by Hannah Bent
‘Why won’t you just give the chemo another shot, damn it?’
‘James, it’s too late,’ Mum replied, her voice soft. ‘You heard the doctor – almost all my marrow has been replaced by abnormal –’
‘We need to get another opinion,’ Dad interrupted.
‘I can’t put myself through it again,’ she said.
For a moment, there was silence. I moved closer to the door. I could see Mum sitting on their four-poster bed. Her orange bandana was wrapped around her head, long sleeves hid the red and purple marks that had spread across her skin.
‘My darling, you need to accept there is nothing more that can be done.’ She reached out her hand and Dad came into view. He sat on the bed beside her and buried his head in her chest. His back shook as he wept. It made me feel wobbly, as if the ground beneath me could give way at any moment. I turned and shuffled back to my room.
I was in bed when I heard the creak of my door opening. Mum. I could sense her watching me, something she had started to do most nights since she came home from hospital. I sat up in bed and turned on the bedside light.
She blinked. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’ She approached my bed. Her skin was so thin, I could see the movement of her bones beneath it. ‘Go back to sleep, my darling.’ Her hand felt cool against my forehead.
‘Why have you given up? Why won’t you have more chemo?’ I asked.
She went still. Then, recovering herself, she whispered, ‘Don’t worry about me, darling. You’re too young to worry.’ She switched off my light and walked to the door, pausing once, a silhouette in the doorway, to look back at me.
As the days passed, Mum got worse. All she did was sleep. She barely ate. She no longer had the strength to stand in my bedroom doorway at night.
Dad rarely left her side.
I continued to go to school as usual and was waiting at the gate one afternoon for Wài Pó to collect me when the mother of my friend Pearl Wong came over to talk to me.
‘Marlowe, dear,’ Mrs Wong said, ‘how is your poor mother?’
‘She’s very sick,’ I told her, adding, ‘She told my dad she won’t do chemo anymore.’
To my surprise, Mrs Wong nodded her approval. ‘Your mother has made an excellent decision,’ she said. ‘The western way is not as good as the eastern way in cases like this.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Chemo works by treating toxins with more toxins. What use is that?’ She threw her hands into the air. ‘Chinese medicine, on the other hand, does not attack the body’s qì. Tomorrow I will give Pearl a packet of herbs for your mother.’
‘But Wài Pó has already given my mum Chinese herbs and they haven’t done anything,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Wong, ‘but they were probably just herbs from the market. My herbs come from Dr Leung, and he is Hong Kong’s top Chinese medicine doctor.’
Hong Kong’s top doctor! I paid close attention as Mrs Wong rattled off the instructions.
As promised, the next day at school Pearl gave me a small parcel from her mother.
That afternoon, with Esmerelda’s help, I prepared the concoction then carefully carried the jug of warm brown liquid to my mother’s room. It smelled like faeces, dried flowers and mould; I was secretly glad that I wouldn’t have to drink it myself. Your mother must drink a cup of this every half-hour on an empty stomach, Mrs Wong had said. Even if she vomits, she must continue to drink. Have faith, dear. I’ve seen Dr Leung’s herbs cure many sick people. His medicine is better than chemotherapy.
I found Mum asleep. I put the jug on her bedside table and patted her back.
‘Ma, wake up, I have something for you.’ But Mum did not stir. ‘Ma,’ I tried again, this time, blowing on her eyelids. ‘Ma wake up.’ My breath became shallow. ‘Ma?’ Was she dead? ‘Ma? Please?!’
She stirred slightly, then, with what seemed like an enormous effort, opened her eyes.
‘Darling.’ Her voice was croaky. ‘I’ve been so tired.’
I poured her a cup of the brown liquid, resisting the urge to gag, and held it out to her.
She looked quizzically then shook her head. ‘No.’
‘But, Ma…’
Her eyes were closing. ‘What a beautiful girl you have become,’ she whispered. Then, as I watched, she drifted off.
