Chapter Forty-One
Kate lived for eighteen months after returning from Europe—longer than the doctors expected, longer than any of us dared hope.
She fought her illness with the same determination she brought to everything she did, but consumption is a patient enemy.
It stole her by degrees, each day taking a little more.
She kept the ledgers until her hands could no longer hold a quill. Her mind stayed sharp, even as her body gave way.
It was a gentle death. One February morning in 1871, she slipped away with her hand in mine, her breath slowing, then stopping,
in the same bed where she was born.
Another daughter gone. Another empty chair at the table. Another piece of my heart buried in the field below our house.
At the funeral, I caught Chang watching Eng with an odd expression—part sympathy, part foreboding, as if bracing for their
own inevitable end.
The house was quieter after Kate died, though it had been growing quieter for some time. Only five children still lived at
home—the younger ones underfoot, the older ones increasingly steady and capable, easing the burden on Eng and me. Those who’d
left were carving out lives of their own, marrying into nearby families, finding work in town or farther afield.
The fabric of our daily life kept stretching to absorb each loss, each change. I was learning to live within its shape. Grief no longer stopped me in my tracks; it had become part of the weave. Year by year, I adjusted to the contours of what remained.
Chang never fully recovered from the stroke. His body grew frail, his spirit dimmed, his breathing labored. He drank more
than ever, whiskey vanishing from crystal tumblers while conversation withered around him. He smoked constantly, trailing
acrid clouds that seeped into the curtains and upholstery. At night, we all heard his coughing, a painful staccato through
the walls.
Some days he barely spoke, sitting by the fire with a blanket across his knees, staring into the middle distance while Eng
read aloud or played a game of chess against himself. Eng had taken to answering for them both, responding to questions meant
for Chang with weary patience.
Addie grew thin with worry.
It felt as if we were all waiting for the inevitable.
One snowy January day in 1874, while staying at my house, Chang caught a chill. At first it seemed an ordinary winter ailment—a
cough, a tightness in his chest—but by evening, his breathing had deepened into a wheeze.
We sent for Dr. Hollingsworth. He arrived just after supper, medical bag in hand, stamping the ice from his boots. He listened
to Chang’s lungs with a frown. “Bronchitis. Nothing to do but stay indoors and keep warm.” He left a bottle of laudanum and
a list of instructions: rest, broth, no whiskey, no tobacco.
Chang ignored most of them.
The next day, he insisted on traveling to Adelaide’s house, as scheduled.
“You can’t even stand on your own, Chang,” I pleaded. “This is foolishness.”
His jaw was set. “We are on my time now. Going to my house,” he said. “I get to decide what we should or should not do.”
I glanced at Eng, who shook his head. Chang was right. He had no choice but to go along.
It was a frigid, moonless evening. The driveway was frozen solid. The horse’s breath steamed the air. I bundled Chang in extra
clothes and helped Eng get him settled in the buggy. “Drive carefully,” I told them, tucking a horse blanket over their laps.
Chang’s face was pinched and gray. Still wheezing, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his coat, he murmured, “We’ll be fine.”
Three days later, I stood at the dining room window, counting the hours until the brothers’ return. The cold winter sun was
fading. A rim of ice had formed along the glass, and the wind hinted at snow to come. It would be dark before they arrived.
The door creaked open. I turned to find Rosie carrying a basket from the henhouse. At fourteen, she was practical and organized,
the most like Addie of any of my children. She tracked her father’s schedule with care, often reminding me when to expect
him. Sometimes, on the third day, she’d walk to the edge of the property to watch for the buggy’s familiar silhouette on the
road.
“Uncle Chang will want an extra blanket tonight,” she said. “He was complaining of the cold before he left.”
She set the basket on the sideboard—eggs for tomorrow’s breakfast—and began laying out the good dishes we used when Eng and
Chang were home. Her hands moved with purpose, straightening each plate, smoothing the cloth, aligning fork to knife.
Their supper, and mine, sat beneath a cloth on the sideboard.
Earlier, I’d gathered the children and explained that Uncle Chang was unwell.
“He’ll need quiet when he arrives,” I told them.
“And your father will be tired from the journey.” They’d eaten early and gone upstairs without protest, though I could hear footsteps pacing near the landing.
I knew they were listening, hoping for a glimpse.
But I wanted to give the men space to settle in without a crowd.
When we heard the crunch of wheels in the drive, I stepped onto the porch, pulling my shawl tight against the cold. I knew
at once that Chang was worse. His face was gray, his head slumped against Eng’s shoulder.
“My god,” I said. “This is not a night to be out in an open carriage.”
Eng made a disgusted sound, shifting under the weight. “He’d collapse if I weren’t here to hold him up.”
I raised my lantern and peered at them. “Why on earth did you come, with Chang in this state?”
Eng cut his eyes toward his brother.
“The rules,” Chang said, his voice weak but resolute.
