NINETEEN
We call it the infirmary, but in the same way the lending library isn’t much of a library, the infirmary at Weihsien isn’t much of an infirmary.
It’s a crumbling old building with broken windows, and rows of narrow iron cots inside. Some of the cots are separated by gray curtains that were probably once white. Most of the curtains are missing, though, taken down and used for clothing. Sometimes I notice women in boxy-looking gray dresses made from infirmary curtains.
But as Miss E. is always reminding us, it helps to look on the bright side. The bright side is that the infirmary has a doctor. A real doctor. Dr. McGregor was working in a clinic outside Chefoo when the Japanese invaded China. Because the Japanese sent all foreign nationals from around Chefoo to internment camps, and Dr. McGregor is Scottish, he ended up in Weihsien too. He is a small man with a beaky nose. He wears thick eyeglasses held together in the middle by a piece of frayed wire. Every time I see those glasses, I find myself hoping that Dr. McGregor does neater work when he stitches up a wound.
We follow Miss E. and Mr. Liddell to the infirmary, but Miss E. shoos us away when we get there. So we wait outside for news. I’ve never been good at waiting, but I’m getting better. I get a lot of practice at Weihsien. We wait for our broomcorn and SOS, we wait for roll call to be over, we wait to use the latrine. And, of course, we wait for this war to end.
“I hope they’ll find something for Mr. Liddell to eat,” I say to the others. “He’s even skinnier than we are.”
Jeanette nods. “Mr. Liddell overexerted himself. That’s what Miss E. said.”
Matthew and Benton are also waiting for news. I can’t help flinching when a Japanese soldier walks by. His eyes scan over us, and I think we are all a little bit surprised—and a lot relieved—when he does not order us to go back to our huts. Maybe he knows Mr. Liddell collapsed, and he understands that we’re worried about our friend.
I’m disappointed that Matthew doesn’t come to sit near me. I thought we were friends. When I give him the smallest smile, he doesn’t smile back. Something pinches in my chest near where my heart is. He’s acting like he doesn’t even know me. I’m glad I never told Jeanette and Tilly that he asked me to go for a walk with him.
I make a point of not looking at Matthew. Only that’s harder than it sounds. Not only because I think I like him, but also because when you try not to look at someone it only makes you want to look at them more.
“I see Miss E.,” Cathy says, pointing to a small, cracked window near the front of the infirmary. Through the window we make out Miss E. talking with Dr. McGregor, their heads bowed. Miss E. is chewing on her finger.
“Maybe Mr. Liddell is dying,” Tilly blurts out.
I could smack her for saying that. “Of course he isn’t dying,” I tell her.
“Dr. McGregor is very good. He’ll fix whatever is wrong with Mr. Liddell,” Jeanette adds.
“What Mr. Liddell needs is food and water,” Matthew says, joining in the conversation. I forget my plan not to look at him, but when I do I get the strangest feeling that he is making a point of not looking at me. Did I do something to upset him? Maybe he thinks I talk too much. “We all need food and water,” Matthew adds, “or we’ll end up collapsing too.”
The door to the infirmary opens, and Miss E. comes out. She seems surprised to find us there. Her lips are pursed, but when she sees us, her face relaxes.
“Is he going to die?” Tilly asks.
When Tilly’s question makes Miss E. laugh, I know for sure everything is going to be fine. “Mr. Liddell isn’t going to die. Not for a very long time anyway.” Miss E. ruffles Tilly’s hair. “You can stop worrying, Matilda. Dr. McGregor says Mr. Liddell has a touch of influenza. All Mr. Liddell needs is some rest—and something to eat.”
Benton puts his hands on his hips. “Where exactly does the doctor plan to find something for Mr. Liddell to eat?” he asks.
Miss E. doesn’t answer Benton’s question. She just moves so quickly to a new topic it’s hard to remember the old one. She does that a lot.
“I think you’ll like my latest idea. Have you ever noticed that good ideas come at the oddest times? I got this particular idea while Dr. McGregor was rattling on about his childhood in Scotland while he was examining Mr. Liddell.”
“What was your idea?” Tilly asks.
