Red Butterfly Page 7

  in my cheek.

  The nurse

  eyes my

  fingerless hand

  as she says,

  She’s trying to speak.

  Wake up

  so you can listen.

  Jody’s oxygen mask

  is gone,

  her eyelids

  flutter.

  I lean close,

  whispering her name,

  gripping her hand,

  which

  isn’t so cold now.

  Jody’s

  eyes shift

  under

  lowered

  lids.

  Where’s Ma?

  asks her raspy voice.

  I Don’t Know

  I don’t know

  is not an answer.

  I can’t make my mouth say it.

  I cannot pass my tears,

  my panic,

  on to Jody

  when she’s sick.

  She went to call Daddy,

  I say,

  which isn’t a lie.

  I just don’t tell her how long she’s been gone.

  Instead of my panic

  I give her my hope—

  She’ll be back soon.

  Jody nods,

  then

  fades

  to sleep,

  to the rhythmic bleep

  and drip

  of her IV.

  Questions

  The woman

  who takes care of

  the girl

  in the next bed

  whispers,

  eyes darting,

  Where is the woman

  who was here before,

  the very old,

  foreign woman

  with the white hair?

  At first

  I pretend

  not to understand.

  But slowly

  the persistence

  of her questions

  wears

  through

  my fear.

  I don’t know,

  I whisper,

  sniffing back a sob.

  The woman nods.

  Eat this.

  She hands me bing—

  flat bread

  Mama told me is like a

  tortilla

  in America.

  The woman tells me

  the hospital staff

  are asking questions.

  They will move Jody

  to the expensive ICU

  if there is no one but a child

  to take care of her.

  The nurses are complaining

  about the extra work.

  I’m sorry,

  she says.

  I thought you should

  know the truth.

  I nod,

  strangely

  grateful

  for her honesty.

  I will take care of my sister

  until my mother comes back.

  Brave words

  from a not-so-brave heart.

  The woman tilts her head.

  She does not ask me how Jody

  could be my sister.

  She only says,

  Good girl.

  Jody Wakes

  Ma still not back?

  I shake my head.

  How long have I been asleep?

  Worry darts behind her eyes.

  Has anybody called Willard?

  Does he know I’m sick?

  I imagine

  Willard,

  Matthew and Madison,

  and the big dog, Sparky,

  all at home

  eating American pizza,

  expecting that

  Jody is on her way

  over the ocean.

  I pat her arm

  and say,

  It’ll be okay,

  even though every word

  could be a lie.

  Even Jody

  Jody can sit up

  and drink soup

  from the kind woman’s supply.

  I help her

  with the spoon.

  How long has she been gone?

  Tell me,

  Kara.

  When I say

  since yesterday afternoon

  I’m queasy with

  betrayal,

  as if my holding

  the words

  unspoken

  kept them from being

  true.

  Jody takes the news

  quietly,

  pale eyes

  in a white moon face.

  Where do you think she went?

  She said she was going home,

  I say.

  I’ll be fine,

  Jody says.

  Go home,

  see if she’s still there.

  I protest

  because the nurses expect

  family

  to take care of patients

  and I’m already doing a bad job.

  Let them earn their money,

  Jody says,

  the texture of her old

  self

  chafing

  against her weakness.

  But as I near the door

  fear

  flutters

  that

  I will not find Jody

  if they take her to the ICU,

  that I will lose

  absolutely

  everything

  I have called

  mine.

  Even the loud sister I never wanted.

  Old Friend

  At least

  my red

  bicycle is

  waiting

  where I left it

  in the bike parking

  area.

  Hot tears

  steal

  down

  my cheeks

  at the sight of my old,

  faithful

  friend.

  At least

  I can still

  fly.

  At Home

  Hands shake

  inserting the key,

  fingers slippery

  with sweat.

  Click on the lights.

  Dusty floor

  from dirty shoes

  traipsing through.

  Most of the furniture gone:

  the couch,

  the TV,

  the dining room table.

