A Hundred Flowers (11 page)

*   *   *

The buzzing stopped. Tao opened his eyes and his mother was still there holding on to his hand.

“There we are,” the doctor said. He looked up and smiled for the very first time.

The cast was split open like a perfectly divided pea pod, but instead of peas, his pale, thin leg wrapped in gauze was the prize in the middle. The doctor lifted his leg carefully, slowly unwinding the gauze to unleash the sourness of the enclosed plaster and unwashed leg, examining it thoroughly. “I want you to be careful,” he added, looking at Tao and addressing him for the very first time. “No more climbing trees.”

Tao nodded. No climbing the kapok or getting lost in a big crowd, he thought, where he wouldn’t be able to keep up with his weak leg. He imagined struggling against the wave of people pushing him forward, only this time he could see himself pushing back.

“You’ll need to make sure he doesn’t exert himself when he gets home. The leg is still weak and he needs to take it slowly,” the doctor said to his mother. “We’ll get him a pair of crutches to use until his leg gains back its strength.”

Tao watched as she moistened her lips with her tongue. His
ma ma
took care of people every day, he wanted to tell the doctor. She knew what to do.

“Yes, of course,” his mother said, still holding tightly on to his hand.

*   *   *

It began to rain on the afternoon of Moon Festival; the clapping sound of water falling from the branches of the kapok tree and off the tiles of the courtyard wall filled the house. That evening at dinner, Tao stood up from the table, and without using his crutches, slowly limped to the window. His leg felt weak and naked and he was afraid to put too much weight on it. Why couldn’t he walk like before, he thought, after all those weeks trapped in a cast? At the window, he stared out at the darkness, the moon completely obscured by the clouds.

“Do you want to hear the story of Houyi and Chang’e now?” his grandfather asked.

Tao turned around and shook his head. “There’s no moon,” he answered.

“There’s still the story.”

“It’s not the same without the moon.”

His grandfather stroked his whiskers. “But we know the moon is still up there, beyond the rain and the clouds.”

What good was the moon if you couldn’t see it? Tao thought. If it wasn’t there to help his
ba ba
to find his way home again? But, he nodded and limped back to the table and sat down, no longer caring which version of the myth his grandfather was going to tell him.

Kai Ying

It rained throughout the night of Moon Festival and continued into the next morning. The winds increased, howling through the courtyard and rattling around the house. Kai Ying, in the kitchen waiting for her first patient of the day, took down several jars of herbs from the shelf and set them on the counter. She hoped she still had some Teasel root and Eucommia bark to add to the soup she was brewing to help strengthen Tao’s leg. On the burner, steam rose from a boiling pot of water, the kitchen warm and humid.

Kai Ying had had trouble sleeping last night. She could still feel Tao’s disappointment at not glimpsing the full moon. It had been a difficult day for him in other ways. From the moment his cast came off, she felt his frustration at being unable to walk normally. His leg was thin and sickly looking, the muscle slack. The doctor had given him a list of exercises to do every day to regain its strength and flexibility. Tao also disliked using the crutches and she watched how hard he was trying to adjust to walking without them. He was like a toddler again, taking slow, tentative steps while always remaining in close proximity to a wall he could lean against or a chair he could grab. He was too young to understand his leg would take time to heal. Patience came with age and experience, something she herself had been forced to learn in the past year.

Kai Ying wished she could do more to help Tao’s leg heal faster. She wondered what Sheng would say to make him feel better, and suddenly, the realization that she might never know swept over her, as if his voice had slipped away. She remembered it low and calm, punctuated by a strong, deep laugh, but why couldn’t she hear it? And just as unexpectedly, Kai Ying’s cheeks were wet with tears. She never cried during the day. She quickly wiped her tears away with the back of her sleeve.

*   *   *

“Are you all right?”

Kai Ying looked up to see Auntie Song quickly closing the kitchen door against the wind and the rain. She looked away, embarrassed, and wiped her face again with her sleeve. “The steam,” she said, though sure Song wouldn’t believe her. Her own voice sounded foreign to her. She cleared her throat and pretended to be busy with the herbs. “I’m fine,” she said, wiping her cheek again. She was relieved it was Auntie Song and not an early patient.

