Joy glances at me and smiles as she holds out her hand to the couple. She's learned this trick-getting people to pay for things they may not want-from her grandfather. The husband puts some change in Joy's palm, and she closes her hand around it as fast as a monkey. She drops the change into a can and gives the woman a gardenia. Once done with these customers, Joy moves them along. She's learned this from her grandfather too. Every night she counts the money and then turns it over to her father, who converts the change into dollars, which he then gives to me to hide with Joy's college money.

"Fifteen cents for one gardenia," Joy trills, a serious but endearing look on her face. "Twenty-five cents for a double."

I link my arm through my sister's. "Come on. She's fine. Let's get a cup of tea."

"But not in the cafe, all right?" May doesn't like to be seen in the cafe. It isn't glamorous enough for her. Not these days.

"That's fine," I say. I nod to Sam, who's behind the counter in the cafe, stir-frying an order in a wok. He's the second cook now, but he can keep an eye on our daughter while I visit with May.

My sister and I swing through China City's alleyways toward the costume and prop shop that came to her through Tom Gubbins. It's been ten years since we arrived in Los Angeles, ten years since we stepped into China City. When I first pa.s.sed through the miniature Great Wall, I felt no connection to this place. Now it feels like home: familiar, comfortable, and much loved. This isn't the China of my past-the busy streets of Shanghai, the beggars, the fun, the champagne, the money-but I see reminders of it here in the laughing tourists, the traditionally costumed shop owners, the smells that come from the cafes and restaurants, and the stunning woman at my side, who happens to be my sister. As we stroll, I catch glimpses of us in the shopwindows and I'm transported to our girlhoods: the way we dressed in our room and stared at our reflections and those of our beautiful-girl images that hung on the walls around us, the way we walked together along Nanking Road and smiled at ourselves in store windows, and the way Z.G. captured and painted our perfect selves.

And yet we've both changed. Now I see myself-thirty-two years old, no longer a new mother but a woman content with herself My sister is a flower in full bloom. The desire to be looked at and admired still burns from deep within her. The more she feeds it, the more she needs. She'll never be satisfied. This malady is in her bones-from birth, her essential character, her Sheep that wants to be taken care of, petted, and admired. She isn't Anna May Wong and she never will be, but she gets more movie work and more varied roles-as a whimsical cashier, the giggly but ineffectual maid, or the stoic wife of a laundryman-than anyone else in Chinatown. This makes her a star in our neighborhood and a star to me.

May opens the door to her shop and flips on a light, and there we are-surrounded by the silks, embroideries, and kingfisher feathers of the past. She makes tea, pours it, and then asks, "So what's this thing you're so eager to tell me?"

"Ten thousand happinesses," I say. "I'm pregnant."

May clasps her hands together. "Really? Are you sure?"

"I went to the doctor." I smile. "He says it's true."

May gets up, comes to me, and hugs me. Then she pulls away. "But how? I thought-"

"I had to try, didn't I? The herbalist has been giving me wolfberry fruit, Chinese yam, and black sesame to put in our soup and other dishes."

"It's a miracle," May says.

"Beyond a miracle. Unlikely, impossible-"

"Oh, Pearl, I'm so pleased." Her joy mirrors mine. "Tell me everything. How far along are you? When is the baby coming?"

"I'm about two months."

"Have you told Sam yet?"

"You're my sister. I wanted to tell you first."

"A son," May says, smiling. "You're going to have a precious son."

Everyone has this desire, and I flush with pleasure just hearing the word-son.

Then a shadow crosses May's face. "Can you do this thing?"

"The doctor says I shouldn't be so old, and I have my scars."

"Women older than you have babies," she says, but this isn't the best thing to say given that Vern's problems are often blamed on Yen-yen's age. May winces at the insensitivity of her remark. She doesn't ask about the scars, because we never talk about how I came to get them, so she shifts to more traditional questions about my condition. "Are you sleepy all the time? Are you sick to your stomach? I remember ..." She shakes her head as if ridding herself of those memories. "They always say that life is extended only by having children." She reaches over and touches my jade bracelet. "Think how happy Mama and Baba would have been." May suddenly grins, and our sad feelings melt. "Do you know what this means? You and Sam have to buy a house."

"A house?"

"You've been saving all these years."

"Yes, for Joy to go to college."

My sister brushes away that worry with a wave of her hand. "You have plenty of time to save for that. Besides, Father Louie will help you with the house."

"I don't see why. We have an arrangement-"

"But he's changed. And this is for his grandson!"

"Maybe, but even if he does decide to help us, I wouldn't want to be separated from you. You're my sister and my closest friend."

May gives me a rea.s.suring smile. "You're not going to lose me. You couldn't even if you tried. I have my own car now. Wherever you move, I'll come and visit."

"But it won't be the same."

