Red Butterfly Read online

  to ask Mama the questions

  burning in my chest.

  How will I bring them up

  out of cold, blue nothing

  when I have never

  talked about them before?

  But I want to know

  why bringing me home

  why not calling the police

  made a mess,

  why I feel the pressure

  of blame

  when no one has ever

  blamed me aloud

  for Daddy leaving,

  for my bad Chinese,

  for our long days inside,

  Mama hiding from the sun,

  never sending me to school

  as if we were blotting out

  our own existences

  and only surviving

  day

  by

  day

  by

  day.

  What is the disaster I cannot see?

  Or am I the disaster

  with my stubby hand?

  Am I the mess no one can fix?

  Bury

  My fear

  of upsetting

  quiet

  gentle

  Mama

  makes me

  wrap up my

  questions

  like spoiled meat

  in butcher paper

  and bury them so deep,

  so long,

  I can almost forget they’re there.

  Others

  I wake early

  the next morning,

  peek through the window

  to watch the kids

  from our building

  leave for school.

  One wears a

  red scarf knotted at her throat,

  climbs on the back

  of her baba’s motorbike.

  Another

  with purple hair-streaks

  inspects her nails as she

  waits for a taxi,

  the same taxi

  every day.

  The only boy

  in our building

  has a nice mouth,

  a mouth with two dimples

  in either cheek.

  His name is Zhao Bin.

  He rides his bike alone,

  his mother

  shouting

  warnings and

  good-byes

  from their third-

  floor window.

  Seeing him

  wave over his shoulder

  makes my heart stutter.

  I imagine him

  waving at me.

  We both ride our bikes too fast.

  Phone Card

  Mama sends me to

  buy a phone card

  to call Daddy.

  The woman wants one hundred,

  but I haggle her down

  to twenty.

  She acts angry,

  rummages through

  her pink

  fanny pack

  for change,

  hands me the card,

  and shoos me away.

  Misplaced

  On my way home,

  like always,

  I inspect

  each

  passing

  face,

  realizing

  one of them

  could be

  her.

  I’m not sure what I’d do

  if I found someone

  who looked

  like

  me,

  walked

  like

  me,

  laughed

  like

  me.

  Excuse me, ma’am,

  but eleven years ago

  did you

  misplace a child?

  Secrets

  Mama and I call Daddy,

  our ears pressed

  to the receiver,

  our foreheads touching.

  Daddy can’t believe

  we’re so low on money.

  Why didn’t we call sooner?

  Are we okay?

  Mama assures him we’re fine,

  just tired of eating cabbage.

  But I sent it . . .,

  he says.

  Well, I’m afraid it never came,

  she says.

  We need more.

  Daddy is quiet.

  Mama squeezes my hand.

  Give us a minute,

  Kara dear.

  I back

  into the kitchen

  for a glass of water.

  From the counter where I pour

  I can

  watch Mama

  without her seeing.

  She hunches over the phone,

  lowers her voice to a whisper.

  I was so worried,

  she says, gravel-voiced.

  Did you pay Mr. Wang?

  I don’t know who Mr. Wang is

  or why

  he needs to be

  paid.

  But their

  secrets

  make my gut crumple

  hard and tight

  like a fistful of paper.

  Mama Hangs Up

  She tries

  to smile

  but the smile

  loses its way.

  He’s sending more money.

  A kiss on my forehead

  is supposed to mean

  everything is okay.

  But what if

  this keeps happening?

  I ask.

  Why don’t we just

  go live in America

  with Daddy

  now?

  Everything

  Don’t ask me,

  Kara,

  don’t ask me.

  Don’t make this hard,

  Kara,

  don’t make this harder to bear.

  Be thankful,

  Kara,

  you have a mother,

  a father,

  a sister.

  Be thankful,

  Kara,

  you have a home,

  food,

  safety.

  Translation:

  Don’t ask for more,

  Kara,

  than what I give you,

  because I’m giving you

  everything.

  Normal

  Sometimes

  I don’t want everything

  if this is

  EVERYTHING.