“There’s nothing like a good cry to clear the way,” Auntie Song said. She stood there, tall and imposing, wearing a cotton tunic and pants damp from the rain and muddied from her early morning work around the garden. Outside, the rain began to fall harder, playing a concert against the rooftop. “Looks like I made it just in time,” she said.

“I’m just getting your herbs ready,” Kai Ying said. “I was going to bring them over to you when the rain let up.”

“No hurry,” Song said. “Besides, I wanted to come by and see how Tao is doing this morning.”

“He’s still upstairs,” Kai Ying said. She put a pot of water on to boil for tea.

“I’m just beginning to plant. I was hoping Tao could come over and see the garden today,” Auntie Song said, listening to the falling rain. “It looks as if we’ll have to wait for another day.”

“He loves your garden,” Kai Ying said. “
Lo Yeh
is upstairs with him now. It’s still difficult for him. The doctor doesn’t want him to put too much stress on his leg for a few more weeks. But now that his cast is off, he doesn’t understand why he can’t simply go back to school and walk and run around like he did before.”

“Any boy his age would think the same thing,” Auntie Song said. She smiled reassuringly and sat down at the table. “My brothers couldn’t sit still for a minute, always getting into mischief. Tao has been laid up for a good two months,” she added. “Don’t worry, in a few weeks his leg will have gained back its strength and he’ll be able to return to school. He’ll get through this.”

Kai Ying nodded. She took a deep breath and kept her hands busy measuring out the herbs. On a square of paper, she divided equal parts of
tang-kuei,
cinnamon, astragalus, peony, and ginseng for a tea to ease Auntie Song’s arthritis.

“I know it’s a mother’s burden to worry,” Song said. “It doesn’t end with each day, does it?”

“No, no it doesn’t,” Kai Ying answered. “And neither do a wife’s burdens.” She stopped herself and poured a cup of tea for Auntie Song. Sheng’s long silence was a heavy weight on all of them.

“I’m sure there’s a good explanation as to why Sheng hasn’t written,” Song said.

“Yes, I know. It’s just that…”

“What?”

“The only reason he wouldn’t write was if something was wrong … and he couldn’t write.”

“There could be all kinds of explanations,” Auntie Song said. “You know nothing is ever so simple. We can’t begin to guess what he’s going through, so it doesn’t help to second-guess. You’ll just drive yourself crazy with worry. I may not have been blessed with children,” Auntie Song said, and sipped her tea, “but I’ve had my share of a wife’s burdens.”

Kai Ying stopped what she was doing. She didn’t know what she would do without Auntie Song always there to help her through the difficult moments. “Enough burdens for two lifetimes,” she said.

“Three!” Song added.

They both laughed, and Kai Ying felt better.

*   *   *

Besides Liang, Kai Ying was the only person Song had ever confided in about her own past. Song’s marriage to Old Hing had provided her with nothing but sorrows. Kai Ying knew how fortunate she was to have married a man like Sheng, who carried the best traits of both of his parents: Liang’s compassion and Wei’s intelligence. She prayed to the gods that he was all right, and that he would return to them soon. But lately, hope only brought her misery at the end of each day.

Upstairs they heard a burst of laughter from Tao and Wei, but they remained silent. Outside, the storm gathered strength. Kai Ying removed the pot of hot water from the fire and refilled their tea, then continued to wrap the rest of Auntie Song’s herbs.

Song

Over the years, Kai Ying had become the daughter she never had. Song watched her in the kitchen now, thin and tired; her eyes still puffy from crying. The shine of youth had just rounded the corner and was disappearing into the serious, dark side of life. Song wished she could ease Kai Ying’s pain, just as Kai Ying had once done for her.

“Do you remember the afternoon we first met?” Song asked, breaking their silence.

“Yes, of course,” Kai Ying said.

“You were such a big help to me.”

“Fate brought you to the herb shop.”

“Fate brought me to you that day.”

Kai Ying smiled.

“I never told you why I went to the herb shop that afternoon.”

“Wasn’t it to get something for the pain?”

