Lair of Dreams

Her mother hovered in the doorway. “I laid out your slip and dress for you last night. And the wool stockings—it’s terrible cold out.”


Ling flicked her eyes toward the end of the bed. Her mother had chosen the peach dress Ling hated, the one that made her look like a sad fruit salad. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Well,” her mother said at last, “don’t dally. Breakfast will get cold, and I won’t be hearing a word about that.”

Only when the door had closed did Ling let out the grunt she’d held back as the tightness loosened its grip on her legs. She lay in bed a moment longer, mulling over last night’s strange dream walk. She’d never met anyone else who could do what she could, which was how she liked it. Her nighttime wanderings were private. Sacred. But that spark…

Ling sat up. With a sigh, she reached for the metal braces propped against her nightstand and slid them on over the useless muscles of her calves, cinching the buckles of the leather straps just below and above her knees. Using both hands, she swung her caged legs over the side of the bed, grabbed her crutches, and shuffled stiffly to her cupboard, tugging on a dark blue dress that didn’t make her feel as if she were an item on a summer picnic table. She tied the laces on her black orthopedic shoes. In the mirror, Ling took a last look at herself. What she saw was metal, buckles, and ugly black shoes.

“Ling!” Her mother’s voice again.

“Coming, Mama!”

She squinted at her reflection until she was nothing but a blue blur.

In the dining room, the radio played a Sunday-morning program of hymns while her mother poured tea into delicate china cups. Ling took her silent place at the table beside her father and examined the spread before her: fried eggs, bacon, noodles with pork fat, shrimp dumplings, porridge, and toast. The eggs, she knew, would be slightly slimy—her father was the real cook, not her mother—and the porridge was out of the question, so she settled for the toast.

“That isn’t all you mean to eat,” her mother said with a tsk.

Her father maneuvered a dumpling onto Ling’s plate. Ling scowled at it.

“You’ve got to keep your strength up, my girl,” her mother said.

“Your mother is right,” her father agreed automatically.

Ling turned toward her great-uncle. He was the eldest; his opinion mattered most.

“If she wants to eat, she’ll eat,” he said, smiling at her, and Ling could’ve hugged him.

If she’d been the hugging sort.

“At least have some tea.” Ling’s mother placed the steaming cup down at Ling’s plate. She poured tea for Ling’s father, too, and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Mr. Chan smiled up at his wife. Twenty years ago, when both of them had newly emigrated—her father from China and her mother from Ireland—her parents had met at a church social. They’d married six months later, and sometimes they still looked at each other like shy, smitten kids at their first dance. Ling found it hideously embarrassing, so she angled her head away from them and toward the newspaper tucked against her father’s plate. An article bore the headline JAKE MARLOWE ANNOUNCES FUTURE OF AMERICA EXHIBITION.

“It might be easier to read this way,” her father said. He smiled as he handed the newspaper to her.

“Thank you, Baba.”

“Read while you eat,” her mother pleaded. “Or we’ll be late for Mass.”

Ling nibbled a corner of her toast as she skimmed the article:


Jake Marlowe to break ground in Queens, New York, for his Future of America Exhibition. Celebrating “The Brave New Age of the Exceptional American,” the fair will highlight America’s best and brightest, showcasing achievements and advances in the sciences, agriculture, mathematics, eugenics, robotics, aviation, and medicine.



“I suppose you’ll want to go,” her father said, his eyes twinkling.

Ling knew it was a long shot. Life in the restaurant was all-consuming. For her parents to drive her out to Queens for the groundbreaking ceremony would be precious time away.

“Could I, Baba?”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

Ling gave a half smile. Another, smaller headline caught her attention, and the smile was replaced by a frown.





MYSTERIOUS SLEEPING SICKNESS BAFFLES HEALTH OFFICIALS




The sleeping sickness that has bedeviled the residents of Chinatown is now the scourge of other New York City neighborhoods. Four new cases have been reported on the Lower East Side, and one case has been documented as far north as Fourteenth Street. Health officials who remember all too well the devastation of the Spanish Influenza Pandemic in 1918 assure the public that they are investigating with rigor and will ensure the safety of all New Yorkers.



“I heard there’s a new case on Mulberry, an Italian girl. And possibly another on Hester Street,” Uncle Eddie said. “You know they’re calling it the Chinese Sleeping Sickness.”