Chapter 300: The Death of Old Deng

2022-05-20

Zhao Mingkun and I followed the two old men deeper in, and after a short walk, we saw a few scattered houses off in the distance. Just from the outside, those houses were a big step up from the mourning tent at Deng Xuemei’s place. At least you could tell these were properly built red brick and concrete homes.

We arrived at Old Zhang’s house. Compared to Deng Xuemei’s place, you could tell right away this was much better. It wasn’t huge, but it was clean and tidy, with a kitchen and bathroom—small but complete. Old Zhang made us some tea, while Lao Li started chatting with us.

“Do you know much about Old Deng’s family?” I sat down and looked at Lao Li.

Lao Li pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed me one. I didn’t refuse. He lit mine first, then his own, took a slow drag and said, “Yeah, I know. Old Deng and his daughter lived in that tent for over ten years.”

“That long?” I asked.

Lao Li exhaled a puff of smoke, nodded, “Yeah. I remember it well. Back then, the father and daughter didn’t have a house. They were living in a shipping container beside a garbage dump. Just one container—it was three yuan a day to stay there. But how could you live in a place like that? As soon as you put in a bed, the whole space was packed. I went inside once—it was just a bunk bed. The father slept below, the daughter slept above.”

It was easy to tell life had been brutally hard for Deng Xuemei and her dad back then.

Lao Li let out another cloud of smoke and kept going, “At first, none of us knew what their story was. Later, we found out Old Deng had gotten sick. He told us himself, there was no cure, just maintenance. It was a bottomless pit, sucked up all their money, and they lost their house. His wife ran off, house was gone, so he and his daughter rented that three-yuan container, just trying to get by together.”

“So what about that later house?” I asked.

Lao Li explained, “Later, some of the neighbors here just couldn’t watch anymore. That’s not a real house, not fit for people. We talked it over, each chipped in a couple hundred yuan to buy some materials and built a simple hut for them. That’s the one you saw.”

At that point, Old Zhang came out and, hearing Lao Li, picked up: “All their furniture was stuff the neighbors donated. When we chatted, we found out Old Deng always felt he owed his daughter the most. If he’d had a son, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, but making a girl go through all that—none of us could stand to see it.”

Lao Li offered Old Zhang a cigarette and said, “That’s right. With his illness, Old Deng couldn’t go out and work. Whenever he had an episode, he’d be stuck in bed for days. He couldn’t even walk far, so everything was on his teenage daughter. I saw her, sometimes, just eating plain steamed buns and boiled water every day. She’d wear the same clothes for a whole month. It was rough.”

“Even so, Deng Xuemei really pulled through—made it into a top high school, then a top university, right?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Lao Li said, “I really admire that about the girl. To be able to get into a top high school and then a university from a place like that… If my grandson was half as good, his dad wouldn’t be so stressed.”

Old Zhang chuckled, “It’s true—people always say kids from poor families grow up fast. My own kid isn’t much for studying—his teachers are always calling us in.”

“Do you know how much Old Deng had to spend on treatment every month?” I asked.

“Not exactly,” Lao Li answered, “but he was always drinking all sorts of medicine, bottles everywhere, no idea what they were for. But it was a rare, hard-to-treat disease, not even covered by insurance, I think. Still, Old Deng was an educated man. Otherwise, how could he have helped his daughter get into Dongxing University?”

Old Zhang lit another cigarette and chimed in, “Exactly! We used to see him working on that thing—what’s it called? He’d poke and tap on it and get paid for it.”

Lao Li waved his hand, “That was a tablet. He made money from writing. But no matter how much he made, it wasn’t enough. His medicine alone was five or six thousand a month. Some people donated money, but that couldn’t go on forever. He once said if he hadn’t sold the house thinking he could be cured, things wouldn’t have gotten so desperate.”

“So he paid for treatment all by himself?” I frowned—something seemed off.

