The Valley of Amazement (38 page)

March 1919

In March, the Spanish Influenza returned yet again. “The war is over, and this should be over as well,” Magic Gourd said. Everyone was saying this one was more powerful than the last. Fewer were infected, but those who did fall prey suffered more and died faster.

Edward, Magic Gourd, and I had already overcome influenza, so we were grateful we were not in danger. But Little Flora, who was only two months old, had never been ill with any malady, and we were exceedingly cautious. We required everyone in our household to wear gauze masks whenever they left the house. Before coming into the house, they had to drop their used masks into a pot by the door, so they could later be boiled clean and dipped into camphorated water, and made ready for use again. When we took Little Flora for fresh air walks, we placed a covering of camphorated gauze over the baby carriage. We avoided crowded places. Large warning signs appeared everywhere: big fines would be levied against those caught spitting, coughing, or sneezing in public rooms or on tramway cars. Two of the boys’ academies and one of the girls’ closed due to outbreaks in the dormitories. Along Bubbling Well Road, we passed stores and stalls offering remedies to prevent influenza or to cure it. The best way to avoid sickness, we learned, was to drink Dr. Chu’s elixir eight times a day, or to gargle with Mrs. Parker’s Potion, or to bathe in hot onion water. Those who took ill should rest and drink alcohol, the best whiskey being the most effective.

Two weeks later, we learned that only a hundred or so foreigners in the International Settlement had died, and at least half of them were Japanese. The schools reopened. There were no piles of bodies along the sidewalks, only piles of unsold masks. We lost our concern and our caution.

When several days later Edward developed the sniffles, he was the first to say he should not go near Little Flora. In any case, he had no appetite and would not join us for supper.

Since I was vulnerable to getting a cold, Edward and I each slept in our private bedrooms that night. His manservant Little Ram set a glass of whiskey on his bedside table. The next morning, when I went to Edward, I was alarmed to see that his eyes were rimmed red and his face was pale and sweaty. He claimed he was warm because the evening was humid. The weather was, in fact, chilly. He coughed as if choking and explained that Nanking Road was flying with dust from buildings that were being torn down. He had a headache from the pounding effort of coughing.

“It’s Chinese disease,” he joked. The Americans and British called all sorts of maladies “Chinese disease,” from stomach ailments to anything puzzling, especially if it led to death.

In the afternoon, I went to Edward’s side and was shocked to see he had become more feverish. He was coughing so violently he could barely find his breath or balance to stand. “I already told you. It’s Shanghai swamp fever,” he managed to joke. “Please don’t worry. I’m going to lie in a cool tub.” An hour later, he asked me to summon a doctor at the American Hospital, but only so he could get medication for his cough. He required the help of two servants to rise out of the tub and return to his bed.

Dr. Albee arrived. Magic Gourd recognized him. “King of Hell,” she called him. She told me she would also send for the same Chinese doctor who had treated us when we were ill. He would likely have better remedies than this one, who has said there was not much that could be done, except tap your toes and twiddle your fingers.

I assured him that Edward had overcome influenza during the second outbreak, so this was another kind of illness. Typhoid? He peered into Edward’s mouth, did a few more inspections of his nose and ears, felt around his neck, thumped and listened to his back, then said with great authority: “The patient has an infection of the
adenoids.” He measured laudanum from a larger bottle into a smaller one. He gave Edward a capful to ease the cough and an aspirin for the fever. He also prescribed fresh sheets, since this would contribute to a sense of ease rather than disease and thus hasten a return to health. To enable Edward to breath more comfortably, he used a syringe to draw out some of the mucus. As he prepared his instruments, he said to Edward that he should have the troublesome adenoids removed once he recovered from the infection.

“It promotes good health and a clear mind,” he said cheerily. “Removal can also cure conditions such as bed-wetting, poor appetite, and mental retardation. Everyone should be rid of them. If you and your wife decide to have them removed, there is no one better than I to do the operation. I’ve removed them from hundreds of patients.”

He inserted a bulb syringe into one of Edward’s nostrils. When the doctor looked at what he had withdrawn, his expression changed to dark puzzlement. It was thick and tinged with blood. He reassured me that it was not serious. Edward coughed up sputum. It, too, had streaks of red.

