The Year of the Horse

I’ve noticed something about many of my Chinese friends and neighbors: they tend to be quite free with unsolicited advice.

I had a Chinese massage therapist once. He would touch my elbow with one finger then glare at me. “You played tennis last weekend!”

“I play tennis every weekend,” I said.

“Hmph.” He kneaded my forearm for a minute. “You give up tennis,” he ordered. “Tennis is bad for body when you’re old.”

“But I’m only thirty two,” I protested.

“Wait,” he said darkly.

He wasn’t the only one, either.

My husband and I rarely went out to dinner, but every Thursday we treated ourselves to takeout chow mein. So on a cold and rainy Thursday night, I stopped by the Hong Kong Kitchen after work and placed my usual order: a quart of chicken chow mein, a pint of rice and an extra packet of crispy noodles.

The lady behind the counter jotted it down. “For Kathy, right?"

“Right.”

She shook her head. “You eat too much chow mein, you need to try something else." Then she jerked her thumb at the calendar on the wall. “No chow mein next Thursday,“ she said. “We’re closed. Chinese New Year.”

“Oh! Well, Happy New Year,” I said.

She reached for an order pad. “It’s the Year of Horse,” she said briskly. “Good year. Good year to have a baby. You go home and try.”

See what I mean about unsolicited advice?

The old man working the register said something to her in Cantonese. She went back to the kitchen to collect my order.

I paid my tab. The old man handed me my change and pointed wordlessly at the row of folding chairs by the wall, next to the little Buddhist shrine with its bowl of clementines and the statue of Our Lady of Mercy with its vase of dusty carnations .

I sat down, a little stunned. ”Good year to have baby? Go home and try?” Was I wearing a sign or something? Six years of marriage and still childless- how did that girl know?

The door chime sounded. The old man at the register glanced up, barked something in Cantonese over his shoulder and disappeared into the back of the kitchen. A young man took his place at the register.

A young woman in a smart black coat entered the restaurant. A flurry of Chinese was exchanged between the newcomer and the counter lady, as the customer pulled out a small black notebook and read off a lengthy order. Then she sat down beside me, to wait by the shrines.

I felt her glance at me. Then she spoke. “Kathy?

I looked at her properly. “Dr. Ling!”

“I thought it was you,” Dr. Ling said. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’m here every Thursday, “I said with a halfhearted laugh. “Chow mein night.”

“Oh, chow mein night, of course! I knew that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

She smiled. “You come here every Thursday,” she said. “Maisie—” she nodded toward the counter lady—“told me.”

“Oh-you know her?”

“Of course! This is my uncle’s place. Maisie’s my cousin. Didn’t you know that?”

“No,” I said. “But I suppose I should have guessed, huh?”

She gave a playful shrug. “You know us Lings,” she said. “We’re everywhere you want to be!”

It was almost literally true. The Lings were a large and accomplished family in this part of Queens. The older Lings owned restaurants and drycleaners, they ran a small law firm, and Dr. Ling’s aunt was the manager of my bank. I’d seen Dr. Ling there many times. The younger Lings were dentists and physicians and investment advisors. The family never ceased to amaze me.

Dr. Ling looked at me carefully. “Still trying?” she asked gently.

I nodded.

She shook her head. “Kathy, I wish you’d let me convince you to do IVF. You and Mike are the perfect candidates for it. It might take a few rounds but I promise you, you will almost certainly achieve a pregnancy.”

Dr. Ling had been my fertility specialist for two years. We had been through a lot together, and in many ways we were quite close. But I could never make her understand that in vitro fertilization was a non-starter for me. Many of my fellow Catholics had conceived and borne beautiful babies through IVF, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to be one of them.

I’d given up on trying to make people understand this a long time ago. Now if anyone asked me why I refused IVF, I simply said, “For God.” This, as I discovered, was a brilliant answer. Not only was it true, it never failed to shut the questioner up. Win-win.

“Well, “ I said, “you know how I feel about that.”

“Yes, I know how you feel about that,” she said. “Miserable.”

I said nothing.

Dr. Ling shook her head. “You’re not fooling me, you know,” she said quietly. “I know you’d give your right arm to have a baby, church or no church. Look-- why don’t we just make an appointment, here and now, and we’ll get started on this?”

This is the hard part, I told myself. This is the hardest part. Just say it and get it over with, before you start to cry. “I’m sorry, Dr. Ling,” I rasped. “I just can’t.”

She sat back. “Oh for God’s sake, Kathy. My family’s Catholic too, remember? My sister did IVF last year! Half my patients are Catholics. They’ve all done IVF! They all have beautiful families now. Why do you have to be the holdout?”

“Actually—” I hesitated. Mike and I had been keeping this quiet, but I supposed I could tell Dr.Ling. “Actually, we’ve been thinking about adoption.”