  Sometimes

  I want normal.

  Whatever that is.

  Phone Call

  All these weeks

  the phone has been silent.

  Daddy never calls,

  he only writes long letters

  on lined notebook paper.

  Cheaper that way.

  Now the phone ring

  ring

  rings

  Mama leaps to answer,

  suddenly as active

  as a young gazelle

  on a nature program.

  Spring!

  Spring!

  Spring!

  My sister Jody’s voice blares

  through the earpiece,

  her very loud voice

  that makes me cringe

  because who needs to speak

  so loudly

  when we are right here

  with our ears pressed

  to the phone?

  Sheesh.

  I’m coming to visit,

  she says.

  Roll out the red carpet.

  Visitors

  We don’t get visitors.

  Jody is the only one,

  and she has only come

  from America twice

  my whole life.

  Once, before Daddy moved back to Montana,

  another time two years ago

  “to check on us.”

  That first visit is part of my

  photo album of memories:

  things I don’t remember except for pictures

  to p
rove they happened.

  Daddy’s part of that album too.

  I’m on a bridge in Hangzhou

  between Daddy and Jody.

  Hangzhou is

  the city of artists and poets,

  gardens and tea.

  Three years old,

  that’s all I was,

  but Mama says we took the train there,

  the train back

  overnight

  and it was so beautiful

  I couldn’t believe it.

  It must have been the adventure

  of our lives.

  It must have been,

  because Mama is standing in pictures

  with her arms and face bare to the sun,

  and a smile as big as a tipped half-moon.

  It was sometime after that,

  after Jody returned home,

  that Daddy left too.

  Mama tells me the reason—

  Teaching English wasn’t his thing,

  as if that explanation should span

  the nothingness

  of his memory.

  When it comes to Mama’s husband,

  my father,

  all I have are crumpled letters,

  old photographs,

  and the times I’ve heard his voice

  over the phone.

  He never visits,

  just sends Jody.

  Last time she said,

  Daddy sends his love

  as if that makes up for everything,

  especially Mama’s far-away eyes

  wishing for Montana.

  Explaining Jody

  She is loud because she lives in Montana

  and must holler from

  one mountain to another.

  That’s Mama’s excuse for her.

  Also, she’s a reporter,

  so she must make her voice heard

  or no one will listen.

  I know other facts about Jody:

  Matthew and Madison

  are the names of

  her blue-eyed children

  nearly my age.

  She has a dog named Sparky,

  taller than Madison’s shoulder.

  (I wonder how you fit a dog

  THAT BIG

  in your apartment?)

  A husband named Willard

  I’ve never met,

  haven’t even seen pictures of

  because he’s camera shy.

  In their apartment

  is a thing called a fireplace

  where you burn trees

  and hang socks for Santa

  at Christmastime.

  This is where

  Jody,

  Matthew,

  Madison,

  and Sparky

  take family pictures.

  Minus Willard.

  The Last Time

  The last time

  Jody came

  everything was

  discombobulated

  and expensive.

  Jody wanted

  fancy food,

  fancy drinks,

  and wanted

  Mama to pay for it all.

  After she left

  we ate cabbage

  and rice

  for a month

  even though Daddy

  sent extra money.

  Mama doesn’t understand

  why I’m not more excited about

  Jody coming.

  She’s your sister,

  she says.

  I’m already sick of cabbage,

  I say.

  She knits

  her invisible eyebrows

  together

  and won’t try to figure out

  what I mean.

  Jody is her daughter

  born out of her body.

  I guess I shouldn’t expect Mama

  to understand.

  She’s probably excited

  to have someone to talk to

  besides me.

  Zhao Bin

  I am going down,

  he is going up

  at three fifteen p.m.

  on a Saturday.

  I am going out to free time,

  to ride my bike,

  to buy vegetables.

  He is coming back

  from Saturday

  half-day school.

  He only moved here one year ago

  and he has never come up

  at three fifteen p.m. on a Saturday

  when I’m going down.

  It is strange to see him up close

  after only watching him

  from the window.

