by Bo Caldwell
Chung Hao introduced her to me and said she was most grateful for my help. She nodded as he spoke but did not look at me. If I was surprised to see her in our kitchen, I was astonished to hear Chung Hao say that he and his wife had made peace and hoped they could now live as husband and wife—meaning with us. While I was happy to see her in good health and the two of them reconciled, the idea of her moving in did not immediately strike me as a good plan. My hesitancy must have registered in my expression, for Chung Hao quickly continued. “My wife could be of great help to you, Kung Mei Li. She knows much about healing.”
Still I hesitated, questioning the wisdom of having someone with such trauma so recently in her past living with us. But then she looked at me, and the earnestness in her expression caught at my heart. “Kung Mei Li,” she said softly, “I am greatly in your debt. I owe you my life, and I ask your permission to repay your kindness.”
I was uncomfortable agreeing to her request without talking to Will, who had left to preach at the market early that morning. But even as I was thinking this I heard myself say, “We would be honored to have you.” It seemed a decision I did not make.
So now she has joined her husband and moved in with us. She has been here for one month now and she works hard at any task I give her, and does everything quickly and efficiently. Like Chung Hao, Mo Yun’s name suits her. Mo means lonely, yun means cloud, and this sorrowful woman does indeed seem to hover slightly above the earth. My only complaint is that I have no complaints, for she is so quiet that I sometimes don’t know what to make of her.
But she is helpful, and help is something I sorely need, for I am now inundated with patients, in large part because of Mo Yun, whose former bad temper had made her infamous in the city. Word of her healing and transformation has spread far and wide, and many people have come to see if the change is real, and to see us, the foreign healers whom they believe are responsible for that change. Many of them have let us help them.
Our clinic is in the courtyard behind our street chapel for the simple reason that we have room for it there, and on days that aren’t too cold it’s all right. Will was doubtful when I first brought up the idea, especially because of the lack of privacy. But that is its advantage. With so many myths about foreigners—that we make medicine from babies’ eyes is one of the most common—we have a great deal of suspicion to overcome, and doing everything out in the open makes us less mysterious. While I was concerned that those needing care would be uncomfortable with the lack of privacy, it turns out that privacy itself is what would make them uncomfortable, not the lack of it, for it is an unknown concept. As I ask each person about his or her complaints, those waiting their turn press in close to us, wanting to hear our every word. When they can’t hear us they call out, “What did he say? What is it that hurts?” and demand that we speak up. They also press in when I pause for a few minutes to eat a hurried meal. As I gulp down noodles and tea (my manners are long gone), I am as closely observed as if I am the patient and they the physicians.
Our courtyard clinic is simple but functional. The examination beds are doors laid across sawhorses and covered with pieces of matting. The doors to our home turn on wooden pins, and it’s easy for Will and Chung Hao to lift them out and carry them to the courtyard. The dispensary is a few large woven baskets that I carry outside. One holds dressings for wounds—bandages, spools of sewing thread for sutures, bits and pieces of adhesive tape that’s so expensive and hard to come by that I get most of it by peeling it off of packages sent in the mail. In a larger basket are the medications I dispense constantly here: quinine for malaria, santonin for worms, potassium chlorate for mouth sores and ammonium chloride for sore throats, paregoric for intestinal pain, zinc oxide and sulfur ointment for scabies, a tincture of iodine and carbolic acid for minor cuts and bismuth ointment for more serious ones, Dover’s powder for opium addicts, ephedrine for asthma and bronchial ailments, and emetine and magnesium sulfate for dysentery.
I cannot help everyone. I can’t help those who need surgery—I explain to them that I cannot cure with the knife—and I can’t treat those with serious internal ailments. But there are many I can help, even though they have ailments and symptoms I’ve never heard of or found in American medical texts, but which I am coming to know well. Eye infections are very common, particularly trachoma, which causes such inflammation of the eyelids that they become nearly inverted and the eyelashes rub against the eyeball, causing swelling, blurred vision, and eventually blindness. There is no dentist, so I pull teeth. Last week I delivered my first baby—a girl!