In the unoccupied space where Mum’s piano used to be, I knelt. The memory of her last song came to me. She had played a slow melody, not one of the classics. It was something I hadn’t heard before, something raw, abstract, something I didn’t like. My eyes were starting to feel heavy. I curled into a foetal position. My body was uncomfortable against the hard, wooden floor.
Harper
It is easier to hear my heart with the kind doctor’s listening tube over my chest. I close my eyes: da da dum dum da dum. Its rhythm is a bit mixed up, but I am not upset about it, because it is a part of me, made with love by Mum and Dad. I have had this heart of mine ever since I was in Mum’s tummy. We have grown together, loved together, cried together. I do not understand why I am sick. I have been sick since I first opened my eyes to this world. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t this way, that I could do all the things I love without going to hospital, but no matter what anyone says, I haven’t given up hope that my heart and me will get better soon.
‘How are you doing, darling?’ Dad sits in a blue hospital seat next to me. Even though Marlowe has gone home to take a nap, I feel grateful my family is with me. Stepmonster has come back, and she and Wài Pó are sitting in the chairs by the window. Wài Pó is asleep and Stepmonster is sitting very still, watching my dad. Her face is soft now. Her hair is a little bit fluffy and messy at the top, and her make-up has worn off from a long day. I can see the real colour of her lips; they are peachy and pink – much nicer than her red lipstick. I think to myself that now she might even look a little bit pretty.
I lean over to my bedside table and take out my autobiographical storybook.
‘What’s this?’ Dad opens it and then he smiles a big smile.
I tell him that it is only the start, but I am proud of myself for doing this and proud of him because he has been my best writing teacher. He showed me how to read and write, and he is the one who told me that with our words we can make stories live forever.
Dad turns the pages and it is like everything that I have written swims up into his eyes, moves through his brain and drops down, cosy and warm, into his chest.
‘You’re turning all our chaos into something meaningful with your words.’ Dad takes my hand. ‘My girl…’
I wait for him to finish speaking but he doesn’t. He looks away for a moment and then he reaches for a book. ‘How about we read?’ he suggests.
He opens a classic book called Jane Eyre by a wonderful woman named Charlotte Brontë. He has read this story to me many times before because he knows I like the romance in it. His voice is steady and quiet.
As my dad is reading, I look at Stepmonster. Her eyes are smiling as she watches him. Her hands are on her lap, and her face is open and listening, free from her talking, talking mind. It is as if she is sinking into Charlotte Brontë’s words, made brand-new by Dad’s voice. In this moment, I feel bad for calling her a stepmonster.
‘Dad,’ I say.
He stops reading and looks up at me with his blue, blue eyes, the same colour as Marlowe’s.
‘I don’t want a new heart,’ I say. ‘I don’t want a transplant thing.’ I have told them this before but I need them to hear it again – really hear it.
He bends over to stroke my cheek and some of his grey, wavy hair falls over his forehead.
‘What do you want, darling?’
My stepmother takes off her noisy shoes and walks softly to Dad’s side. I can hear her listening, listening with Dad for what I am about to say.
‘I want to keep my own heart. I want to get well with my own heart.’
Dad takes my hand and kisses it. His cheeks are wet. And for the first time in a very long while,
my stepmother touches her fingertips to my forehead in a gentle way.
I look at Wài Pó and see that she is not snoring anymore. Her eyes are open and she is watching me while muttering a prayer with her beads.
‘And I want no more fighting, please. Not with the doctors, not with anyone.’
Then I tell my dad to start reading again and, slowly, my heart and me fall asleep.
Marlowe
I sat on the living room couch, my mind buzzing. Thanks to Anita, I had found a way to save Harper. All I needed to do was act on it. I would have to come up with enough money, of course, and that would involve talking to Dad and Wài Pó. I doubted Irene would have told them about her conversation with Anita; she’d never spent a dime on anyone but herself.
