by Hannah Bent
My eyes are closed now so that I can see the words from the story come alive like the flower spirits in the scholar’s garden.
‘The next evening, the ladies arrived on his doorstep again, this time with a large bunch of flowers. They offered them to the scholar with gratitude and told him that if he were to eat the flowers he would become immortal. The scholar did as he was told. In time, he realised his new power and his eternal existence.’
I watch the scholar in my mind. He is immortal. I am sure this means his body can live forever.
Marlowe
My bedroom hadn’t changed much since I had been gone; white walls, white bed, white desk, white wardrobe and apart from my mahogany dressing table, white everything. I liked white – it was tidy and clean. I dumped my cases and shut the door behind me. Dust tickled my nose. From the window, I could see Dad’s garden below. The tangled green foliage looked like hair in desperate need of a trim. The jasmine bush was overgrown, the plants in the flowerbeds were dried and shrivelled and the fishpond was empty. The old banyan tree bowed low, its hairy vines skimming the uncut grass. It was unlike Dad to let his beloved garden get so wild.
Using the phone by my bed, I called Olly. Only after the phone had rung several times did I realise I had forgotten about the time difference. Just as I was about to hang up, he answered. The sound of his voice sent a wave of sadness flooding through me.
‘It’s me,’ I said.
‘How are you? How’s Harper?’
‘She’s…’ Suddenly I didn’t have the words. ‘She’s…’ The wave infiltrated the organs in my body. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the memory of Olly’s face. It was still fresh, I could see him clearly, but how long would it take before his image became fuzzy and started to fade?
‘She’s as good as can be expected… considering.’ Considering what? That I had left her for nearly a year without visiting because I was too wrapped up in saving the arion instead of paying attention to her? Considering that, in my absence, she had become incredibly ill and I hadn’t even –
‘You’re seeing the doctors soon, right?’
I imagined him taking my hand, pulling me close.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Let me know what happens.’
He’s stroking my hair.
‘I will,’ I say. ‘I’m sure they’ll have a solution. It’s the best heart hospital in Hong Kong, after all.’
‘And how about you, Marls?’ His voice was soft. ‘How are you doing?’
His question startled me. It was disconcerting to be asked that in this place; at home, no one ever asked how I was. The wave reached my throat, making it hard to breathe. I imagined my body filling with air in the same way a butterfly’s would – not through lungs but through the many small spiracles that run down the sides of their thorax and abdomen.
‘Fine,’ I say.
‘Are you sure about that? You know you can tell me anything, right? Remember: you’re not alone.’
You’re not alone. He had said this to me so many times before. You’re not alone.
Why did I find this concept so hard to grasp? The answer was simple: Harper. From the day she was born, everyone in the family had discovered a new meaning for the word ‘alone.’
It was spring and I was five. Hong Kong was covered in mist; it oozed down lush mountains. The air was dense and clung thickly to my skin. The plants in Dad’s garden were a tropical, pulsating green. In the mornings, the wide banana leaves were lined with droplets of moisture that shone in the light like small fragments of clear quartz.
Aunt Lĭ Nà and Bì Yù were visiting, in preparation for the birth of my new sibling. The atmosphere in our house was charged with anticipation. Late one night, unable to sleep, Bì Yù and I sat at the top of the stairs watching as Mum paced the living room, padding back and forth across the wooden floorboards on swollen feet. Her belly was ripe, the shape of a whole jackfruit.
Bì Yù and I held hands as Mum groaned. Her pale brow was contorted and shiny with sweat. She looked like she was in pain. No one had warned us that she would suffer.
‘Dà jiě, how will they get that baby out of her tummy?’ Like a big sister, my older cousin always had the answers.
Her reply was certain. ‘They’ll pull it out of her belly button.’
In between Mum’s groans, I watched moths outside the living room window fly into the glowing night lights on our patio. Occasionally, one or two would drop to the ground. I wanted to go outside and investigate why these creatures made such a dramatic descent but had to use all the willpower my little five-year-old self could muster to keep still. The adults couldn’t know we were awake or we would be sent straight back to bed. It wasn’t until I was a few years older that I would learn the moth – a phototaxic insect – had confused our garden lights for the moon.