"Sure it will. Besides, you'll come to China City every day to work. Yen-yen will want to take care of her grandson. I'll need to see my nephew too." She takes my hands. "Pearl, buying a house is the right thing to do. You and Sam deserve this."

SAM IS BEYOND thrilled. He may have once told me he didn't care if he had a son, but he's a man, and, for all his words, he's needed and wanted a son very badly. Joy hops up and down with excitement. Yen-yen weeps, but my age concerns her. Father Louie, wanting to behave as a patriarch should, tries to capture his emotions in his clenched fists, but he can't stop beaming. Vern stands by me, a kind but small protector. I don't know if my posture is taller and straighter because I'm happy or if Vern is just shy around me, but he seems shorter and thicker-as though his spine is collapsing and his chest broadening. He should have grown out of the slouch of his teen years by now, but I often notice that he will lean over and put his hands on his thighs as though propping himself up from fatigue or boredom.

On Sunday the uncles come for dinner to celebrate. Our family-like so many in Chinatown-is growing. The Chinese population in Los Angeles has more than doubled since we first arrived. This isn't because the Exclusion Act was overturned. We thought that was going to be wonderful when it happened, but only 105 Chinese a year are allowed to enter the country under the new quota. As always, people find ways to get around the law. Uncle Fred brought in his wife under the War Brides Act. Mariko's a pretty girl, quiet, and j.a.panese, but we don't hold it against her. (The war is over and she's part of our family now, so what else can we do?) Other men have brought in wives through other acts, and when you have men and women together, you're going to get children. Mariko had two babies one right after the other. We love Eleanor and Bess, even though they're half-and-half, even though we don't see them as much as we'd like. Fred and Mariko don't live in Chinatown. They took advantage of the G.I. Bill to buy a house in Silver Lake, not far from downtown.

The men wear sleeveless undershirts and drink bottles of beer. Yen-yen-in loose black trousers, a black cotton jacket, and a really fine jade necklace-dotes on Joy and Mariko's daughters. May swishes through the main room in a full-skirted American-style dress of polished cotton belted at the waist. Father Louie snaps his fingers, and we sit down to eat. My family use their chopsticks to snap up the best morsels to drop in my bowl. Everyone has advice. And surprisingly, everyone agrees that we should look for a house in which to raise the Louie grandson. And May was right. Father not only volunteers to help but says he'll match us dollar for dollar as long as his name's on the t.i.tle too.

"Married people are starting to live away from their in-laws," he says. "It will look strange if you don't have your own home." (Because after ten years he's no longer afraid we'll run away. We're his true family now, just as he and Yen-yen are ours.) "This apartment-too much bad air," Yen-yen says. "The boy will need a place to play outside, not in an alley." (Which had been fine for Joy.) "I hope there's room for a pony," Joy says. (She isn't getting a pony, no matter how much she wants to be a cowgirl.) "With the war over, everything's changed," chimes in Uncle Wilburt, for once wholly optimistic. "You can go to the Bimini Pool to swim. You can sit wherever you want at the movie show. You could even marry a lo fan if you wanted to."

"But who'd want to?" Uncle Charley asks. (So many laws have changed, but that doesn't mean att.i.tudes-Oriental or Occidental-have changed with them.) Joy reaches her chopsticks across the table, looking for a piece of pork. Her grandmother smacks her hand. "Only take food from the dish directly in front of you!" Joy's hand retreats, but Sam dips his chopsticks into the pork dish and fills his daughter's bowl. He's a man-soon to be the father of a precious grandson-and Yen-yen won't correct his manners, but later she'll give Joy a talking-to about being virtuous, graceful, courteous, polite, and obedient, which means, among other things, learning to sew and embroider, take care of the house, and use her chopsticks properly. All this from a woman who barely knows these things herself.

"So many doors have opened," Uncle Fred says. He came back from the war with a box full of medals. His English, which had been pretty good to begin with, improved in the service, but he still speaks Sze Yup with us. We thought he'd return to China City and the Golden Dragon Cafe to work, but no. "Look at me. The government is helping me with my college tuition and housing." He raises his beer. "Thank you, Uncle Sam, for helping me become a dentist!" He takes a swig, then adds, "The Supreme Court says we can live wherever we want. So where do you want to live?"

Sam runs a hand through his hair and then scratches the back of his neck. "Wherever they'll accept us. If they don't want us, I don't want to live there."

"Don't worry about that," Uncle Fred says. "The lo fan are more open to us now. A lot of guys were in the service. They met and fought with people who looked like us. You'll be welcome wherever you go."

Later that night, after everyone goes home and Joy has been tucked into her permanent sleeping place on the couch in the main room, Sam and I talk more about the baby and a possible move.

"With our own place, we could do what we want," Sam says in Sze Yup. Then he adds in English, "In privacy." No single word in Chinese conveys the concept of privacy, but we love the idea of it. "And all wives want to be away from their mothers-in-law."

