My Father's Illness Made Me Grow Up Overnight
AS I SIFT THROUGH the silt of my teenage years, I can clearly see that autumn afternoon. There was brilliant sunlight, a rarity in Guizhou. Young seventeen-year-old Wang Yang strode down the street, satisfied at her success and radiant with joy.
The sky was blue, a rich blue that looked as though it were about to drip down from above, and several white clouds floated leisurely about like mist. It was a scene so beautiful it was almost beyond belief. I felt ebullient as I walked along the street. My swelling joy seemed ready to burst from my chest, and I wanted to share this with every single pedestrian around me.
This was the day I had won the grand prize at my local high school's literary competition!
Picturing one of the female protagonists in a Chiung Yao's novel, I'd spent ten yuan on a piece of purple satin fabric, sketched a design on a piece of paper, and taken it to a tailor. I asked them to make me a dress with a large skirt, a belt tied across the waist, and long, wide sleeves, like the ones used in traditional performances. I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven.
The award ceremony was a lively and grand one. Television reporters ran about shouldering bulky cameras, and the newspaper reporters' cameras clicked and flashed again and again. I entered the ceremony venue wearing my purple "Chiung Yao-esque" dress, and immediately all eyes turned toward me. I swished my raven waist-length hair ostentatiously, proudly showing off among the crowd, like a movie star walking the starlit red carpet at the Oscars…
An authority figure—I don't remember which one—pressed my award certificate and prize into my hands and sincerely exhorted, "I hope that one day you can become an author loved and respected by your readers!"
Without saying a word, I pursed my lips. To my little mind, being an author wasn't necessarily anything special. I had a broad range of hobbies and interests. I would win first place in every competition I took part in, taking home the gold on quite a few occasions. It was a bit like what the old poem says: "It does not take long for the swift horse to see all that the path has to offer." The insolent teenaged version of me was quite ambitious; I could reach for the stars or for the fruits of the earth, just as Chairman Mao had once written. As long as I set about to doing something, any sort of success or honor was right within my grasp! Youth means unlimited possibilities.
What surprised me was that thick envelope. Three characters were written upon it: "One Hundred Yuan" . A hundred yuan! To know what that meant to me, consider the typical prices back then: for one jiao, worth one tenth of one yuan, you could buy a piece of stinky tofu. Three jiao could buy you a plate of siwawa, which were not unlike spring rolls. For five jiao you could eat a bowl of cold noodles, and for just a few yuan you could buy a decent piece of fabric for making clothes. But my essay, which was no longer than 1,000 characters and had taken me no more than two hours to write, had somehow earned me 100 yuan!
When the award ceremony was over, I sprinted onto the street in high spirits and used twenty yuan to buy myself a set of black clothes that I had admired for quite some time: a close-fitting pullover T-shirt and a pair of loose bloomers. I felt invincible; they were just too cool! After buying these, I began to carefully pick out gifts for my parents. For my father I bought a deluxe electric razor. He'd always used an outdated manual razor, and the dull blade often cut his face when he shaved. For my mother I bought a pair of brown leather pumps with exquisite straps—exactly the style she loved. Then I bought my sister a few handkerchiefs, hairpins and other odds and ends. In just a few moments, my 100 yuan had vanished in a puff of smoke.
Carrying this pile of gifts in my arms, I was so happy I could barely control myself. I was just a high-school student, but I could already earn my own living. What's more, I could even perform my filial duty to my parents. What else could bring me more pride and joy? I could almost see my parents' kind, praising smiles; I could almost see my mother preparing a delicious feast, waiting to celebrate my victory…
I rushed home in a state of bliss, hastily running towards that source of light, warmth and happiness. I was so impatient that I was nearly sprinting from excitement.
At the age of seventeen, how was I supposed to know that I was rushing toward a nightmare from which I would never awaken? Right as I had reached what I thought to be the joyous peak of my life, fate had already pulled the rug out from under me. It was as if someone had suddenly added a rest to a grand and beautiful piece of music. The gorgeous melody came to a sudden halt, and endless stress and pain took its place.
I had just reached the courtyard entrance when I saw my neighbor walking toward me with a look of panic. "Sansan," she said, using her affectionate nickname for me, "your father fainted while giving a lecture this afternoon—he's in the hospital now! Go, hurry!"
What?!
My head spun as if I'd just been struck with a bat! There was no time to think; I immediately turned around and raced to the hospital. I ran so quickly I was gasping from exhaustion, still absurdly clutching my pile of gifts tightly in my arms.
I arrived at the hospital to see a throng of doctors and nurses crowding before a bed. My father's eyes were shut tight, and his throat was making a rumbling noise. His entire body was plugged full of tubes.
I felt my blood freeze. My hands loosened, and the shoes, the razor and everything else fell to the ground with a crash!