Another groan, then Mum gasped.
Dad grabbed his car keys. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What’s going to happen next?’ I asked my wise cousin.
She pointed to her belly button. Goosebumps rose to the surface of my skin.
‘Will it hurt her?’ I couldn’t understand why my parents had seemed so excited in the months leading up to this day. This unborn baby seemed to be causing my mother a world of pain.
‘No. It won’t hurt her. Having a baby is a beautiful thing.’
No matter how confident Bì Yù sounded, I wasn’t convinced.
‘Can we give the baby back if we don’t like it?’
Bì Yù gave me a stern look. ‘Babies make people happy. You shouldn’t ask questions like that.’
My aunt suddenly seemed aware of us watching. ‘Aī yā, what are you two doing up so late?’ And she ushered us back to bed.
When I woke the next morning, the sky was blood red. The sun rose with a temper that set the water into a frenzy. Waves chopped and crashed into the shore.
Bì Yù was still snoring in the bed beside me. I climbed over her and made my way downstairs.
Aunt Lĭ Nà was slumped in an armchair in the living room. Her face was the colour of the ivory blanket Wài Pó had been knitting for the baby. She had a tissue box in her lap and her nose was pink.
‘Are you feeling sick?’ I went to her and placed my hand on her forehead, just like Mum did with me when I was ill. She quickly put the tissue box away and scooped me onto her lap.
‘No, Míng Yuè.’ She hugged me tight. ‘I’m feeling sad, that’s all.’
I placed my palm on her cheek. It was wet.
‘Why? Do you miss jiù jiu?’ My uncle was a very busy businessman and couldn’t make it to Hong Kong this time. ‘You will see him soon. Mum said we will all see him in the summer and show him the new baby then.’
‘I’m not crying because I miss your jiù jiu.’ She blew her nose.
I had to ask the question I had been dreading. ‘Has the baby come yet?’
‘Your sister was born early this morning.’
Sister! I was hoping for a brother. I had heard Mum say she wanted another daughter, that boys were too much work, but I wanted to be the only girl. Now she had got what she wanted and I somehow felt replaced.
Aunt Lĭ Nà was staring into the distance. Why wasn’t she happy like she had been the night before?
‘When’s Mum coming home?’
‘Not for a while. Míng Yuè, your little sister is… she is not very well.’
‘Is she sick?’
‘The doctors need to do some tests.’
‘Tests?’
‘Yes, but this is a secret. We don’t need to tell anyone just yet okay? Your mā ma doesn’t want people to talk. None of us do.’
I slid off my aunt’s lap. The conversation had left me feeling unsettled. I didn’t understand what was wrong with this new sister of mine. All I wanted was to see my mum again soon.
The next few days were spent waiting. Bì Yù and I weren’t allowed to go to the hospital, and when Wài Pó and Dad returned home each night, they were silent, their faces dra
wn.
‘Is the baby a monster?’ I asked Bì Yù one night.
She looked at me, her eyes searching mine, and I realised that, for the first time, she didn’t have an answer.
A week later, Mum returned home, but she wasn’t carrying a baby in her arms. I was so happy to see her that I clung to her leg and wouldn’t let go. I was expecting her to give me a big hug, like she always did when she came home, but instead she gently prised me off her then went straight to her room and shut the door.
‘Where’s the baby?’ I asked.
‘She had to have a small operation,’ Dad replied. ‘But she’s getting better now.’
‘What’s an operation?’ I asked.
‘Something the doctors do in a hospital to make her better. She has a sore heart.’
‘Do you need to leave her in the hospital for a long time?’ I hoped his answer would be yes, but he said, ‘We should be able to bring her home next week.’ He ruffled my hair and said, ‘Have hope, little one.’