Miss E.’s eyes are dancing in a way that makes me think she is playing with us. She claps her hands together. “Cards,” she says. “Get-well cards. Imagine how much Mr. Liddell would enjoy getting a card from each of you.”
“But there’s no paper left,” Tilly says. “We’ve already erased our notebooks.”
“I wasn’t thinking of paper cards,” Miss E. says. “I was thinking of musical ones. What if each of you prepared a small get-well song for Mr. Liddell? Then in a few days, once he’s feeling stronger, we could have a musical performance in his honor.”
“I’ll play the flute,” Jeanette says.
“I was going to suggest that myself,” Miss E. says.
“Can we bring Albertine?” Jeanette wants to know. “She could wear her bonnet.”
Miss E. continues speaking as if she hasn’t heard Jeanette. “Rather than inventing new songs, you could take ones you already know and change the words. For instance, He was a famous trumpet man from out Chicago way could be He was a Scottish doctor from Ed-in-burgh…”
On our way back to the huts we have lots to talk about. Between us, we must know fifty different songs. “What about ‘Take My Hand, Precious Lord’?” Matthew suggests. “We could change it to ‘Run This Race, Olympic Champ.’”
Jeanette puts one hand over her heart. “I don’t think Mr. Liddell would like us mocking a religious song. It could slow down his recovery. Why don’t you think of something else?”
Though I swear I didn’t plan it, Matthew and I end up walking side by side.
When he doesn’t say a word to me, I feel that pinch in my chest again. I will not be the one to start a conversation. If Matthew is ignoring me, I’ll ignore him.
That plan works as well as my plan not to look at him.
“I don’t know why you’re ignoring me,” I blurt out. As soon as the words have left my mouth, I wish I could take them back.
Matthew glances to the left and to the right, then in front and behind. When he speaks, his voice is so low I have to lean in to hear him. “I’m sorry, Gwen. Trust me—it’s for the best.”
For the best? What are you talking about? You can’t just go and ignore a girl you invited for a walk.
But I don’t say that out loud. I just think it. Because although I have no idea what Matthew means, something tells me this isn’t a good time to argue about it.
TWENTY
Jeanette is singing us a song that was one of her mother’s favorites. “It’s called ‘On the Sunny Side of the Street.’” She swivels her shoulders as she sings a verse. “Grab your coat and get your hat. Leave your worries on the doorstep.”
We are so busy learning the song and planning how to change it for Mr. Liddell’s musical card (“Grab your mosquito net. Don’t forget your plate. Leave your worries at Weihsien”) that we don’t even notice Miss E. has come into our hut. She doesn’t clap to get our attention the way she usually does. She just waits for us to notice that she’s standing by the door.
“We have to discuss something serious.” That’s when I realize that in all the time Miss E. has been looking after us, she has never talked to us about something serious. Even when she teaches us geography or literature, she finds a way to turn it into a game.
“Is it about Mr. Liddell?” Tilly asks.
“It is about him. In a way,” Miss E. says. I’m so used to seeing Miss E. smile that seeing her now, without any smile at all, feels all wrong. Like I am traveling to a place I’ve never been—like when we boarded the steamer and then the train that brought us here to Weihsien.
“Is he dead?” Tilly asks.
“Mr. Liddell
isn’t dead,” Miss E. assures us. “People don’t die from influenza.”
“They do too. My grandmother died of it,” Tilly insists.
“Well, they don’t usually,” Miss E. says. “But the thing is, as you know”—when Miss E. pauses, something tells me she needs courage to continue—“Mr. Liddell is very, very weak. He needs more food. I hoped it would never come to this, girls, but I’m going to have to… to… ” Miss E. lets her voice trail off.
“Kill Alb—” Tilly starts to say.
Miss E. stretches out her arm and raises her palm in the air. I think she doesn’t want Tilly to have to say it. “I’m going to have to slaughter Albertine.” Miss E.’s eyes are shiny, but she isn’t crying. “I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Girl Guides, I really did. And I think it’s been good for you to look after another…creature. I know, of course, that you’ll want to say your goodbyes.”
I put my hand over my mouth.
