Seeing Spring (Jian Chun Tian)

Аt first, Jiаng Du didn't nоtiсе the red spоts оn her arm.

Until а rainy dау, whеn Wеi Qingуuе asked hеr, "Mosquito bites, huh?" She heаrd his vоicе rise thrоugh thе rаin, сasuаl аs if mаking smаll tаlk, just sitting therе talking about mоsquitо bites. Wеi Qingyue knew еverything; hе exрlаinеd tо hеr whу it hаppеnеd like thаt.

Ваck thеn, she didn't knоw thаt Wei Qingyuе's еxрlanation wаsn't the problеm—thе рroblеm was the two rеd sроts.

Thе rеd sроts nеvеr fadеd. Shе devеloрed a fеver, thinking it wаs just а сold, but thе high fеvеr wоuldn't break.

Hеr things had already bеen brought homе, but she didn't go tо Third Нigh Sсhoоl either. Lying at home, she had plenty of time to miss Wei Qingyue, whom she could no longer see, thinking of him day and night like an unceasing wind.

Because of the high fever, she kept seeing airplanes—roaring, roaring, soaring straight into the sky. Jiang Du had never been on a plane, but she knew that those who flew could see beautiful seas of clouds. Would Wei Qingyue see them? He definitely would.

What about when he went abroad and had to speak English all the time? Would his mother look after him? He wouldn’t be able to eat braised chicken with mushrooms or drink crucian carp and tofu soup anymore. He said the fish soup was delicious, but it was a shame Grandpa couldn’t make it for him anymore... She’d just have to wait until he came back. If he returned, the first thing she’d do was treat him to authentic Chinese food. Thinking this way, Jiang Du felt a little happier.

Wei Qingyue had given her a new Tweety Bird, but she couldn’t bear to hang it up, so she stored it in an old candy tin. The tin was brightly colored, like a vibrant rainbow. Probably, many girls had experienced not wanting to throw away pretty candy wrappers or boxes.

Grandma mended clothes, and Jiang Du thought the buttons were lovely—smooth and glossy—so she kept one. Wang Jingjing went on a trip to the seaside and brought her back seashells as a gift. She adored them and placed them in the tin. Grandpa returned to his hometown and brought back a few long pheasant feathers. She found them interesting and added them too. And so, the tin gradually filled up, each item with a story she could recount in detail.

Now, she had placed her most treasured possession inside.

But still, it was truly heartbreaking. Jiang Du cried as she thought about it. Wei Qingyue had lost an organ—a person losing an organ was such a sorrowful thing. His body was given by his parents, whole and complete, yet because of her, he had lost his spleen.

Jiang Du cried until her head ached. She hugged her candy tin, pressing her face against the pillow, her forehead burning hot. It felt as if only holding ice under her arms could bring some relief.

Later, things took a sharp turn for the worse, and she didn’t even know what was happening. All she knew was that she could no longer focus on reading. Of the magazines Wei Qingyue had left behind, she had only finished one properly. She would jot down her favorite sentences in a notebook and note the good books mentioned in the articles, planning to buy them all after the college entrance exams and savor them slowly.

Grandpa and Grandma took her to the provincial hospital. After being admitted, she underwent many tests.

When the test results came out, the hospital advised them to go to Beijing.

Grandpa asked, "Doctor, does that mean we can’t treat this illness here?" The doctor replied, "The condition is progressing too quickly, and the patient’s existing heart issues make treatment even more difficult. Take the child to Beijing, the sooner the better."

What kind of place was a Beijing hospital? It was where people went when they had no other options, no paths left, when they had reached the end of the road.

Grandpa understood this all too clearly.He wore a freshly washed white tank top and newly bought cloth shoes. He had always been a man who looked quite presentable, living a retirement life as carefree as an immortal. On a summer day like this, he should have been playing chess or mahjong with the old friends he knew downstairs, constantly moving their little table and stools with the shifting sunlight, seeking refuge in the shade.

After exchanging a glance with Grandma in the hospital room, the old woman understood and quietly stepped out.

The doctor said there’s no cure here, we have to go to Beijing, Grandpa said, his aged eyes clouded.

Grandma’s lips trembled uncontrollably. She looked at her husband like a child, and slowly, her entire body began to shake as well, unable to stop.

I’ll go buy a washbasin… Grandma said, her tears suddenly flooding like an ocean. She couldn’t finish her sentence, mechanically thinking that hospitalization required so many things—washbasin, towel, thermos, toothbrush, toothpaste, and they’d need to bring bedding too.

We’ll buy them in Beijing, Grandpa said. What would we do if we bought them now? Wouldn’t it be annoying to carry them on the train? They take up too much space.

Grandma’s mouth twisted open. Her voice, like a child’s after crying until breathless, fell silent for a long while.