Despite my unease at the source of the donor organs, I reminded myself that this was the only way. And I was sure that, once I’d explained, Dad and Wài Pó would be as excited as I was that Harper would have a chance at life. I allowed myself to imagine her with a new heart. She could get married, play sports, dance, work…
The sound of the front door opening roused me from my thoughts.
Wài Pó, Dad and Irene entered the house, deep in conversation.
‘Hello,’ I called.
Irene let out a small scream. ‘Why are you sitting in the dark like that?’
She switched on the light; I hadn’t even realised that night had fallen.
‘I’ve been waiting for all of you. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ My pulse quickened. This had to work. Surely it would work.
Wài Pó sat next to me on the couch, while Dad and Irene sat in armchairs facing us. The scent of Harper’s hospital room; a mixture of muggy dampness and bitter disinfectant, lingered on their clothes.
‘I’ve found a way to save Harper,’ I announced. ‘She can get a set of lungs and a heart – we just need to come up with the money to pay for it.’
Irene let out a long sigh. I had expected an argument, but instead she seemed to slump.
‘I need a smoke,’ she said quietly. She stood and crossed to the French doors, then stepped out onto the patio.
I looked from Dad to Wài Pó, waiting for one of them to speak, to ask questions, to express some surprise or excitement, but neither of them said a word.
Wài Pó took a hawthorn candy from her pocket, quickly unwrapped it and shoved it into her mouth. Dad wiped a bead of sweat from his upper lip and forehead with his handkerchief.
Come on, say something, I urged silently.
Finally I said, ‘Don’t you want to know what I’m talking about?’
Dad and Wài Pó exchanged a look, then Dad said, ‘Go ahead. Tell us.’
I recounted what Anita had told me about the organs from China, and the cost, though I left out the detail about the executed prisoners. ‘So you see,’ I concluded, ‘all we need to do is come up with sixty-five thousand dollars. I know that’s a lot of money – but if it means saving Harper’s life, there’s no question we should do it.’
The room was so quiet. I could hear the sound of banana leaves in the garden brushing against the window. Wài Pó looked at Dad and whispered something inaudible under her breath. Dad rubbed his forehead.
‘I don’t understand.’ I was standing now. ‘What’s the problem? I thought you would be happy!’
Wài Pó’s face hardened. She was the first to speak and said only one word: ‘No.’
Hope draining from my body, I subsided onto the couch again.
‘Marlowe…’ Dad moved to the edge of his seat. ‘I don’t think this is what Harper would want. You should know, we’ve called Uncle Bĭng Wén, Aunt Lĭ Nà and Bì Yù. They will come as soon as we give them the word. Our job now is to make Harper comfortable.’
I stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’ I had the urge to shake him until he saw sense. ‘How can you just give up like this?’
‘Míng Yuè,’ my grandmother said, ‘it’s really not good to give Harper organs from another body. A person must die with their own organs in their body for –’
‘For the afterlife? Do you really believe that?’ I was tired of Wài Pó’s mumbo jumbo.
‘Darling, even if I thought this was a good idea, we just don’t have the money.’ Dad bowed his head. ‘We’ve been struggling a little with all the hospital bills.’
Struggling? My blood felt hot. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Business hasn’t been doing so well. Harper’s hospital bills have been adding up and her insurance premiums are skyrocketing.’
I heard his words but they weren’t quite sinking in. We’d had many problems, but money was never one of them. Wài Pó came from a wealthy Shanghai tea merchant family and there was Dad’s successful business. We’d always been well off. When had that changed? It occurred to me then that the Ming dynasty vases and my mother’s piano had been sold.
Irene stepped back into the room and my focus turned to her. She wore Jimmy Choo heels and a smart Armani dress. She crossed the room to the drinks cabinet, and as she walked towards us carrying a tray with a whisky bottle and glasses, the diamond rings on her fingers glinted. I had a pretty good idea where most of the money had gone.
‘Maybe if she spent less of our money on botox, you would be in a better position to help,’ I burst out.
Dad’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. I waited for an explosion, but it never came. Irene poured whisky into a glass then, holding my gaze, downed the drink in one go. Then she turned and left the room without a word.
