Mending Broken Wings

“Come here, come here.” The old soup vendor said to her. As many times as he passed her in the streets, he never spoke to her before now . “Come here I said, are you deaf?” he asked. Baffled at what he wanted, she walked over to him stealing a peek of the beef soup the vendor’s wife was stirring. He handed her a small bowl of soup, the smell made her realize she was famished. “Thank you, but I have no money,” she told him. He waived his hand in the air, as if he was annoyed. Thoughts of her mother danced in her memories as she devoured a mouthful of thick warm noodles. It was difficult to think about her mother, and this same soup her mother once made. Smiling a toothless grin, the vendors old wife took a place on the dirt road beside the child, running her crooked old fingers through the girl’s short hair. Handing the girl a tin cup filled with pebbles, the old woman formed a flat surface in the dirt in the shape of a circle. “Throw.” She said, pointing at the circle. The girl emptied the pebbles from the tin cup, tossing them in the center of the circle. A few seconds would pass, the old woman looked at the pebbles and studied them with a frown. “Throw again.” She commanded, gathering the pebbles to put in the tin cup. Once more the girl tossed the pebbles in the circle. “You not a lucky girl,” whispered the old vendors wife. Although confused, the girl said nothing. The old woman continued to study the pebbles before she spoke again. “You will go far away one day. You will go far away and never come back.” She said. “Go where?” the girl asked, even more frightened now. “A different land. It will not be good for you, but you will be the wind which lifts the bird into the sky. She will fly again, because of you.” “What bird? What are you talking about?” The old woman took out a pipe made of bamboo, chewing on the lip of the old pipe. She tapped her crooked fingers on the stem. “What bird? I don’t understand.” “The bird with a broken wing.” The old woman said. .................................................................................... 1970, a week before my sixth birthday. It was exceptionally hot for the middle of June. We ran through the sprinklers in our small backyard. The water had been running all day so the long uncut grass was soaked. Skidding into each other, we ignored the heat. I couldn’t get enough of the cool water gently splashing against my skin. The hours of playing in the sun wore on my younger brother and sister as well as our neighborhood friends. I decided to stay outside and take advantage of having the sprinkler all to myself when they left. I turned the knob of the hose so the sprinkler would spray as high as it would go. In a sweeping motion, the water chased me in a graceful dance. “Wooooo!” I screamed when the water finally caught me. As I ran from the fan-like spray, I would slide and dive. It was fun pretending the water was poison, a poison which could not touch my skin or I would die! But the sprinkler shut off before I could make my final grand escape from the towering poisonous wave just about to hit me. I turned around to find my father’s best friend sitting at the edge of the redwood deck. “Is it time for dinner Mr. Buck?” I asked. “No, I just wanted to give you your birthday present,” he said. “It’s not my birthday yet.” “I know, but you are so special you shouldn’t have to wait for your birthday. Come over here and sit by me.” I walked over to him, the water from my hair suddenly cold on my shoulders. Mr. and Mrs. Buck always gave good presents so I was excited to see what he had for me. “Now you can’t tell anyone, this is our secret okay?” “Okay! I promise! Cross my heart hope to die!” I screamed. “Shhh” he whispered looking around nervously. “You need to be quiet if you want your present.” “I do want it, I’ll be quiet,” I excitedly whispered trying to contain myself. “Where is it?” “It’s in my pocket. You need to reach into my pocket and get it.” He said. I reached in his pant pocket and felt a hole, and then I felt skin. He shifted a bit and told me to keep feeling for my gift. I felt something different from anything I had ever felt. I realized that what I was feeling was what my Chinese mother would refer to as a ‘choo-choo-chow-chow,’ a term she used when I once took a bath with my younger brother and asked what the thing between his legs was. I tried pulling my hand away but he held it so tightly I was unable to move it. Suddenly, it was cold in spite of how hot the day was. I started to shiver. Engulfed in fear, my small body was covered in goose bumps. “This is my key,” he said. “Do you like it?” “Let me go!” I screamed, struggling to pull my hand out from his pocket. He held my arm steady and would not let go. “Grab my key tighter Gracie,” he whispered with frustration in his voice. “No! Let me go!” I screamed hoping someone would hear me. “Shhh...” he said, holding a free finger from his other hand to his lips. Looking around to make sure I wasn’t heard, he appeared angry. He lowered his head and whispered, “do you think Dara would like to do this for me? Should I go get your little sister?” I could feel his foul smelling breath on my face, and couldn’t bear to look at him. He held my chin firmly, turning my face to his. His right eye was strangely crossed outward, something I never noticed until now. Tears streamed from my eyes as I struggled to stay still and hold his key. Dara, my sister was four years old, I couldn’t let him harm her so I stopped resisting and tightened my grip as he commanded. Moments later I felt something moist on my fingers. He quietly moaned before releasing his grip on my arm. I didn’t know it was on my hand but it felt sticky, like the slime a snail would leave when trailing my palm. He walked over to the sprinkler, turning it on. “We’re done so you can play now. Remember, you can’t tell anyone. This is our secret special game. If you tell anyone, I will have to play this game with Dara?. Do you understand?” He asked. I still couldn’t look at him, or the disgusting stuff on my hand, but I gave a small nod to let him know I understood before walking to the wet grass. I sunk my hand in its wet spongy texture, wiping it clean. My name is Gracie Mae Williams, and this is my story. Today, one week before my sixth birthday, a terrible abuse was born. An abuse which would be called the ‘game’, would last for the next eight years.