Red Butterfly Page 5
Zhao Bin has an electric
Chinese/English
dictionary
he uses
to figure out
what I’m saying.
I ask
if I can borrow it
a minute
and type in
the secret words.
Shou yang
/to adopt/
Hu kou ben(r)
/No Result, Please Try Again/
What is hu kou ben(r)?
Zhao Bin
mouths the word after me,
eyebrows crinkling.
My tones must be wrong.
But suddenly
he claps his hands,
rattles off something in Chinese
too fast to understand.
SPEAK ENGLISH!
comes the voice from the kitchen.
I’ll show you,
he says.
He rushes
to the bedroom,
returns clutching a book.
Very important,
he says and
holds it out to me.
A small book
with rice-paper-thin
pages:
HOUSEHOLD REGISTER
in English on the front.
When I reach for it he cries,
Don’t touch!
SPEAK ENGLISH!
yells his mother.
Zhao Bin
ruffles the pages.
My grandmother here.
My grandfather there.
This is my mother.
This is my father.
This is me.
He jabs at the pages.
My eyes pick up
birth dates,
places of birth
before he slaps the book closed.
What happens if you don’t have one of those?
I ask.
Zhao Bin shrugs,
chews his finger.
You’re nobody.
He sets it
gingerly on the table
out of my reach,
and types frantically
on the electronic dictionary,
then flashes the screen at me.
/Identity/
Nobody
Awake
awake
All Zhang Laoshi’s words
come together
with their missing puzzle pieces.
Awake
awake
in a bed
next to Mama
whose chest rises
and falls
so peacefully,
her white hair
a puff
across the
gray pillow.
I have no hu kou,
no /identity/
Shou yang
/to adopt/
The cold truth
washes over me, a vague
frozen shudder
that makes me roll
one side
to the other
to the other
to the other.
Mama and Daddy never adopted me.
I have no identity,
no mother,
no father,
no little red book
holding all my information
from the People’s Republic of China.
Which means,
as far as the government is concerned,
I don’t exist.
Replay
I replay the conversation
with Zhang Laoshi
in my head,
all the right words
snapped into place.
Your mama can’t /adopt/
because she’s too old.
Besides,
you don’t have /an identity/.
It’s hopeless,
not even your older sister
can help.
If your mama left
she couldn’t take you with her,
so she can’t let them find her.
She’s afraid
our neighbors
will report her,
you understand?
Yes,
now I understand.
The Worst Part
Mama
has been
unhappy
because of me,
because of a decision
she made
long ago
to bring home a baby
she could never call her own,
to raise a child
who wasn’t hers,
in a country
where she didn’t belong.
She must regret it.
Headache
Mama has a headache today
which keeps her in bed
which means I’m stuck in this
apartment box
[living room]
[kitchen]
[bathroom]
with Jody
who never stops talking
who follows me around
talking
talking
talking.
I plan my escape
into the sweaty
summer air.
But Jody beats me to it.
Let’s get out of here,
go on a walk or something,
let Mom get some sleep.
Nowhere is safe
and there is no excuse
I can think of
to get rid of her.
One Whole Walk
What do I talk to Jody about
for
one
whole
walk
when all my brain can think of
is the
truth
about
me?
It doesn’t matter.
Jody talks enough for both of us.
I ignore the stares,
people pausing,
bikes slowing or
squealing to a halt.
They gape
at her
big white legs,
tallness,
paleness,
yellow-hairedness,
everybody wondering
why this
big white lady
is walking with this
small Chinese girl, talking
SO LOUDLY
in English.
Jody seems
not to notice.
McDonald’s
Cool air
blasts
my sweaty skin,
almost
too cold.
Jody tells me she never
eats McDonald’s,
but today
she’ll make an exception
for me.
She orders
two Big Macs
two large fries
two large Cokes
two vanilla ice creams
swirled in cones.
I help her sift through
Chinese money,
pay the cashier
who giggles
behind her hand
and talks about the fat foreigner
when our backs are turned.
We sit at the window
in a place for two.
Jody eats
her whole Big Mac
and half of mine
(I don’t like the sauce)
and shows me how to lick
my ice cream
to keep it from dripping.
The Coke bubbles
gurgle
inside my stomach.
Does Mama regret
bringing me home?
I ask the question out of nowhere.
Jody is midlick.
One of her eyebrows
rises
crookedly.
Hmm . . .
The noise is a grunt
and a consideration
all at once.
She sets her cone
on the table
without toppling it
; and rubs her chin,
looking at me
like she’s never
seen me before.
Good question . . .
Honestly?
I doubt she regrets
a single thing.
Mom wanted
another baby
more than
anything else
in the world,
but she could never have one
after me.
I think she’s convinced
God reached down
from heaven
and placed you
in her arms
and that’s the plain truth
since you seem to want it.
I set my cone
across from Jody’s.
They sit
like two people
face-to-face.
It would have been better
if I’d never been born.
The words come out.
I don’t know if I mean them,
but I want to see her reaction,
want her to know
how
heavy
I feel, heavy enough
to cry.
I stare at the table
as Jody shifts, feel
the press of discomfort I’ve caused.
Hey now,
don’t talk like that,
not after all Mom’s done for you.
It’s selfish.
She pushes herself to a stand.
Let’s get going.
I’m selfish?