I don't suffer under Yen-yen's thumb, but the thought of moving out of Chinatown and giving Joy and our baby new opportunities brightens my heart. But we aren't like Fred. We can't use the G.I. Bill to buy a house. No bank will give just any Chinese a loan, and we don't trust American banks because we don't want to owe money to Americans. But Sam and I have been saving, hiding our money in his sock and in the lining of the hat I wore out of China. If we keep our desires modest, then we might just be able to buy something.

But it isn't as easy as Uncle Fred said. I look in Crenshaw, where I'm told we can buy only south of Jefferson. I try Culver City, where the real estate agent won't even show me property. I find a house I like in Lake-wood, but the neighbors sign a pet.i.tion saying they don't want Chinese to move in. I go to Pacific Palisades, but the land covenants still say that houses can't be sold to someone of Ethiopian or Mongolian descent. I hear every excuse: "We don't rent to Orientals." "We won't sell to Orientals." "As Orientals, you won't like that house." And the old standby: "On the phone we thought you were Italian."

Uncle Fred-who was in the war and earned his bravery-encourages us not to give up, but Sam and I are not the kind to holler and cry that we've been robbed, beaten, or discriminated against. The only way we can hope to buy a house outside Chinatown is to find a seller so desperate he doesn't mind offending his neighbors, but by now I'm nervous about moving at all. Or maybe I'm not nervous; maybe I'm feeling homesick in advance. After Shanghai, how can I lose what we've built for ourselves in Chinatown?

I WORK HARD to grow my baby the Chinese way. I have the worries of every expectant mother, but I also know that my baby's home environment was once invaded and nearly destroyed. I go to the herbalist, who looks at my tongue, listens to the many pulses in my wrist, and prescribes An Tai Yin-Peaceful Fetus Formula. He also gives me Shou Tai Wan- Fetus Longevity Pills. I don't shake hands with strangers, because Mama once told a neighbor woman this would cause her baby to be born with six fingers. When May buys a camphor chest for me to store the clothes I'm making for the baby, I remember Mama's beliefs and refuse to accept it, because it resembles a casket. I begin to question my dreams, recalling what Mama said about them: if you dream of shoes, then bad luck is coming; if you dream of losing teeth, then someone in the family will die; and if you dream of s.h.i.t, then big trouble is about to arrive. Every morning I rub my belly, happy that my dreams have been free from these bad omens.

During the New Year festivities I visit an astrologer, who tells me my son will be born in the Year of the Ox, just like his father. "Your son will have the purest of hearts. He will be filled with innocence and faith. He will be strong and never whimper or complain." Every day, when the tourists leave China City, I go to the Temple of Kwan Yin to make offerings to a.s.sure that the baby will be safe and well. As a beautiful girl in Shanghai, I looked down on those mothers who went to the temples in the Old Chinese City, but now that I'm older I understand that my baby's health is more important than girlish ideas of modernity.

On the other hand, I'm not stupid. No matter what, I'll be an American mother, so I go to an American doctor too. I still don't like that Western doctors dress in white and paint their offices white-the color of death-but I accept these things because I'll do anything for my baby. Anything means having the doctor examine me. The only men who have been in that area are my husband, the doctors who repaired me in Hangchow, and the men who raped me. I'm not happy to have this man feeling around and looking in there. And I really don't like what he says: "Mrs. Louie, you will be lucky to carry this baby to term."

Sam understands the dangers, and he quietly goes to each family member to warn them. Immediately, Yen-yen refuses to let me cook, wash dishes, or iron clothes. Father orders me to stay in the apartment, put my feet up, sleep. And my sister? She takes more responsibility for Joy, walking her to American school and Chinese school. I don't know quite how to explain this. My sister and I have fought over Joy for many years. May gives her niece beautiful clothes bought in department stores-a sky blue party dress in dotted swiss, another with exquisite smocking, and a blouse with ruffles-while I sew practical clothes for my daughter--jumpers made with two pieces of felt, Chinese jackets with raglan sleeves made with cotton bought from the remnant bin, and smocks made from seersucker (what we call atomic fabric, because it never wrinkles). May buys Joy patent leather shoes, while I insist on saddle shoes. May is fun, while I'm the maker of rules. I understand why my sister wants to be the perfect auntie; we both do. But right now I don't worry about that, and I let Joy drift away from me and into her auntie's arms, believing I'll never have to compete with May for my son's love.

Perhaps realizing she's stealing Joy from me, my sister gives me Vern. "He'll be with you all the time," she says, "to make sure nothing bad happens. He can take care of simple things, like getting you tea. And if there's an emergency-and there won't be-he can come and get one of us."