  Mama’s wardrobe burst open,

  clothes scattered,

  a missing suitcase.

  A letter

  scrawled in Mama’s

  sideways

  writing:

  Must go with police.

  Daddy on his way.

  Don’t be alarmed—

  the landlord

  took furniture

  in exchange

  for rent.

  I don’t know

  what will happen,

  Kara dear.

  I failed you.

  Remember this:

  I love you

  more

  than

  words

  can

  say.

  Always have and

  always will.

  Maybe

  Maybe

  Daddy will come

  and save us.

  Maybe

  he will buy me

  a sugared hawberry stick

  from a street vendor,

  pay the landlord

  the money we owe,

  and get back all our furniture,

  even the birdcage.

  Hey there, Jim,

  good Jim,

  there you go, Jimmy.

  Maybe

  he’ll bring Jody back

  to our apartment,

  then announce,

  Teaching English is my thing,

  China’s my thing,

  my family’s my thing.

  Who needs Montana

  and mountains

  when I can have my girls?
<
br />   Maybe

  he’ll bring back Mama’s smile,

  make us a family again.

  Maybe

  it’s just like the Jane Austen box set:

  seems impossible

  but then

  there it is.

  Backpack

  Three pairs of underwear

  Two shirts

  One pair of shorts

  Two toothbrushes

  One tube of toothpaste

  Jody’s fancy American facial wash

  Ten bags of strawberry yogurt

  with straws

  One loaf of bread

  One jar two-thirds full of peanut butter

  One plastic knife

  Jane Austen box set

  and, of course,

  Jane Eyre

  I leave a note for Daddy

  beside Mama’s,

  a page ripped from my

  school notebook.

  I tell him which hospital,

  what to say to a taxi driver,

  which floor,

  which room,

  and leave the door ajar.

  Handshake

  A shadow waits

  at the base of the stairs

  next to the rows of metal mailboxes.

  When Zhao Bin emerges

  my instinct is to

  run,

  but he has already seen me.

  He holds out his hand.

  Good luck,

  he says in English.

  Perfectly.

  I stuff my stub hand

  in my pocket, grasp

  his extended hand

  with my whole one.

  Up, down,

  up, down

  go our hands

  in a strange

  imbalanced

  swing

  until they slip apart.

  He holds the metal security gate

  open

  so I can step out

  into the night,

  run,

  face burning,

  to my bike,

  wishing I had the courage

  to tell the truth,

  to hold out my half hand,

  to say a real good-bye

  to an

  underestimated

  friend.

  Dark Ride

  My bicycle wheels spin

  down the dim road.

  The cars’

  headlights stream light

  but several

  streetlamps have

  burned out.

  A man

  calls out from the shadows,

  but he’s no one I know.

  I pedal faster.

  This is a poor part of town

  with black alleys.

  A tattered, upside-down

  luck sign flutters in a

  patched doorway.

  A woman stares out a window,

  the room behind her

  lit in red.

  Still There

  Jody is

  in the same bed,

  same ward,

  not sleeping,

  her eyes like an owl’s

  in the dark.

  I tell her about Mama,

  that Daddy is coming.

  I ask her

  if she thinks

  they’ll put Mama in jail

  because she didn’t turn me in

  when she found me.

  Maybe if we told the stern policeman

  that Mama didn’t mean any harm

  taking me in,

  that I like living with her,

  maybe he’d understand.

  Jody’s brow crinkles,

  a weak

  interrupted

  series

  of furrows.

  You think Mom’s in trouble

  because of you?

  she says.

  Oh, honey,

  Mom hasn’t had a visa

  to live in China

  since Dad lost his teaching job.

  I’m so sorry,

  Kara.

  I should’ve told you.

  Clear

  Now so clear,

  all the hiding

  and whispering

  and bundling up

  to go

  outside

  so a foreign woman

  wouldn’t be recognized,

  wouldn’t be asked

  for her paperwork.

  Big love,

  stupid love,

  just like Zhang Laoshi said.

  Questions

  What will happen to Mama?