Jeanette lets out a loud sob.
When I put my arm around Jeanette’s shoulders I feel how bony she has become. She feels more like a bird than a girl. And though I’m also sorry about the news, I can’t help wondering, Will we get something extra to eat too, after Albertine is killed?
Tilly makes a harrumphing sound. “Albertine isn’t a human baby,” she says. “Even if she wears a bonnet. She’s a pig, and pigs are made for eating. It’s only too bad that she isn’t fully grown. We’d get more meat if we could let her live longer.”
Miss E. swallows before she speaks. “Dr. McGregor doesn’t think we can wait much longer. Mr. Liddell needs to eat something more substantial than broomcorn and eggplant.”
“Who’s going to kill her?” I ask.
Miss E. looks me in the eye without blinking. “Me.”
Tilly and Jeanette get into an argument about whether we should remove Albertine’s bonnet before we say our goodbyes. “I want to remember her with her bonnet on,” Jeanette insists.
“You can remember her any way you want,” Tilly says in an irritated voice. “But the sooner we stop thinking about Albertine as a pet, the easier it will be to let her go.” When Tilly does not use the word kill or slaughter, I understand that saying goodbye to Albertine will be hard for Tilly too—even if she doesn’t want the rest of us to know it.
“When are you going to…to do it?” I ask Miss E.
“As soon as I can get the right”—Miss E. stops to choose her words—“equipment. Hopefully by tonight. It might be easier,” she adds, “without the bonnet.”
We follow Miss E. to Albertine’s enclosed pen behind our hut. Albertine has quadrupled in size in the three weeks we’ve had her. She’s not as big as a German shepherd, more the size of a bulldog. She’s sound asleep (thanks to her daily dose of aspirin), but now she opens one yellowish-brown eye. “I’m going to take off her bonnet,” Miss E. says to Jeanette. “Maybe you’d like to have one last look at her with her bonnet on.”
Jeanette shakes her head.
Miss E. takes a deep breath. “Albertine,” she says, “we’re grateful to have had your wonderful company. You’ve brightened all our spirits during a difficult time. Not only have you made us laugh with your antics, but you’ve taught us about the importance of caring for others. We’re especially grateful that you are giving your life to save Mr. Liddell’s.” Miss E. leans over to kiss Albertine’s head. As she does, she begins to recite the Twenty-Third Psalm: “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…”
Because it’s a psalm we all know, we join in. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…”
When we finish, Miss E. takes another deep breath. “Who wants to go next?”
Because I want to help Miss E., I say I will. Though I always thought it was Miss E.’s job to look after us, I am starting to realize that sometimes even someone as strong, brave and independent as Miss E. needs to be looked after too. “Goodbye, Albertine,” I say. Though it’s hard to do, I look her in the eye—the way Miss E. looked at me before. Albertine returns my gaze in a way that makes me think she understands what’s going to happen to her. Then I crouch down and lower my voice so only Albertine can hear. “I’m awfully sorry.”
Jeanette takes her turn next. I think we’re all expecting a long, tearful speech. But all Jeanette does is scratch behind one of Albertine’s ears. When Albertine grunts, Jeanette grunts back. Albertine grunts again, and for a moment I wonder if that grunt could mean goodbye.
Tilly waits for all the other girls to say goodbye before she takes her turn. “To be honest,” she says, “I don’t know why the others are making such a fuss about you.” I notice she isn’t using Albertine’s name. “Pigs are not meant to be pets. They are meant to be slaughtered and eaten.”
If, at that very moment, Tilly did not use the back of her hand to wipe her cheek, I might never have guessed that even Tilly—who is the most practical and sensible girl I ever knew—also loved Albertine.
TWENTY-ONE
Some nights the bedbugs won’t let me sleep. Mostly, though, it’s the hunger and the thirst that keep me up. When your belly is empty and your throat is parched, it’s hard to think of anything else besides food and fresh water.
Jeanette says fasting purifies the soul. “Actually, I didn’t say it. St. Augustine did. He also said that fasting makes the heart contrite and humble.”
Tilly rolls her eyes. “Even St. Augustine might change his mind if he was at Weihsien. He might just abandon his fast for a juicy pork chop.”
