After My Neighbor Reported My Mom for Unlicensed Practice, the Flu Came

1: 1

Delia Finch, my neighbor and a medical school graduate, reported my mother for practicing without a license.

The county health department finished its inspection and, given that my mother had never charged a fee and had never once caused a medical dispute,

let her off with a verbal warning. Then they burned decades of proper, honestly gathered herbs my family had built up, and they sealed our herbal shop.

My mother cried until her eyes swelled shut.

"Back when her mother nearly died in labor, if I hadn't used an old remedy to save her, neither mother nor daughter would be alive today."

When Delia's mother heard that, she cleared her throat, all righteous conviction.

"Brooklyn Ellison, don't blame the girl for being strict about it. It's a new age now. Treating illness and saving lives follows a whole new set of standards."

My mother clenched her fists and said nothing.

Then Delia's newborn son, barely a month old, ran a fever and went into convulsions, and they came begging my mother to save him. She kept the door shut.

"By the new-age standards for seeking treatment, call 911 and wait for the ambulance. The nearest hospital is fifty miles from the village. You'll just have to wait."

...

The day the inspectors came happened to be the day of Delia's son's one-month celebration.

Her mother, Winifred Whitney, had laid out twenty tables of open feasting, and all of Whitney Hollow had turned up.

Right in the middle of the noise, three people in uniform climbed out of a car at the mouth of the lane,

faces hard as stones left out to freeze, and walked straight toward our house.

My mother's brow drew tight. The tiger-hat she'd knitted with her own hands still hadn't made it to Delia. She grabbed my hand and we ran for home.

At the banquet, people dropped their bowls and chopsticks and came surging after us in a crowd.

Before we even reached the door, I saw my father come out of the house, one hand on the frame, his leg still lame.

"Here for treatment, comrades? Brooklyn's off at the feast. The sun's brutal out here. Come in and sit, I'll go bring her back."

The man in front frowned faintly and, face grim, flipped open the document in his hand.

"We've received a signed complaint. Your household is suspected of unlicensed medical practice. You'll need to suspend operations for inspection."

My father's hand went still on the water kettle. Boiling water soaked half his trouser leg, and he didn't seem to feel the burn.

My mother had just reached the door, hadn't even caught her breath,

when she swayed and knocked into the herb rack beside her, sending half-dried yarrow root scattering across the ground.

She'd practiced medicine for decades. From one end of the village to the other, who hadn't drunk a bowl of her bitter herbal brew?

The feverish, the injured, the women hemorrhaging after childbirth...

One reading of the pulse, a few herbs measured out, and the person got better.

She never took money.

When she truly couldn't refuse, the most she'd accept was a handful of greens and a few eggs.

A ring of people quickly closed in at the door.

My voice came out tight as I asked, "Who?"

The official said nothing. He turned the page with the complainant's information around and held it out.

Black ink on white paper.

Delia Finch.

Her ID number.

Her thumbprint pressed on, neat and square.

My mother stared at that page as if she'd been struck with a club, and the tiger-hat fell from her hand, rolling to Delia's feet and picking up dust.

I stared at those two words for three seconds, then followed the tiger-hat on the ground with disbelieving eyes up to Delia's face, the child still cradled in her arms.

"Delia. You reported us?"

Delia soothed the baby without lifting her head. Winifred yanked mother and child behind her.

"Felicia Ellison, Delia went to medical school. She understands the rules, she knows what's proper and what isn't. This is for your own good too, to keep you from going down the wrong road."

"For our own good?" My mother's lips trembled. Her voice broke as she said,

"Winifred, the year you nearly bled to death in labor, the barefoot doctor in town wouldn't touch you. I stayed with you the whole night with my medicine box, and when the reviving tonic was short one ingredient, I ran to five different herbal shops through the night to gather it. When you held Delia and wept, you took my hand and said that from then on I was your own sister"

Winifred waved a hand and cut my mother off.

"Oh, please! It's exactly because you're like a sister to me that our Delia was kind enough to help you out. Brooklyn, it's a new age now. Treating illness and saving lives follows new standards!"

