Katherine (28 page)

Time passed slowly. Early one morning, as I walked along a foggy riverbank, I realized that my life had reached the point where I knew that I would never give up, even if I failed to make it to America. I would not give up. And that was all I expected of myself. I was very happy with this discovery. When I got back to
the hospital, I looked at myself in the restroom mirror. I laughed at my reflection. The mirror showed a typical northern Chinese peasant. She had dusty hair that stuck out like a wild plant. She had dark brown skin with heavy cheeks like steamed breads. Her eyes sank in her head like two fish whispering nose to nose. Her nose was a potato. She didn’t look afraid. She looked a little silly, but confident and proud.

*   *   *

T
en days after I got back from Shanghai, a telegram came. I showed my passport to the post office clerk and he passed me the green envelope. I was afraid it might be bad news. Maybe Katherine sent the wire to say that she had tried and failed and decided to give in to fate. I tore it open.

I took out the telegram. The characters appeared blurred, then gradually came into focus.

An extraordinary silence ran through the space of my mind, and I exhaled.

*   *   *

L
ittle Rabbit opened her eyes slowly. She looked up at me. Touching my cheek with her little fingers, she asked,
“Zhe-shi-shi-me?”
What’s this?

I waved the telegram at her.

“Mama?”

I nodded.

“Is Mama coming back for me?” Little Rabbit’s red eyes widened,
her eyebrows knotted as she stared at me, waiting for my reply. Before I could open my mouth, her focus faded and she slid away.

I took her little blue and purple hands, bruised by needles.

The line on the electrocardiograph drew the irregular patterns of her heartbeat.

A round-faced doctor came in and checked her pulse.

“Are you the mother?” he asked, his eyes on his watch.

“Yes.”

“She’s grabbing hold of herself. She’s fighting hard. I think she’s going to pull through.”

Outside the room, nurses were carrying out a stretcher with a little body wrapped in a white sheet.

No crying, only the sound of footsteps on concrete ground.

“Tomorrow,” the doctor said, and threw me a smile as he walked away.

My tears choked me silently. I took out Katherine’s Walkman and covered my ears with the headphones.

B
orn in Shanghai in 1957,
Anchee Min
came to America in 1984 with the help of actress Joan Chen. She has worked as a waitress, a house cleaner, an assistant on contruction sites, a fabric painter, a messenger, and a model while attending English as a Second Language classes. In 1990 she received a Masters of Fine Arts Degree from the Art Institute of Chicago, where she studied filmmaking and music. Her memoir
Red Azalea
, written over eight years, won the Carl Sandburg Literary Award, was named a
New York Times
Notable Book of 1994, and was an international bestseller, with rights sold in twenty countries. Her second novel,
Becoming Madame Mao
, was recently published in hardcover. She lives and works in California with her husband and daughter.

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