The Deadly Bees
James Carter my father, was the master mechanic of a repair shop in Old Town, always loving to carry me on his shoulders.
He let me reach the sweetest locust blossoms on the Old Locust Tree by the courtyard gate.
His palms were wide and strong, with grease from the machines stubbornly lodged between his fingers.
Yet he could precisely peel a strawberry without leaving a trace of the stem, gently bringing it to my lips.
"Shirley, I will protect you all my life; no one will ever let you suffer injustice."
When he spoke those words, his eyelashes still bore the dust of repair work, yet his eyes shone like stars on a summer night.
I held his finger tightly and nodded firmly.
Back then, the apartment building we lived in had no elevator, and the stairwell was always filled with the aroma of braised pork from Old Madam Clark's home on the third floor.
There was also the sharp smell of stir-fried chili from Mr. Warren's house on the fifth floor.
No matter how late Father came home from work, there was always a colorful windmill resting in the bicycle basket.
The plastic blades spun in the wind with a rustling sound, as if singing a song meant just for me.
Even the neighbors in the building knew, "Mr. Carter has brought a windmill for his daughter again."
I had a tin cookie box embossed with a little bear, hidden inside the wooden chest under my bed.
Inside were the little treasures Father had given me: glass marbles with rounded edges, milk candies wrapped in sparkling wrappers, and a small bicycle bent from wire.
Father sat by my bedside, wiping my face, and said, "Once you've collected a whole box, I will close the shop for a day."
"I will take you to the seaside to see the real waves."
The misfortune happened in the spring of my eighth year, as the Chinese plum blossoms filled the courtyard with pink and white.
Father brought home a woman and a little boy.
The woman was named Linda Lincoln, dressed in an off-white dress with a small daisy pinned at the collar.
When she smiled, faint dimples appeared at the corners of her eyes, and her voice was soft and gentle.
The boy beside her was half a head shorter than me, named Harry Lincoln, clutching a toy gun with peeling paint.
His gaze was timid, yet he secretly stole glances at the Windmill in my hand whenever I wasn't looking.
That evening's dinner had two extra dishes on the enamel table: sweet and sour pork ribs and French fries.
Harry Lincoln's eyes were fixed intently on the ribs.
Father picked up his chopsticks, and for the first time, did not serve me any food before eating himself.
Instead, he placed the largest piece of spare ribs into Harry Lincoln's bowl: "Harry, eat more, grow tall, so you can protect your sister one day."
The chopsticks in my hand froze in midair as I lowered my head to pick at the white rice in my bowl.
Grains of rice clung unnoticed to the corner of my mouth; I simply felt that my mouth was utterly tasteless.
Suddenly, Harry Lincoln reached out and snatched the windmill I had set by the side of the table, swinging his arm.
The windmill fell to the cement floor, one of its colorful blades snapping off with a sharp "pop," and rolled under the table leg.
"That's mine!" he shouted, stiffening his neck, his cheeks flushed with effort.
I squatted down to pick it up, but Father grabbed my arm.
"Shirley, you are the older sister; yield to your brother. Tomorrow I will buy you a new one."
That was the first time Father did not stand up for me. I looked at the windmill beneath the table leg, its wings broken.
Tears fell like beads from a broken string, striking the cement floor and spreading into small wet patches.
From that day on, my tin cookie box was often 'visited' by Harry Lincoln.
More than half of the glass marbles were missing, and the wheels of the wire bicycle had vanished.
Even the candy wrappers I had been saving for half a year were taken by him to fold paper airplanes.
When Linda Lincoln tidied my room, she would always say, "Shirley is the elder sister and should be sensible, yielding to Harry Lincoln."
As she spoke, she held my little bear towel, gently wiping the desk dirtied by Harry Lincoln.
Father gradually became busier; he no longer brought me windmills every day.
After coming home at night, he more often sat in the living room, building blocks with Harry Lincoln.
Listening to Linda Lincoln talk about the milk discounts and washing powder price drops at the supermarket, I would lean over, eager to share the new song the kindergarten teacher had taught me.
He just patted my head, "Shirley, be good. I need to hear Harry Lincolns story first."
I began to fear going home, lingering a little longer under the Old Locust Tree after school.
Counting the rings on the tree trunk until the sky had turned completely dark, the corridor lights one by one came on, and then I slowly walked upstairs.
Once I caught a cold and had a fever, lying in bed with my whole body burning, my throat dry as if on fire.
I called out 'Father' several times, but only heard my father's laughter coming from the living room.
He was comforting Harry Lincoln: "Harry, don't cry. Tomorrow, I will take you to buy Transformers even bigger than other childrens."
Linda Lincoln entered carrying a cup of warm water and placed a white fever-reducing pill in the palm of my hand.
"Take this, sleep it off, and you'll feel better. Don't wake Harry; he has school tomorrow."
I watched her walk away and remembered how, when I was sick before, my father would stay by my bedside all night.
He would press a cool towel to my forehead, humming a off-key version of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star."
Even if I coughed just once, he would immediately reach out to touch my forehead.
In the autumn when I was nine, the school organized a physical examination, and a doctor in a white coat used a stethoscope to listen to my chest.
She examined under my eyelids for a long while, then frowned and told the teacher, "This child has a severe bee allergy."
"She must carry an emergency injection at all times. If stung, it must be dealt with within three minutes to save her life."