I’m already halfway buried in the earth, why couldn’t I suffer this instead of the child? Why couldn’t I suffer this? Grandma asked Grandpa repeatedly, the bony joints on the back of her hands protruding, as if even her joints had reached their twilight years.

Grandpa couldn’t answer her. He had seen everything in his lifetime, yet he still couldn’t answer.

When he was young, his temper was straightforward, and he offended people without realizing it. Though he was the most skilled in the factory, he was always sidelined. Later, he had a beautiful and clever daughter—such an outstanding daughter—who was ruined by a beast not even worthy of being a maggot in a latrine.

Even then, in his immense pain, he still thought he must be a law-abiding citizen. He wanted the law to deliver justice for him, and the law did uphold justice, but his daughter could never recover.

Her reputation was doomed to be tarnished, everyone gossiped about how his daughter had been defiled.

The most terrifying thing was that his daughter’s belly grew bigger day by day. Due to her physical condition, she couldn’t have an abortion. In her madness, she wanted to end her own life. The couple knelt and begged her, “Child, don’t die. Please, for your parents, hold on to this breath. Once the baby is born, we’ll drown it. Don’t die. If anyone must die, let it be this child.”

Perhaps it was this belief that kept their daughter going until that day.

When the child was truly born, a soft, red, wrinkled lump of flesh that cried, breathed, had hands and feet, and jet-black hair, Grandma wrapped her in a small blanket, crying as she asked Grandpa, “How do we drown this child? How do we drown this child?”

Grandpa cried too.

He didn’t know how to drown this child either. A perfectly good life—how could they drown her?

But their daughter on the bed was also a piece of their own flesh, and she was waiting for her parents to fulfill their promise.

Later, they told her the child had been drowned, secretly placed in a plastic bag and thrown away. “Don’t look, it’s not good to see.”

Their daughter broke into loud sobs. She felt she could live again—only if that child died could she survive.

In the first few years, they sent the child to be raised in their hometown. When entrusting her to others, they spoke vaguely about the circumstances.Later, when it was time for school and she could no longer be left to idle away in the village, the couple had no choice but to bring her back. It was Grandpa who gave her the name "Du." Holding her wrapped in a small blanket, he gazed into her bright, dark eyes and said, "Child, let's call you Jiang Du. Consider it as if you're here to endure a trial. Life is bitter, oh so bitter. Once you've tasted all the flavors of this world—sweet, sour, bitter, and spicy—you'll be able to live a peaceful and smooth life!"

Days passed like this, but truth cannot stay hidden forever. Their daughter discovered the reality and, because of it, severed ties with her parents. Neither of the couple dared to meet their daughter's eyes—those bloodshot, crimson eyes.

She said in despair, "Am I not your child? How could you do this to me? Don't you understand what her existence means to me? I will never, ever forgive you."

For a full five years, they did not see their daughter again.

It wasn't until Grandpa was injured in an accident at the factory and hospitalized that they saw their daughter once more. From then on, they made a pact: she would return home twice a year during holidays, but on one condition—she would never lay eyes on that child for the rest of her life. If she ever saw her, she would never come home again.

Grandma wanted to tell her, "Darling, you don'tt know how beautiful this child is, how obedient, how sensible, how much she loves reading and writing, just like you did when you were little..." But in the end, Grandma said nothing.

Such similarities were too cruel.

Memories flashed before their eyes like a revolving lantern, unfolding once again.

Grandpa had grown old, like the sun sinking toward the western mountains. He had grown old enough to have tasted all the flavors of life, old enough to have heard and witnessed every truth, yet there were some things he still couldn't answer.

If there was an answer, it must be that heaven was punishing the two of them, the words they had wept and spoken back then had become a prophecy.

Now, that child might truly be dying.

He said, "You go and take care of the child. Make sure to keep it hidden. I'll go ask the doctor if we need to prepare anything for Beijing."

He turned around, and tears immediately streamed down his aged face. The world seemed to spin and lose its balance. In a wave of dizziness, the old man steadied himself against the corner wall, his wrinkled hands trembling uncontrollably as he struggled to catch his breath.

Some things are destined to remain hidden.

Jiang Du had known from the moment they decided to go to Beijing.

Even though Grandma smiled and comforted her, saying, "The provincial hospital's technology isn't as good as Beijing's. We'll go to Beijing and get you cured right away."

Jiang Du endured the ever-present pain and smiled, saying, "Okay." She pretended to believe what the two elders told her. Grandma asked, "Baby, are you in pain? If you are, just say something."

As soon as she finished speaking, Grandma's eyes turned red.

Jiang Du said she wasn't in pain. "Grandma, could you bring me my math materials? I can't fall behind in my studies."

Grandma said, "Okay, okay," and turned to fetch the materials, tears falling and dampening the math problems. She hurriedly wiped them away with a tissue, soaking up the tears.

This was July 2007, the last night before leaving for Beijing.