Inside, Grace was poking at the fire; it threw quivering light across the walls. I placed a hand on Chang’s shoulder and helped
guide them into the double chair.
“I need a blanket. I can’t get warm,” he said irritably. “Sallie, get me a blanket.”
Eng exhaled. “Not for me. I’m sweating.”
Before I could move, Rosie appeared with a quilt she’d already fetched from the chest upstairs. She tucked it carefully around
Chang’s legs, avoiding her father’s. “I’ll bring you some tea, Uncle Chang.”
“Get me a whiskey,” he rasped.
“We don’t have any in the house,” I said.
“What?”
I’d hidden the bottles where his shaking hands wouldn’t find them. “I’m sorry, Chang.”
He let out a short, derisive laugh, then closed his eyes.
“Would you like some supper?” Rosie asked.
“Not hungry,” Chang said, just as Eng said, “Yes, thank you, Rosie.”
She brought him a plate.
The fire crackled. Eng ate slowly, pushing food into his mouth between glances at his brother, who shifted beside him, fitful
and muttering.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, he allowed himself to be helped to bed.
The next morning, for a time, Chang seemed stronger. The flush of fever had faded from his cheeks; his breathing had steadied.
But when Eng tried to go about his usual chores, it quickly became evident that Chang could not keep up. By midday, Eng abandoned
the effort, and the two of them spent the afternoon sitting glumly by the fire.
As light began to fade from the sky, Chang took a turn. He clutched his chest as coughing fits shook his frame. He swallowed
hard, grimaced, slumped deeper into the chair. His breaths came in short, shallow bursts.
“It feels like knives in my ribs,” he said through clenched teeth.
Eng’s mouth hardened. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
But bed brought no relief. Chang whimpered, shifting from side to back and back again, forcing Eng to adjust with every movement.
Just past midnight, the brothers went out onto the porch in the cold, carrying a pitcher of water and setting it on a table
beside their double chair.
From a window, I watched them. Their words were indistinct, but I heard the exhaustion in Eng’s sighs, the rattle in Chang’s
responses. I’d been hovering all night, listening, waiting, unable to settle. There was little I could do, nothing I had to
offer. But I couldn’t bring myself to go to bed.
When they came back inside, Chang insisted that Eng build another fire.
Eng didn’t hide his irritation. “It’s the middle of the night. Let’s just go to sleep.”
“I need the heat,” Chang said hoarsely, his good hand trembling. “I’m freezing.”
Eng swore under his breath but gave in, fumbling with the kindling, striking a match. I brought in a few logs from the porch
and sat across from them. We watched the flames catch and climb.
At last, Chang’s body slackened, his head tilting against Eng’s shoulder.
“Enough for tonight,” Eng said, his voice thin with fatigue.
I helped him heave his brother upright and guide them toward bed—their shoulders stooped, steps faltering, the band beneath
their nightshirts pulling taut with each shift. What had once been instinctive was now a painful choreography.
It was still dark when a shout woke me.
I pulled on my shawl and hurried down the hall to the twins’ room.
My son William stood at the bedside, holding a lamp aloft. His face was pale in the glow. “I think Uncle Chang is dead,” he
said.
I stepped closer and pressed my fingers to Chang’s wrist. It was cool. His mouth was ajar, his face empty of expression. I
looked up at William and nodded.
Eng gasped. His eyes locked on mine. “Then I am dying too.” He turned toward his brother, staring at the still body beside
him. “There can be no Eng without Chang.”
“Ride to your aunt’s,” I told William. “Tell them to come at once.”
He nodded and vanished down the hall.
The children had begun to gather in the doorway, uneasy and afraid.
Grace’s son Isaac appeared, drawn by the commotion.
Without waiting for instructions, he sprinted to the barn to saddle a horse, bound for Mount Airy and Dr. Hollingsworth, who had promised to attempt a separation if one brother died before the other. It was nearly an hour’s ride each way.
Eng’s skin was slick with sweat. “I feel very bad off,” he whispered. “My limbs . . . they ache. Will you stretch them?”
Stephen and I worked together, massaging his arms and legs, pulling them gently. Eng winced with each movement.
Outside, the wind pressed against the windows. The house groaned in the cold. The children huddled together, speaking in low
voices, glancing toward the front door. Rosie helped Grace lay out breakfast, though no one ate.
Eng curled his arm around his brother’s lifeless shoulders and drew him close. “Where are you, Chang?” he asked softly. “Where
did you go?” His voice broke on the final word.
In that moment, I saw them as they had once been—barefoot boys on a houseboat in the Meklong River, laughing in the sun, fearless
in their inseparability. I remembered what Eng had told me long ago: that he didn’t need to believe in an afterlife, because
with Chang beside him, he was never alone.
The anger I had carried—for Chang’s drinking, his careless treatment of the body they shared—dissolved in the pale morning
light.