by Hannah Bent
‘No,’ one of the doctors assured him. ‘There’s no need for that.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve just watched my wife die. I can’t do this again. She was in so much pain.’
The doctor tried again to reassure him. ‘We’ve made Harper as comfortable as possible. A DNR isn’t going to help the situation. Give her a chance to fight this.’
Dad shook his head. ‘I can’t do this again,’ he repeated.
My head spun. Harper was in her hospital bed, still breathing. She was my sister and she was still young and she wasn’t supposed to die. No, she wouldn’t die. We wouldn’t lose another member of our family.
And then I heard Dad begin to sob, a sound that was deep and raw. As his sobs intensified, so did the twist and rise of acid in my stomach.
While the doctor tried to soothe him with words, I attempted to count myself out of panic – one Mississippi, two… but it was hard, too hard. My mind was racing. Dad had always been the one to fix things. He had fought so hard for Mum, even flying in a doctor friend of his from London. Dad was the fighter. I could always trust him to do his best. But now…
I stepped out into the corridor. ‘Why are you being like this?’ I demanded. ‘Harper will get well! Where’s your hope gone?’
The doctors turned to look at me, startled. Dad met my gaze for a moment and then quickly looked away. I waited for him to answer me, but he didn’t. Suddenly it felt as if the ground beneath me was no longer stable. Dad, who was supposed to make me feel safe, had turned everything upside down.
I vowed to take matters into my own hands. I could not call doctors from London, I could not administer Harper’s medicine, but I could sit with her and guard her life with mine.
I sat with Harper night and day. I missed school, I missed the deadline for the science competition, I even missed my own birthday party. Wài Pó stayed with me during the day, and when I refused to leave at night she sent our domestic helper, Esmerelda, to stay with me. Dad didn’t try to make me go home; I think a part of him was secretly pleased someone was watching over Harper constantly, even if it was his nine-year-old daughter.
Days went by and she did not stir. I was starting to feel worried, so I did something I hated doing: I read to her. I had never liked children’s books – the world of the imagination scared me – but I knew Harper loved them.
Early one morning, as I was reading The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, she opened her eyes.
I dropped the book. ‘Harper?’
She looked dazed, like she had just stepped off a very long flight and was trying to figure out which country she had landed in. Then she touched my arm.
I felt a rush, like a cool shower flowing through my body. I kissed her all over. She had pulled through.
The doctors arrived moments later. I took a step back and stood by the window as they fussed over her. Heat licked the side of my neck, I turned and saw the sun rising, as a perfect ball of gold light. The furniture in the hospital room, the doctors and Harper were glowing. It looked like a scene from one of her fairytales. I enjoyed this for a moment too long and then came to my senses; life was not a fairytale. Although Harper had woken from her sleep, I knew that from this point on, everything had changed.
Dad’s study smelled of stale coffee and old books. I found this familiar mix strangely comforting as I rested briefly in his old green armchair. While I waited for him to join me, I scanned the room, looking for any sign of change in my absence. The floor-to-ceiling shelves lining the walls were filled with books arranged in alphabetical order, everything from the classics to the latest bestsellers. Anyone would assume he was a writer, or a librarian, perhaps, not a businessman who made and sold shoes. The surface of his oak desk, which sat underneath the arched windows that overlooked his garden, was immaculate; Dad was obsessively tidy.
A cool breeze blew through the open window, knocking something from the ledge. I got up to retrieve it and discovered it was a black- and-white photo of Grandpa as a young man. Dressed in an army uniform, he had one arm wrapped around a leggy woman who wore a smart hat clipped to a bob of shiny, curled hair. She was looking away from the camera, her eyes downcast, hands clasping a small purse.
‘Your grandmother.’
Dad was standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. The corners of his mouth lifted as he strained for a smile. He walked over and put an arm around my shoulders, giving me a quick squeeze – his idea of a hug.
‘She’s beautiful,’ I said.
I’d never seen a picture of his mother before. She had always been a mystery to me. All I knew about her was that she had left him when he was very young.
I studied the photo. Something about her lowered gaze and her tight grip on her purse made her seem painfully unhappy.
‘I’m really glad you’re home,’ Dad said.
Home.
‘How’ve you been?’
I shrugged. ‘Fine.’
‘How’s Olly? I’d like to meet him at some point.’
I shrugged again. As far as I was concerned, Olly belonged to my other life – a life separate from this one, with all its complications – and I wanted to preserve that.
‘And your studies? How are they going?’
‘My thesis project is devoted to the conservation of the Maculinea arion by studying its carnivorous caterpillar.’ That ought to stifle conversation.
Dad frowned. ‘You don’t still trap and kill butterflies to study them, do you? I’ve always thought that was so cruel.’
He didn’t need to tell me again. He’d always made that very clear.
‘I wish I had never let your grandpa expose you to that at such a young age. It’s far too morbid for a child.’
This again.
‘I never saw his work as a lepidopterist as being morbid,’ I said.
‘You know, he only started capturing butterflies and killing them after my mother left.’