Delia raised her head and looked at my mother, her voice flat, without a single bend in it.

"Auntie, what I studied tells me that practicing medicine without a license is against the law. It's nothing personal against you."

My mother didn't look at her.

She stared at Winifred, the rims of her eyes going redder and redder, her lips bitten white.

The day Winifred's labor went wrong, my father was up on the slope gathering herbs and broke his leg.

Caught in an impossible choice, my father was the one who stepped forward,

saying a life came first, telling my mother to save Winifred and her baby before anything else.

My father's broken leg went untended a whole night, and he was left crippled for life.

Never once did we imagine that in the end,

my mother had saved two ingrates.

The officials inspected quickly.

They went into the shop, went through the herb cabinets, examined the consulting table, checked the prescriptions, photographing each item as evidence as they turned it over.

My mother crouched in the yard without moving, the yarrow root heaped by her hand like a little grave mound she'd spent half her life building.

Half an hour later, the man in charge came out, his face not quite so hard anymore.

"Auntie, we've looked at the records. All these years you've treated people and saved lives without charging a fee, and there's never been a medical dispute. But unlicensed practice is a fact, and by policy... the herbs are to be destroyed on the spot, and the shop sealed."

2: 2

When the words landed, the whole place went dead silent.

Tears slid down my mother's cheeks without a sound, her voice cracked almost past recognition.

"That's nearly thirty years of herbs I put away..."

She came back to herself and lunged for the pile, and my father and I caught her at the same time.

The same people who'd been clinking cups at Delia's celebration a moment ago now crowded into our yard, unmoved.

Not one of them stepped forward.

Not one of them said a word to stop it.

They just stood there watching as the officials dragged the burlap sacks out of our herb shed and heaped them halfway across the yard.

Cedric Chavez watched the pile of medicine grow, leaned on his cane, and sighed.

"I hear there's a flu going around in town. Some folks are coughing so bad they can't even get out of bed. Brooklyn stocked these herbs so the whole village would have protection. What are we going to do if they really burn it all?"

The moment they heard that, the crowd panicked.

"Is that true? The flu hit us last year and half of us were laid up sick."

"Right, if it really is the flu, you can't burn Felicia's family's herbs."

Delia let out a soft laugh and turned to face them.

"There's nothing to worry about. I asked my classmates in town. It's just a seasonal cold going around."

"And besides, if the flu really did reach our village, under the new medical standards you just call 911 and the ambulance comes right away."

Winifred jumped in to back her up. "Exactly! Nobody needs to panic. Delia went to a proper medical school. She can tell the difference between a seasonal cold and the flu. If it ever came to that, I'd have her help everyone, that's for sure."

With that from Winifred, the worry drained out of every face.

A cold laugh rose in me.

It wasn't a seasonal cold at all. It was the flu, brought on by a mutated virus.

Even if the sick called 911, there were only so many ambulances at the hospital, and it would never be our village's turn, fifty miles out.

Besides, Delia had come to our shop for herbs half a month ago.

She couldn't even keep fritillary for the lungs and fritillary for the cough straight, one cooling and one warming, opposite in nature.

If the flu really reached Whitney Hollow, how exactly was she going to help anyone?

I was still thinking it over when someone in the crowd spoke up.

"Brooklyn, don't take it so hard. The herbs are burned, so they're burned. It's not like you make your living off them anyway."

Someone else picked up the thread.

"Delia's the first college graduate this village ever had. She's bound to know more than the rest of us..."

"That's right, Brooklyn. You said yourself those herbs sat around for almost thirty years. Who knows if they're even any good anymore?"

They went on, one line after another, louder and louder.

Every word went in like a needle through flesh.

Anyone who practices medicine knows.

As long as herbs aren't moldy and aren't worm-eaten, they can be used.

Some herbs are even stronger the more years they've aged.

Yet on the strength of two words, "new standards," they slapped an expiration date on those precious herbs.

My mother was in tears, desperate, trying to say something.

