My father seems unaffected by the odor coming from my mother’s feet. He sits with his legs spread and his hands on his thighs, so his fingers point inward and his thumbs rest outward. He wears the long, layered robes of his rank. The sleeve guards that edge the hems of his tunic are heavily embroidered. A mandarin square, also embroidered, covers his chest and tells all who see him his grade within the imperial system of civil servants. He motions for Yifeng to come to him. Poppy drops his hand, and Yifeng darts across the floor and jumps into our father’s lap. I would never do that. I lost the ability to run when my feet were bound, but even if I could run, it would be inappropriate for me to act so recklessly. My father laughs. My mother smiles. Poppy squeezes my hand reassuringly.
After five minutes, the visit ends. My father has not said a word to me. I’m not hurt. We’ve both behaved in the proper way. I can be proud of that. Poppy retakes Yifeng’s hand. We’re about to leave when my mother suddenly rises. She sways like a stalk of young bamboo in a spring wind. My father glances at her questioningly. Before he can say a word, she collapses to the floor. Apart from her hands, which lie splayed and limp, and her face, which is as white as a full moon, she looks like a pile of discarded clothing.
Poppy screams. My father leaps from his chair, lifts my mother into his arms, and carries her outside. As he trots down the colonnade, he shouts for other servants to come. They arrive from every corner, including a man and a boy of about twelve. They are only the fifth and sixth males I have ever seen. They must live here, but I’ve been isolated in the inner chambers, where I’ve been protected from the eyes of boys and men apart from my father, Yifeng, and the two brothers I barely remember.
“Take my horse and fetch the doctor!” Father orders. “Bring hot water! No! Bring cold water! Compresses! And find Miss Zhao!”
The old man and the boy break away, as do the cook and the kitchen scullery maid. When Father reaches my mother’s room, the remaining servants and I follow him inside. Respectful Lady’s marriage bed is big and spacious—like a little house, with three small rooms—to give utmost privacy. A moon-shaped archway leads to the sleeping platform. Father lays Respectful Lady on the quilt, sets her arms by her sides, and straightens her gown so the silk drapes over her feet. Then he smooths the tendrils of hair that have come loose from her bun and tucks them behind her ears.
“Wake up, Wife,” he pleads. I’ve never heard him speak so tenderly, not even to Yifeng. He glances back at the rest of us crowded into the marriage bed’s first antechamber. “Where is Miss Zhao? Get her!”
A couple of servants run out, while others enter with hot and cold buckets of water.
At last, Miss Zhao arrives. She touches Father’s shoulder. “It’s best if you leave.” She turns to the servants. “All of you too, except for Yunxian.”
My father regards me. I see in his expression something new, but I’m unsure what it is.
“Maybe I should take the girl,” he says to his concubine.
“Leave her here. She needs to learn.” Miss Zhao puts a hand on the small of his back. “Let us know when the doctor arrives.”
Once everyone has left, Miss Zhao looks at me squarely, which is yet another thing that has never happened before. “I suspected this would happen,” she says. “We can hope that by fainting Respectful Lady has given us time to help her.”
“But what’s wrong?” I ask timidly.
“I’ve been told your mother took great care with your footbinding, choosing to do it with her own hands. Too often a mother can turn sentimental when her daughter cries, but not Respectful Lady. She did everything correctly, and not once did your feet become infected. Now you know how to take care of your feet—”
“Poppy helps me—”
“But you understand that maintenance is required.”
“Unbind the feet every four days,” I begin to recite, knowing these rules are no less important than those for the stages of my life or how to behave toward my future mother-in-law. “Wash them. Trim the toenails and sand down any places where a bone might break through the skin—”
“Whether toenails or a shard of bone, if the skin breaks, you must take extra care to keep the wound clean. Otherwise, you will get an infection. If you ignore it, the bound foot—unable to find fresh air—will begin to fester. Some mothers take this risk when binding their daughters’ feet.” Some of the pride I feel in my feet falls away when she adds, “The person who bound my feet allowed this to happen and was able to break off my dead toes. This is why my feet are so very small, and it is something your father appreciates.”
Now is not the time to crow, but I can’t possibly say that to Miss Zhao.
