At this point a man dragged himself inside the Hospital door and stopped by an apple box that Josie brought with her. The man was pale, thin, and his blue shirt hung loosely on his body as he raised his head slightly—even that movement seemed to cost him every strength—and stopped baffled at the roomful of cords and polls. His eyes scanned the room blindly, before meeting Sebestian’s, and a moment of recognition leapt into both of their eyes.
“Martin!” Sebestian screeched. He ejected out of his chair and tried to get out of the counter, but Josie’s equipment was in the way of it. Josie stood up and, although she didn’t recognize Martin Newport or understand what was going on, helped Sebestian moving the boxes aside. She then helped getting the extra chair and resting Martin into it.
“I—I can come another time if—” Martin began.
“No, you’re not coming another time,” said Sebestian. Josie’s eyes widened at how solemn he sounded. Sebestian pulled over the small cushion he used to take pulses, and asked Martin to put his wrist on it.
Martin, however, hesitated. “Actually, I, I don’t know.”
“You don’t know until you try it.” Sebestian’s voice softened.
“No, it’s not that, it’s— Do your patients tell you where they feel sick first, or after you take the pulse?”
“Whichever you feel like it.”
Martin was quiet for a moment, before he slowly rested his wrist on the cushion. Sebestian took his pulse. Josie remembered how Sebestian used to spend just a few seconds on a pulse reading before determining the problems, but this time it seemed to be taking him forever. His eyebrows drew tighter and tighter together as his fingers tapped gently on Martin’s wrist. He didn’t say much after the first pulse, and asked Martin for the other wrist. After spending a few silent minutes on both, he raised his eyes to meet Martin’s. Josie realized that Sebestian was close to tears.
“Josie, can you turn off the camera, please?” Sebestian’s voice broke when he turned around to find new teapots and cups.
“What—yeah, of course,” Josie extended her hand for the camera, while Martin started slightly at realizing that there was a camera at the end of the counter. He stared into the shot for a moment.
“No,” Martin said, “let’s film this.”
Josie’s hand stopped midair and she met Sebestian’s eyes in search for confirmation. Sebestian turned the teacup between his fingers. “Yeah,” he said softly, “it’s up to him.”
Sebestian found some Longjing green tea from the cabinet and let the tea scatter in the bottom of a glass pot. The sunlight pierced through the windows and bounced off the pot’s curved surface, rendering Sebestian’s face in a soft, almost heavenly glow. Martin watched Sebestian’s face, his breath heaving, waiting for an answer.
“Have you checked this,” Sebestian said, his throat tightening, “in a Western hospital?” He poured warm water over the tea leaves. The light wavered on his face, glimmering in his eyes.
“Yes,” said Martin.
“What did they say?”
Martin pressed his lips together. “What do you say?”
Sebestian poured Martin tea. His voice was soft when he began. “I say that Western hospitals probably have better track records at fighting cancer than I do.”
Josie’s eyes widened. She clasped her hand over her lips.
“Not terminal patients with only five months left to live,” said Martin.
Sebestian gripped his hands tightly together. “How long have you known?”
“Well, for the lymphoma, a long time. I was early stage four when we discovered it. And then we were debating and discussing whether we want to dump all the money we’ve got on treating some maybe-untreatable fuck, and then we were applying for government support and nonprofit organizations’ funding, but those pricks were asking for additional document and then more additional document. Now the money’s finally arrived, I’m also terminal.” He drained his tea in one gulp, letting out a long breath. “It’s good tea.” His voice was almost lost in the air.
“Oh my God!” Josie said, her voice trembling, “oh my God I’m so sorry. Those fucking gov people and organization people—fuck them!” She saw Martin staring at her, and lowered her head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. But fuck.”
Martin produced the first laughter of that day. His lips lifted into a dry, wry smile, and extended a hand which fell to the counter before Josie took it: “It’s OK. Uh, thank you, I guess. I’m Martin.”
Josie gritted her teeth. She took that hand. “Josie.”
Sebestian was quiet while they talked. Outside refilling Martin’s and Josie’s teas, he looked like he didn’t know where to look, or put his hands, or how to breathe. His voice was small when he spoke again. “I thought you had health insurance.”
Martin laughed like he’d heard something extremely sarcastic, and coughed violently as a result. Sebestian hastened to smooth Martin’s back with his palm, and pitched Martin on a few acupoints. Martin’s fit slowly ceased. His throat continued lumping as he gasped for air.
“Well, for six months I did. Then this cockhead friend from college found me and told me that he was starting this new company and they need an accountant. They paid me much more than IRS did, and it was an actual accounting job, so of course I fucking went. The next year—this year—the thing went completely bankrupt. Lost my job and got diagnosed two months after that.”
“Fuck,” said Josie.
Martin raised his eyes to Sebestian, staring right into the latter’s. “Is there anything you can do? I’ve—I’ve seen your ways with sick people before. You’re good, I guess. So…”
Sebestian took a deep breath. He opened the lid of the now empty-of-tea glass pot, refilling it with warm water. “Yeah. I’ll give it a try.”