A great number of infants have lockjaw, which was a mystery to me until I learned that the mothers here don’t have diapers for their babies; instead they place the infants feet first in sacks that come over their hips and are tied around their waists. The mothers scoop up dirt from roads so trampled by horses, donkeys, and oxen that it is as fine as talc. They put a little of this at a time into the babies’ sacks to absorb any wetness in the sack. When the baby develops sores on its body from rubbing, lockjaw germs from the dirt enter the infant’s bloodstream and poison the whole body, usually leading to death. The babies’ mouths are shut so tightly that I must use chopsticks to pry them open so I can feed them.
This kind of story is not unusual. Because it’s believed that disease is caused by displeased demons, superstition dictates many treatments, and much of the disease here is caused by poverty and ignorance. Nearly everyone is underweight, their eyes dark and sunken, so I work at teaching them about hygiene and nutrition. I explain why we need to keep flies away from food, I show them how to brush their teeth, and I sell soap for one cash, which is a copper coin, per bar. I’d gladly give it away, but then they’d think it had no value.
Each morning when I come into the courtyard I find more people waiting than the day before. Two weeks ago there were thirty, and now that thirty has become fifty. This is the only place for many miles where people can receive western medical care, and they come from all over. A few are carried from great distances, some as far as six days away. Women with tiny bound feet walk for many li, leaning on a walking stick or a family member for help.
When we first came to Kuang P’ing Ch’eng, I prayed for enough patients to keep me occupied for the day. Now I pray for the strength to treat them all.
April 2, 1910
Not everyone who comes to us wants help. Yesterday I had my first social call, a group of perhaps a dozen women, well-dressed and well-kept, who appeared in the courtyard late in the morning. When I asked what I could do for them, a tall graceful woman who seemed to be their representative stepped forward. “I am Feng Chen Mei,” she said, and I immediately bowed to her; she is the wife of the magistrate and therefore the most important woman in the city. The meaning of her name describes her well: chaste beauty.
“We have heard much about the foreign healers, and we have come to see for ourselves.”
“I am honored,” I said. “Are you ill?”
She shook her head but said nothing. She seemed suddenly uncomfortable.
“What is it that I can do for you?”
The women whispered to one another, then Feng Chen Mei looked at me evenly and said, “We would like to see your feet. We have heard that they are large, and that you walk as fast as a man. Can it be true?”
I felt my pride quicken. My feet? I wanted to say. My feet! Do you think I have traveled halfway around the world to show you my feet? But something inside me said, “Show them your feet,” and I understood: these women all had bound feet. Seeing a woman with feet as large as mine was an event.
Somehow I held my tongue (I am given many opportunities to do so) and I said, “It’s true. My feet are quite large.” I looked down and raised my skirt high enough to display my ankles, exposing my heavy old size-five walking boots, which were two or three times bigger than the tiny embroidered shoes worn by my guests.
The women gasped and began talking all at once, marveling and commenting freely on the size and
ungainliness of my feet. Then I said, “Would you like to examine them more closely?”
The women glanced at each other excitedly, as if this was too good to be true. Feng Chen Mei nodded. Then, as if mindful of propriety, she added, “We are unworthy of such generosity.”
“It is I who am unworthy of your visit,” I said, which seemed to seal our deal. I welcomed them into the courtyard and invited them to sit on the benches that surrounded the examining tables. When they were settled, I hoisted myself up onto the examining table and took off my boots and my long stockings, and there were my bare feet for all to see in the warm spring air.
The women were fascinated. I stretched out my legs, I flexed my feet, I wiggled my toes, and my audience giggled with delight. I handed my shoes to Feng Chen Mei, who took them as gingerly as if they might dissolve in her hands, and the women giggled and talked to each other about how large they were and how awkward and how high the heels were, though they were no more than an inch. When Feng Chen Mei handed the shoes to the woman next to her, I asked, “Would you like to examine my feet more closely?”