“My point is,” she goes on, “infection can set in, and if a mother isn’t vigilant, then her daughter will probably die. But little girls aren’t the only ones who can perish. Adult women who don’t properly care for their feet can also succumb.”
With that, Miss Zhao pulls Respectful Lady’s gown up to reveal the embroidered leggings that cover the unsightly bulge of the bent heel and crushed arch. This lump of useless and unappealing flesh is supposed to remain hidden, and seeing it reminds me of something Respectful Lady told me during my binding: “Our feet don’t shrink or disappear. The bones are simply moved and manipulated to create the illusion of golden lilies.”
Miss Zhao unties one of the leggings and pulls it free to expose fiery rivers of red that streak up my mother’s leg. What startles me even more is the look of her calf. It is as thin as rope, far more slender and formless than mine. I reach out to touch what looks so clearly wrong, but Miss Zhao grabs my wrist and pulls me back. She picks up one of my mother’s feet. It looks tiny in her hand.
“Our legs become emaciated because our feet cannot carry what lies beneath the skin,” Miss Zhao states. “This is nothing to worry about. The problem is, your mother has an infection.”
I struggle to make sense of this. Respectful Lady is respectful in all ways, including in the care of her body. She would never ignore her feet.
“I’m going to unwrap her foot,” Miss Zhao explains. “Are you ready?”
When I nod, Miss Zhao slips off the shoe and hands it to me. The smell worsens. The concubine swallows, and then proceeds to unwind the three-meter length of gauze binding cloth. With each layer removed, the smell of decay gets stronger. When Miss Zhao gets closer to the skin, the cloth comes away stained yellow and green. Finally, the foot is naked. A jagged sliver of bone protrudes from the left side of the midfoot. Freed from the bindings—and I can’t imagine the pain my mother must have been experiencing—the foot swells before our eyes.
“Get the bucket.”
I do as I’m told. Miss Zhao gently moves my mother’s leg so it dangles off the side of the bed and places her foot in the water. My mother stirs but doesn’t waken.
“Go to Respectful Lady’s dressing table and bring me her ointments and powders.”
I do as I’m told. My father’s concubine shakes some of the same astringent Poppy uses on my feet into the water. It’s made from ground mulberry root, tannin, and frankincense. By the time the doctor arrives, Miss Zhao and I have patted dry my mother’s foot, sprinkled alum between the toes and over the injury, and set it on a pillow. My mother has stirred each time we’ve moved her, but she has yet to open her eyes.
“You stay here,” Miss Zhao says. “I’ll talk to your father to see how he wants to proceed. A male doctor may not see or touch a female patient. A go-between is needed. Often the husband is chosen, but I will volunteer.”
As soon as she’s gone, my mother’s eyes flutter open. “I do not want that woman in my room,” she says weakly. “Go out there. Tell your father that she cannot be the go-between.”
I step into the corridor. It’s still raining, and I gulp in the fresh air. Even so, the smell of my mother’s rotting flesh clings to the back of my throat. My father and Miss Zhao speak to a man who must be the doctor. I have now seen my seventh male. He wears a long robe in dark blue fabric. His gray hair laps at the curve of his stooped shoulders. I’m afraid to approach, but I must. I walk up to my father, pull on his sleeve, and say, “Respectful Lady is awake, and she asks that I be the go-between.”
The man I take to be the doctor says, “Prefect Tan, it would be proper for you to do this duty.” But when my father’s eyes brim with tears, the doctor turns to Miss Zhao. “I suspect you have some experience with the ailments that afflict women.”
I am only a girl, but I must honor my mother’s wishes. “Respectful Lady wants—”
My father slaps the back of his hand against his other palm to stop me from saying another word. Silently he weighs the possibilities. Then he speaks.
“Doctor Ho, you will use my daughter.” Father looks down at me. “You repeat exactly what the doctor says to your mother and what your mother says back to the doctor. Do you understand?”
I nod solemnly. His decision reflects his love for my mother. I’m sure of it.
The adults exchange a few more words, and then my father is led away by Miss Zhao.
The doctor asks me a series of questions, which I take to Respectful Lady. She answers, “No, I have not eaten spicy foods. You can tell him my sleep is fine. I am not suffering from excessive emotions.”