She sighed. “Well, that’s great. But adoption starts at twenty grand, and your insurance will pay for IVF. I’m just saying, be realistic.”

Maisie announced Dr. Ling’s order.

Dr. Ling responded in Chinese. She stood up and laid her hand on my shoulder. “It was great to see you, Kathy,” she said kindly. “If you ever want to get back in touch, you know I’m always here for you.”

I nodded. “I know. Thanks, Dr. Ling.”

She gave me one more smile, collected her order, and left the restaurant, leaving a blast of cold wind and raindrops behind her.

I dashed an embarrassing tear from my eye and checked the clock. It seemed like I’d been waiting a long time for one lousy quart of chow mein. “Um- is my order ready yet?”

“Let me check.” Maisie disappeared into the depths of the kitchen, calling out something in Chinese. Two minutes later, the old man from the register emerged from the kitchen with a paper bag.

“Sorry for wait,” he said gruffly. “No chow mein next Thursday. Chinese New Year.”

“I know,” I replied. “Happy New Year.”

“No chow mein next week,“ he repeated. “So something extra tonight.” He handed me the bag, called out over his shoulder again, and went back to the kitchen. Maisie returned and went back to work.

I left the restaurant and hurried home, clutching the food to my chest.

I let myself into the apartment and dropped the bag on the table. I went shivering into the bedroom and changed out of my wet things into a pair of sweatpants.

But I was still shaking inside.

I got a pair of wine glasses out of the cupboard and poured two glasses of chardonnay, one for me and one for Mike. He was due home any minute, and I didn’t want him to see how upset I was. Standing there in the kitchen I drained my glass and poured myself another.

Twenty thousand dollars. We barely had four saved.

Oh God. Dr. Ling was right. I was living in a dream world.

I opened the bag and started setting out dinner. One quart of chow mein, one pint of rice, crispy noodles.

There was something in the bottom of the bag. An envelope. The “something extra” the register man had promised?

I pulled it out. It was addressed, “For the chow mein lady.”

I took the envelope and my wine to the sofa, sat down, and opened the envelope. There was a folded typewritten page and a small manila packet.

I opened the letter.

“Dear Miss Kathy,

“ We have never been introduced, but my name is Frank Ling. I am the owner of the Hong Kong Kitchen as well as several other restaurants. I’m sure you have noticed me working at the register.

“When I was ten years old the Japanese invaded my home island of Singapore. Life under the occupation was terrible. As ethnic Chinese we were deemed ‘disloyal to the Emperor,’ and my family was severely persecuted. My father and both my brothers were killed. My mother was taken to a prison, where she died.

“I was alone and starving when a kind Filipino man took me in and nursed me back to health. He kept me hidden from the Japanese for three years. He told me he was a Catholic priest who was living in hiding himself.

“I knew that in keeping me safe he was risking his own life. One day I asked him why he would do such a thing for a stranger. He said, ‘I do it for Christ, who gave His life for me.”

“Together we dug a cellar under a small shed on the property. He said if I ever saw any soldiers I was to run to the shed and hide myself in the cellar.

“One day when I was playing in the shed Japanese soldiers came. An informer had told them my friend was harboring a Chinese. They demanded to know where I was, but he would not tell them. I heard gunshots. My protector was dead.

“I hid in the cellar as long as I could, until hunger and thirst finally drove me out. After that I hid anywhere I could- in the jungle, in bombed-out ruins- for several months. In this way I survived the occupation and the war. Eventually I was able to come to America. My family has been greatly blessed here, more than I ever dreamed would be possible.

“My protector served his Lord faithfully when many others would not have done so. He gave his life to protect a stranger, just as Our Lord did.

“Yes, I am a Catholic now.

“Please forgive me if I reveal I am familiar with your situation. You probably did not realize this but your social worker, who is helping you and your husband work on an adoption, is my sister’s granddaughter. I know your reasons for refusing IVF and I know that refusal costs you dearly. (The women in my family are such dreadful gossips!)

“In this envelope you will find twenty thousand dollars. Please use it to finance the adoption of your child.

“I am retiring immediately after the Chinese New Year. Please consider your acceptance of this money as a retirement gift to an old man who has many reasons to be grateful.

“Sincerely,

“Francis Xavier Ling.”

When Mike got home, he found me sobbing.

“What is it?” he asked, frantic. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, “I blubbered. “Nothing’s wrong. Everything ‘s wonderful. Look, I poured you a glass of wine. We’re going to have a toast!”

“A toast?” I could see the “I’d better humor her” look come into his eyes. “Sure, honey, sure! What are we drinking to?”

Tears streamed down my face. “Come on, come on, pick up your glass! Right, that’s it! Now--” I hoisted my glass and smiled. “To the Year of the Horse!”