After receiving the teacher's call, my father rode his bicycle to the school, his face as pale as paper.
Grasping the doctor's hand, he asked several times, "Will she die?"
Only when the doctor repeatedly assured him, "As long as the medication is used promptly, everything will be fine," did he finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Early the next morning, my father took out an emergency injection encased in blue from his pocket.
He carefully taught me how to pull out the needle and how to insert it into my arm.
"Shirley, this injection must never leave your side; keep it in the small inner pocket of your backpack, understood?"
He put away the injection, then zipped and unzipped the backpack three times to check.
"From now on, run whenever you see a bee, no matter where you are; I will always find you immediately."
He still made the same promise as before, but I clutched the backpack strap tightly.
Yet I no longer dared to trust so completely as I did in childhood.
From then on, every morning before sending me to school, Father would open my backpack to check.
Only after confirming the emergency injection was still there could I feel at ease.
Harry Lincoln was always curious about that blue injection. Once, when I wasn't paying attention,
he secretly unzipped my schoolbag, and as soon as his finger touched the injection, I pushed it away immediately.
"This is life-saving; you must not touch it!" I hugged my bag tightly and said sternly.
He just pouted, sitting on the ground and kicking his legs: "It must be something fun. You just don't want to share it with me!"
"Mom says you're stingy!"
Linda Lincoln came over and simply pulled Harry away without saying a word.
That summer when I was ten, the cicadas' chirping was so loud it kept me awake.
Father suddenly said he wanted to take our whole family on a picnic in the countryside, to make up for his recent neglect of me.
A quiet flicker of hope kindled in my heart as I searched the wardrobe for my favorite pink dress.
It was the one Father bought me last birthday; though washed until a little faded, it still felt so soft.
I carefully placed the Emergency Injection inside my schoolbag, zipped it up, then checked it once more.
The grass in the countryside was a lush green, like a soft carpet laid out, dotted with small yellow wildflowers.
The breeze carried the fresh scent of grass and earth, far more delightful than the city.
Harry Lincoln ran excitedly back and forth, holding a butterfly net as he chased the colorful butterflies.
The butterfly net left a faint trail across the grass.
Father crouched on the ground, spreading out the picnic mat, its checkered pattern fluttering in the wind.
He weighed down the four corners with stones.
Linda Lincoln sat nearby, arranging the food as the plastic bags rustled softly.
She arranged the sandwiches and fruits on separate plates.
I sat at the edge of the mat, holding the colorful windmill that my father had just bought for me.
The wind blew, the blades spun joyfully, and light and shadow danced on the back of my hand.
"I want that windmill!" Harry Lincoln suddenly ran up from behind and reached out to snatch the windmill from my hands.
"No!" I quickly lifted the windmill above my head and took a step back.
The hem of the pink dress swept over the grass, catching a few blades.
Harry Lincoln's eyes reddened, his lips trembling into a pout, and he turned to run toward the nearby bushes.
There hung a bee hive the size of a basketball, with black bees buzzing around it like a living black fog.
"What are you going to do?" I panicked and shouted to stop him.
I even forgot to hold the windmill tightly in my hand.
But he didn't listen at all; he bent down, picked up a small stone from the ground, and clenched it in his hand.
He struck forcefully at the bee hive.
With a crash, the bee hive fell onto the grass, and the outer comb shattered everywhere.
Thousands upon thousands of bees surged out like a black tide, their buzzing making my scalp tingle.
"Run!" Father shouted as he lunged forward, trying to shield us behind him.
But the bee was already flying toward me, its wings buzzing louder and louder.
I trembled with fear, turned, and ran, too worried to even notice the strap of my sandal had come loose.
But it was too late several stings on my arm felt like burning hot needles piercing me, fiery and painful.
Soon, small red bumps began to swell.
The allergic reaction came faster than I expected; my throat started to tighten, as if gripped by a hand.
Breathing grew difficult, and the grass and sky before my eyes slowly blurred.
Even my father's voice seemed muffled, as if separated by a layer of water.
I instinctively reached into my backpack for the emergency injection, my fingers trembling uncontrollably.
It took great effort to finally take out the blue injection; its icy surface pressed against my burning palm.
"Dad! I've been stung! Hurry!" I shouted toward him.
My voice was hoarse and unlike my own; with every word, my throat throbbed painfully.
But Harry Lincoln suddenly collapsed to the ground, clutching his leg and crying loudly.
His voice was several times louder than before: "Dad! I've been stung too! It hurts so much! I can't breathe! I'm dying!"
He cried while secretly glancing at Father; tears clung to his eyelashes, yet his expression showed no pain at all.
Father instantly panicked, unable to think of anything else, and rushed over to pick up Harry Lincoln.
He fumbled frantically over his arms and legs, completely oblivious to my pale face and the Emergency Injection in my hand.
"Shirley, give it to your brother first! Harry is younger and in greater danger!" he shouted at me.
The tone was urgent, leaving no room for doubt, while Harry Lincoln in my arms still cried, though his sobs had quieted somewhat.
I shook my head desperately, tears mingling with sweat as they streamed down.
"Dad, I'm allergic, I can't wait! The doctor said three minutes..."
"You're the elder sister; what's wrong with giving in to your younger brother!"
Father interrupted me before I could finish, reaching out to knock the Emergency Injection from my hand.
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