The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane(8)
“Come sit with me, Girl,” A-ma continues into the awkward silence. “I want to give you something.”
Could it be her most prized and valuable possession—the silver bracelet with the two dragons facing each other nose to nose—which has been handed down by the women in her family? No, because she reaches up and lets her fingers dance lightly over her headdress. She’s worked on it for years, adding beads, silver balls, bells, and beetle wings. Third Sister-in-law’s headdress may have the finest needlework, but A-ma’s is truly the most exquisite in our village, befitting her status as midwife. Her fingers find their destination. Using small scissors, she snips, then conceals the treasure in her hand. She repeats the process another two times before setting down the scissors. The silence in the room deepens as the others wait to see what she’s going to do next.
“Now that I’ve passed the age of forty-five, when women should no longer be considering childbearing, it’s time that I concentrate on my only daughter and the woman, wife, and mother she’ll become. Give me your hand.”
The others crane their necks like geese flying across the sky. Without revealing what else she has hidden, A-ma drops one of the prizes into my outstretched palm. It’s a silver coin decorated with foreign writing on one side and a miniature dreamworld of temples on the other.
“This coin is from Burma,” she explains. “I do not know what it says.”
I’ve seen Burma on the map at my school. It’s the country closest to us, but I have no idea what the Burmese characters mean either.
“Next, here is a shell.”
Across the room, First Sister-in-law hisses air through clenched teeth. She’s complimented A-ma on this shell many times. I suspect she always thought it would come to her. Disappointment paints her face, but she and the other sisters-in-law should not be divvying up the charms on my mother’s headdress just yet.
“This last is one of my favorites. It’s a feather that caravanned on the Tea Horse Road from Tibet to our mountain. Think, Girl. These things have traveled over oceans and rivers, across mountain passes, and along trade routes. Soon you’ll be able to attach them to the headdress you’ve been training to make, which will mark you as a girl of marriageable age.”
My heart beats with tremendous joy, and yet I know that the only reason she did this was to swerve the conversation away from the unlucky land that is my dowry.
* * *
One week later, word passes through the village that Deh-ja has gone into labor. Her mother-in-law is attending to her, as she should in the early hours. A-ma spends the morning looking through her shelves, grabbing medicines and tools from various baskets and boxes, and placing them in her satchel so everything will be ready when Ci-do comes to fetch her. The cautious quiet is broken when someone runs up the stairs to the men’s veranda. Even before Third Brother can knock on the wall that divides the two sides of the house, A-ma has risen and picked up her satchel. First Daughter-in-law waits at the door ready with A-ma’s cape made from bark and leaves.
“Give it to Girl,” A-ma says as she grabs another cape from a hook. Her eyes find me. “You’ll come with me today. You’re old enough. If you are to become a midwife, you must begin to learn now.”
The three sisters-in-law regard me with a mixture of pride and fear. I feel the same way. The idea of wearing A-ma’s cape makes my skin tingle with excitement, like I have ants running up and down my arms and legs, but helping her with a birth?
“Ready?” A-ma asks. Without waiting for an answer, she opens the door to the women’s veranda. Ci-do has come around to our side of the house and stands in the muddy track that divides the village, rubbing his hands together with such urgency that I have to fight my desire to run back inside. A-ma must sense this, because she orders, “Come!”
The omens are particularly worrisome. It’s the season of spirits. It’s raining. And Deh-ja’s baby is coming earlier than expected, even though her belly has been huge for many cycles now. The only propitious sign is that it’s Rat Day, and rats live in fertile valleys, which should help Deh-ja in the hours to come.
As we near Ci-do’s family home, I spot Ci-teh peeking out the door. Her brave smile momentarily boosts my confidence. A-ma and I continue on to the hut for newlyweds. Ci-do leaves us at the foot of the stairs. It’s a Sun and Moon truth that if a husband sees his wife give birth, he might die from it. Once inside, Ci-do’s elder aunt helps us out of our capes. A-ma shakes the wet from her head as she scans the room, which is even smokier from the fire than ours. Ci-do’s mother squats on the birthing mat, her hands under Deh-ja, massaging.
“Move.” A-ma has whittled her words down to almost nothing, having put away those parts of herself that are daughter, sister, wife, mother, and friend. She’s here as the midwife.
In what feels like one movement—as three trees bending together in a storm—Ci-do’s mother slides to her right and off the birthing mat and my a-ma drops down to it, pulling me along with her. I was curious about what Ci-do’s mother was doing when we came in, so my eyes automatically go between Deh-ja’s legs. Blood and mucus have pooled beneath her. Waaa! I wasn’t expecting that! Blinking, I raise my eyes to Deh-ja’s face. Her jaw is clenched in pain, her face red with effort, and her eyes squished tightly shut. When whatever has been happening seems to ebb, A-ma’s hands move swiftly, first prodding between Deh-ja’s legs and then moving up and over her belly in a series of squeezing motions.