My body grew still. Grandpa had always refused to speak about my grandmother and all Dad had ever said was that he ‘drove her away.’
He poured himself a glass of whisky before settling into the green chair I had so recently vacated. ‘We’ve missed you around here.’
His words startled me. He’d missed me? Dad rarely expressed his emotions like this.
‘Thank you.’ I didn’t know what else to say. We were in unfamiliar territory. I looked back at the photo.
‘You look like her,’ I observed.
He nodded. ‘Thankfully, I don’t look anything like him.’
‘Why have you always hated him so much?’
He waved his hand in the air. ‘Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Grandpa, Marlowe.’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, let’s not talk about this now. We have much more pressing issues on our plate.’
‘Yes we do,’ I said. ‘What are you thinking of doing about Harper?’
Dad shook his head. ‘Those bastards,’ he growled. ‘It’s blatant discrimination. Harper damn well deserves to have a heart, just like anyone else her age.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what are you going to do about it?’
He looked up at me. His blue eyes were blank. ‘What can I do? I’ve been to four different hospitals and they all say the same thing.’
I clenched my jaw. Was he really going to give up again?
‘You can do something to help her instead of just getting angry.’
He took a big swig of his drink, swallowed, then said, ‘I wish things were that simple. But the older I get, the more I realise how cruel life really is.’
My jaw was locked so tight, it started to cramp.
Carefully, I put the photograph down on Dad’s desk and walked to the door. Opening it, I saw in front of me the empty space where Mum’s grand piano used to be. My hands curled, nails digging into my palms. Then I registered all the missing pieces. The Ming dynasty vases, the bronze horses… My stomach did a somersault. All our family’s most prized possessions were missing.
�
�Dad?’
‘Yes?’
‘Where’s Mum’s piano? And the vases? Where has everything gone?’
Dad turned his head so that I couldn’t see his face. ‘I can explain, but now’s not the time.’
‘But –’
‘I said not now, Marlowe.’
I stared at him for a few minutes but he didn’t turn around.
Finally, I said, ‘Goodnight.’
As I walked out of his study, I was visited by an old sensation. I was nine years old again, realising that I could no longer rely on my father to keep me and Harper safe.
I was alone.
I felt too small for this very big world.
Harper
I am not good at keeping secrets but today I will try my best.
Even though I had watery eyes and a tight, hiding heart last night, all I am feeling this morning is excited about my very special engagement. I want to shout it out to my whole family (without losing my breath or coughing), but I can’t because Louis wanted to make a very special event of it by inviting all our family and friends to an engagement party.
As I am lying in my bed, I think in my mind about how we will make this celebration a night to remember, with yummy food, good company, dancing music and maybe a few white doves to be set free in Dad’s garden for the romance, just like they do in the movies.
I feel a zinging wave rising in me – up up up it goes until it reaches my heart.
Da da dum dum, da dum dum.
Too fast, too fast, too much for my heart.
I have to wipe my mind clean and catch my breath.
The beating in my chest is pounding all over my body like the sound of a chugging engine. Chug chug chug. I close my mind and try to make my body go calm in the way that Wài Pó taught me, but the more I try, the heavier my heart feels, the lighter my head feels and the more electric my body feels. My chin begins to shake and water runs from my eyes all the way down to my cheeks. This is happening a lot lately. Maybe because my heart does not feel like my friend anymore. It is stopping me from doing things that I love. It is stealing my happiness. It is making me tired.
No, please, don’t let this be.
But I can’t help it. My voice that I hear in my head is wondering if maybe I should let the doctors fix me with a heart that is not my own.
With a trans-plant.
Transplant.
Then I have to pinch myself for thinking such silly thoughts about my heart.
No, this is not love. Love is loyal, love is kind, especially even when it is for yourself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to my heart.
I look out of my window now and listen as the morning sky is talking to me. I see its words in the shape of the clouds. A horse gallops. It opens its mouth and a circle comes out. I watch the circle. It gets bigger and bigger and bigger until all the other clouds are inside it. I think to myself that this must be the circle of life.
Marlowe
Butterflies sleep hanging upside down, attached to the stem of a plant or flower, eyes open in peaceful quiescence. Sleep was something that came naturally to me in London, yet it seemed that I had forgotten how to do it back in Hong Kong. My mind would flutter from one thought to the next in a kind of half-consciousness. I found myself wishing I was a fat little caterpillar with not much else to worry about other than eating and the gentle act of metamorphosis. Not that it was so easy for the caterpillar, I reminded myself. Metamorphosis involved a huge transformation and caterpillars, like all things in the natural world, had to fight for survival.
And as long as Harper wasn’t fit enough to fight, I would do it for her.