‘I know you’re upset, Marlowe, but you can’t talk to Irene like that.’ Dad stood. I thought he looked tall, unusually tall. ‘And quite aside from that, I won’t allow Harper to undergo a transplant. It’s not her wish.’
It began to rain heavily outside, droplets pounded the French doors like the call of hungry ghosts. I didn’t understand. Dad said, ‘I want Harper to live as much as you do, but it’s not your place – or mine – to make decisions without involving her.’ And then he too left the room.
Wài Pó shifted closer to me on the couch and laced her fingers through mine.
‘You must listen to your mèi mei now. Please think about what she wants. I know she doesn’t want this.’
I knew Harper had said she didn’t want a transplant, but how could she make that call? Did she really understand what the consequences of her decision would be?
I needed Harper to live. She had to.
I pulled my hand away from Wài Pó and ran up the stairs to my bedroom.
Harper
In my brain there is a new word: in-vis-ible. I write it in my autobiography storybook again and again and again: Invisible. Invisible. Invisible.
This word got into my brain on Thursday night at 7 pm, just after Louis left my hospital room. I was alone with Wài Pó while Dad and Irene went to get dinner. Together we were watching the Chinese news with careful eyes and ears. A lady’s voice from inside the TV was telling us a sad story about an old man who lived in Kowloon, Hong Kong, in his own apartment all by himself. I saw the old man’s photo from inside the TV; he had big ears, grey hair, a long beard and age all over his face. He looked like a cute, sweet man with a bit of the magic in his beard, like a wizard. Then the lady from the TV said the man had died and no one knew about this because he was alone, all by himself.
No single body, like his friends or family, knew in their hearts and minds about his death because this old man did not have any friends or family.
The only reason he was found dead was because there was water dripping and flooding from a broken pipe in his house and someone had to fix it. This fixing person had to break into his home like a thief, and that is when they saw him. I am sure that he was a bit stiff, and probably he was purple and blue because there was cold under his skin. Like Mum, when her heart stopped, and she was put in a box in the ground and part of her soul went to live on a bright star.
At night, I watch Mum glow.
Marlowe
In the d
arkness, I wandered through the house: past Harper’s empty bedroom, past Wài Pó’s room and the sound of her snoring, to Dad’s study.
As I turned on the computer again and waited for it to boot up, I spotted a newspaper clipping on top of a pile of bills. The headline read: Man Charged With Killing Endangered Butterfly, England. I read on. The butterfly was the Maculinea arion. I looked at the photo of the man, caught mid-stride on a busy street outside the courthouse. He had a star tattooed on his neck and he did not look remorseful.
I put the clipping down, unable to read any more. In a way, the man and I were the same and Dad knew it.
I was eight, nearly nine, and had started wetting the bed again. Dad told me it was time I grew out of it but I couldn’t seem to help it. I kept having the same nightmare in which I couldn’t stop growing until I was larger than our house. I had become an eight-year-old monster.
I woke one morning and noticed that the sheets were damp. I stripped the bed, changed out of my flannel nightie and lugged the soiled linen to the laundry room. The nightmare still lingered in my body, making my shoulders tight. I told myself that dreams weren’t real. I was not a monster, I did not need to run to Mum for comfort. Dad had told me I should not disturb her while she was sick and, anyway, I’d had a silly dream, that was all.
I wandered into the kitchen to ask Wài Pó for breakfast but she wasn’t there. Opening the fridge, I saw a jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. This gave me an idea. I dabbed the juice onto my arms – an old trick Grandpa had taught me to lure butterflies – and made my way to the garden. I wanted to become the youngest lepidopterist to find a rare subspecies of the Actinote, one that Grandpa had shown me in his lepidopterists’ encyclopedia.
As I passed the koi pond and old banyan tree, I heard the sound of clipping. I found Dad pruning the jasmine bush that ran along the left border of our garden. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and his face was streaked with sweat.
