Servants have set up a picnic of freshwater crabs, for which Lake Tai is known, soup, rice dumplings wrapped in leaves and tied with string, pickles, and jars of rice wine. Couples sit together—sometimes by themselves, sometimes in little groups. Second Uncle and Second Aunt have their own circle, with their sons, their wives, and grandchildren. He has rightfully earned the respect befitting an elder in the Yang family, and, after all these years, Second Aunt is content, if not actually happy. Elsewhere, some of the usual divisions have been forgotten as boys and girls play together. Below us, the lake shimmers, reflecting the hills and clouds. In addition to the dragon boats, pleasure vessels—decorated with brocade curtains and fluttering banners—sweep back and forth across the water, each with its own party onboard.
The time arrives for the races to begin. The first two boats line up side by side in the middle of the lake. From this vantage point, I can see more clearly the ways in which each boat’s dragon carries its own unique personality—from the curl of its whiskers to the intricacy of its scales. A gong is hit. The lead man on each vessel rhythmically bangs a drum, summoning the dragon heart of his boat to inspire the rowers. Oars fly, disturbing the glistening reflections and sending rippling waves across the lake. Maoren and some of the other men loudly urge their favorite boats to win. During the second race, some of the ladies of the household completely forget themselves and call out too. By the third race, the men and women of the Yang family are shouting together and raising cups of rice wine when their preferred boat crosses the finish line first.
Next, the winners of the first heats compete against each other. More favorites are eliminated. In the early afternoon, the two finalists pull into position. I’m happy to see that Maoren’s top pick has made it this far. It would be unseemly for me as Lady Tan to express my emotions by cheering as the gong is hit. Unseemly or not, sounds burst forth from me with such exuberance that I’m forced to clasp my hands over my mouth. For many years my husband has followed the adage that instructs Ascend the bed, act like a husband; descend the bed, act like a gentleman. But in this moment, decorum is forgotten. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close.
More wine is poured. Couples, families, and groups of unmarried boys leave our pavilion to ramble the shade-protected pathways. Other festival guests are doing the same. I’m pretty sure I glimpse Oriole, the brickmaker, with her head bent toward a man who must be her husband. Not only has she remained healed, but over the years she’s recommended me to women like herself who have suffered from taxation from toil. I’d love to approach her to say hello, but Maoren says, “As Master Yang and Lady Tan, we must stay here and let others pay their respects.”
It is said that marriage and fortune are predestined, but Maoren and I also worked closely with the matchmaker to make sure that our two oldest daughters married well and, as it’s turned out, happily. Yuelan and Chunlan live close enough that I can visit them regularly. It has been a gift in my life to help them through their pregnancies and births. Still, to see them here—with their young children in tow, all dressed as though they’re on their way to the imperial palace—gives me great joy. How kind my daughters are to their younger sister, who’s come on this excursion covered by a veil that reaches longer than her fingertips.
While I wait for Meiling and her husband to arrive, others come to say hello. My brother, Yifeng, steps into the pavilion wearing the gown, hat, and embroidered insignia that announce to all his status as a magistrate. His son, my nephew, is now studying for the exams. I believe he will follow his father into the ranks of civil service. Yifeng and I visit often—at New Year’s and on those dates when together we make offerings to those we’ve lost. Grandfather died three years after Grandmother’s passing. Not long after, my father retired. He returned to Wuxi with his wife to live in the Mansion of Golden Light, where he could use his connections to benefit young men hoping to rise in officialdom. He died two years ago. His second Respectful Lady died within a year. Yifeng performed and continues to perform all the rites.
“Where is Miss Zhao?” I ask, looking over my brother’s shoulder.
“Now that she’s attained the status of Honorable Mother,” he answers, “she felt it was not proper for her to come.”
“Honorable Mother,” I echo. It pleases me that Yifeng remains thoroughly devoted to Miss Zhao. But if for some reason his wife should grow to dislike Miss Zhao, then I will welcome her into the Garden of Fragrant Delights. It took me many years to realize she’s not much older than I am, so maybe we will be old ladies together, embroidering and telling stories in a special corner of the inner chambers.
