A Hundred Flowers

by Gail Tsukiyama

  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.

  “You never told me of your intent that afternoon.” Kai Ying reached across the table and poured Song another cup of tea.

  “You were so young and just beginning your career,” Song said. “You were there learning to heal, not to end lives. I decided to wait for Chu to return.”

  “And when he did?”

  “We’re all given burdens,” Song said, reflecting back. “But somehow, mine felt lightened after that afternoon with you. When I returned to see Chu, I wasn’t ready to leave this world just yet.” Song had finally realized Old Hing had become the festering wound in her life and she wasn’t going to let him win, at any cost.

  “I’m very thankful for that,” Kai Ying said.

  Outside the wind and rain had grown stronger. The first real monsoon of the season had finally arrived. Song was relieved she hadn’t really begun to plant yet. They both looked up when they heard the whine of the courtyard gate as it slammed open and banged against the wall.

  Kai Ying

  Kai Ying stood up and looked toward the courtyard. “The wind? Or could it be a patient?” she said to Auntie Song. “It must be something serious for someone to venture out in this storm.”

  She quickly drank down the rest of her tea and opened the kitchen door. As much as Kai Ying loved the herb work, there were days she longed to have more time for herself. This wet, windy morning wa
s one of them.

  “I’ll just go upstairs and say hello to Tao,” Auntie Song said. She stood, reached over, and tucked the packets of herbs Kai Ying had put together for her into her tunic pocket.

  A moment later, a high, piercing cry was carried in with the wind from the courtyard. Without a word, Kai Ying rushed outside to see a girl doubled over in pain near the kapok tree, not far from where Tao had fallen. She was holding her belly, and Kai Ying recognized the pregnant girl from the hospital. When she reached her, the girl was frantic. “Something just happened,” she said, panting. “I felt something. The baby…”

  “You’re going to be all right,” Kai Ying said. “Come with me.” She helped the girl walk toward the house, the wind pushing them forward. The monsoon was going to usher this baby in. “Just breathe slowly and stay calm. It won’t be long now.”

  “I can’t,” the girl said, her face tight with pain as she squeezed Kai Ying’s hand.

  “Just a few more steps,” she said, urging her forward.

  But the girl’s legs buckled under her and Kai Ying lowered her slowly to the wet ground and knelt beside her, the rain whipping against them. With the palm of her hand, Kai Ying cushioned the girl’s head against the hard ground and repeated, “Breathe slowly, in and out.”

  The girl looked frightened, but she listened.

  “Can I help?” Auntie Song asked, suddenly there, hovering over Kai Ying.

  Kai Ying didn’t take her eyes off the girl. “She’s about to have her baby. I think her water’s broken,” she told Auntie Song, raising her voice above the tumult. “Quick, go get Lo Yeh; we need to get her into the house right away.”

  Song scrambled away and she heard her calling for Wei in the distance. The girl squeezed her hand tighter and cried out for her mother. The rain was driven sideways now by the winds, slapping Kai Ying in the face, the leaves from the kapok littering the courtyard all around them. Kai Ying shifted her body to shield the girl from the rain. “You’ll be all right, I promise.”

  Tao’s birth had been quick; a dull ache which grew in intensity, followed by the searing pain of those last few pushes and then it was over. But she knew every case was different; some women spent hours and hours in labor, or died in childbirth. She once heard about a classmate of hers whose baby had been dead inside of her for weeks, and when it was finally delivered the poisons had already spread through her.

  Kai Ying looked down at the girl who was gaunt and thin all over except for the baby bulge. Her clothes were filthy and Kai Ying couldn’t begin to guess when she’d last had a decent meal. How did she get all the way here to Dongshan? And how was she able to find her?

  “I can’t, I can’t do this,” the girl cried out. She moaned and writhed.

  Kai Ying held on to her tightly. She wondered if the baby would have a fighting chance. She quickly cleared her mind of such thoughts. She hadn’t lost a patient yet and she wasn’t about to now.

  “You can, you can do it,” Kai Ying reassured her. “I’ll be right here with you.”

  The girl cried out again and Kai Ying leaned in closer to protect her from the storm, and it felt as if they were in a vacuum, separated from the rest of the world.

  “What’s your name? Tell me your name,” Kai Ying asked, hoping to calm her.

  Between her quick, labored breaths the girl finally answered, “Suyin. My name’s Suyin.”

  Wei

  Even so, the world intrudes. The line had suddenly come to Wei when they had finally carried the girl into the house and laid her down on the sitting room floor. He started a fire in the stone fireplace and they placed blankets underneath the girl. It was there she would have to give birth, all of them soaked to the bone. Outside, the monsoon grew stronger, thundering down on them, fierce winds rattling the windows. It bothered him that he couldn’t remember where the line came from.

  Wei watched Kai Ying’s face turn serious. It was going to be a difficult birth, she whispered. The girl was already weak and exhausted, the baby pushing against her thin frame. Kai Ying brushed back her wet hair and he saw a quick breath of fear fill her, something he’d rarely seen in his daughter-in-law in all her years of herbal work.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  Kai Ying took another breath and looked nervously out at the rain before she said, “Can you bring back the midwife, Mrs. Lu, as quickly as possible?”