The doctor babbled on as Edward coughed violently and tried to catch his breath. “This sort of bloody discharge is typical,” Dr. Albee said in a quick professional tone. “The tissue becomes irritated and bleeds.” He said we should feed him plenty of tea, no milk. I was glad to see the very cheerful doctor leave.

I sat by Edward’s bed and read aloud from the newspaper. An hour later, bloody foam bubbled out of Edward’s nostrils. “Damn the adenoids!” I cried. “Damn that doctor!”

Magic Gourd flew in and saw Edward. “What’s the matter with him?”

I was shaking and breathing so hard I could barely speak between breaths. “Edward told us last fall that he had a touch of influenza. He said it was no worse than a common cold. I think that’s what it was, not influenza. He was never protected from it.”

I wanted Magic Gourd to tell me he was already better and would be well by evening. Instead, her eyes widened with fright.

The Chinese doctor took one look at Edward and said, “It’s Spanish influenza and it is the fierce one.” He added, “We’ve had many more cases than your American doctors have seen—fifteen hundred so far. Of those I have seen hundreds. There is no doubt, it is influenza.”

He told a manservant to remove Edward’s pajamas, which were damp from the fever. He ordered a maid to bring clean cloths, large cloths, twenty of them. The doctor turned to me and said, “We can try.”

Try? What did he mean by this frail word
try
?

“If he is better by tomorrow morning, he has a chance.” He doled out medicine in packets, which we were supposed to boil for an hour.

The doctor twisted hair-size acupuncture needles into Edward’s body. Soon Edward’s rigid grimace softened into mindless surrender. He breathed in a regular fashion, more slowly and deeply. He opened his eyes, smiled, and whispered hoarsely, “Much better. Thank you, my love.”

I wept with relief. The day was new, the world was different. I took his hand and kissed his damp forehead. We had turned the corner on this crisis. “You scared me,” I gently complained.

Edward rubbed his throat, “It’s trapped in here,” he whispered.

I stroked his hand. “What is?”

“A piece of meat.”

“My darling, you had no dinner. There is nothing in your throat.”

The doctor said in Chinese. “A sensation of something lodged in the throat—many complain of that.”

“What can be done to remove what’s in his throat?”

“It is a symptom.” He looked grave, then shook his head.

“It’s in here,” Edward said, now gasping as he pointed to his neck. He looked at the doctor and said in English, “Doctor, if you would be so kind. Please give me some medicine I can swallow.” The doctor answered in Chinese. “You will not suffer too much longer. Be patient.” Before the doctor left, he said that if a blue color spread throughout his body, it was a very bad sign.

His hair was so damp from the fever it looked as if a pail of water had been poured over his head. He was no longer burning; he felt cool. His eyelids were slack, one lid lower than the other. “Edward,” I whispered. “Don’t leave me.” He turned his head slightly but could not find my face. I set my hand in his palm. His fingers moved. He mumbled without moving his lips. I thought he said, “My dearest love.” We laid poultices over his body, drew the poisonous air out of his lungs with hot cups. He took one hundred tiny pills and they rolled down his tongue. He immediately coughed them out with bloody sputum. He took small breaths, fast and shallow, and when he exhaled, it sounded like fluttering paper in his chest. We sat him up, and tapped his back, then slapped and pounded with our fists to remove the sputum of demon influenza. I tended to him without feeling in my body, seeing and hearing nothing but Edward, willing him to stay alive. I buoyed him to take in the air, another gulp and another. I must not be inattentive, not for a moment. He depends on me. I remained steadfast and sure, sitting near him, praising him as his chest rose. He would wake from senselessness, open his eyes every now and then, and look at me, surprised to see me. I heard him mumble, “What a fearless girl you are,” and then, “I love, I love …” But he drifted off again.

By late afternoon, Edward’s face took on the faint bluish splotches we had dreaded. His lips were cold, his eyes were dry. Magic Gourd pulled back the sheet to replace it with a clean one. His legs were mottled gray. The darker tide was flowing up his legs. I called to him and said he would be cured by morning. “Do you believe me?” I held my breath when he sucked noisily for air. I could barely breathe. I was suffocating. But I refused to cry; that would mean defeat. I recounted for him all the wonderful moments that had bound us. I talked without pause to sustain the thread between us. “Do you remember the day we emerged from the cave and into that green heaven? I loved you then. Did you know that? Edward, do you remember?”