It was raining the day my parents brought my sister home. Water fell in sheets outside our windows. I was sitting at the kitchen table with Bì Yù and Wài Pó trying to keep my colouring neat, just like my cousin’s, but it was hard to concentrate. The sound of Wài Pó’s jaw clicking every time she chewed hard on a White Rabbit candy was distracting. She had told us to be on our best behaviour when the new baby came, because Mum was very tired.
‘Dà jiě,’ I said, ‘are you feeling a bit nervous?’ I wanted her to tell me she felt fine and that there was no need to be scared of this new baby, but instead she pushed her crayon harder against the paper, scratching red into the outline of a tree trunk. She should have used brown.
We heard the front door open and Wài Pó rushed from the kitchen. Bì Yù and I followed. I tried to imagine what a monster baby would look like – green-skinned with black eyes, maybe, like the fat emerald caterpillars that ate the leaves in Dad’s garden. But when I saw Dad holding the bundle of pink in his arms, he was smiling for the first time in a while.
‘Welcome home, little one,’ he cooed, looking down at my sister.
Mum was standing beside him, but her attention seemed to be elsewhere.
Bì Yù and I trailed them to the living room.
‘Come on, girls – come meet Harper Míng Huà Eve.’ He beckoned us close.
Harper? I hadn’t heard that name before. It was a different kind of name, a bit like mine.
I gave Bì Yù a push. ‘You go first.’ When she reached the swaddled lump of pink, I could see her shoulders relax immediately. A few minutes later, she bent over and kissed the baby.
‘It’s okay,’ she mouthed to me.
I looked at Mum for reassurance, but she was gazing out the living room window, watching the rain.
‘This is your sister,’ Dad told me. ‘Harper, meet Marlowe.’ He lifted her slightly to face me. Inside the soft wool was not a green monster, but a sleeping baby.
Her wide eyes were closed. She had long, dark eyelashes and a little button nose. One tiny hand was curled in a fist near her cheek. I could see the edges of a white bandage over her chest, I presumed from where she had had surgery for her sore heart.
Leaning in, I sniffed her little tufts of hair. She smelled like sweet chamomile and warm, freshly washed sheets.
In the days that followed, I realised Bì Yù had been wrong: babies didn’t make everyone happy. Although Dad seemed to love Harper, there were no flowers and no gifts when she arrived home. The friends who’d visited Mum while she was pregnant, fussing over her and speaking excitedly about the new baby who would surely inherit her talent for music, were nowhere to be seen. Only one visitor came: the old lady who lived next door. She told my parents not to blame themselves; Harper was this way because she had done something bad in a past life and it was just karma. She suggested they send my sister to an orphanage in Fanling. ‘It’s an excellent home that knows how to care for mongoloids,’ she said.
Dad slammed the door behind her when she left.
I asked Bì Yù to explain what a mongoloid was.
She told me it was a flower.
I asked her to explain what the lady meant by an ‘orphanage’.
‘It is where they send children who don’t have parents.’
‘But Harper has parents.’
Bì Yù just shrugged.
I didn’t understand why all the adults around me were acting so strange. With her chubby cheeks and moon-shaped face, Harper was a beautiful baby. She only ever cried when she was hungry or needed her nappy changed. I just couldn’t find much wrong with her.
After the lady next door’s mention of an orphanage, I refused to leave Harper’s side. At night, I slept on the floor by her crib. When she would cry for her feeds, Dad or Wài Pó would enter with her bottle and usher me back to my own bed. I’d lie awake until I heard them return to their rooms before creeping back to Harper’s side. Sometimes I would gently place my palm over her bandage, wondering what it felt like to have a sore heart. Was she in a lot of pain? I felt sorry for this peaceful little baby. Then I would give her my finger and she would hold it, tight.
The night before Bì Yù and Aunt Lĭ Nà left to return to Shanghai, I overheard a conversation between Dad and Aunt Lĭ Nà. I had got up to go to the toilet when I heard tense voices in the living room below. I stopped and hid in the shadows on the landing to listen.
‘I think you should consult a psychologist.’ Aunt Lĭ Nà was sitting in an armchair with a glass in her hands, while Dad paced the floor in front of her.