  His mouth turns up

  when he sees me

  and the dimples appear

  when he smiles.

  I try to do it back,

  that easy smile,

  but my heart distracts me,

  hurling itself against

  the cage of my chest

  like it wants to

  break out

  and scurry away.

  Regular Family

  I learned his name,

  Zhao Bin,

  from listening to his mother

  yell at him.

  All the family’s voices

  curl out into

  the echoing stairwell:

  Father

  Mother

  Grandmother

  Grandfather

  Zhao Bin

  Usually

  when I pass,

  I slow down,

  every step a

  tiny

  soundless

  centimeter

  so I can

  listen to their

  quick

  comfortable

  chatter

  through the

  iron

  gate.

  I secretly wish,

  even when they call

  Zhao Bin

  stupid boy

  because of his mistakes,

  that I could be part of

  a regular family

  like theirs.

  Jody’s Visit

  Mama counts the days

  on a calendar,

  crossing them out in

  thick

  black

  pen.

  Jody is coming in June,

  now it is February.

  A lot of counting.

  I wish Daddy would visit

  instead of loud Jody.

  I wrote to ask him,

  but he wrote back:

  The old savings account can’t take

  that kind of abuse,

  not as long as I’m working security,

  and I’ve got a feeling

  my days of long-distance travel are over.

  I’m not as tough as your mama.

  My old back . . .

  Then he drew a round

  smiling face

  with one eye closed.

  I guess a ticket to China is so expensive,

  only rich reporters like Jody can afford one.

  My Idea

  I write back to Daddy

  with an idea.

  Mama says it’s rude to ask for things

  for oneself,

  so I don’t show her the letter before I

  paste on the stamps.

  Mama has books

  in storage

  in Montana,

  old ones

  from when she was young:

  a Jane Austen box set

  and one about a girl

  who finds secret tunnels

  and solves mysteries.

  Nobody’s looked at them in twenty years.

  If Daddy can’t come himself,

  can he please let Jody bring the books?

  I mail the letter

  while I’m out buying vegetables,

  ride my bike

  extra fast

  to the post office and back.

  In all the excitement

  I left my gloves at home.


  Icy wind carves blood-patterns

  on my knuckles,

  but thinking of all those words

  in hiding

  waiting to be read

  makes my brain fizzy,

  my heart warm.

  At home,

  I crack open the copy of Jane Eyre

  I’ve already read

  seven times.

  Anticipation

  makes every word new.

  Dreams

  Ninety days

  until Jody comes

  and all I can think of

  is Mama’s Jane Austen box set.

  If Jody would bring

  Mama’s Jane Austen box set,

  I would forgive Daddy

  for never coming.

  If Jody would bring

  Mama’s Jane Austen box set,

  I will never

  think bad thoughts

  ever

  again

  about my scheduled,

  going-nowhere

  life.

  Bozeman

  No,

  Mama says,

  we can’t ask Jody

  for the Jane Austen box set.

  It’s in Bozeman

  with Daddy

  and she’s in Missoula

  with Matthew,

  Madison,

  the big dog, Sparky,

  and Willard.

  Bozeman

  and

  Missoula

  are

  mountains

  and

  mountains

  and

  mountains

  apart.

  We can’t ask such a thing.

  It would be an

  in

  con

  ven

  ience.

  (I don’t tell her I already asked

  a month ago.)

  Distance

  I thought

  Bozeman

  and

  Missoula

  were two places

  in the same place.

  I thought

  you could

  pedal a bicycle

  and be there in

  half an hour.

  But I guess

  Montana is like

  Jane Eyre’s England:

  you can walk forever

  and still not be

  where you want to go.

  And I guess

  this means

  I won’t be getting

  Jane Austen

  because Daddy can’t be expected

  to go that far

  for me.

  Trapped

  What would it be like

  to take my red bicycle

  and ride

  ride

  ride

  forever?

  I wonder if I could reach

  the snaking Great Wall

  or Hangzhou with

  its gardens and bridges

  or the place where the ocean

  sloshes onto the land.

  But all I know

  is this small section