Josie’s eyes widened in alarm as he watched Martin’s face lighting up in hope. Her mouth opened a few times as she tried to phrase herself instead of bursting “no!” In the end, she swallowed forcefully, and said: “Sebestian, can I talk to you alone for a moment?”
Sebestian nodded. His body had returned to the natural easygoingness he usually displayed, with an extra air of determination. He refilled Martin’s cup, said sorry, and followed Josie, who grabbed the camera, to the back of the shop. Josie studied the curtain that divided the front and the kitchen, decided that it wouldn’t keep out what they said from Martin, and dragged Sebestian into the restroom. The space was small—both of them had to stand against the wall to make sure there was any room between them.
Josie put the camera, the shot on Sebestian’s face, on the towel rack.
“Were you acting there?” asked Josie, the moment they closed the bathroom door. “Because I will turn this fucking camera off right now.”
“Acting what?” asked Sebestian, confusedly.
“OK.” Josie took a deep breath, and began: “You can’t do that.”
Sebestian watched her for a moment. “I can’t give him hope?”
“No!” Josie yelled, and immediately lowered her voice, “you can’t treat terminal cancer, that’s not how it works. Martin out there he’s not asking for treatment, he’s asking for a fucking miracle. You can’t get his hopes up right now. What he needs is palliative care, spending time with his family, traveling to Europe, or diving for the first time—I’m not sure if you can dive with terminal cancer, but you know what I mean. You can’t just ask him to—I don’t want to say waste his time, but—to be in this,” she swallowed, “Hospital, for I don’t know how many hours a day getting acupuncture and shit, when he should be spending some quality time while he still has them.”
“Martin has a two-year-old son,” said Sebestian.
Josie stopped. “What?”
“He has a son, born August, 2016. He’s cute, naughty, breaks everything, and I want him to have his dad around growing up.” His voice was still and light.
Josie was at loss of what she should say. Her lips trembled and she tried to look away to hide the tears surging up in her eyes, but turned her face the direction of the mirror and ended up staring straight at her own crying face. She looked up to the ceiling to prevent the tears from falling, and Sebestian pulled some paper towels for her. He raised them to her eyes: “Is this OK, or do you prefer to use a towel? There are new ones in the cupboard right here.”
Josie met Sebestian’s eyes. She let out a half-sigh, half-laugh, and took the paper towels from him, dabbing her eyes. “But Doc,” she said, almost pleadingly, but much less determinedly than before, “don’t you understand? This man is dying.”
Sebestian nodded. “Yeah. That’s why I’m helping him.”
Sebestian proposed taking Martin to Shanyuan Temple (善缘寺) down the street as the opening to their treatment. He announced this idea later the same day, after going into the kitchen and emerging with a three-course hot meal in half an hour. In the meantime, Josie and Martin sat by the counter staring at each other and talked only occasionally. Martin was good at making conversations in general, but was simply too tired that day to keep up a smiling face; Josie was trying very hard to resist the temptation of convincing Martin to give up treatment, so she forbade herself to talk at all. Many times, Martin rose out of his seat and wanted to help Sebestian in the kitchen, while Josie dedicatedly dragged him back down.
They ended up watching True Detective together on Sebestian’s iPad. It was pirated, 360p, and with Chinese subtitles. Josie complained about how the subtitles were hiding a part of the image behind them, but Martin quite enjoyed examining how the Chinese could be so short for some dialogues, and so long for others.
“I’m thinking we can light a few incenses at the temple, to pray for good fortune for the treatment,” said Sebestian, when they dug in at the food. Neither Martin nor Josie could use chopsticks very well, and Sebestian had only one fork in the house, so they did rock paper scissors and Martin won it.
“Wouldn’t lighting incense at the Hospital work?” asked Josie, indicating Sebestian’s incense burner.
“The temple has busts of medicine-related Buddhas,” said Sebestian, “it might help to be in their favor.”
Josie tried to split a large piece of scrambled egg in her bowl with her chopsticks, but just ended up having the whole bowl spinning around under the force. Sebestian looked for a moment like he wanted to help her, but returned to his own food. “I don’t know about you,” Josie said, looking up to Martin, “but I’m technically Christian.” She gave up splitting the pork and bit down on it.
Martin shrugged. “I haven’t been to the church for years before I got cancer. After I did, I mean… My wife Sarah and I, we went a few times. Then I turned terminal and I stopped going. She still goes, though. So does my mother.”
Sebestian’s eyes softened. “You proposed?”
Martin grinned, a little sad. “Yeah.”
“Had a wedding?” asked Sebestian.
“Tiny one, just with friends and family at a local church back in her hometown. We rented both the dress and the suit.” He paused. “But she looked gorgeous. I mean, just…” He smiled, shaking his head.
They were quiet for a moment, Martin putting some rice into his mouth.
“So, how does going to the temple help the treatment, like, on a physical level?” Josie asked.
Sebestian shrugged. “It doesn’t, really. Except that the essential oil that they use there can be good for your respiratory systems. On the other hand, it’s like therapy to some. Depends on how you look at it.”