‘You’ve spent too much time in the US.’ Dad’s voice was stern. ‘She just needs time to adjust. The doctor said her depression should lift in a few weeks, once the medication kicks in. Don’t underestimate her; she’s a tough woman.’
He took a seat and poured himself a drink.
‘It’s not just Hùi Fāng I’m worried about,’ my aunt said. ‘Having a sibling with a disability could impact Marlowe in ways we may not yet understand.’
They were talking about me now? I could feel my cheeks getting hot.
‘What are you saying? That my daughter will be scarred by her sister’s birth?’ Dad took a large gulp of his drink. ‘What’s the big deal? Her sister is a little different, that’s all. She has Down syndrome. I don’t understand why everyone is overreacting.’
Down syndrome. I wasn’t exactly sure what Dad meant, but I knew it had something to do with how upset the adults had been since the day Harper was born.
Aunt Lĭ Nà shook her head. Her voice was softer now. ‘It’s no one’s fault. But how much has Marlowe seen of you since Harper was born?’
‘You’re out of line,’ Dad said. ‘We’re adjusting to the new baby and that will take time, but it doesn’t mean Marlowe will be ignored and she’ll end up with a mental illness. Excuse me.’ He stalked out of the room.
I ran back to my room and shut the door. I couldn’t stop thinking about what my aunt had said. It was true I hadn’t seen my parents much since Harper’s birth, but that was because my sister had been sick. Now she was getting much better and things would go back to normal.
The next morning, when Aunt Lĭ Nà and Bì Yù had gone, the house felt empty. I no longer had a friend to distract me from my mum’s absence. Her bedroom door was often shut and she seemed to sleep all day and night.
Eventually, Wài Pó and Dad stopped moving me back to my own room every night. They let me sit with them when they gave Harper her bottle and some nights I even got to give it to her myself.
Weeks went by and I hardly saw Mum, until early one morning I was woken by the sound of her voice. She was sitting in the nursery rocking chair holding Harper in her arms. Her tangled hair was loose over her shoulders.
‘Ma?’ I wanted to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.
She looked at me. Her cheeks were pink. She stood up and put Harper back into her crib then took me in her arms. She smelled sour, like she hadn’t had a bath for a while. As I held her tight,
I could feel the bones beneath her skin.
‘Why did you sleep for so long?’ I asked.
She stroked my head. ‘It’s my fault your sister is this way,’ she explained. ‘I made her broken.’
Harper was broken?
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘Her heart is okay now.’ I went to the crib and gently tugged the blanket loose to reveal the small scar on Harper’s chest. It was no longer inflamed and red.
Mum started to cry.
‘I’m sorry I made you sad, Ma.’
‘No.’ She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. ‘I’m not sad. I’m lucky, because I have you.’
‘And you have Harper too.’
She sighed. ‘I feel so alone,’ she said. She pulled me close again. ‘We only have each other now, no one else will understand about our little Míng Huà.’
‘Marls?’ Olly’s voice brought me back to the present.
You’re not alone. But however much I wanted to, I couldn’t feel that.
‘Let me help you, please,’ he said.
You’re not alone.
‘I’ll be fine.’
Harper
A post-it note is a bright and colourful square of paper, useful for saying things that are hard to say when someone is face to face with the person they love. In my desk I have a drawer full of post-it notes in lots of different colours: yellow, pink, orange, blue and green.
Even though I feel a bit breathless, I get out of bed because I have an important message to write. I decide to choose blue, because this is Marlowe’s favourite colour. But when I go to take the square of paper out of the drawer, I have a messy feeling in my brain. My thoughts are tangled in knots.
Pink is the colour for love, orange is the colour for happiness and yellow is my favourite because it is the colour of Wài Pó’s egg tarts – delicious and sweet. Blue and green are the sadder colours; blue like the clothes that Wài Pó has never stopped wearing since my mum died, and green like the velvet chair that my dad sits in when he has his serious face on and wants to be alone.