When Dad had left the house I went to his study, turned on his computer and began researching cases of adults with Down syndrome who had been denied transplants. The list was long, but one caught my eye: a 1995 report on the case of an American woman, Sandra Jensen. I read quickly:
Born with Down syndrome and a congenital heart disorder, at age 34 Sandra Jensen needed a heart and lung transplant, but was told by medical professionals that heart and lung transplants were not given to adults who had Down syndrome… Jensen fought for her rights, and on 23 January 1996 received her transplants from Stanford University Medical Centre…
I felt a tumble in my ribs. What if? I pictured Harper’s name instead of Jensen’s, imagined a public battle in Hong Kong that led to reformed laws. At the end of it all, Harper was rosy-cheeked and full of energy, having finally received a new, healthy heart. Then I came to my senses. Sandra Jensen had fought for her rights in America, not Hong Kong. Hong Kong had deeply entrenched views about disability; the ‘less-abled’ members of our society were often shamed and families preferred to conceal their ‘imperfect’ members from the world. But how would Hong Kong ever change if no one took a stand?
I closed my eyes. Harper’s face appeared once more as a photograph in the South China Morning Post. The headline trumpeted: A victory for Miss Eve!
As a child I had sworn that I would fight for Harper, and perhaps this was a way to do it. Dad and I agreed on one thing: Harper deserved to have a heart as much as anyone.
Harper
Wài Pó is sitting by the window in her room. I can only see her back.
‘Wài Pó,’ I say, but she does not reply.
I walk into the room and call her name again.
Still, she does not move. I sit beside her on the bed and stroke her arm.
When I am with people who are sad, I can feel it, heavy, inside my bones. My Wài Pó has a lot of sadness in her. Like the ocean, it does not have a beginning, middle and an end. I think in my mind that this is why she holds her prayer beads so tight; they are her rope when she is sinking.
She gets like this a lot, when she remembers those who have died, like Wài Gōng and Mum. She used to say, ‘I was supposed to go first.’ But she has stopped saying this now. She just gets quiet, like she is today.
As I stroke her arm, back and forth, back and forth, she turns to me and takes my hands.
‘So cold,’ she says.
She asks me how I am feeling. Her eyes are small and she does not blink.
The fear.
‘I will be fine,’ I say.
I will be fine.
I will be fine.
I will be fine.
Yes, I will be fine.
We sit like this, staring at the grey sky, letting her heartbreak come and go.
Marlowe
Two long days went by before I could see Uncle Johnny, one of my parents’ oldest friends in Hong Kong. According to his secretary, he had been at a conference in Beijing.
I was early. Too early. When I reached Sheung Wan, west of the CBD on Hong Kong Island, I asked the taxi to drop me off two blocks before Uncle Johnny’s office. I stepped out of the cab near a trio of large bamboo baskets filled with dried fish, perfectly arranged like the petals on a daisy. Pungent, salty aromas lingered in the air as I passed tubs of fish maw, abalone, shrimp, oysters and sea snails. Weaving through throngs of local shoppers, I passed colourful market stalls that sold paper offerings for the afterlife – flimsy replicas of money, washing machines, air conditioners, jet planes and the occasional paper mansion. Turning the corner to Ko Shing Street, the air turned sweet and musty as I neared Chinese medicine stalls displaying jars of dried herbs, insects and various animal products. I was reminded of the many times Wài Pó had brought me shopping here for reishi mushrooms, ginseng and cordyceps and other smelly herbs to boost Harper’s immune system; through my research I’d since come to know cordyceps as a fungus that infected and manipulated the brain of an insect. I used to hate coming here as a child, but on this particular morning I found it strangely soothing to revisit these familiar streets.
As I sat in the waiting room of the Asia Daily offices, all I could think about was Mum. If we were in the neighbourhood, Mum would bring me here to meet Uncle Johnny for lunch. He had a way of listening as if your every word was interesting and important. ‘He is very presen
t,’ Dad used to say, ‘and in today’s world that’s rare. It’s what makes him such a good journalist.’ I would often come and visit Uncle Johnny after Mum died; he was someone who seemed able to understand how I felt without my needing to say anything.
The reception area had changed in the years since I’d come here with my mother. The beige carpet had been replaced with marble and in the place of the old receptionist was a young woman with tortoiseshell glasses.
‘Marlowe?’ Uncle Johnny strode into the room. ‘It’s so great to see you.’ I stood up to hug him and, for a brief moment, felt like everything would be okay.
As he pulled away, I noticed the changes in him. In the year since I had last seen him, his beard had thinned, and there was a little more salt than pepper in his hair.
He smiled at me sadly. ‘You look so much like your mother.’ He shook his head, as if to bring himself back to the present, and said, ‘Come on through.’
As he led me to his office, he asked, ‘Does your dad know you’re here?’
‘No.’ I had wanted to set things in motion before I involved Dad. I was sure he’d have some reason why we shouldn’t ask Uncle Johnny to help us.
‘How is university?’ Uncle Johnny asked as he moved to sit behind his desk and I took a seat facing him. Did I like London? I answered his questions as quickly as I could, then handed him the article on Sandra Jensen that I’d printed out. ‘This is why I’m here,’ I said. ‘You can help.’
He scanned the page then looked up at me, head cocked to one side.
‘How?’
How? I would have thought it was obvious.
‘You can write an article about Harper,’ I said.
He frowned and sat up straighter in his chair. ‘Harper? What do you mean? Is she okay?’
It was my turn to frown. ‘You don’t know?’
‘Know what?’
