Red Butterfly Read online

  to sweep up the

  glass animals.

  I slide a pillow under Jody’s head.

  A tiny fear

  chews at my brain

  like a fat, black caterpillar—

  that I caused this

  somehow,

  caused this stress

  that led to sickness,

  that all my bad thoughts

  crawled,

  crowded Jody,

  all my wishing her away

  made her sick,

  made her fall,

  made her not get back up.

  I try to squish

  that tiny black fear

  between my fingers,

  but it clings to life,

  whispering,

  It’s your fault if she dies.

  Taking Jody

  When they arrive,

  our boxy apartment

  becomes

  [boxier]

  [smaller]

  [crammed]

  with pushing,

  eager

  people

  and neighbors

  gathered in the doorway.

  I can’t take

  this mix of breath

  reek of bodies

  clamor of voices

  feet

  equipment

  slamming

  wedging

  unraveling.

  I push back

  against a wall,

  wait

  with my hands

  behind my back,

  the nails of my left hand

  digging into my right.

  I want them to

  take Jody,

  make her better,

  make this all go away.

  I want her loud,

  grating

  voice to yell,

  I’m fine, I’m fine,

  as she pushes them back.

  Jody’s silence

  scares me the most.

  The Ambulance

  The ambulance

  is a low,

  white van

  with windows.

  The security guards from our complex

  mill around,

  just as eager to hear

  the news and

  witness the chaos

  as the neighbors.

  Stern policemen arrive

  with tucked-in blue shirts,

  black boxes

  blaring from their waists.

  Mama stands still,

  face blank,

  eyes cloudy,

  looking so old,

  all of herself exposed

  without her hat,

  her scarf,

  her long gloves.

  When a policeman

  asks for documents,

  visa and passport,

  she pushes him away,

  stalks to the ambulance

  and climbs inside

  next to Jody

  without a word.

  I stand back in the shadows of the stairwell.

  Invisible.

  Decision

  With a bang

  the double doors

  close.

  Mama and Jody will be carried away

  and I don’t know where they’re going.

  Mama!

  My voice is a baby bird’s.

  Mama!

  She doesn’t hear

  from the white vacuum

  inside.

  I run at the van, pound

  with full hand/half hand

  together,

  not caring who sees.

  Mama!

  She looks up,

  her memory

  snapping awake.

  She points,

  yelling English

  as if that will make

  the ambulance man

  understand.

  The man

  who closed the doors

  reluctantly

  opens them again.

  I climb inside.

  Fear

  As we drive away,

  the stern policeman

  who wanted Mama’s documents

  circulates

  among our neighbors,

  one eyebrow arched

  in a rigid peak.

  He watches

  with a hawk’s fierce eye

  as our van rounds the corner.

  I watch him

  point after us,

  still talking,

  still asking,

  and fear settles—

  dark

  deep

  fear.

  The Journey

  Mama holds Jody’s hand,

  silent tears

  running

  snail-like

  trails

  down her

  cheeks.

  We sway

  lurch

  bump,

  wait in long traffic

  lines,

  sirens

  blaring.

  The other cars don’t budge.

  The men in the van

  wear stone faces.

  Under the

  clear breathing mask

  Jody’s skin

  is gray,

  eyes sunken,

  chest

  barely

  rising

  and

  falling.

  Diagnosis

  The doctor

  speaks English

  and begins by telling us

  she read at Oxford—

  whatever that means.

  Her glasses are

  turquoise rectangles,

  her shoes

  gold flowers,

  her white hospital coat

  frayed,

  yellowing at the collar,

  gray at the cuff.

  She speaks

  kindly,

  nodding

  constantly,

  her English a

  lilting song

  over the hallway

  rush.

  I strain to hear.

  Pulmonary embolism.

  The doctor’s words are

  distinct, but

  I don’t know what they mean.

  Not a heart attack?

  I ask.

  No,

  she says.

  Blood clot in the lung.

  Verdict

  Two weeks

  in the hospital.

