Lair of Dreams
“No, Uncle,” Ling answered.
Uncle Eddie gave a decisive nod. “Well. I suppose if they had something to say, they would tell you first.”
“I suppose so,” Ling said, but she wasn’t comforted by his words. What if the dead were waiting for Ling to act? She could at least try to find some answers on her walks.
On her way back to the restaurant, Ling stopped into the Golden Pearl on Mott Street, where she found Mr. Lee’s grandson, Charlie, at the counter, stocking various teas and herbs in the small drawers of a large wooden cabinet.
“I’m sorry, Ling, but my grandfather is in Boston visiting my cousins. He’ll be gone for two weeks,” Charlie said. “Come back then.”
Ling thanked him, then checked the Chinese newspaper for the shipping news. The Lady Liberty hadn’t docked in San Francisco yet. There was still time to find out about O’Bannion and Lee and make sure that Wai-Mae was safe.
Instead of continuing straight back to the Tea House, Ling took a detour up Mott and down Mulberry, looking for any sign of O’Bannion and Lee. The streets were an odd mix of fear and optimism: Hopeful businessmen went ahead and hung decorations; paper lanterns and red banners with bold calligraphy stretched across Doyers Street from balcony to balcony. But she also saw white-capped nurses and somber-faced health officials marching briskly down sidewalks, knocking on doors. The yellow quarantine sign marred the facade of George Huang’s building like a wound.
“Please get well soon, George,” Ling whispered.
The door opened suddenly, and two public health nurses bustled out, their words muffled behind the barrier of their surgical masks. They went silent as they looked at Ling and her leg braces and then hurried on their way, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. Ling ducked inside, moving as fast as she could to the dark back of the tenement and George’s apartment.
George’s sister, Minnie, opened the door. “Ling,” she whispered, peering behind Ling. “How did you get in?”
“The nurses just left. No one was watching.”
“Come in,” Minnie said, ushering Ling inside.
“How is George?”
“Can I see him?”
“Minnie,” Ling said, buoyed by fresh hope, “could I borrow something of George’s?”
Minnie’s pained face brightened. “Do you think you could find George in dreams?”
“I can try,” Ling said.
“They’ve burned most of his things, in case that’s how the sickness spreads.”
Ling hadn’t thought about that, and it gave her pause. What if dream walking with an object belonging to the sick could make her sick as well? But this was George. She couldn’t succumb to fear.
“Wait here.” Minnie disappeared into the apartment and then returned a moment later, breathless and secretive.
“Here. I saved this,” she whispered, lifting the edges of the handkerchief she carried. Inside was George’s prized track medal. He’d been so happy when he’d won it, his parents so proud, and even the announcer telling him he “ran pretty well for a Chinaman” hadn’t dimmed his pride completely.
Through the open door of George’s room, Ling could hear George’s mother weeping softly.
Ling tucked the track medal into her pocket.
“You should go. The doctor will be back soon,” Minnie warned. “Please find him, Ling. Please find my brother and tell him to come back to us.”
By the time Ling returned to the Tea House, her mother was frantic. “Where’ve you been?”
“My legs hurt. I couldn’t walk very fast in the cold,” Ling lied, taking some pleasure in the way the lie diffused her mother’s anger so quickly.
“I was worried about you. Things are getting worse here,” her mother said, looking out the restaurant’s front windows at the police and public health officials moving through the dirty patches of snow, knocking on doors. “There’s all sorts of people who’ve been requesting your services. They want you to speak to their dead relatives about this sleeping sickness business, to know what they should do. But I told them you’re not doing a bit of that until we know more about how this sickness is spread. You’re still getting your strength back.”