“Yeah,” Lao Li nodded, “His daughter left for university, so most of the time he was on his own. We’d check in sometimes. His daughter was a good kid—she never made him pay for school.”

“So everyone here is from Dongxing, but it sounds like his daughter rarely came home?” I asked.

“Right,” Lao Li said. “She was in university for four years and hardly ever came back. But we understood. Tuition is expensive—a year could cost ten thousand yuan. That all had to come from Deng Xuemei herself. She worked odd jobs, but we could never figure out exactly what she did.”

Old Zhang grinned, “I heard it was design or something foreign—don’t know much about that stuff, haha.”

“When exactly did Old Deng pass away?” I asked.

“Sigh…” At this, Lao Li couldn’t help but sigh. “Like I said, there’s no cure for that disease. It just kept getting worse. All in all, from getting sick to passing away was over ten years, which is something, I guess.”

Old Zhang stubbed out his cigarette and added, “I remember the last one or two years, his illness got really bad. He couldn’t do anything. The medicine itself was toxic, so using it long-term only made things worse. Eventually, he was bedridden all the time, so long it gave him bedsores.”

“Those are called pressure ulcers,” Lao Li corrected.

“What about his daughter?” I asked.

Lao Li waved his hand, “She was still working. At that point, her dad had no income, so she had to earn money somehow.”

“Exactly,” Old Zhang said, “She found a good job but what else could she do? Her father’s illness was never going away—she couldn’t be by his side 24/7. Still, none of us expected he’d pass so soon.”

I nodded. “Were you there when he died?”

“No,” Lao Li said, “Nobody was. We didn’t find out until two days later. His daughter was working, and sometimes we’d check on him. That day, Old Zhang and I went over, saw him lying in bed and not moving. Scared us half to death. Ran up to check—he was already gone.”

“Can you remember what it was like then?” I pressed.

Lao Li thought for a moment. “Yeah, both Old Zhang and I were there. He was all wrapped up in his blanket, curled up tight. We got closer, lifted the blanket—his body was cold. He was turned toward the wall. There was water on the table, but I saw medicine bottles scattered all over the floor.”

Lao Li hadn’t smoked for a bit; ashes grew long at the tip of his cigarette. He flicked it lightly, letting the ash fall.

Lao Li went on: “Judging from the scene, he must have been in pain. Died all alone, not one person there. After we found him, we contacted his daughter. She came back to handle the funeral. After that, she never came back. The house was locked up and hasn’t been opened since. It’s been years now.”

Lao Li seemed deep in thought, then added, “That’s just life. You never know when disaster will hit, and it’s all over. Whether you’re rich or just scraping by, living a peaceful life is the best you can hope for, isn’t it?”

Old folks tend to think about life and death, but honestly, I wasn’t feeling sentimental right then.

“Did anyone ever clean the house up after?” I asked.

“Clean?” Lao Li laughed. “We were all busy with the funeral—who had time to clean? And that house was never really clean anyway, just somewhere to squeeze by.”

That left a problem. When I checked the room earlier, I’d looked at every detail—even under the bed. But I hadn’t spotted something vital: the medicine bottles. Lao Li said Old Deng had loads of medicine, but I hadn’t seen a single bottle. Medicine might vanish with time, sure, but the plastic bottles should’ve still been there. Where did they go? No way they’d just rot away. The only explanation is that someone took them.

“Did you ever see the autopsy results?” I asked.

“What?” Lao Li replied, “No idea. He died of illness, that’s all I know. We never did understand the details. After he passed, we barely stayed in touch with his daughter. That little girl from back then must be in her thirties now. By the way, what exactly are you investigating?”

I stood up and said to Lao Li, “That’s all we needed to ask. Thanks for sharing everything.”

“Oh,” Lao Li nodded with a smile. “I get it, you won’t talk about it outside, right?”

I nodded.

Something just doesn’t add up—maybe there’s more to what happened back then than anyone realizes.