“Are you watching this show, Grandpa?”
Chū Huā’s grandfather stared at the TV from his wheelchair. When he didn’t respond, she got up from the couch and waved her hand in front of his face. “Yē? It’s me, Chū Huā. Can you hear me?”
“He can hear you,” his home nurse, Rosa, called from the kitchen. “He’s just lost in himself.”
“What does that mean?” Chū Huā asked, although she had a pretty good idea. She loved to sit alone for hours, strumming her guitar and making up songs. Lost in herself.
Rosa came in carrying a tray. Handing the tray to Chū Huā, she added, “See if you can get him to eat. Your mothers are very concerned about how skinny he’s getting.”
The moment Chū Huā set the bowl of steamed rice in front of him, her grandpa came to life. “Wŏ bù è!” he complained, pushing the bowl away.
Rosa smiled. “Let me guess: that’s Chinese for, ‘I’m not hungry.’”
“Yeah.” Buzzing her lips in frustration, Chū Huā flopped back onto the couch. She glanced at her phone. “I promised Māmā I’d stay until five. That’s a whole ’nother hour. What am I supposed to do?”
“Just sit there next to him. It makes him happy.”
“Nothing makes him happy,” Chū Huā countered under her breath. Aloud she said, “I need to get home and practice my guitar.”
“You should bring it here and play for him.”
Chū Huā shook her head. “He wouldn’t get my kind of music.” Trying to block out the cheesy Chinese soap opera on the TV, she sat glumly and tried to work out lyrics for a new song.
Suddenly her grandpa gasped, opening his eyes wide and pointing a shaky finger at the knickknack shelf over the TV. “Huī sè huā!” he shouted hoarsely.
“What’s wrong, Yē?” Chū Huā asked, rushing over to him. “He said ‘gray flower,’ whatever that means,” she translated when Rosa hurried in. Something pulled Chū Huā’s attention back to the shelf. She saw a blur. A tiny head peeking at her. A gleaming eye. Then nothing but a souvenir plate from the White House gift shop and a granite Buddha. “I think you’ve got a mouse.” She didn’t really believe it was a mouse, but she couldn’t imagine what else it might be.
“I’ll ask your moms to call an exterminator,” said Rosa.
Chū Huā, already lost again in her lyrics, barely heard her.
* * *
Chū Huā and her moms lived in an apartment two flights down from her grandfather. Mom was sitting at the kitchen table when Chū Huā ran in. “Well, hello, Chryssie,” she said. Mom called her Chryssie, short for Chrysanthemum, which is what Chū Huā’s name meant in Chinese. “Rosa just called about the mouse.”
Shrugging, Chū Huā headed toward her room, but Mom stopped her. “This is important to Māmā, Chryssie. I mean, being there for her dad in his final days. We’d like you to visit him again on Friday.”
Now Chū Huā couldn’t stop her tongue. “Again? He doesn’t even know I’m there.” She knew it was a lousy thing to say. Mom’s frown proved her right. Sitting down glumly, she hoped to get the stern lecture over with quickly.
“Two things,” Mom began, “and then we’ll both move on from this moment.”
“Okay.”
“First, you are doing this for Māmā, who loves and cares for you. It’s a small thing to ask of you. It gives her comfort. Doesn’t matter if Yē knows you’re there.”
Chū Huā stared into her lap.
“Second,” Mom continued, “this is good for you.”
Now Chū Huā looked up. “How?”
“Because you need to learn to engage more with others. You don’t reach out. You’re by yourself all the time.”
“Playing my music,” Chū Huā argued hotly. “I have to practice, or I’ll never be good. I thought you and Māmā wanted me to do what makes me happy.”
“We do, Chryssie. But you can’t spend your whole life sitting on your bed strumming your guitar.”
Chū Huā was about to lash out, but a motion across the doorway to the living room distracted her. When she ran to look, she could have sworn she saw a gray something with shiny eyes skitter up the wall and disappear. That was no mouse.
“Are you even listening to me?” Mom demanded.