  Will they put her in jail?

  Jody thinks

  they’ll repatriate her,

  which means

  they’ll send her back

  to her Montana mountains.

  That doesn’t sound so bad

  for her.

  Imagine

  I imagine

  Mama

  getting back to her mountains,

  to her husband,

  her grandchildren.

  I imagine her

  smiling

  all the time

  the way she smiled

  in that picture from Hangzhou,

  the way her name smiles

  because she wrote it

  with curls and hearts.

  I imagine all of them

  without me.

  I imagine myself

  forgotten.

  Attributes

  I should have counted

  my attributes

  on my other hand,

  the hand with only two nubs.

  That would have been about right.

  Soft-Voiced Jody

  Jody’s voice

  has gone soft,

  squishy,

  different.

  For the first time

  I can see her

  as the mother

  of two children who are

  just a little younger than me.

  Don’t give up yet.

  We’ll figure something out,

  okay?

  We’re not going to leave you here

  alone,

  you hear me?

  I want to believe her.

  Smoke

  I don’t know what happens

  to an almost-twelve-year-old girl

  with bad Chinese,

  with only two short fingers

  on her right hand.

  I don’t know what happens

  to a girl who’s

  been raised to be

  American,

  but who isn’t really

  American

  at all.

  I don’t know what happens

  to a girl

  with no /identity/

  no /adoption/

  no real family.

  Maybe Daddy will stay for a while

  until they get this thing

  with Mama’s visa

  sorted out,

  Jody says,

  but her words

  are thin as smoke,

  carried

  away

  as soon as she speaks them.

  Daddy

  Three days

  waiting

  in one room,

  then

  waiting is

  suddenly

  unexpectedly

  over.

  Daddy arrives

  (with Willard)

  and I see

  him as if

  for the first time:

  a bald man

  with thin arms

  who squints

  through thick glasses.

  This is my father,

  the savior,

  a very old man.

  I push my face

  into his chest,

  wrap my arms

  around his body,

  nod when he says,

  You’ve grown

  as if he’s surprised.

  All the while I

  attem
pt to latch on

  to a rush of relief

  that never surfaces.

  Translator

  I’m Willard’s translator.

  He wants Jody

  moved to a private room,

  money is no object.

  Then he changes his mind.

  He wants her

  transferred to Beijing

  to the international hospital,

  pronto.

  He waves insurance cards

  that mean nothing here.

  The administrators

  begin to mutter,

  to say,

  Pay us up front,

  which means

  right now.

  Willard says

  that’s not how it works in America.

  The administrators want cash,

  but all Willard waves in their faces

  are plastic credit cards.

  Negotiator

  Daddy

  hangs at the edge

  of the ward

  near the door

  only coming close

  to hug

  Jody

  and

  me,

  tapping his foot

  all the time,

  a cell phone

  attached to his ear.

  He’s talking to

  the American Embassy.

  Those police better treat her right

  or heads are gonna roll,

  I hear him say

  in a voice too loud for the ward.

  Everyone else has gone silent.

  Taken

  Four

  policemen crowd

  the room

  followed by administrators

  brandishing pens

  and clipboards.

  Four

  in China

  is an unlucky number.

  “Four”

  in Chinese

  has the same sound

  as “death.”

  Just different tones.

  Four

  policemen:

  two for Daddy

  to take him to Mama,

  two for me

  to take me away

  somewhere else.

  A policewoman lays a slender hand

  on my shoulder.

  Where are they taking her?

  Jody asks.

  All the women in the ward

  stare at me

  like I’m a finally captured

  criminal

  living under

  their noses.

  Their faces whirl,

  blaming

  blurring

  blinding.

  Who can save me?

  Daddy?

  Jody?

  Willard?

  But they hold still.

  No one moves

  even a notch

  as I’m guided to the

  door.

  Behind me,

  Jody begins a

  LONG

  HIGH

  wail.

  Nurses shush her,

  scolding the police,

  the administration,

  for causing commotion.