  One month

  before Jody can

  take an airplane

  home

  to Matthew,

  Madison,

  big dog Sparky,

  and Willard.

  One whole month

  stretches

  into the distance like forever.

  Mama

  and the doctor

  pass words

  back and forth,

  a shuttlecock

  of questions

  and reassurances

  lobbed

  between them.

  But she’ll be all right?

  She’s out of danger.

  She’ll be all right?

  Yes, she’ll be all right.

  That’s the important thing.

  She has children, you know,

  back in America.

  They depend on her.

  I depend on you, Mama,

  I want to say.

  Because Mama has gone

  from talking to no one

  to talking to everyone

  and I don’t

  feel

  safe.

  Go!

  After the doctor leaves,

  Mama grasps my shoulders.

  I’ll stay here at the hospital.

  You go home,

  she says.

  Get the phone card

  from my top drawer.

  Call Willard

  and Daddy.

  Tell them what happened to Jody.

  Then empty the envelopes

  and bring the money to me
.

  Go!

  I can’t say it,

  I can’t say it,

  because all Mama’s hopes

  ride high on me

  obeying her now.

  I cannot be

  defiant

  and break

  her

  heart.

  But my soul screams

  as I back

  toward the

  separating door:

  What if I lose you?

  Part Two

  Dissolve

  I Wish

  My red bike is

  locked outside

  our apartment,

  so I walk home,

  sweat

  trickling down

  my spine and

  the soft backs

  of my knees,

  wish for even

  a small breeze

  to push me

  on my way.

  My shoes

  beat

  a rhythm

  on dirty cement.

  Still in my pajamas.

  Mr. Wang

  The gawkers are

  gone,

  except for one man

  who stands

  in the middle

  of the floor

  gazing at dusty footprints.

  I pull back

  against the creaking gate

  and he turns:

  a tall man

  with a potbelly

  and bloodshot eyes.

  You’re the girl,

  aren’t you?

  he says.

  I am Mr. Wang,

  the landlord.

  My legs tremble

  from fatigue

  and fear,

  but I cannot make them

  move.

  Come here.

  He motions

  with long

  tapered

  fingers

  that draw me close

  despite myself.

  What happened?

  I tell him

  in my

  halting

  Chinese,

  shuddering back

  from the cigarette

  stench

  of his breath.

  He says,

  The police were here.

  It’s over now.

  Go tell the old foreign woman

  it’s over.

  The old foreign woman.

  He means Mama.

  His palm slaps my shoulder

  hard

  as he casts a

  significant glance

  at my right hand

  that I forgot to hide.

  They’ll find you a new place to live.

  He looks sorry to say it.

  And the old foreign woman

  owes me a month’s rent . . .

  He flutters a hand.

  . . . at her convenience.

  Stairwell

  Blind

  with breathlessness

  I don’t see Zhang Laoshi

  until I plow into her.

  Her thin body sways

  like a reed

  on the lake.

  Sorry!

  I whisper,

  but even my soft voice

  fills the stairwell

  like a shout.

  You’re going? Where?

  she asks,

  clinging to the handle of her gate.

  Mama and I

  both have to go,

  I say.

  My verbs are all wrong,

  but for once, Zhang Laoshi

  doesn’t scold.

  She grips my arm,

  but I can only see this is true

  through eyes that

  swim in

  murky water.

  I can barely feel her touch.

  Zaijian,

  she says.

  It is a hopeful

  thing to say.

  “Zaijian” means “good-bye,”

  but also “see you later.”

  Please

  I don’t want a new home.

  I want

  Mama.

  Jody can stay

  forever

  if she wants

  after she is well.

  She can lie on our sofa

  and talk

  and talk

  and talk

  as loudly as she likes.

  I’m sorry I

  complained,

  whoever heard me

  say I wasn’t happy

  with my life

  the way it was.

  I’m sorry I

  said all those

  words

  to Jody

  to make her sick

  to make her fall

  to make her not get back up.

