Page 21 of My Darling Girls

The man shrugs and knocks at the door. Without waiting for a reply, he slides inside. A few seconds later, the door opens again, and a hand waves her in.

Zhang’s office is dim, the walls whitewashed. It smells faintly of smoke and must. A dusty small window behind his desk in the center of the room doesn’t allow enough daylight. The owner of the steam laundry sits behind his desk, wearing a fanciful wool jacket with large silver buttons and a white silk shirt with a high collar, sleeves rolled up. A pipe—tobacco, never opium—dangles from a corner of his pinched mouth as he appraises Jo.

“Hong told me you’re not here to buy. You’re here to talk.” Old Zhang cocks his head to the side, and a smile appears on his thin lips but never reaches his eyes. “People don’t come here to talk. But here we are. Sit.”

She sits down on a three-legged wicker chair across from the desk.

Hong doesn’t leave the room; instead he stands behind her. Her skin tingles. She doesn’t like this arrangement, but what choice does she really have?

Old Zhang leans in as if to take a closer look at her and smacks his lips. “You eating, Jo? You look worse than a week ago.”

“I didn’t know you cared.” She breaks into a smile to look polite.

“I like you, Jo. When I like someone, I care.”

“I’m all right. Thanks for asking. Got a new customer the other day. Took beautiful photos. A one-time job but paid well.”

“A new customer, huh?” He nods, glances over her head at Hong. “I heard the Snakes are circling.”

Jo stares, taken by surprise. How does he know about the Snakes? And is she supposed to say something in response? Acknowledge the mob is indeed her well-paying customer? She doesn’t know how to react. All rational thoughts suddenly purged. When Zhang doesn’t say anything else, she pushes forward. “I’d like to ask you something. Perhaps you could help me understand the nature of opium dreams.”

Zhang pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re full of surprises today. What can I possibly know about opium dreams, Jo?”

“Do those dreams, induced by the drug—” She places her hands on her lap, and she blurts out the words she came here to ask. “Do these dreams reveal a different world? One that exists on some different plane?” She sounds insane even to herself.

Old Zhang takes his pipe from his mouth. “Why don’t you search your own mind for the answer?”

“I don’t trust my mind. Not anymore.”

The man behind the desk studies her. His eyes are warm brown, and, under their spell, she lets him see all the ill-fitting, broken parts of her. And he does. He sees it, but it’s obvious he doesn’t know what to do with so much emotion, because he sticks his pipe back into his mouth and pulls on it, keeping himself busy.

A low sigh from behind her chair, and Jo startles. She forgot about Hong. Jo turns a little and tries to make out Hong’s expression, but all she sees is the tall shape behind her chair, the man’s profile obscured by the shadows.

She faces Old Zhang again, takes the deepest breath she can muster, and says, “Last time I took laudanum, I dreamt of this place. A courtyard. There was a well in the middle of it, full of memories. My memories. There was also a dead girl, and she asked me to do something for her.” She stops. No one will believe her. She sounds like a madwoman telling strangers about her drug-induced dreams. But, with a short lift of his chin, Zhang prompts her to continue, and she goes on. “Am I going insane?”

“I’m not a medicine man, but I reckon people turn to opium because they want to leave their lives behind. They escape into another world. Even if it’s only in their minds.” Old Zhang leans back in his armchair. The shadows around his eyes get deeper. He looks forlorn and older than usual, as if he has seen something in her. Something that he wishes he hadn’t.

Hong shuffles his feet behind her chair. “I know of a—” Before he can finish, Zhang lifts his hand and drops his pipe on the desk so suddenly, Jo flinches at the sound.

“You don’t know nothing, Hong,” Zhang says sternly. “Nothing.” He looks at Jo. “It’s all in your head, Jo.”

“You’ve never heard of a place where people commune with the dead in their dreams?”

Another sigh behind her chair. A chill runs down her spine as she strains not to move, not to look over her shoulder. She waits for Hong to say something, but when he doesn’t, Jo turns and looks up at him. His gaze flickers to her just for a fraction of a second, and then he sets his full attention on Old Zhang.

Old Zhang picks up his pipe, puts it in his mouth, and slowly shakes his head. “There’s no such place as this courtyard.”

“Hong seems to think otherwise,” Jo says, her throat tight. The air goes still, and so does the noise outside the room, as if every opium addict behind the walls is straining to listen to their conversation.

Old Zhang leans forward, his stale breath awash with tobacco and something sour. “Don’t overindulge, Jo. Don’t follow your desires. That’s when medicine turns into poison. That’s where madness lies.”

“No one ever tells you about their dreams? I find it difficult to believe,” Jo says.

Old Zhang laughs. Blows the smoke above Jo’s head. “They pay me to have their dreams. Not talk about them. But tell me what you dreamed about. The memory well. What did you remember?”

Flush creeps up Jo’s neck, setting her cheeks on fire. She thinks about the light in August’s eyes, the warmth of his touch. How for a few hours she was just a young woman from Millville getting to know her husband and the parts of him that she’s starting to forget. “I dreamed about the first time I saw August. On the train platform. I relived it in full.”

“How in full?”