“Um, yeah.” She kept closing her and opening her eyes, wondering if she was going nuts. “I’ll go see Yē after school Friday.” She just wanted to get out of that kitchen. “Can I go practice my song now?”
The moment Mom nodded, Chū Huā bolted, not waiting for her to change her mind.
Up in her room, Chū Huā started her songwriting session in the usual way: she recited a list of everything making her sad or upset. Singing about bad feelings gave her a sense of release, like she was really expressing herself. “Will is going to prom with Ashley. I got a C+ on the history test. Will is going to prom with Ashley. I have to give up my Friday afternoon to sit with Yē. And then there’s Will,” she said with a sorrowful laugh, “going to prom with Ashley.” She grabbed her acoustic guitar off its stand and crawled onto her bed.
While she tuned the strings, Chū Huā breathed in the comforting, musty smell of the old instrument. The varnished wood was worn down by fingers and scratched by guitar picks, decade after decade. The scent made her feel at home.
When the strings sounded right, Chū Huā started strumming slowly. She sang in a low, dark tone.
He looks at her, not me.
He loves to watch her dance.
He’ll dance with her, you’ll see.
I’ll never have romance.
As she strummed chords that led into the second verse, Chū Huā was alarmed by a strange buzzing noise in the guitar. “Ugh,” she moaned. “That’s all I need. What is it? A crack?” She gave the guitar a once-over, but it looked fine. Thinking there was something loose inside, she held her instrument over her head, strings downward, and shook it gently. When nothing fell out, she laid the guitar down on the mattress. “What’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “Why is everything in my life so crappy?”
One of the strings twanged, making her jump. She hadn’t touched it. Two more strings starting moving and creaking. It looked like something was stuck to a string, just over the sound hole. Leaning over to take a closer look, Chū Huā soon jumped back with a yelp. The thing on the string was a tiny arm!
Another arm appeared, clinging to the same string. A small gray body dragged itself up through the hole in the guitar. A pair of limp, gray wings scraped across the lowest string.
“A fairy!” Chū Huā whispered, afraid to scare it away. She and the fairy sat cross-legged, staring at each other, Chū Huā on her quilt and the fairy on top of her guitar. It didn’t look scared. It looked glum. And it didn’t have the sparkle or impishness Chū Huā assumed all fairies had.
“Aren’t you supposed to be flying around?” she asked it. The fairy responded by sliding off the guitar, landing face-first in the peach-colored quilt. “You don’t look so good,” Chū Huā observed. Slowly she reached out to touch its wings. They shuddered under her finger, but the fairy still didn’t move.
It reminded her of a wilting blossom. “You were at my grandpa’s apartment, weren’t you?” she asked. “I heard Yē call you ‘Gray Flower,’ which is exactly what you look like. My name is Chū Huā. You know, Chrysanthemum.” She wondered if fairies could understand Chinese. Or even English. “Some people call me Chryssie.”
The fairy’s eyes were kind, but oh, so sad. Chū Huā had an idea. “Want me to sing you a song?”
It shifted slightly at that suggestion. Chū Huā put her guitar across her lap and made up another verse for her new song:
I like to be alone
And sing until I cry.
I’ll always be alone
But please don’t ask me why.
Although Chū Huā felt a bit better after singing, the fairy just laid there. “Are you sick?” she asked, very concerned now. It pulled a wing over its head and rolled up in a mournful gray ball.
She did an Internet search for “healing sick fairy,” but all the hits were for complicated spells, potions, and incantations. One recipe even called for the spleen of a rare tropical frog, marinated in wizard’s spit. “I’m really not qualified to do any of this stuff,” she apologized to her guest. “Maybe I could make you more comfy, though.”
Pulling her lavender angora sweater from her drawer, Chū Huā made a nest with it in an old shoebox. With the lid of the box she guided the lethargic fairy into its super-soft cradle. “There you go,” Chū Huā cooed. “You get some sleep, now.”
She laid the lid over the box on a diagonal, so the fairy could get out if it wanted. Quietly, she closed the bedroom door behind her, and went down to dinner.