  I’m sorry I didn’t realize

  I had

  everything

  when I had it.

  Fly

  Fly,

  red bike, fly

  back to Mama

  to the hospital

  before it’s too late.

  Because maybe

  the fat landlord is wrong,

  nothing is over.

  We will escape

  to a different place,

  a quiet corner of the world

  where /identity/

  means nothing,

  where humanity

  means everything.

  Where

  flimsy papers

  that proclaim

  you are somebody

  don’t exist.

  Where family is

  whoever you decide it should be

  and all the questions

  stop.

  The Hospital

  Jody’s room

  has a row of six beds,

  laundry strung on a line across the window,

  someone’s panties flap,

  a T-shirt drips a puddle.

  The walls are half-blue/half-white

  with shiny paint.

  Fat silver radiators,

  a funny smell,

  half urine/half bleach.

  Rice cookers

  plugged in at the wall, spouting steam.

  This is where Jody lies in a cold coma

  on a flat white bed.

  Moth

  Mama is

  a fragile moth

  of night and shadow.

  If I touch her

  she might

  flutter

  away.

  If I tell her

  what the fat landlord said

  she might

  twirl

  on pale wings

  out the window

  to Montana

  and forget me.

  One Chair

  There is only one chair

  next to Jody’s bed

  so Mama

  pulls me into her lap,

  pushes her nose

  into my hair.

  What happened?

  I take a deep breath

  and risk everything,

  tell her everything

  the landlord said.

  Mama says,

  I can’t leave Jody.

  If the police come

  we’ll work it out.

  Did you call Daddy?

  No,

  I couldn’t call

  anybody.

  I couldn’t even retrieve

  the phone card

  or the money

  because the landlord

  blocked my path

  to the bedroom door

  and I didn’t want him

  to follow me,

  to rob us.

  When I tell Mama this, she nods,

  pressing her fist

  to her forehead.

  Then she says,

  Stay with Jody.

  Hold her hand.

  I’ll go home to get the phone card

  and the money.

  I’ll talk to Mr. Wang.

  She hurries
away

  before I get a chance to say

  good-bye

  or cling

  or cry

  or anything.

  Holding Her Hand

  Jody’s hand

  is cold,

  freckled.

  Her face behind the

  oxygen mask

  saggy.

  A clock

  suspended

  in the hallway

  flips through time

  in red numbers.

  I leave

  just for a minute

  every other

  minute

  to check

  how long

  Mama

  has been

  gone.

  This time

  it’s up to

  four hours

  twenty-seven minutes

  plus the thirteen seconds

  counted in my head

  on the slow walk back

  to Jody’s

  bed.

  What if she never comes?

  What if she’s been taken away?

  Soup

  The woman

  watching over the girl

  in the next bed

  gives me

  a bowl of soup.

  After that,

  she shares

  rice

  egg

  spare ribs

  from a metal container.

  I nod

  my thanks.

  She asks me questions

  in Chinese,

  pointing to Jody on the bed.

  Where is this woman’s family?

  Why is she in China?

  What’s wrong with her?

  I pretend not to understand.

  Long Night

  There is a crushing

  dark

  in the ward

  when the lights go out.

  All that’s left is the

  rattle of curtain tracks

  as the nurses walk through,

  the bleep

  of machinery,

  a shallow cough,

  low groans

  from two beds away.

  Jody’s IV

  drips

  drips

  drips

  but she does not wake.

  Other patients’

  relatives

  care for them,

  sleep in the hallway

  on newspaper

  spread out

  on the floor

  or across

  two or three

  plastic chairs

  if they’re lucky.

  I sit straight,

  wondering if Jody will die,

  wondering if Mama will ever come back,

  hoping the frowning nurses

  won’t force me to leave.

  Waking Up

  A nurse shakes my shoulder

  and I wake

  stiff and cold.

  I fell asleep

  bent forward,

  my head

  resting

  on Jody’s legs.

  When I touch my face,

  I feel the pattern of the blanket

  embedded