I try harder. “Everything in the universe has qi. Mountains, stars, animals, people, emotions—”
“I like to say qi is the pulsation of the cosmos,” Grandmother comments, “while the body is a reflection of the cosmos—all governed by yin and yang.”
Hearing Grandmother’s hint, information I’ve memorized since I came here rushes from my mouth. “Yin and yang are dark and light, down and up, inner and outer, old and young, water and fire, Earth and Heaven.”
Grandfather encourages me to continue. “Yin is—”
“The source of death,” I finish for him.
“Yang is—”
“The root of life. Yin is shadowy and female, while yang is positive and male.”
Grandfather nods his approval, and I smile back at him. He directs his next comment to Grandmother Ru. “This girl is intelligent. We should not restrict her to ordinary needlework. We should allow her to study my medicine.”
In the last three months I’ve heard him say something like this many times, and each time a spark of hope ignites inside me. My father and uncle didn’t want to become doctors, and I hear they both have ambitious plans for their sons that don’t include medicine. Even now, my brother is learning the discipline required for studying for the imperial exams. That leaves me. I so wish to learn from my grandparents. Everything they say opens new pathways in my mind. And, if I could become a doctor one day, then I might be able to help the mother of a girl like me. Grandmother, however, has yet to be convinced.
“Today I’ve spoken of blood, but the more important substance is Blood,” she says, ignoring him. “They sound like the same word, but how are they different?”
This is a simple question with an easy answer. “We have the blood we can see when our skin gets cut,” I say, “but Blood is a bigger essence. In women, Blood is the leader. It is what allows a woman to become pregnant and feed a fetus. It turns into mother’s milk upon her giving birth.”
“Exactly. You must put aside the idea of function,” Grandmother Ru explains. “We are not concerned with veins and arteries, muscles and bones, or organs with specific occupations. We are looking to find how illnesses arise from imbalances in the bodily form of yin and yang. They interact like night flowing into day and winter into summer. One is always rising and one is always falling, never stopping. In the process, they are repairing and transforming each other. As physicians, we aspire to bring yin and yang into balance so the life force is strong. What else can you tell me about the body as the universe?”
And on it goes, with Grandfather and Grandmother asking me questions and me trying my best to please them with my answers. When I’m with them—even though they are constantly testing me—I can almost forget how much I miss my mother, my father, our home… Just everything…
* * *
During my time in Wuxi, I’ve been mostly confined to the women’s quarters with concubines and wives, toddlers and children, and older girls who are preparing for marriage. Infants are usually elsewhere with their wet nurses; boys over seven are no longer allowed in the women’s quarters; and some women are too “indisposed”—physically or by their emotions—to gather for embroidery and gossip, cardplaying and petty arguments. I’m the only girl my age, and the older girls have no interest in me. I don’t have a friend, but this is no different than when I lived in Laizhou. I’m thankful for Miss Zhao, who oversees my daily lessons. I think she’s grateful to me too, since she’s having a hard time being accepted by the other concubines. She’s a good teacher—more patient than my mother but no less demanding.
When I want to be alone, I go to my room and climb into Respectful Lady’s marriage bed. It has a roof, windows covered with silk paintings showing scenes of poetic life, and a canopy over the entrance with wooden tassels that hang down as decoration, all carved from rosewood, pearwood, and boxwood, and fitted together without a single nail. There are two antechambers—the first is where a maid sleeps on the floor, and the second is a dressing room. The third room holds the raised sleeping platform. On one of my first nights here, I remembered the loose panel Respectful Lady liked to touch. I wiggled it free and found a secret shelf. For a moment, I hoped she’d hidden something there for me, but no. She knew it existed, though, and to keep my connection to her I set her silk-wrapped shoes on the shelf and fit the panel back into place. Now I often lie in the exact position Respectful Lady did when she had her face to the back wall, her hand playing with the panel. I’ll touch the wood, knowing what’s behind it, and cry for the loss of her. Around the other women and girls, I try to act happy.
I’m slowly becoming familiar with the Mansion of Golden Light. Forty family members live here, and another twenty people—housemaids, kitchen help, and gardeners—attend to our needs. The family entertains guests in the second courtyard, which has a hall large enough for the entire household to gather for rituals and banquets, and smaller rooms for drinking, poetry writing, and the like. Tan grandsons, uncles, and nephews live with their wives and families in the third courtyard. I’m also growing accustomed to the furnishings and decorations that show the age and elevation of my natal family: the paintings, the wall hangings, the vases, and elegant tables and chairs. Handwoven rugs cover the floors in nearly every room. Couplets written in the running-script style of calligraphy hang on the walls in the main halls, encouraging each and every one of us to live by the highest standards. May the jewel of learning shine in this house more effulgently than the sun and the moon; may every book read buoy you on the river of life. A mountain of books has a way, and diligence is the path; the sea of learning has no end, and hard work is the boat.
Today, Inky, the household’s top woman servant, whom I met when I first arrived, fetches me from the inner chambers after my formal lessons with Miss Zhao are done. “Follow me,” she says. “Your grandmother wishes you to come to Lady Huang’s quarters for a consultation.” As usual, I totter between excitement and nervousness. Grandmother will use this time to teach me an important lesson. If I make a mistake, I worry she won’t invite me to watch her care for a patient again.
We pass through the fourth courtyard, where my grandparents live and see patients. When we reach the third courtyard, Inky guides me to a room. It’s not unlike my own quarters, but with a simple bed—open with vestibules—a desk, and a dressing table with a mirror. Lady Huang lies propped against pillows. She is much farther along in her pregnancy than I would have guessed from my grandparents’ conversation the other day. But what surprises me most is the presence of a woman and a girl. I can tell they don’t live here, because their dress is too showy to be worn by a wife, concubine, daughter, or servant in a family such as ours.
“Yunxian,” Grandmother says, “this is Midwife Shi and her daughter, Meiling. Midwife Shi has delivered all of Lady Huang’s babies. Still, I always think it best for Midwife Shi to spend time with the woman who will give birth. After all, ten babies will arrive ten different ways.”
“Which is why there is comfort in knowing the person who will have her hands between your legs,” Midwife Shi says to Lady Huang. The words and sentiment are coarse to my ears, but they don’t bother my grandmother.
Grandmother and the midwife begin to question Lady Huang.
“Have you eaten crabmeat?” Grandmother asks.
When Lady Huang shakes her head, Midwife Shi says, “Good, since it can cause a baby to be born in the transverse position, because crabs walk sideways. What about sparrow meat?”
“I’ve made sure that Cook has not prepared sparrow in any form,” Grandmother says, “since it can result in a baby being born with sparrow spots—black freckles.”
“Worse, eating sparrow can cause a baby—boy or girl—to grow into someone with no morals,” the midwife adds.
If one day I hope to become a doctor, then I should pay more attention, but honestly, I can’t stop looking at the girl. I’ve never been in the same room with another girl my age. This Meiling is astounding to me. She has big feet, but otherwise her features are delicate. Her complexion is smooth and beautiful, without a single smallpox scar.
“Hello,” I say shyly.
“Hello.” Her voice is pretty too, and it matches her name perfectly. Meiling means Beautiful Chime.
The midwife, who’s bent over Lady Huang, leans back on her heels and swivels toward me. “Aah.” The sound is gravelly and low but pleasant in its peculiarity. “So here she is.” She glances at my grandmother. “I see what you mean.”
Grandmother Ru laughs, although I have no idea what’s so amusing. Then to me she says, “Step toward the bed. I want you to see what Midwife Shi is doing.”
I edge forward. Lady Huang is red in the face, but I don’t know how she usually looks.