Chū Huā decided not to tell her moms about the fairy. They’d probably freak out and call animal control or something. Anyway, she loved having such a huge (tiny) secret hidden in her room.
After the dishes were cleared and she’d watched a show on TV, Chū Huā came back into her room cautiously. She was ready to be dive-bombed by a spunky, well-rested fairy. But, no. It lay in its box, dull and pathetic.
Panic shot through Chū Huā’s chest. “Maybe I should ask my parents,” she said to it, wishing it could tell her what it needed. “You poor little thing. It’s like your light has gone out.”
With those words, Chū Huā had a vivid memory of being about six years old. As clear as is it happened yesterday instead of ten years before, she remembered lying with her head on Māmā’s lap while Mom read her Peter Pan. She could even smell Mom’s verbena soap and feel her big, warm hand stroking her hair. It was all so real. Suddenly, the story seemed real, too.
“You’re like Tinkerbell,” she declared. The fairy raised its head slightly, then let it drop into the plush sweater. “No, no,” Chū Huā implored. “Don’t die, Gray Flower. Don’t die, Huī sè Huā. I believe in you,” she said urgently, trying to remember exactly what happened in Peter Pan. “I believe in you.” For emphasis, she smacked the top of her dresser. Then she remembered. “I have to clap!”
She clapped. And clapped, and clapped. Twirling around the room, she clapped and sang, “I believe! Oh, yes, I believe!”
Loud knocking at the door brought her ritual to a ragged halt.
“Chū Huā! Open this door!” When Chū Huā peeked out, Māmā scolded, “It’s late. What’s going on in there?”
“Just, um, practicing a new song.”
“Well, it’s bedtime for those of us who have to go to work or school tomorrow. That includes you. The song will have to wait.”
“Okay. Goodnight.” Chū Huā started to close the door, but stopped. “Māmā? Why did you name me after a chrysanthemum?”
Māmā’s face softened. “You were so pretty, and filled me with so much joy. You made me think of a huge field of flowers. And chrysanthemums are strong and bright. Just like I knew you’d turn out.” She sighed happily. “You used to love your name. When you cried, I’d sing like this.” Māmā put a hand on each of her daughter’s shoulders and keened out a melody as supple as thin gold thread. “Chū Huā-a-a. Chū-u-u Huā-a-a. How I love my little Chū Huā.”
Māmā started laughing. “Mom thinks singing that song to you turned you into a musician. So it’s my fault you won’t be a stockbroker or lawyer and get rich.”
“Maybe I’ll be a rich musician,” Chū Huā giggled. “G’night, Māmā.”
“Goodnight, love. Go to bed now.” This time she said it sweetly.
Closing the door, Chū Huā hurried over to the shoebox where the fairy was nestled in its bedding. “Goodnight, Gray Flower,” she said. “Hope you feel better in the morning.”
* * *
The moment her alarm went off, instead of slapping the snooze button, Chū Huā leapt out of bed to check on Gray Flower. A sunbeam peeking through the curtains lit the shoebox with a line of blinding light. Pushing back the top fold of sweater, Chū Huā got ready to greet a sleepy fairy.
There was no fairy in the box.
With her heart racing, Chū Huā carefully lifted out the sweater, even shook it gently, just to be sure. “Gray Flower?” she called. Her voice cracked. Part of her was glad the weird creature had found the strength to fly away, but a greater part was hurt and disappointed that it hadn’t said goodbye.
As she stood over the empty box, feeling just as empty, she lost track of time. A knock at the door made her jump.
“Time to stir up a new day, Chryssie,” called Mom, as she did every morning.
“I’m up,” Chū Huā responded on automatic.
It was when she got out of the shower that Chū Huā finally saw Gray Flower. The fairy was on the windowsill, slumped dourly against the second-place trophy from a talent show a few years back.
“Hey!” Chū Huā greeted it. Its tiny head cocked slightly as it looked at her. Chū Huā was overwhelmed by the sense that she was responsible for a magical being. “I’ll figure this out,” she promised. “You’ll get better. Trust me.” She kissed the top of her little finger, which she then touched lightly to Gray Flower’s head. “See you later, Huī sè Huā.”