I patted the back of her hand and gave a small shake of my head.

"You're all right."

I walked into the middle of that heap of herbs, picked up the diesel beside it, and poured it over the pile, saying it evenly, without a flinch.

"New times, new medicine. You go by the new standards."

Seeing that, one of the officials struck a match with a scrape and tossed it into the herbs.

The flames shot up, and the bitter smell of the medicine stung everyone's eyes.

Delia and Winifred backed off several steps, and neither could hide the smugness in their eyes.

Only Cedric stared at the fire in the yard, shaking his head and sighing over and over.

"Cold hearts. People have gone so cold!"

After everyone was gone.

I helped my mother up off the ground and brushed the dust off her knees.

"Mom, you've looked after them for decades. This once, let yourself rest."

My father nodded and sighed. "Felicia's right. This time we don't get involved."

My mother wiped at her tears, her shoulders shaking.

"It's not that they broke my heart. I just can't bear losing those herbs..."

The firecrackers at Delia's house went off, one string after another.

My mother sat quietly on the doorsill, her back straight as a burnt-out stalk of medicine,

staring blankly at the black scorched patch of dirt in the middle of the yard.

It took two whole days for that ash to blow away.

After that my mother kept the gate shut and never brought up guarding against the flu again.

At first the villagers felt a little guilty. Passing our gate, they'd soften their steps on purpose.

But country folks have shorter memories than the weeds on a wall.

The matter of the welfare quota came up at a village council meeting, raised by the village head.

Back in those years the village was poor, and one village-level welfare quota was worth more than half a year's harvest.

My mother had spent half her life helping her neighbors, asking nothing in return.

That quota had been hers every single year.

Council members had even come to my father privately and admitted this year's quota was settled on my mother too, just waiting for the public notice to go up.

My father listened and smoked in silence, the smoke pushing out of his nostrils long and heavy.

My mother was cutting vegetables at the stove, and it was a long while before she said a word.

"I don't heal people for the sake of that."

That's what she said.

But that night she cooked two extra dishes for once.

And the tight knot in my chest eased a little.

The county hospital had called during the day. They said my father's broken leg could finally be set.

The moment that welfare money came through, they could schedule the surgery right away.

But the news reached Delia's house.

That same afternoon, Winifred and her daughter walked into the village council.

3: 3

I went to the village office to fetch water.

Through the window I saw her sitting across from the official, her tongue running a mile a minute.

"Sir, Felicia's mother practicing without a license was against the rules to begin with. If you hand the welfare quota to someone who just got investigated, doesn't the village carry the liability? When the higher-ups ask later and it looks like we're covering for unlicensed practice, who takes the fall for that?"

The official's pen paused mid-air.

Winifred switched to a tearful register.

"And think how hard things are for my Delia. She just had a boy, her milk's come in poorly, we can barely scrape together the money for formula, never mind that she wants to start something, open a clinic here in the village, treat people for their ailments..."

I stood outside the door with the empty bucket in hand.

Wind pushed through the gap in the door, and Winifred's voice came thin and shrill, like a rusted wire scraping at your ears.

Right as she was talking, Cedric came in, leaning on his cane.

"Sir, I owe my life to Felicia's mother. Fall of '73, I had dysentery so bad I was wasting away, dehydrated. The town hospital wouldn't take me. She sat with me three days and three nights, fed me the medicine one spoon at a time. You won't find that in any file, but you go ask anyone over seventy in this village who hasn't been helped by her."

The official's face pinched. He hemmed and hawed, unable to get out anything proper.

Winifred jumped in at once, her tone earnest, every word closing the trap tighter.

"Cedric, now that's not fair of you to say. These days it's about helping the most deserving. Delia is a proper medical school graduate. She can work with the village on health outreach and help folks get treated the right way."

"Felicia's mother was mixed up in illegal practice before. That was against the rules to start with, so how can she take up a welfare quota on top of it? If the higher-ups catch wind, the whole village gets dragged into it."

A few sentences, and just like that, my mother's years of silent sacrifice were branded a stain on the village.