And then I realized I had been shouting. The room was quiet and I could hear with terrifying clarity the gurgle and hissing, the small bubbling, popping sound of bloody froth flowing from his nostrils, his mouth, and his ears. In the evening, just after sunset, when his face was as gray as the shadows, he gurgled once more and drowned.

I stayed with him all night. At first I could not release his hand. The life force might still be in his veins and I might be able to squeeze it back. But without air, he deflated, and he had hollows in his cheeks. His eyes sank, then all of him. His hand had turned cold. I could not press my warmth into his. “How can you be gone? How can you be gone?” I murmured. And then I wailed. “How can you be gone?” Agony still showed in his face and I was angry. Where was the peaceful departure that people claimed comes with death? I cried angrily then in despair and grief. I covered his face, and cried, imagining him, as he had been in life, not still, not quiet.

The door opened and light poured in. Magic Gourd looked stricken. I jumped up. How could I have forgotten about Little Flora! “Is she ill?” I cried. “Did she leave me, too?”

“She is with the amah in the other wing and not at all sick. But you cannot see her until you wash yourself completely. We need to burn your clothes and Edward’s, too—and the bedding, the towels, everything, including your shoes.”

I nodded. “Be careful that the servants don’t save the clothes for themselves.”

“Most of the servants are gone.” She said this so plainly I did not understand her at first. “They ran away after Edward died. Only three stayed: the amah, the menservants Bright and Little Ram, the chauffeur Ready. They had influenza the first time it came around, so they have no fear. I will have the men wash the body.”

Body.
How unfeeling that word was.

“Use warm water,” I said, then left to draw my own solitary bath. Tears fell into the bathwater. When I arose from the bathtub, I became dizzy, and sat on the bed. I kept myself from crying with one thought: I had to appear calm when I went to Little Flora. I closed my eyes to gather my thoughts. She must always know she is safe and protected.

I awoke six hours later, in the afternoon. Edward was no longer in the bedroom. The sound of his voice was now silence. I wandered downstairs.

Magic Gourd came out from the dining room, where Edward now lay. She took me into the parlor. “You must say your farewell quickly. Bright said that in the Chinese Old City, they are stacking bodies and putting them into one large grave. Families cannot send their dead family member to their ancestral villages. You can imagine the wailing that broke out when they heard that. We don’t know what the foreigners are doing with the bodies, but we must take no chances that they will decide for us.”

It was too soon for Edward to leave. I would have delayed as long as I could, had Magic Gourd not taken charge. She had loved Edward and I knew she would be caring and wise. I was grateful I did not have to think about what to do. Bright and Little Ram had devised a coffin, using a large cabinet. They would use candle wax to seal the top and all the sides. They had already dug out the pond to make a grave. It was the spot where Edward and I sat on warm days, read to each other under the elm tree, kicked our feet in the pond to splash water on each other.

“The King of Hell came by to see how Edward was,” Magic Gourd said. “Here is the death certificate. I can’t read what the farting dog wrote.”

Pneumonia, secondary to influenza. He had admitted his mistake. He must have reported Edward’s death to the American Consulate and authorities of the International Settlement. The amah brought Little Flora to me. I examined her face and felt her forehead. Her eyes were clear and sought mine. I looked at her face once again, at her ears, brow, hair, and eyes that were Edward’s legacy.

Magic Gourd led me into the dining room, “ready to catch the baby,” she said, “if I fainted.” The large table was gone and the coffin stood in its place. Edward’s skin still had a gray pallor. He wore a suit that he had worn when we went for walks. I stroked his face. “You’re cold,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I apologized to him for every doubt I had ever had about his goodness, honesty, and love. I said that I once believed I was incapable of giving him love because I did not know what that was, only that I needed it. He showed me how natural it was to take it, and how natural it was to give. And now my heartache was unendurable, and that was proof that we loved each other completely. I turned Flora around so that she faced him. “Our daughter, our greatest joy, showed me I could love ever more deeply. I’ll tell her that you held her every day and sang to her.” The blue-faced man said nothing. That was not Edward. I did not want the torturous moments of the past two days to become
what I remembered most strongly about him. I handed Magic Gourd the baby, and I went upstairs to the library.