I’m not willing to be done
so I stay sitting.
I’m just saying . . .
Jody leans over.
You should be thankful.
I cover my face
unwilling to let her see
the wandering of my tears.
Thankful for what?
That I make everybody around me
miserable?
Come on.
Jody jostles my shoulder.
But I’m not done.
Maybe I should go away.
Then Mama can go back to Montana
and everybody’ll be happy!
Jody presses me to her,
my face caught against the twin cushions
of her chest.
It’s supposed to look like a hug
to all the people in the restaurant, but
to me it’s a straitjacket.
I hold my breath
not wanting to smell
Jody’s mix of
sweet sweat
and baby powder.
Don’t you dare
talk like that.
Come on, Kara,
snap out of it, all right?
You wanna give me a heart attack?
No,
I don’t want to hurt
anyone,
not even Jody,
especially not Mama.
I just want to stop
feeling bad
for all this
stuff I never knew happened
even though it all happened
to me,
around me,
because of me.
I catch a glimpse of us
in the large wall mirror
as Jody guides me
to the door.
My face,
streaked with tears,
is shaded gray,
a thousand years old.
Forgiven
Mama is up,
curled on the sofa
when we return,
clicking through
television channels.
(Sometimes she likes to watch
Qing dynasty soap operas
that make her cry
even though she can’t understand
the words.)
Her face
brightens
when she sees us
as if it’s a television screen
suddenly
flipped on.
I hoped you were together,
she says.
Where did you go?
She leans forward
eagerly
as Jody says,
McDonald’s.
We had a nice time.
Kara got ice cream.
When Jody goes to the bathroom,
Mama cups my face
in her rough hands.
Did you like that?
Time with your big sister?
I nod a lie.
And just like that
I know
I’ve been forgiven.
The Question
I sit
across
from Zhao Bin
helping him
with verb tenses.
(I did not know
verbs
had tenses
because I always
tensed them
without
thinking.)
Studies/am studying/have studied/has been studying
Was studying/had studied/had been studying
Will study/will be studying/will have studied/ will have been studying
Learning English is so much harder
than knowing it.
Then I realize
he’s
staring.
At me.
I smile at the open page.
He smiles too,
dimpling.
Why do you
always
hide your arm
under the table?
His question strikes
like an invisible
icy patch
on the sidewalk
when I’m pedaling
extra fast:
I tumble
before I realize
why.
Ways to Answer
Make up a story
about a
contagious
rash
or
Say I lost my
fingers
in a motorcycle
accident
and don’t want him to see
because it’s too gruesome
or
Slip my hand
from its
hiding spot,
lay my arm across the table
in full view,
and say,
I was born this way.
What I Say
American girls keep
their right hands hidden
at all times
except in the privacy
of their homes
when only their parents
are there.
In America
it’s rude to ask
to see
a girl’s right hand.
You need to learn more about American culture.
It’s hard not to laugh
at Zhao Bin’s
expression.
He glares down
at his verbs,
all the curiosity
knocked out of him.
Best to Hide
I keep
rehearsing
my conversation
with Zhao Bin.
My explanation worked,
so why do I dread
going back?
Why do I plan
to tell his mom
tomorrow,
I’m sick,
no more class
indefinitely?
I thought
he never noticed
anything different
about me,
never wondered
about my hand
or why a Chinese
girl was living
in an apartment
with an old American woman
nobody ever sees.
Maybe Mama was right,
maybe it’s best to hide,
to stay safe,
so it won’t hurt like his
every time
I make a friend.
Maybe safety and quiet,
schedule and thankfulness
are the most important things
in the world,
like Mama said.
One Morning
At breakfast
I sip a bag of soy milk
through a straw.
Beautiful quiet
because Jody is sleeping.
She leaves tomorrow
early,
the clock ticks
hopefully.
Maybe after she goes
I can
finally read
Pride and Prejudice.
It will be wonderful
to fall back softly
into the old mold,
the one I wanted so badly,
for so long,
to break,
but now
yearn for
like a warm sweater
on a chilly day.
I’m almost glad
Jody came.
Maybe
she’s not all bad.
Just American.
Maybe
I won’t mind her coming again
if her occasional visits
remind me
how much I love my life
alone
with Mama.
Fall
Jody appears in the doorway
at 9:10 a.m.
tipping slightly,
groggy with sleep.
But then she keeps tipping,
mumbling
as she
makes
one bursting
fitful grab
at a bookshelf
where Mama’s twelve glass animals nest.
A rush of
broken glass,
Mama’s
high-pitched
shriek
that lingers
even as Jody’s
body settles
lumpy
and still
across the living room
floor.
Help
I must have wings
because I fly down the steps
bang
on Zhao Bin’s door
knock
knock
knock
until my knuckles split.
Oh, please come
please come
please come
please come
but no one comes.
Down one more flight,
leaping the last six steps.
Zhang Laoshi is already
waiting,
eyes burning
to find out what all the commotion is about,
her ears so sharp
she heard my sister fall
four floors up.
We Wait
Zhang Laoshi calls
the ambulance.
There is nothing to do
with my pounding
heart
(ba-bum)
(ba-bum)
(ba-bum)
but climb the stairs,
wait with Mama,
who is on her knees
next to Jody,
who is breathing
in shallow
fractured
gasps.
Mama
had the presence of mind