Song shook her head. “I was hoping Herbalist Chu would help me to end my life.”

Kai Ying stopped wrapping the herbs and stared at her in surprise. “What are you saying?” She stepped toward the table and sat down across from Song.

Song cleared her throat. “I really believed that Old Hing was the devil himself. And how can you win with the devil? I’d given up and was hoping Herbalist Chu would take pity on me, slip me something that would put an end to it all, a touch of dried toad venom or cinnabar or crushed oleander leaves. I was too weak to do it on my own.” Song paused to drink down the rest of her tea. “I found you there instead.”

*   *   *

Song would never forget that late afternoon in 1947. It was cold outside and she wore a scarf that covered her swollen cheek, while an excruciating pain pulsated from her mouth to the top of her head. There were no other customers in the Dai On herb shop when she walked in. Song had never seen the young woman sitting behind the counter before, her head down, studying a book in front of her. Of all days, where was he? Where was Chu? She would later find out that the old herbalist was out running errands and had left Kai Ying, his young apprentice, who had arrived in Guangzhou less than a month before, to fill orders.

Herbalist Chu had always been a sympathetic friend. He had detested Old Hing long before Song was married to him. He knew most of his customers by name and by their medical histories. Song trusted him. She thought about leaving the shop and returning later, or waiting for Chu to come back, but it meant enduring the throbbing pain in her mouth, which had grown so unbearable she couldn’t wait. Song approached the counter slowly.

Kai Ying looked up. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I need,” Song began, though it sounded as if her tongue were stuck to the roof of her mouth. The young woman leaned forward, trying to understand what she was saying. “I need,” Song tried again.

Kai Ying closed the book she was reading. “What is it? What do you need?” she asked.

It was the tone of her voice, a tenderness that made Song look up and stare at the young woman for a moment. She was just a girl, Song thought. What could she possibly know? Still, without saying another word, Song pulled down her scarf, exposing the swollen right side of her face that left her eye barely able to open.

Kai Ying led Song to a back room and poured her a cup of tea while she tried to assess where the swelling originated. Song strained to open her mouth as wide as she could. She was in too much pain to worry about anything else. An awful smell of decay filled the small room. Kai Ying quickly sterilized a needle and drained the swollen cavity of pus from the abscessed wound where Song’s front tooth had been. Then she cleaned it out, and made up a poultice of jasmine leaves and herbs to stop the bleeding.

“Why did you wait so long?” Kai Ying asked when she had finished. “You must have been in agony for days.”

“I couldn’t get away,” Auntie Song whispered.

“Why?”

It was a small word for such a difficult explanation. After the bleeding stopped, they sat quietly at the table. Outside, the wind whistled through the old building. Song sucked on a poultice, her strong, large-knuckled fingers wrapped tightly around the warmth of the untouched cup of tea. And for a moment, she thought it might burst between her hands.

This young woman had eased her pain, made her feel human again. Then, for the first time, Song told a perfect stranger about her husband, Old Hing, calling him a violent monster, an angry pig, a festering tumor. Once Song began to talk, she couldn’t stop, even with the pain. A few nights ago, when he didn’t like what she’d made for dinner, he had knocked her tooth out during a beating. The wound had festered when part of the tooth remained in the cavity, and the pain became so unbearable she’d crept out when he’d fallen asleep. Their marriage had been filled with arguments and fights that were of neighborhood legend, escalating into battles that brought out the entire community. Her neighbors often had to hold Hing back, fearing that it was just a matter of time before he would kill her.

No one was sorry when Old Hing died of natural causes just six months later.

*   *   *

A year later, fate intervened again when Song learned that Liang’s son wanted to marry the young herbalist who had been so kind to her. After Liang’s death, when Wei was grief-stricken and inconsolable, Song was grateful to have been there to help guide Kai Ying through her first few years in the Lee household. It made Liang’s absence more bearable for her, too.

And so through the years, Song had learned there were many ways to heal.

*   *   *

Song remembered that day as both the beginning of their friendship and the start of Kai Ying’s career as an herbalist. Almost twelve years later, Song was grateful to be alive and sitting across from Kai Ying once again.