Grandpa cooked all her favorite dishes, filling the table. Jiang Du had little appetite left. Day after day, she endured the burning pain, struggling to breathe, her thoughts muddled, but she still managed to drink a bowl of fish soup.

She didn't ask what illness she had. She wouldn't let anyone feel troubled because of her.

But the overwhelming fear, like moss, had already covered her young heart.Grandma wanted to stay with her, but she said, "I'm fine, I want to sleep alone." Grandma said, "Sweetie, don't read or do problems anymore. It's not too late to study when you're better." She weakly replied, "Okay."

When she was little, she loved writing observation diaries—how the seven-spotted ladybug would spread its delicate wings in the sunlight and fly away from her fingertips; how the leaves of the plane tree were such a tender green in spring; how the hem of her Chinese teacher's skirt rippled lightly in the wind...

Jiang Du sat at her desk, taking out her childhood diaries, tracing the pages one by one. All the old memories from her childhood came vividly to mind, like scattered, shimmering pearls, gleaming and rolling, impossible to string back together.

Finally, she picked up her pen and wrote her first diary entry during her illness.

"Wednesday, July 25th, Sunny

It's very hot. All my classmates are on summer vacation—they must be very happy, right?

I'm so scared.

There are no words to describe this fear. I'm not brave at all.

So scared that I don't know what to do.

I want to live.

No other thoughts—I want to live. I don't want to die.

I'm really, really scared.

Before, when I went with Grandpa to sweep the graves of his parents—once before Qingming Festival and once in autumn, as is the custom in our hometown, to burn paper offerings—there were tall willow trees growing beside the graves. In spring, they were a bright, emerald green. Grandpa gestured, saying when they were planted, they were just this long and this thin, like sticks. Look, in three to five years, they've grown so big. He looked so emotional. I knew this was what they called 'trees grow so quickly, how can humans bear it?' I never met his parents, but when sweeping the graves, I felt so sad. Birds flew past the horizon, wildflowers swayed on the ground, the sky was so blue, the grass so green—yet Grandpa's parents lay in the earth. They couldn't see Grandpa, couldn't see the colors of this world. Were they scared? Would their bodies be nibbled by little bugs? It's pitch black underground—would they miss the sun? I used to imagine countless scenarios in my mind.

And now, I might end up like that.

This reality feels so unreal.

How did I get sick? I don't understand.

I can't make sense of it at all—why me?

I know I have many flaws, but I think I'm not a bad person. Why me?

Don't people only get very serious, ugly illnesses when they're old?

Maybe I was wrong. People can get sick at any time. Some children get sick and die right after birth. I remember now—I've heard of such things. It's just that I'm too sad and too unwell right now, so I forgot. People don't only get seriously ill when they're old.

So, are there gods in this world? Who exactly is in charge of this—who gets sick and who doesn't? I really want to find them. I would kneel without any pride and beg them not to let me get sick. I want to live. I can't die before Grandpa and Grandma. I can't, please, I really can't. Even if I break my head, even if it's bruised and battered, it doesn't matter—just don't let me die.

I still want to see him.

No need to write his name. His name is my sanctuary.

Writing this won't make me see him.

This is what hurts the most. Will I ever see him again? I don't know. I really don't know. And because I know I don't know, it hurts even more.I have no control over my own fate whatsoever. I want to beg fate to be merciful to me, but what virtue or ability do I possess that would make fate show mercy to me alone? Who can tell me, whom should I plead with?

I will never see him again.

Just as I know I will never see my mother again.

No, I don’t deserve to utter that title. You must not want to hear it, even if it’s just written on paper—it would hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you. I want to tell you, I never wanted to hurt you. I know my existence causes you pain. I’m really not that cruel, to make you suffer. I never wanted to hurt anyone, especially not you. I’ve never even met you, yet I love you so much, I like you so much. How strange—we’ve never met, yet I have such deep, deep feelings for you. I’m truly sorry.

I’m in so much pain right now, not just emotionally. It’s as if I’ve fallen into a furnace, burning inch by inch. No matter what I do, I’m in agony. I want to scream from the pain, but I can’t. If Grandma and Grandpa hear, they’ll be sad. How can there be someone like me, who only brings pain to others? For the first time, I hate myself this much.

What about you? Will you hate me? I’m sick, and I’ll become ugly, I’ll lose my hair. I want to throw a tantrum right now. I’m in so much pain, I miss you, I really miss you. I missed you even before I got sick. How foolish I was to think I could see you again. Let me see you one more time. Who can let me see you one more time? I don’t want to lie alone in the pitch-black earth. I’m scared. I just want to see you, want to see you, want to see you, want to see you. Don’t let me die alone. I’m so lonely. I want to see you, want to see you, want to see you, want to see you.

Several times in the middle, she cried so hard she couldn’t see where she was writing and had to pause before continuing. Tears soaked through the diary. By the end, she had completely sunk into a manic, persistently painful state, with no energy left to add punctuation.