Again the enthusiastic nods. I motioned for them to come forward, which they did hesitantly, then one at a time they touched my feet. They were most fascinated by my toes and wide arches, for that is what they don’t have, what foot binding steals when the feet of three- or four-year-old girls are broken, forced backward, and tightly wrapped in the name of beauty.
As my guests ran their fingers over the soles of my feet I struggled to keep a straight face, for everything they did tickled horribly. Finally I could contain myself no longer, and I started laughing as I hadn’t in months, a big belly laugh. This startled them, and they froze for a moment and looked at each other in alarm. They must have thought I was unbalanced. As I had no idea what the Mandarin word for “ticklish” is, I ran my fingers lightly over my forearm to try to show them. They looked at each other then repeated my gesture on themselves, which of course doesn’t tickle when you do it to yourself. They looked at me blankly. I gently took Feng Chen Mei’s hand and ran my fingers across the underside of her wrist, and she laughed and pulled her arm away and I pointed to my feet and nodded. She laughed; she understood! I was elated.
It was a good day.
May 1, 1910
My visitors have returned so often that I finally asked them to come at an appointed time so that I don’t neglect those in need of my help. We have agreed on a schedule: they come on Monday afternoons. They gather in the courtyard or in our home and it seems there is no end to their fascination with me. In addition to my feet, my skin, and my hair, they want to examine my shoes and stockings, my dress, my wedding ring, and much in our home—and they want to know the cost of all of it. They are especially enamored of the sewing machine, which they call the iron tailor. I had a yard or so of yellow gingham left over from a tablecloth, and I cut some squares of it and sewed them together so that my guests could see the machine’s even, straight stitches. The women were delighted; they asked me to do it again and again, and in the end I gave each of them a square of yellow gingham to keep. They thanked me profusely and ran their fingers over the stitching in wonder.
Yesterday when they came I was anxious; they had visited enough that I felt I had run out of novelties to share with them. I showed them in and asked them to be seated, praying that something would come to me. When everyone had a cup of tea and we were all settled comfortably, I took a breath and said, “Well. What would you like to see today?” thinking that perhaps they had suggestions of their own.
They exchanged looks and I could see they were amused. Then Feng Chen Mei smiled at me. “Kung Mei Li,” she said gently, “we have not come to see your possessions. We have come to see you.”
“Me?” I asked.
The women nodded and she continued. “We have many questions. Why is it that you would leave your home, where you surely must have everything you desired, to come here? Did you leave your family? What was your life like before you came here? Tell us, please.”
I stared at all of them for a moment, trying to think what to tell them. Help me, I thought. Then I said, “I first thought of coming here after my mother died.” The women looked interested, and I went on. “I loved my mother deeply, and I felt lost after her death. I felt as though I had wandered far from home and did not know how to return.”
Feng Chen Mei seemed pleased. “Continue, Kung Mei Li.”
“With my mother gone, it was my responsibility to start the kitchen fire early in the morning. I sat near the stove so that I could add fresh wood when it was needed, and as I kept watch I read my mother’s Bible.” I picked up Will’s Bible, which was lying on the table near me, and held it up for the women to see. “It’s a book of stories about God. I usually read what we call the Psalms, which are poems about God. The poet speaks often of his pain, and this comforted me. But he also speaks of love for his God, and this gave me heart.” I opened Will’s Bible and translated part of the ninth Psalm: “ ‘I will praise thee, O LORD, with my whole heart; I will shew forth all thy marvelous works. I will be glad and rejoice in thee; I will sing praise to thy name, O thou most High.’ ”
“One morning almost a year after my mother’s death, I turned to a different part of our book.” I opened Will’s Bible to Luke and found the place I wanted. “My eyes fell upon a story I knew well, in which this man Jesus, whom we believe to be God’s Son, showed His followers that He loved them in a surprising way: He washed their feet.” The women glanced at each other and I could see they thought they had misunderstood me. “Yes,” I said. “He washed their feet. He did this because He loved them and because He wanted to show them that serving others is honorable, and what God wants us to do—what we are created to do.”