“But I’m not Buddhist,” said Martin.
“You don’t have to be,” said Sebestian, “going to Buddhist temple isn’t that religious. It’s cultural. Tradition. A lot of films in China, on the day they start filming, they’d pray to some Buddhas or Taoist gods or folk gods or all of the above and light incenses as well. You go to a temple and mesmerize on what you want for your life for ten seconds. It’s like making a birthday wish. I know it helps me.”
Martin swallowed his rice. Josie stared at him as he thought about it.
“Sure, I’ll go,” said Martin. “Josie?”
Josie met Martin’s eyes. She realized that Martin was a little hopeful.
“Fine,” she said, letting out a long breath, “but I’m not praying.”
It was six a.m. the next morning, and the air was a little misty and Sebestian guided Martin to do breathing exercises on their way over to Shanyuan Temple. Josie, who got Martin’s permission to film the process, raised her camera to her chest and captured them breathing in and out.
“Even if this doesn’t work out, I want Nathan to know that I tried,” Martin said, when Josie asked him when he wanted her to film everything, “that I tried to stay with him.”
Martin asked Sebestian what the temple’s name meant, as the three of them looked up to the calligraphy hanging above the temple’s vermilion doors.
“It means ‘karma of kindness,’” said Sebestian.
Martin laughed. “Great. I need that.”
Jingbei opened the gates and invited them inside the door. Martin remembered the monk kid who Sebestian always paid the ticket for, but it was the first time that he saw Jingbei sober. It took him a moment to recognize Jingbei, for Jingbei looked like a completely different person. The sober Jingbei, he remarked to Sebestian in a whisper, had a pair of eyes like he didn’t need anything from the world. It was calming to look at them.
Jingbei was hesitant about Josie filming inside the temple doors. He said that they did have a strict no-photography policy, because it was the right politeness to the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas.
“It’s the patient’s wishes, to make the video for his child,” Sebestian said (“这个是病人自己想录的，想给他的孩子看的，”), “perhaps the Buddha can let us off just a little?” (“或许佛祖能够通融一下？”)
Jingbei sighed. He stole a look at Martin, who was supporting himself against Josie’s arms and shivering. “What happened to him?” (“他怎么了？”)
“Terminal cancer,” said Sebestian, softly. (“癌症晚期，”)
“You want to save him?” asked Jingbei. (“你要救他？”)
Sebestian nodded, and, after Jingbei spoke no more, asked: “You’re not telling me that I can’t?” (“你不打算跟我说我办不到吗？”)
Jingbei thought for a moment, and shrugged. “70% of my line of work is believing.” ( “我这行，百分之七十的工作都是去相信。”) He gave Sebestian a small squeeze on the arm. “Save him.” ( “救吧。”)
He let them bring the camera inside.
The first temple room, which stood directly facing the gate, was small with a golden ceiling. It hosted a bust of Guanyin in the center—a kind, woman-looking figure with long eyes, flowy hair, and thin, white fabric dripping from the hair to the feet. The figure held a tall bottle with a thin neck, with a willow branch perching out.
Jingbei led Sebestian and Martin to each light three incenses.
“So what does this one do?” Martin asked Sebestian, dipping his incenses into the oil lamp to catch its fire. He’d Googled a little about Buddhism before coming, and learnt that the Buddhas and Bodhisattvas all had different functions.
“This is Guanyin,” said Sebestian, gently, “they save the world from all suffering and misery.”
Martin laughed a little. “Not doing an incredibly good job, then, are they.”
Sebestian gave him a half-amused look.
“Sorry,” said Martin, “is Guanyin going to be angry at me for saying that and not help me?”
Sebestian considered, and turned to the bust, closing his hands before him, eyes sparkling like a child making a birthday wish, and mumbled a string of Chinese. He bowed three times, and turned to grin to Martin: “You should be fine.”
“Was that a spell or something you should say after you offend them?” asked Martin.
“Oh, no,” Sebestian said, laughing, “I was just asking Guanyin to treat you nicely. I come here all the time so I figure they know me and they’d give me a favor.”
“Is that how it works?” asked Martin, a little concerned. “Why isn’t this lighting up?” he frowned anxiously at Sebestian’s burning incenses and his own unchanging ones.
“Here, take the light from mine,” said Sebestian, leaning his own incenses against Martin’s. “Chinese gods are pretty easygoing in general.” Slowly, Martin’s incense sticks started to brighten into a shade of transparent red at the tops, and three thin, twirly smokes rose into the air.
Jingbei took a willow branch like the bust’s, dipped the leaves in dew water that he collected from the morning, and gently spread the water over Martin’s and Sebestian’s bodies, muttering scripture as he did so. He then guided the two of them to kneel on the cushions in front of Guanyin, and to close their eyes and to make wishes in their minds. Josie stood by and captured close-ups of Martin, Sebestian, and Jingbei: Martin’s eyes closed less in devotion and more in resisting pain; Sebestian’s face in a balance between solemness and easy friendliness; and Jingbei with a soft, almost godly expression between his eyebrows, his recitation of the scripture echoed by the walls around them.