  * * *

  Wei felt suddenly vigorous and confident again as he hurried off to fetch Mrs. Lu. As he fought against the wind and rain, slowly making his way down the street, the line had returned to him again, Even so, the world intrudes. It must have been a line from some famous Tang dynasty poem he had long ago memorized. It bothered him even more that he couldn’t remember the lines that followed. When Wei returned home, he would scour his books of poetry until he found the poem. He’d spent most of his life avoiding the world, but ironically, it had landed right there at their doorstep.

  By the time he returned with Mrs. Lu, the baby had already come into the world.

  Kai Ying

  After three days, the rain finally stopped. Kai Ying lay awake in bed and listened for the baby’s cries. Suyin had hardly moved since delivering the baby, stirring only to nurse the child or sip from the bowls of black chicken and fish stomach soup Kai Ying made for her, sweetened with dates and wolfberries to help build up her strength. Suyin had lost a great deal of blood during the birth and had little strength left to push when the baby finally arrived. Kai Ying had never delivered a baby before and was terrified when Suyin’s contractions came closer together and Lo Yeh hadn’t returned with Mrs. Lu. Auntie Song had gone upstairs to check on Tao. Still, she wasn’t about to let the girl or her baby die. Now when Kai Ying thought about the multitude of things that could have gone wrong during the birth, the death of one or both of them, her whole body trembled.

  Exhausted, Suyin slept. Kai Ying couldn’t imagine how long it had been since Suyin had had a good night’s sleep. All she and Auntie Song were able to find out from the girl was that she’d been living and begging on the streets to survive. She never mentioned any family.

  * * *

  Kai Ying drifted off, only to be awakened a short time later by the soft whining sounds that were so similar to the cries Tao had once made as a baby. Kai Ying hurried down the hall.

  The room was dark and stuffy. A stale smell enveloped Kai Ying as soon as she opened the door and she paused a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust. Suyin was a dark shape in the middle of the bed. The baby girl, who slept in Tao’s old bassinet to one side of the room, was whimpering now. Kai Ying picked up the baby. She felt so small and light. She was underweight and a red rash blotted both of her cheeks and her stomach, but her lungs were strong and she appeared alert. Kai Ying hadn’t realized how much she missed holding a baby in her arms, and couldn’t help but wonder what Sheng would think of all of this. It was almost nine months since she’d heard from him, the same time it took to create the life she held.

  Be alive, she thought. Please be alive.

  The baby squirmed in her arms and Kai Ying relaxed her hold on her. When Tao was born, Kai Ying was nervous all the time, afraid that something would happen to him. The world around them had become filled with menace. This little baby was different; she was already resilient in the face of all her mother had gone through before, and during, her birth. She had even survived the monsoon. The baby girl stopped crying and stared up at her, her arms flailing. She had a full head of downy black hair and her mother’s eyes, open and inquisitive, with long, dark lashes. She stared a moment longer at Kai Ying before she whimpered and began to cry again.

  “Quiet now, you’ll wake your ma ma,” Kai Ying whispered. She held the baby close and checked to see if she was wet before taking her downstairs. It didn’t appear the girl had enough milk to breastfeed right now, so Kai Ying supplemented with soy milk until she could find a wet nurse with the help of Mrs. Lu.

  Suyin would need a few more weeks to recuperate be
fore she was strong enough to take care of herself, much less take care of a crying, hungry baby. Meanwhile, even without all the formal festivities of a red egg and ginger baby party to announce her birth, they would do their best to welcome this little girl into the world. Kai Ying would begin by giving her a customary first bath that afternoon, three days after her birth.

  There were so many details to think about. Kai Ying knew it was bad luck to call a baby by its given name for the first month after birth, in order to ward off the bad spirits who might return and take the child away. They had called Tao little monkey for the first month of his life, choosing an animal so he’d be unwanted by the spirits. Kai Ying often followed all the old Chinese traditions taught to her by her own mother. But when she looked down at this baby, she thought differently. This little girl had already made it over the first hurdle of surviving her birth. Until Suyin was well enough to name the baby, Kai Ying would secretly name her.

  “You must be hungry, Meizhen, let’s go downstairs,” she whispered. It meant beautiful pearl and was the name she would have chosen for her own daughter.

  On their way downstairs, Kai Ying stopped by the balcony. She opened the door quietly and stepped out into the fresh air. The night felt calm after the storm, and the baby had fallen asleep again in her arms. Kai Ying gazed up at the moon, bright and magnificent in the dark sky, although it had already waned. They had missed their chance to see it on Moon Festival. Unlike Houyi and Chang’e, her dreams of a reunion would have to wait for another year.

  The World Intrudes

  October 1958

  Tao

  Tao was finally returning to school tomorrow, two weeks after his cast had been removed, and he could barely sleep in his excitement. It was still early, a weak October light just seeping into his room, and he willed it to hurry, hurry so that the day would begin. He closed his eyes and opened them again, breathing in and out, filling his lungs with air. His ba ba once told him that if he paid attention, he could actually smell, even taste the seasons. He had begun to notice that the powerful scent of the kapok flower meant it was late March, or the sweet, sticky taste of mangoes and pineapples which came in the fall, while the worst part of summer brought the stinky smell of the durian fruit, which made him gag just to think of it. Next month in November there would be the orangey citrus scents of winter, followed by Chinese New Year in January or February. He lay in bed and wondered if his father could smell the same things wherever he was.