“Tilly! How can you say that?” Jeanette and I ask at the same time.
Somehow, even with the bedbugs, my empty belly, my parched throat and Tilly’s pork chop joke, I can feel myself starting to doze off. My arms and legs get heavy, and I let my head slump a little to one side. Before I came to Weihsien I used to hate falling asleep. When I was small I’d beg my parents to let me stay up even half an hour later so I could draw. But now, on the nights I’m able to doze off, I’m so grateful I could cry. Probably because it means that for at least a few hours I can be somewhere else.
The last thing I see are Albertine’s yellowish-brown eyes. I tell myself that Albertine, who has never done a selfish thing or had a selfish thought in all her life (not that I know of anyhow), will go to heaven. I just hope that the Lord will forgive my many selfish thoughts and that I will get there too. If I do, I’ll get to play with Albertine again. She is the best pig I ever met.
Maybe tonight I’ll dream about a better world. The air there will never be muggy. The sky will always be blue. There will be cupboards full of good things to eat—and books to read and vellum paper to draw on. Best of all, I will get to be with the people I love most—Miss E., my friends from Weihsien and even my mother and father. Though I often feel angry with them for leaving me in Chefoo, I can’t seem to stop loving them. Not even when I try. Is that what love is? When you can’t stop loving a person even when you want to?
As I begin to fall into a deeper, heavier sleep, I see them—my mother and father. They are sitting at the dining room table, heads bowed, hands pressed together as Father says grace. Mother mouths the words along with him. There is the white lace tablecloth Mother brought with her from Boston. It was a wedding gift from her parents. “It will be yours one day, Gwen,” she used to say when she spread it out on the table.
When the prayer is finished, Mother and Father look up at each other and smile. Then they reach for their chopsticks. They are having dumplings and a plate of baby bok choy and oyster mushrooms for supper. Clouds of steam rise from their blue-and-white porcelain bowls and disappear into the air. Father catches a dumpling between his chopsticks, blowing on it before he takes a bite.
Something makes Mother and Father laugh. Mother’s laugh sounds like wind chimes. Father’s is a low rumble.
What’s so funny?
Now I notice that someone else is sitting with them at the table, her chopsticks lying side by side on my tablecloth.
It’s a girl, and she is sitting in the spot where I should
be—between my parents. Her hair is silky black and perfectly straight. When she moves it away from her face, I see from the shape of her eyes that she is Chinese.
“Father…Mother,” I hear the girl say.
They’re not her parents. They are mine.
I’m sure my parents will explain that she’s mistaken. But they don’t. “This tablecloth will be yours one day,” I hear my mother tell the girl.
“But shouldn’t it go to Gwen?” the girl asks.
“Gwen?” My parents exchange a confused look. “Who’s Gwen?”
My mother looks up into the air. Where, I wonder, is the red-and-gold silk lantern that hung over the dining room table at our house in Chefoo?
Where are the walls? The ceiling? Why is there a perfectly blue sky inside my parents’ dining room?
The sky is bluer than a robin’s egg. I don’t know where my parents went or the Chinese girl who was sitting in my spot. It doesn’t matter. I’ll find them later and explain that I’m their daughter Gwen. I’ll make the girl understand that the tablecloth belongs to me.
Now I’m suddenly spinning around and around, faster and faster, like a toy top. It feels so good to laugh. I’m not worried that I’ll fall because I can feel the Japanese soldier’s strong, sturdy arms around me. Pay attention, a boy’s voice tells me. Do you see a road? Does it go north-south or east-west? Pay attention, Gwen.
Why do I hear dogs snarling and barking? Why are voices shouting in Japanese?
If it’s the middle of the night, why are there lanterns burning?
What in the world is going on?
This isn’t our old house in Chefoo, and this definitely isn’t a better world.
Next to me Jeanette groans in her sleep. On my other side Tilly is sitting bolt upright.
“What do you think is going on out there?” I ask her.
“I think there’s been an escape,” she says.
Cathy and Dot are awake now too. “An escape?” Cathy asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The Taste of Rain Page 8