The school day went by in a fog. Three different teachers accused Chū Huā of not paying attention. All she could think about was how to help Gray Flower.
Before Language Arts class she got up the nerve to talk to a mysterious, nerdy boy named Derek who always wore black. He was at his desk, reading a magazine called Witch’s Weekly. As Chū Huā approached, she could see the words “Brain-turning enchantments” printed across the top of the page.
Clearing her throat, she blurted out her question without warning. “How do I make a sick fairy better?”
Derek didn’t look up and he didn’t pause to think. “Say its true name three times. That will return it to its nature.” Then he turned the page of his magazine.
“Okay, thanks.” Stunned that instructions could be so simple and so impossible at the same time, Chū Huā took her seat and wondered how to find the fairy’s true name.
By the time she walked home, she’d imagined a thousand fairy names. None of them seemed right. “How would someone figure out my name?” she asked herself wearily. She remembered what Māmā had said. Chrysanthemums: bright and strong, giving joy. “Am I named for my nature? Is that really who I am?”
Picturing the gloomy fairy in its shoebox, Chū Huā stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh, my gosh. I named it wrong. I made it get worse!” She took off at a sprint, her backpack slapping against her hip with each pounding step.
Mom was working at her computer when Chū Huā tore past her office. “Everything okay, Chryssie?” she called.
At first, Chū Huā just shouted “Yeah!” But then she realized she had something important to say. She popped her head around the doorway. “Hey, Mom? Would you mind calling me Chū Huā? I like that better than Chryssie.”
After a few seconds of silence, Mom relaxed her surprised face into a smile. “Sure, sweetie. Chū Huā is a beautiful name.”
“Thanks!” she called, tearing down the hallway to her room. “Fairy?” she said hesitantly as she stepped in. “You still here?”
It was in its shoebox and barely stirred when she petted its wings. “I’m sorry I gave you the wrong name,” she whispered. “I think I know the right one now. Hang on a second.” She bounded across the room, grabbed her guitar off its stand, and strapped it across her body. Without even bothering to tune the strings, she started to strum. She made up a simple melody as she went along, singing:
Fly, my little Shiny Flower.
Dance, my dear Shăn liàng de Huà.
Don’t you know your Māmā’s waiting
For her Shiny Flower now?
Three times she’d sung the name. As if it had understood, Shiny Flower suddenly shook out its wings, clumped and creased from disuse. Its skin changed color. Dull gray blossomed into shimmering green.
“Oh, you’re beautiful!” Chū Huā watched with glee as Shiny Flower launched from the box and flitted around the bedroom. “Look at you go!”
The fairy bounced from bookshelf to desk to pillow, trailing glitter that dissolved into vapor. Finally, alighting on the end of Chū Huā’s guitar, it rested its feet on one of the tuning pegs. Before Chū Huā could say anything, the fairy waved its tiny hand and flew straight out through the closed window into the early winter twilight.
Chū Huā stood staring at the window, guitar in hand. A mixture of sorrow and delight flooded her heart. “Goodbye, Shăn liàng de Huà,” she sighed. “I’ll miss you.”
She heard Māmā open the front door, just home from work. Still clutching her guitar, Chū Huā went out to greet her.
“You haven’t changed from your school clothes yet?” Māmā asked.
“I thought I’d go up and see Yē,” Chū Huā explained, surprising herself. But as soon as she said it, she knew it was a good idea. “I want to sing to him.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Māmā’s concerned face made Chū Huā grin. “Don’t worry. I’ll make up a happy song.”
There was relief in Māmā’s laughter. “He’ll like that.”
Chū Huā was so full of energy, she ran up the two flights of stairs to her grandpa’s apartment. She knew she couldn’t heal him with a magical song, but maybe she could make him feel al little better, just for a while.
Plus, she could teach him the true name of the little fairy who liked to peek at him from the knickknack shelf.
