Widow Bao openly weeps. When Lady Liu puts a comforting hand over her mother-in-law’s, I wish I could have a relationship like this with Lady Kuo, but she has no interest and my desires are not what matter here.
“Widow Bao, I believe your daughter is suffering from a type of qi deficiency we call damage from weeping. You tell me your daughter was once quick-tempered. This is caused by qi constraint, which leads to Heat in the Liver, which, in turn, fires up Blood, which must be expelled by coughing. I don’t have a full pharmacy here, but let me write out some prescriptions for you to take back to Nanjing.”
The first remedy is Beautiful Jade Syrup, in which one of the ingredients—honey—is strained through raw silk. The second remedy is more complex, combining the Decoction of Six Gentlemen and the Decoction of Four Gentlemen. And third, I write an order for Calm the Spirit Pills to cool her Blood and help her sleep. I feel certain that Grandmother would agree with my approach.
“It may take a while for your daughter to regain her health,” I say as I hand Widow Bao the prescriptions, “but she will.”
“How long?” Widow Bao asks.
“You should see improvement within two weeks, but she won’t fully recover for three months, maybe longer.”
“You have much confidence.”
“I have confidence in all my grandmother taught me and all who taught her.”
“Then perhaps you can help me as well,” Widow Bao says.
I suspected this might be coming. After so many years at Grandmother’s side, I’ve developed the habit of examining the color and texture of skin, the vibrancy or dullness of hair, and the state of emotions of any woman or child I meet, whether they’re asking for my advice or not. Grandmother says this is a good way for me to keep my diagnostic tools sharp, so that when I’m called upon for help—if Lady Kuo should one day ask me to treat her cough, for example—I’ll be prepared.
The widow tells me that her monthly moon water is irregular. She has trouble sleeping and is plagued by bouts of sweating. She says she’s always taken humble pride in being sharp of mind. “But now I can’t remember a thing!” she complains.
I feel her pulse, which floats and surges. I diagnose qi and Blood deficiency.
“Like my daughter?” Widow Bao asks.
“Identical terms, with different results,” I answer. “But you have no need of worry. I could do nothing, and your monthly moon water would probably stop entirely by New Year’s Festival, but I hate for you to suffer from these aggravating symptoms.”
Widow Bao’s complaints are normal for a woman her age, which is why I have the necessary pills on my shelf. I pour some of them into a silk bag and pull the ribbon to secure them inside. “These will alleviate your troubles. You’ll sleep better, and soon your monthly moon-water days will be behind you.”
Widow Bao tucks the satchel inside her gown. “We mentioned we had double business to conduct on this trip. Let us discuss the second matter now. My daughter-in-law and I are also looking for midwives to bring to the capital. Your husband told us you have a friend who is a midwife. That surprised us.”
“And made us curious,” Lady Liu says. “She must be special to move comfortably around, and be accepted by, someone such as you.”
“My grandmother recognized this quality in Meiling at a young age.” After a moment, I add, “Would you like to meet her?”
“We would be grateful for that,” Lady Liu says.
We walk to the last courtyard and into a room where we can see Doctor Wong positioned behind a screen to the left and a young wife perched on a kang, with Meiling on her knees before her, to the right. The doctor sees us, stands, then falls to the floor to perform obeisance. “Welcome. Welcome” comes his muffled voice.
“You may rise,” Lady Liu says. “We’ve come to observe, if you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” The doctor scrambles to his feet. “It’s an honor to have such esteemed ladies in Wuxi.”
Lady Liu and Widow Bao must be accustomed to this sort of obsequiousness, because in synchronized movement they dismiss his words with the backs of their hands. They watch as Meiling pulls up three chairs next to the kang. She’s dressed simply but elegantly today in one of my old gowns. She has tried to copy my walk since childhood, so her steps are delicate and graceful. I make the introductions, and the three of us sit across from the young wife, who is pale with nervousness. I touch her hand. “Don’t worry. We’re only here to listen.”
Meiling serves as the go-between, bringing Doctor Wong’s questions from behind the screen and sending the young wife’s detailed answers back to him. I’m proud of Meiling. Not only does she do a much better job at transmitting the messages than an embarrassed husband ever could, but she also carries herself well—showing equal respect to the doctor and to the patient.
The young wife recently gave birth. She suffers from severe itching on her ears, cheeks, and the nape of her neck. She sobs, hiding her tears with her sleeves. “I’m lonely. My husband doesn’t listen to me. He pays no attention to my advice.”
Meiling disappears behind the screen to pass on these words. Since Doctor Wong can’t see the patient, Meiling also describes the young woman’s red and scaled face and the patches where she’s scratched so much the skin oozes. The two visitors and I hear her clearly when she adds, “As a midwife, I’ve seen cases of postpartum Wind itching many times. This happens when the childbirth gate is too long exposed during labor. Do you remember, Doctor Wong, how long her baby took to come out? Your good judgment saved two lives that day.”
Silence falls over the room as Doctor Wong considers this information. Finally, he declares, repeating the diagnosis Meiling just gave him, “Tell the patient she suffers from postpartum Wind itching.” He gives the same prescription I would have recommended to refill the empty spaces between the layers of the girl’s skin, but he doesn’t suggest anything to help with her itching.
From behind the curtain, Doctor Wong speaks again. “The goal of a male doctor is to see that a woman lives out her predetermined fate and destiny to have children. These things are controlled by Heaven.”
“Thank you for that, Doctor Wong,” Lady Liu says politely, but inside I burn. I rise and walk to the window, so our guests won’t see the emotions cross my face. It may not be decorous to say aloud, but we women—rich, poor, educated, uneducated—are at the mercy of our bodies: the cycles of blood, the patterns of energy, the depth and complexity of our feelings. Heaven has nothing to do with any of that.
I compose my face and turn back to the room to find Lady Liu sitting on the kang next to the young wife, the two of them with their heads together as they whisper. Widow Bao and Meiling stand in the farthest corner of the room, also whispering. It seems both sets of women wish to share confidences away from Doctor Wong’s ears.
I clear my throat and approach the kang. Lady Liu rises, and Widow Bao sways away from Meiling. We take turns leaning down to thank the young wife for allowing us to observe as Doctor Wong treated her. This is accompanied by separate messages from each of us spoken in tones that can’t possibly reach him.
“It is a rare husband who listens to his wife, let alone takes her advice,” Widow Bao says gently. “Don’t let this trouble your mind any longer.”
“Thank you for telling me about the birth of your daughter,” murmurs Lady Liu. “Next time you’ll have a son.”
“I’ll tell Lady Kuo how gracious you’ve been.” Then, emboldened by the events of the day, yet remaining vigilant to possible listening ears, I lower my voice even further. “Come visit me in my room. I’ll give you a special herbal wash. Use it for two weeks, and your face will be as beautiful as the day you wed.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon in the inner chambers, where my mother-in-law pours rice wine for our guests, refilling her own cup more frequently than would be advised. I understand. The day has not gone as she planned, with more attention focused on me than she would like. She would be even more irritated to hear that her guests seemed particularly interested in Meiling and that she presented herself not just as an accomplished midwife but as a lady too.
That evening, another banquet is held. I’m not invited, but once again the convivial sounds of conversation and the weeping strains of an expertly played erhu reach my ears. I’m tired and wouldn’t mind napping for a bit before Maoren comes to bed and we try again to make a son, but first I have three new cases to write in my notebook.
* * *