Free Journey Across the Four Seas by Veronica Li

went on. "This doctor is an American graduate and doesn’t have a license to practice in Hong Kong . He has to go around his patients like a thief tiptoeing in a chicken coop. Let me look into it. Come back to see me next weekend."
    The following Saturday, after another week of agonizing headaches, I set off for Sam-Koo’s dorm. She was standing at the school gate waiting for me. I followed her to the tram stop without any idea of where we were going. All that she told me was that the American-trained doctor had agreed to see me.
    We got off at Happy Valley . Sam-Koo hustled me into an apartment building. She knocked on a door and a man let us in. He looked young, but I knew he couldn’t be if he’d had all that training behind him. His hair was wavy, which made me wonder whether it had come from drinking foreign water. We followed him into a room that looked like an office. Diplomas plastered the wall, and my heart relaxed somewhat.
    Sam-Koo did all the talking. I sat stone still while the doctor probed and prodded me with instruments. As this was my first time at a western doctor’s, everything was novel. His instructions were simple enough, and I did my best to cooperate. When he put a stick in my mouth, I opened wide and said "Aah." When he put a piece of cold metal on my back, I took a deep breath and held it. But when he told me to take off my clothes and put on a flimsy gown, I hesitated. It seems foolish in hindsight, but at the time I felt very uncomfortable standing half-naked in front of a stranger. Fortunately, Sam-Koo was there, and the X-ray didn’t cause the least pain. The doctor disappeared for a while and returned with several large films. He raised one against a bright light. My lungs lit up. They looked like a pair of giant leaves with wormholes in an upper corner.
    I heard him say "TB." Then Sam-Koo’s voice entered. Back and forth the two carried on like an operatic duet. I sat as quietly as a spirit who’d wandered into the room.
    I floated around as if in a dream—walking out of the doctor’s apartment, boarding the tram, looking out the window and seeing nothing. I kept waiting to wake up, so that I could tell myself it was just a nightmare. But the moment never came, for I was already awake. My nightmare was my reality. I had TB. The dreaded disease was eating holes in my lungs. Very soon I would be spitting blood like Fei-Chi. My friends at the dorm would shun me and the university would cross me off its registry. Even my family would be afraid to be near me. People would call me a lazy good-for-nothing, as they’d called Fei-Chi. Death would be a relief compared with the shame.
    Back in Sam-Koo’s room, I buried my face in her lap and cried. How could my life be so tragic! After the years of hard bitter work, I was just beginning to taste the sweetness of reward. I thought of my heroine in Dream of the Red Chamber and wept over our common fate. Just because we were orphans, must we die before we could live out our lives and fulfill our dreams? It was all Fei-Chi’s fault. Why did he stay with us when he knew he had the terrible disease? We ate and slept in the same cubicle, breathing the same air twenty-four hours a day. The doctor believed the germ had been dormant in me for years. The flu-like symptoms of my childhood were an indication of the primary stage of infection. The disease had gone into remission for a period, but it was taking advantage of my moment of weakness to pounce on me again.
    Had Sam-Koo not taken charge, I wouldn’t be here to tell the story today. She scolded me and made me write Brother Kin to ask for money for treatment. She cleaned my face with a wet towel and told me to go back to the dorm and continue my studies as if nothing were happening. The doctor had said that the moment the treatment began, I would no longer be contagious. The first session would require a hospital stay of several days, but subsequent treatments—once a month for two years—would