Meiling arrives at last. She is now well-to-do in her own right, wearing fine gowns purchased with her own money. Her husband, also prosperous, walks proudly next to her. Between them, Dairu, their son of eighteen years. Following a few steps behind is Miss Chen’s surviving child, Fifth Daughter, who some in Wuxi now call Young Midwife.
Dairu hurries ahead of his parents, bows to my husband and me, and then asks if Lian is here. The boy is polite, educated, as I promised Meiling, in our home school. “Let me take you to him,” Maoren says. My husband rises and leaves with Dairu.
Kailoo turns to Meiling. “Wife, I want to walk to the pagoda. Will it be all right if I leave you here for a bit?”
Once our husbands are gone from sight, Meiling sits next to me. So often we hear of companionate marriages, but I have found deep-heart love with Meiling.
“Do you remember when Grandmother discussed with your mother the possibility of a match between the two of us?” I ask.
Meiling nods. “Friendship is a contract between two hearts. With hearts united, women can laugh and cry, live and die together.”
“Did you imagine then how true that would be for us?”
“I didn’t, but I also couldn’t have imagined seeing you here at the festival,” she answers with a delicate chuckle.
I gaze out across the lake. “Your word pictures brought this to me for many years. It is exactly as I thought it would be.”
“And in exchange, you taught me how to read and write actual words.”
I pour two cups of wine, and we watch the children play for a while.
“Have you chosen which cases to include in your book?” Meiling asks.
I sigh and hold my palms open skyward. “I don’t know why you persist in nagging me about this.”
“Because I think you should write it. You know the saying. Old men have much knowledge and experience just as old trees have many roots.”
“Are you calling me an old man?” I ask in a teasing tone.
“I’m pointing out that you’re a doctor who has treated women and girls for decades. You should share your knowledge.”
“I’d like to reach more wives and mothers,” I confess, embarrassed to voice this desire even to my friend. “But if—and I mean if—I wrote what you suggest, wouldn’t people think I’m seeking fame?”
“You are not Doctor Wong,” she replies sternly. “You’d be writing this to help women.”
I mull over the idea as I do every time Meiling brings it up. “If I could write descriptions of symptoms followed by recipes for formulas with exact measurements and times required for brewing, then wives and mothers wouldn’t have to risk their modesty or that of their daughters to find paths to wellness—”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
“Women would need to be able to read,” I point out.
“Not every woman has this skill,” my friend admits. “But who knows? Maybe a woman could ask a neighbor to read it to her.”
We fall into silence, both of us in thought.
Meiling touches my wrist to get my attention. “If you choose simple ingredients—”
“Inexpensive, you mean!”
We laugh, but she’s right.
“No one would ever say my remedies are showy,” I say at last. “I always think about the tie between emotions and the body. Fierce joy attacks yang; fierce anger damages yin. If I were to write a book, I’d want to include Liver-related conditions that are affected by the different types of anger we women must hide from our husbands, mothers-in-law, and concubines. And then there are the ailments connected to Lung emotions—sadness and worry.”
“Do you remember the brickmaker?” Meiling asks.
“I think I saw Oriole here today—”
“Could you also say that women not only struggle with their emotions but also are burdened by too much labor, while some women, like Oriole, are harmed by excessive labor?”
I nod, taking in her words. “I don’t know of a single male physician who has recorded cases related to working—common—women.”
Kailoo strolls toward us, which means Meiling’s and my time together is coming to a close. My friend squeezes my wrist. “Say you’ll do this. No, promise me you’ll do it.”
“But I don’t know where to start.”
She gives me a look that could not be clearer in its message. Stop acting like your mind is empty of thoughts and ideas. Then she goes ahead and creates a path for me. “Your notebooks. You’ve recorded every case.”
But instead of convincing me, her suggestion makes the idea of this project all the more daunting. “If—and again I say if—I do this, I’ll need your help.”
She tips her head coyly. “All you had to do was ask.”