I looked down at the pages open before me. “I had read this story many times, but that morning was different; the story seemed written especially for me. Jesus was suddenly very real, as if He were in the room with me, washing my feet as I watched. I was so overcome that I fell to my knees. I was certain that God was asking me to serve Him, and I wanted to do that more than anything in the world. I said yes.”
I stopped. I was surprised I had said so much and was embarrassed. I looked at Feng Chen Mei, waiting for her to respond.
“Kung Mei Li,” she said finally, “we are most grateful that your Jesus God has washed your feet and brought you to us.”
I started to correct her, thinking I had misspoken. “Oh, no, He didn’t really—” but I stopped. Truth seemed to trump fact; perhaps He was speaking through me in spite of me. “Thank you,” I said. “As am I.”
We talked for a while longer, and when it was time for my guests to leave I walked with them out to the street then stood there for a while, watching them make their way slowly toward their homes on their bound feet. The daylight was fading; a storm was moving in and huge rain clouds darkened the afternoon sky. The gray light softened the city’s dinginess and turned the grimy old city beautiful. As I looked down the street—our street—I felt a wave of affection pass through me and I thought, I love it here. The realization brought me up short; I found myself in awe of the sudden loveliness of the very city I so disliked only a few months ago.
That was yesterday. This morning when Chung Hao came back from market, his basket was full. I was alarmed when I saw this; we have been short of funds for a month and I have asked him to buy only what we truly need each day, a little flour and a few vegetables. He set the full basket on the table and I looked inside and found potatoes and apricots and eggs and millet and pork, more food than we’ve had in weeks.
“Chung Hao,” I asked, “how did you pay for this?”
He said only, “Do not be concerned.”
Then something in the basket caught my eye. I reached inside, and underneath a bag of millet I found a small square of my yellow gingham with rows of stitches crisscrossing it, and I knew we had been taken care of. We, who came to help the people here, are the beneficiaries of their kindness.
On a cold day in late January of 1911, a messenger from the post office came to our home, saying that a large crate had arrived for us and that I needed to arrange for it to be delivered. I knew what it was; my mother had written that my family had sent us supplies. But I wanted it to be a surprise for Katherine, so I tried to be casual as I set out with the messenger.
As the crate was three feet long, two feet wide, and nearly two feet high, I had to hire a cart to transport it to our home so there was no hiding the surprise, but it didn’t matter. Katherine beamed as soon as she saw it, eager and impatient as a child, her eyes bright. Packages were always an event, and we had looked forward to this one even more than most; we were in short supply of just about everything and had been tightening our belts for several months.
Once the crate was inside, Katherine handed me the claw hammer to pry open the lid. We were alone; the next day was the first day of the new lunar year—New Year’s Day for the Chinese, the most important day of the year for a Chinese family—and Chung Hao and Mo Yun had gone to his brothers’ home for the traditional family New Year’s Eve meal of fried fish and dumplings. Chung Hao had invited us to accompany them, but I had declined. I had seen the hurt on his face when I did, but I had told him we did not wish to intrude.
When I pried the lid off the crate, we found a treasure chest, with every gift evoking home. There were cans of apricots and peaches and pears, German sausages, and a tin of churned butter, a welcome change from the stuff we made from scalded goat’s milk, which tasted odd and looked like cottage cheese. I knew my mother would have made all of these. There were new shoes and a patchwork quilt, a clock, a bolt of good wool and a box of paper, toothbrushes, twine, bread tins for baking, needles and thread, a tin of coffee, woolen gloves for Katherine. Tucked underneath everything was a thick knitted cap that had been my father’s and was now mine.
