Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures. Vincent Lam

coming is that we’re unemotional friends, and you’re supposed to help me with my interview. Not get me all screwed up.” She spoke as if the idea of Fitzgerald coming to Toronto was entirely his doing.

      “But don’t you wish we weren’t afraid of each other?”

      “We need to go through all the questions once more.”

      “It’s better if you answer them spontaneously.”

      “For you, that’s the way. For me, I need to be prepared,” she said.

      “It’s more honest if you just go for it.”

      “You think they want honesty?”

      “They’ll throw you questions that aren’t on this sheet.”

      “Fine, Mr. Interviewer. Make up something, then.”

      Laughing, Fitzgerald said, “Miss Ming, do you really, truly, deeply care about humanity as you claim in your essay?”

      “Doesn’t everyone who sits in this stupid chair?”

      “Tell me, Miss Ming, what’s the most terrible thing you have done in your life?”

      She had been thinking of this, of wanting to tell him about that which answered this question. It would be a trial run of telling it to a man she was in love with, as it would seem somehow necessary to tell such a theoretical man. This would be ideal, she had already reasoned, because Fitzgerald resembled a person that she might fall in love with. In this instance, however, their pre-set constraints meant that nothing would be lost by discussing this thing that she carried like a full bowl of water on her head—so careful to not spill it and yet every moment wanting to smash it into the ground.

      Ming said, “Do you really want to know?”

      “I must know, Miss Ming. We only admit the purest of character.”

      “Forget the interview shtick. I want to tell you something.”

      He said, “You want to confess that you fantasize about me.” They had both come to accept an ongoing flirtation of feigned seriousness. It allowed them to vocalize their desires in a way that—by being absolutely straightforward—they could treat as a joke.

      She pulled her legs up to her chest. “I want to tell you something true and awful, which I really hate. Will we go on being friends?”

      He said, “We’ll be the same people.”

      “Except that there’s a part of me that you don’t see yet—that’s very dark—and you might think I’m a bad person.”

      “You mean the fact that you’re withholding the truth—that you’re deeply and soulfully in love with me, as I am with you,” said Fitzgerald. Again, this reality was spoken directly to discount itself. This time, she felt, it sounded slightly too honest to function as the usual throwaway, and given what she was about to tell him, she felt angry at Fitzgerald for saying these words which mocked them both. Now scared, she said, “It’s awful, that our friendship has become important. I wanted to keep everything sterile. I wanted to go to medical school and start fresh.”

      He retreated, saying, “It’s best that there’s … nothing between us, then.”

      Briefly, she thought of making something up, of confessing to something silly. But Fitzgerald had a good instinct for knowing what wasn’t true, of hearing what didn’t fit. Besides, maybe she would tell him and he would hate her. It would be tidy and finished. She said, “I had this, you know, this relationship.”

      “Sure,” said Fitzgerald.

      “Maybe for you it’s no big deal,” she said. Then, “I’m being touchy.”

      Ming’s chest pounded, and her breath felt as if it was coming through a small straw. She was afraid that her next word would crack, and was angry at herself for being close to crying, for not letting the silly fake-interview question slide away. She had come to assume Fitzgerald’s kindness, but now felt trapped in actually needing to trust it. She said, “It was from when I was twelve until not very long ago. With Karl, who taught me to study.”

      A short silence, which seemed to stretch. A click, then the hollow tone.

      The other line had been picked up. She could not see—little points of light swirled in front of her. The click had occurred only after she had finished speaking, hadn’t it? Or had it just clicked off? Had the other line been open all this time, and had it just clicked off? Ming’s stomach was tight. Was her father listening now, or had he listened? Wait … the telephone silence had that hollow sound right now. Was she fooling herself —what was a sound with no one speaking? Then, as she tried to discern the nature of the silence, as she wished that she could reach across the quiet to take Fitzgerald’s hand, Ming’s father said in Cantonese, “Little daughter, you have an important trip tomorrow. Sleep, please.”

      “Goodnight then, Fitzgerald,” she said in a buoyant public voice. “He was pretending to interview me, Dad. Thanks again, Fitz, take good notes for me.”

      At two o’clock Ming called back. “So?” she asked.

      “We were friends before, and now it’s the same,” said Fitz.

      “And?”

      “And you are very honest. I shouldn’t come to Toronto, though.”

      “That’s fine,” she said, “I don’t know why you wanted to follow me around.”

      “You need to focus on your interview. I don’t want to distract you.”

      “I’m curious as to why you think that if you had come, which I agree that you should not, you would have been distracting. We have an agreement. Nothing romantic, and so I’m confused that you would think that I might be liable to be distracted by you.”

      “Then we agree,” he said.

      —

      At three-fifteen, Ming called Fitzgerald again, tried to keep her voice clear. She needed to tell it, the way a scab must, at times, be picked off the body and made to bleed before the finger is satisfied.

      “At first it was Karl’s hand on my knee as he explained the periodic table. I didn’t think much of it, although it felt strange—he’s my cousin, after all.”

      When she wrote her first perfect exam paper and showed it to Karl before showing her father, he pecked his lips on hers. It was brief initially, but the congratulatory kisses became longer and slower. In the wetness of lips, Ming could see Karl’s weakness in his desire, and began to enjoy this power at the same time that she began to enjoy the kisses. Physical pleasure did not do away with her habit of rinsing and spitting ten times (she counted) immediately after Karl’s departure, or the “letters to self” detailing why she was a filthy slut. She discarded these in the garbage at the bus stop on her way to school. One afternoon before she wrote her entrance exams for Dunning Hall Girls’ Academy, Karl told Ming that he was busy, and might not be able to tutor anymore. Terrified of losing her new academic success, Ming pleaded with him to make time for her, and he agreed to come over that afternoon. She had begun to pretend while they were kissing that they weren’t really cousins, that she was adopted, or he was. That day, she didn’t stop his hand when it slid up her leg, underwear tight at the waist with his strong hand pulling on it. Although this was frightening, she was more scared of losing him, and she liked it that he fumbled, that he wasn’t sure where to go. Later, when he slid the condom off, it looked exactly like a snake shedding its skin. Only then did it occur to her that he had been prepared, that he had brought a rubber. Ming told her parents that she wanted to become a doctor, which was also Karl’s ambition. Pleased, they doubled their severity in urging her to study.

      Karl was accepted into medicine in his third year of biology. To celebrate, there was a twelve-course family banquet, the pan-fried lobsters sizzling and turning on the Lazy Susan. Ming’s uncle