Marlowe

I closed the front door and turned on the light in the hall. The rest of the house was dark. A pair of Irene’s high heels, Hollywood red, sat in the entrance. The impression of her dainty toes marked the soles of her shoes in the shape of thimbles. When I was a child, our home was always full of visitors, music, chatter and beautiful things. Today it seemed that everywhere I looked, Irene had already made her mark.

I walked down the hall quietly, wanting to avoid a scene with her. She hadn’t returned to the hospital after our argument that morning, and I had no idea where she had gone. I made it to Dad’s study without encountering her and slipped inside, closing the door behind me. I sat at Dad’s desk and switched on the computer. As I waited for it to boot up, I thought over the conversation I’d had with Anita.

She had led me into a stairwell and handed me a slip of paper on which was written a Hong Kong phone number and the name Mr Zhāng. Anita told me this was the number for someone who could help Harper get the heart and lungs that she needed. A hospital in Shanghai could perform the transplant surgery in a matter of weeks.

I gaped at her, unable to believe what I was hearing. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

Anita explained that many lives were saved this way, including her brother’s. The only problem was the expense. It cost US$30,000 for a heart and a similar amount for lungs, although prices varied depending on the brokers and the hospitals they worked with. Anita said she had already spoken to my stepmother, who had told her that our family didn’t have that kind of cash. ‘But I thought I would mention it to you, too,’ she finished. ‘This would save Harper’s life.’

Irene had told Anita we couldn’t afford to save Harper’s life? How dare she! Yes, it was a lot of money, but if it meant saving Harper’s life of course we would find a way. But then I paused. This all seemed too good to be true. Yes, China had a huge population, but were organs really so readily available? If they were, why was there such a shortage in the world?

‘Why is it so easy to get organs quickly in China?’ I asked.

Anita looked away. ‘I’ve heard that they use the organs of executed prisoners.’

My body went cold.

‘The way I see it,’ she said, ‘this is the one good deed they can do before they die, to redeem themselves.’

Pulling the computer keyboard towards me now, I typed the words ‘executed prisoners organ transplants’ into the search engine. Surely Anita had it all wrong. But the first search result was a newspaper article titled: China’s Organ Transplant Tourism. In the accompanying image, a man kneeled on the ground, handcuffed, head bowed. Behind him was a wall marked with bullet holes. I felt like I was going to vomit.

So Anita was right.

I shut down the computer and stared at the blank screen. I had two competing voices in my head. Was I really prepared to save my sister in this way? the first asked. At the expense of another life? But would I really turn down the chance to save Harper? asked the other. Surely nothing mattered more than that. Surely our family had suffered enough loss already.

I rose from the chair and left the study, walking into the living room to stand in the empty space where Mum’s grand piano used to be. I tried to recall the sound of her playing, but the memory refused to come. My body felt heavy, weighed down by her absence. What if I could have saved Mum? Wouldn’t I have done anything? Standing there, it was as if I was that scared little girl again, woken by the sound of my parents arguing.

‘You can’t give up,’ my father thundered. ‘I won’t allow it.’

It was the first time I had ever heard Dad raise his voice.

I crawled out of bed, still wrapped in my feather duvet, and tiptoed along the corridor to my parents’ room. The door was ajar, and I could see Dad pacing back and forth.

‘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.