle between them,

  caught up

  in their fierce

  stubborn

  irrepressible

  love.

  Author’s Note

  Every author dreams of writing a book about a subject that’s rooted deeply in her heart. My chance came when I wrote the book you’re holding now.

  I grew up in the bustling city of Hong Kong, on the southern tip of China. In those days, Hong Kong was a British colony, separate from the Chinese motherland. During my senior year of high school, I traveled with a friend over the border to Fuzhou, a city about halfway up China’s coast, to teach English to college students. While on that trip we were invited to visit a local orphanage.