Two days later, Uncle Johnny and I met in the lobby of the Wing Fat Building, a small and dingy office block in Wan Chai.
‘Thank you for coming.’
Uncle Johnny was fidgeting with a loose thread on the sleeve of his leather jacket.
‘No need to thank me,’ he replied, glancing over his shoulder.
The elevator was old school, with a spring wire gate for a door. I pressed the button for the ninth floor and held on to a railing as the rickety lift rose upwards. Uncle Johnny fingered the button on his jacket nervously. I had never seen him like this before. He’d seemed so calm when we rang Mr Zhāng a few days earlier.
The doors opened. Worn navy carpet lined the corridor. We walked to room 101 and knocked on the door. A man with slicked-back hair and a toothpick in his mouth opened it. Uncle Johnny said something to him in Cantonese. The man nodded and we entered. The room was empty but for three collapsible chairs in the centre and a suitcase.
The man gestured to the chairs and we sat. I clutched Harper’s medical records in my sweaty hands as Uncle Johnny and the broker conversed in Cantonese, Uncle Johnny with an American accent and the broker with a thick Shanghainese accent, words emerging from the back of his throat and spilling over one another like choppy waves.
Uncle Johnny turned to me. ‘Mr Zhāng says that it’s better if the transplant can be done in November or December.’
I felt the air leave my lungs. ‘That’s ages away! We don’t have that long.’
‘I know.’ Uncle Johnny spoke to Mr Zhāng again. After several long minutes he spoke in English, ‘He said you should take Harper to China and wait for the organs there.’
‘How long will it take?’
‘He says if she can get to Shanghai soon, it will only be a matter of days.’
I wanted to jump from my chair and hug Mr Zhāng.
‘Marlowe,’ Uncle Johnny said, ‘I have to say this all sounds a little –’
But I didn’t let him finish. ‘Tell him we’ll do it,’ I said.
Mr Zhāng asked for Harper’s medical records, then told Uncle Johnny she would need to have a pre-transplant blood test and an immunological evaluation in China. A cash deposit of US$35,000 had to be paid within twenty-four hours. The remaining $30,000 would be payable once the surgery was scheduled. There might also be smaller fees once we arrived in China, Mr Zhāng warned.
Uncle Johnny looked at me, brow creased, eyes filled with concern. ‘That’s a lot of money, Marlowe. Are you sure about this?’
‘Yes.’ I glared at him and he took a step back, his eyes searching mine. ‘Yes,’ I repeated in a softer tone. My stomach tightened. I imagined Olly beside me, taking my hand and telling me everything would be okay, that I was not alone.
But I was alone. Uncle Johnny and Bì Yù were only helping reluctantly, and Dad and Wài Pó were against the idea. If Olly were here, would he really say that everything would be okay? Stop, I told myself. I had to stop thinking like this. It wouldn’t help me in any way.
Uncle Johnny and I left the room and made our way out of the building. It took me a minute to adjust to the light.
‘Marlowe?’ Uncle Johnny turned to face me. His expression had changed. His eyes were quieter now. ‘Promise me, no matter what, you’ll stay in touch?’
I nodded and found myself exhaling deeply.
‘Thank you for helping me.’
As I watched him walk away, I was aware once more of my aloneness, but this time, it felt different.
I looked at my watch. I didn’t have long to set things in motion. At the bank, I took out Mr Zhāng’s deposit and organised a transfer to Bì Yù’s account. I was told it would take one to two days to go through. My heart raced. That was cutting it fine. I then made it to the travel agent, with only fifteen minutes left before she closed. I felt a tightening in my belly as I paid for our flights. Those pesky thoughts returned: Was I doing the right thing? There would be no turning back now. Yet something was driving me, something deep, primal. Like a serpent in one of Harper’s stories, it had curled itself in my belly and no amount of logic could override it.