More and more people from Whitney Hollow crowded into the council office.

Delia spoke up at the right moment, her voice cool, carrying a fairness that looked down on everyone.

"Uncles, aunties, I'm not fighting for a handout. It's just that rules come first, feelings second. Reporting her, going after the quota, it was all for the good of the village."

"I just had a baby, things really are hard at home, and I really can put proper medical training to work for everyone. Giving me this quota makes sense, it's fair, and it's within the law."

I nearly laughed listening to it. Now I finally understood why Delia had reported my mother.

I pushed my way through the huddle of people, stepping up to stand in front of Delia,

every word clear, neither cowed nor overbearing.

"Fair and reasonable? When you reported my mother, where was your sense of fairness then?"

"My mother practiced her whole life without taking a cent, and you stand on her kindness to collect a subsidy. That's your idea of fair and reasonable?"

Delia's face stiffened, then went cold again in an instant, her tone turning to a lecture.

"Felicia, I already told you, these are the rules. Personal feelings can't override regulations."

Winifred backed her up right away, pitching her voice higher, making sure everyone heard.

"My Delia is just too honest! Not like some people, leaning on guilt and morals to strong-arm their way into public benefits!"

The crowd went silent for a beat, then a low murmur rose.

"The rules did come down from above, they can't just be broken. Delia's educated, she knows the policies. Give her the quota and she can steer the village's health guidance the proper way. That's surely safer than handing it to someone who doesn't know the rules."

"Felicia's mother got caught practicing without a license. Give her welfare and it'll only bring trouble down on Whitney Hollow!"

"At the end of it, Felicia's mother was practicing without a license and using us as test subjects first. We can't go making a model out of someone who broke the rules. Delia may have reported her, but she went by the policy, and I hear the higher-ups even handed out a reward for it."

The resident official paced back and forth three times with a cigarette between his fingers, then sighed.

"The welfare quota touches on policy red lines. Felicia's mother's situation... it really is contested. Let it go to Delia for now. She just graduated and came back to the village to start something, she's from a medical university, she fits the new direction for rural medical welfare."

Winifred squeezed to the very front of the crowd, wiped at her tears, and bowed.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you to the leaders for looking after us! My Delia will work hard, and from now on when folks in the village need to see a doctor, they can all come to her, twenty percent off, every time!"

She bit down on those last words, twenty percent off, loud and heavy.

The villagers gathered at the door froze for a moment, and then someone said quietly,

"Delia's clinic is going to charge us? Felicia's mother saw us free of charge for decades."

Winifred turned back at once. "Folks, that's different. Delia's clinic measures up to the town hospital and the county hospital. Her treatment process is proper and sound, and her medicine and methods are all approved from above. Don't you go lumping the two together."

Once she said that, everyone's doubts vanished.

The look on every face seemed to say the same thing: free could never be as good as paid for.

I looked at this crowd of neighbors past all saving.

I didn't argue anymore. I turned and left.

Three days later, Imogen Finch from the neighboring Finchville came to our house.

Her cloth shoes were caked with mud, and the moment she saw my mother, her knees buckled and she dropped down.

"Auntie! I'm begging you, save the people in our village. Everyone's come down with the flu, and calling 911 gets you nowhere near the front of the line!"

4: 4

My mother, flour still on her apron, hurried over and steadied her.

"Imogen, take your time. Tell me what happened."

Imogen dragged in a few breaths, her voice tight as a strung wire.

"Ma'am, the flu's spreading through town lately. People in our village are already running fevers and coughing, but when we call 911 there's no getting through, and the clinic says they don't have enough ambulances.

"Ma'am, when I was little I got bitten by a snake. If you hadn't bled the wound and needled me in time, I'd have died long ago. I've never forgotten what you can do. All the young people in our village went south for work, so it's only the old folks and the kids left behind. I had nowhere else to turn, that's why I came to you. Ma'am, I'm begging you, save them!"

"I heard everything that happened to your family, so I got a friend from college to help. It took some doing, but we got a proper clinic license approved. I want to ask you to come treat everyone.

