Neat! It was like playing with the Etch-A-Sketch that her cousin Billy received last Christmas.
LuLing went to the refrigerator and brought out the cold beef patty. “Tomorrow what you want eat?”
And Ruth scratched back: B-U-R-G-R.
LuLing laughed. “Hah! So now you can talk back this way!”
The next day, LuLing brought the tea tray to school and filled it with sand from the same part of the schoolyard where Ruth had broken her arm. Miss Sondegard agreed to let Ruth answer questions this way. And when Ruth raised her hand during an arithmetic drill and scrawled “7,” all the other kids jumped out of their chairs to look. Soon they were clamoring that they too wanted to do sand-writing. At recess, Ruth was very popular. She heard them fussing over her. “Let me try!” “Me, me! She said I could!” “You gotta use your left hand, or it’s cheating!” “Ruth, you show Tommy how to do it. He’s so dumb.”
They returned the chopstick to Ruth. And Ruth wrote quickly and easily the answers to their questions: Does your arm hurt? A little. Can I touch your cast? Yes. Does Ricky love Betsy? Yes. Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Yes.
They treated her as though she were Helen Keller, a genius who didn’t let injury keep her from showing how smart she was. Like Helen Keller, she simply had to work harder, and perhaps this was what made her smarter, the effort and others’ admiring that. Even at home, her mother would ask her, “What you think?” as if Ruth would know, just because she had to write the answers to her questions in sand.
“How does the bean curd dish taste?” LuLing asked one night.
And Ruth etched: Salty, She had never said anything bad about her mother’s cooking before, but that was what her mother always said to criticize her own food.
“I thought so too,” her mother answered.
This was amazing! Soon her mother was asking her opinion on all kinds of matters.
“We go shop dinner now or go later?” Later.
“What about stock market? I invest, you think I get lucky?” Lucky.
“You like this dress?” No, ugly. Ruth had never experienced such power with words.
Her mother frowned, then murmured in Mandarin. “Your father loved this old dress, and now I can never throw it away.” She became misty-eyed. She sighed, then said in English: “You think you daddy miss me?”
Ruth wrote Yes right away. Her mother beamed. And then Ruth had an idea. She had always wanted a little dog. Now was the time to ask for one. She scratched in the sand: Doggie.
Her mother gasped. She stared at the words and shook her head in disbelief. Oh well, Ruth thought, that was one wish she was not going to get. But then her mother began to whimper, “Doggie, doggie,” in Chinese. She jumped up and her chest heaved. “Precious Auntie,” LuLing cried, “you’ve come back. This is your Doggie. Do you forgive me?”
Ruth put down the chopstick.
LuLing was now sobbing. “Precious Auntie, oh Precious Auntie! I wish you never died! It was all my fault. If I could change fate, I would rather kill myself than suffer without you… .”
Oh, no. Ruth knew what this was. Her mother sometimes talked about this Precious Auntie ghost who lived in the air, a lady who had not behaved and who wound up living at the End of the World. That was where all bad people went: a bottomless pit where no one would ever find them, and there they would be stuck, wandering with their hair hanging to their toes, wet and bloody.
“Please let me know you are not mad at me,” her mother went on. “Give me a sign. I have tried to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t know if you’ve heard. Can you hear me? When did you come to America?”
Ruth sat still, unable to move. She wanted to go back to talking about food and clothes.
Her mother put the chopstick in Ruth’s hand. “Here, do this. Close your eyes, turn your face to heaven, and speak to her. Wait for her answer, then write it down. Hurry, close your
LuLing went to the refrigerator and brought out the cold beef patty. “Tomorrow what you want eat?”
And Ruth scratched back: B-U-R-G-R.
LuLing laughed. “Hah! So now you can talk back this way!”
The next day, LuLing brought the tea tray to school and filled it with sand from the same part of the schoolyard where Ruth had broken her arm. Miss Sondegard agreed to let Ruth answer questions this way. And when Ruth raised her hand during an arithmetic drill and scrawled “7,” all the other kids jumped out of their chairs to look. Soon they were clamoring that they too wanted to do sand-writing. At recess, Ruth was very popular. She heard them fussing over her. “Let me try!” “Me, me! She said I could!” “You gotta use your left hand, or it’s cheating!” “Ruth, you show Tommy how to do it. He’s so dumb.”
They returned the chopstick to Ruth. And Ruth wrote quickly and easily the answers to their questions: Does your arm hurt? A little. Can I touch your cast? Yes. Does Ricky love Betsy? Yes. Will I get a new bike for my birthday? Yes.
They treated her as though she were Helen Keller, a genius who didn’t let injury keep her from showing how smart she was. Like Helen Keller, she simply had to work harder, and perhaps this was what made her smarter, the effort and others’ admiring that. Even at home, her mother would ask her, “What you think?” as if Ruth would know, just because she had to write the answers to her questions in sand.
“How does the bean curd dish taste?” LuLing asked one night.
And Ruth etched: Salty, She had never said anything bad about her mother’s cooking before, but that was what her mother always said to criticize her own food.
“I thought so too,” her mother answered.
This was amazing! Soon her mother was asking her opinion on all kinds of matters.
“We go shop dinner now or go later?” Later.
“What about stock market? I invest, you think I get lucky?” Lucky.
“You like this dress?” No, ugly. Ruth had never experienced such power with words.
Her mother frowned, then murmured in Mandarin. “Your father loved this old dress, and now I can never throw it away.” She became misty-eyed. She sighed, then said in English: “You think you daddy miss me?”
Ruth wrote Yes right away. Her mother beamed. And then Ruth had an idea. She had always wanted a little dog. Now was the time to ask for one. She scratched in the sand: Doggie.
Her mother gasped. She stared at the words and shook her head in disbelief. Oh well, Ruth thought, that was one wish she was not going to get. But then her mother began to whimper, “Doggie, doggie,” in Chinese. She jumped up and her chest heaved. “Precious Auntie,” LuLing cried, “you’ve come back. This is your Doggie. Do you forgive me?”
Ruth put down the chopstick.
LuLing was now sobbing. “Precious Auntie, oh Precious Auntie! I wish you never died! It was all my fault. If I could change fate, I would rather kill myself than suffer without you… .”
Oh, no. Ruth knew what this was. Her mother sometimes talked about this Precious Auntie ghost who lived in the air, a lady who had not behaved and who wound up living at the End of the World. That was where all bad people went: a bottomless pit where no one would ever find them, and there they would be stuck, wandering with their hair hanging to their toes, wet and bloody.
“Please let me know you are not mad at me,” her mother went on. “Give me a sign. I have tried to tell you how sorry I am, but I don’t know if you’ve heard. Can you hear me? When did you come to America?”
Ruth sat still, unable to move. She wanted to go back to talking about food and clothes.
Her mother put the chopstick in Ruth’s hand. “Here, do this. Close your eyes, turn your face to heaven, and speak to her. Wait for her answer, then write it down. Hurry, close your
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