"Ma'am, if you'll just come, Finchville will give you our village's only welfare assistance quota."

She held out a clinic license, fully stamped, and a folded sheet of paper.

The paper was packed edge to edge with the signatures and red thumbprints of everyone in Finchville.

From the folks in their eighties and nineties down to children who'd only just learned to write.

Every one of them agreeing to give the quota to my mother.

My mother stood there, her fingers trembling faintly.

Her eyes full of the hesitation of someone who wanted to reach out but was afraid of being bitten again.

My father sat on the doorsill, smoking in silence.

After a long moment, he said one thing.

"Felicia, you decide."

Imogen looked at me, pleading, a tear hanging off her chin, ready to fall.

I took the stack of paper from my mother's hand and went through it.

The clinic paperwork was in order, even my mother's practitioner's license had been arranged.

I thought it over, folded the paper, and tucked it back into Imogen's bag.

"Imogen, we can treat people. But we charge. The same rates as the herbal shop in town, consultation plus medicine, not a cent less."

Imogen's eyes reddened, and she nodded again and again.

"Of course! You should charge! Never mind town rates, we'd pay county rates and be glad to! Ma'am saved so many people. Even if some don't count it a favor, it was hard work, and you should be paid for it."

My mother turned her face away and wiped her eyes.

Only I knew she was happy.

Happy that we could scrape together the money for the surgery to reset my father's broken leg.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out, and said, flat and final,

"We leave now. If the flu's already spread to Finchville, then Whitney Hollow can't be far behind. Mom, Dad, we'll go stay and practice in Finchville for a month, and come back once the flu's over. That way no one can wag their tongues about us."

Imogen, eyes red, thanked us over and over.

My parents and I gathered up every bit of medicine and every acupuncture needle that hadn't been burned, and set off for Finchville.

Passing the mouth of the village, I saw the sign for the Finch Wellness Clinic already hung up.

Winifred Whitney was directing people to carry IV stands inside, her shouting carrying half a street over.

I paid it no mind, pulled my eyes away, and took the back path.

Finchville was even more remote than Whitney Hollow.

The dirt road was too narrow for a tractor to get through, and the houses were scattered thin across the hillside.

Imogen brought us to the clinic, and my mother, pausing only to gulp a mouthful of water, started seeing patients.

Seventeen people came the first day, feverish, coughing, aching all over.

My mother took pulses until her wrist went sore. I sat beside her writing out prescriptions and measuring the herbs, while Imogen ran back and forth brewing decoctions and carrying water.

People were still lined up after dark, so my mother had Imogen hold a flashlight and saw them one by one.

A week later, Imogen rode her bicycle back from town with a newspaper hanging off the handlebars.

She jumped off and said, "Ma'am! Delia's clinic had its grand opening! They set off a whole string of firecrackers!"

"I heard they're pushing some 'boost your immunity' slogan, running a buy-one-get-one IV drip promotion, and loads of people went."

My mother's hands stilled over the herbs she was drying out. She didn't say anything.

But I knew. Some of the old people in Whitney Hollow were weak in the body,

their bodies simply couldn't take that ice-cold fluid being run into them.

Something going wrong was only a matter of time.

By the eighth day, the flu in Finchville was mostly under control.

I found a moment to go back to our own house for some things.

The instant I stepped into the village, something felt off. There wasn't a soul in sight.

Only the muffled coughing in my ears, as if someone were trying to cough up a whole lung.

The flu in Whitney Hollow was worse than in Finchville.

I didn't linger. I grabbed the acupuncture needles and moxa my mother had asked for and ran for the mouth of the village as fast as I could.

Passing the Finch Wellness Clinic, I suddenly heard a burst of furious shouting.

Charles Whitney had his mother on his back, and he was pounding on the clinic door until it rattled.

"Delia, get out here!"

"My mom had a cold and got an IV here! Less than half an hour after we pulled the needle and got home, her lips went purple and foam started coming out of her mouth!"