Anyone would think May's offer would please Sam, but he doesn't like the idea one bit. Is Sam jealous? How can he be? Vern is a grown man, but as we spend our days together, he seems to shrink while my belly grows. Still, Sam won't let Vern sit next to me at dinner or any other meal. As a family we accept this, because Sam is going to be a father.

We spend a lot of time talking about names. This isn't like when May and I named Joy. Father Louie will have the honor and duty of naming his grandson, but that doesn't mean everyone doesn't have an opinion or try to sway him.

"You should name the baby Gary for Gary Cooper," my sister says.

"I like my name. Vernon."

We smile and say that's a nice idea, but no one wants to name a baby after a person so defective that if he'd been born in China he would have been left outside to die.

"I like Kit for Kit Carson or Annie for Annie Oakley." This of course comes from my cowgirl daughter.

"Let's name him after one of the ships that brought the Chinese to California-Roosevelt, Coolidge, Lincoln, or Hoover," Sam says.

Joy giggles. "Oh, Dad, those are presidents, not boats!"

Joy often makes fun of her father for his poor understanding of English and American ways. At the very least, this should hurt his feelings. At the most, he should punish her for being unfilial. But he's so happy about his coming son that he pays no attention to his daughter's tart tongue. I tell myself I have to stop this trait in our girl. Otherwise she'll end up like May and me when we were young: rude to our parents and flagrantly disobedient.

Some of our neighbors also give suggestions: One named a son after the doctor who delivered the baby. Another named a daughter after a nurse who'd been particularly kind. The names of midwives, teachers, and missionaries fill cribs throughout Chinatown. I remember how Miss Gordon saved Joy's life, so I suggest the name Gordon. Gordon Louie sounds like a smart, successful, non-Chinese man.

When my fifth month comes, Uncle Charley announces that he's returning to his home village as a Gold Mountain man, saying, "The war's over and the j.a.panese are gone from China. I've saved enough and I can live well there." We host a banquet, we shake his hand, and we drive him to the port. It seems that for every wife who arrives in Chinatown, another man goes home. Those who've always seen themselves as sojourners are now finding their happy endings. But not once does Father Louie, who always said he wanted to return to Wah Hong Village, bring up the idea of closing the Golden enterprises and taking us back to China. Why would he retire to his home village when at last he's going to get his grandson, who will be an American citizen by birth, venerate his grandfather when he goes to the afterworld, and learn to hit baseb.a.l.l.s, play the violin, and become a doctor?

At the beginning of my sixth month, I receive a piece of mail with stamps from China. I eagerly rip open the envelope and find a letter from Betsy. I can't believe she's alive. She survived her time in the j.a.panese camp by the Lunghua PaG.o.da, but her husband didn't. "My parents want me to join them in Washington to regain my health," she writes, "but I was born in Shanghai. It's my home. How can I leave it? Don't I owe it to the city of my birth to help with the rebuilding efforts? I've been working with orphans ..."

Her letter reminds me that there's one person I would like to hear from or about. Even after all these years, Z.G. still comes into my mind. I put a hand on my belly-which protrudes like a steamed bun-feel the baby move inside me, and visit my artist and Shanghai in my mind. I'm not lovesick or homesick. I'm just pregnant and sentimental, because my past is simply that-past. My home is here with this family I've built from the sc.r.a.ps of tragedy. My hospital bag is packed and sitting by the door to our room. In my purse I carry fifty dollars in an envelope to pay for the delivery. Once the baby's born, he'll come home to a place where everyone loves him.

The Air of This World SO OFTEN WE'RE told that women's stories are unimportant. After all, what does it matter what happens in the main room, in the kitchen, or in the bedroom? Who cares about the relationships between mother, daughter, and sister? A baby's illness, the sorrows and pains of childbirth, keeping the family together during war, poverty, or even in the best of days are considered small and insignificant compared with the stories of men, who fight against nature to grow their crops, who wage battles to secure their homelands, who struggle to look inward in search of the perfect man. We're told that men are strong and brave, but I think women know how to endure, accept defeat, and bear physical and mental agony much better than men. The men in my life-my father, Z.G., my husband, my father-in-law, my brother-in-law, and my son-faced, to one degree or another, those great male battles, but their hearts-so fragile-wilted, buckled, crippled, corrupted, broke, or shattered when confronted with the losses women face every day. As men, they have to put a brave face on tragedy and obstacles, but they are as easily bruised as flower petals.

If we hear that women's stories are insignificant, then we're also told that good things always come in pairs and bad things happen in threes. If two airplanes crash, we wait for a third to fall from the sky. If a motion-picture star dies, we know that another two will succ.u.mb. If we stub a toe and lose our car keys, we know that another bad thing must happen to complete the cycle. All we can hope is that it will be a bent fender, a leaky roof, or a lost job rather than a death, a divorce, or a new war.

The Louie family's tragedies arrive in a long and devastating cascade like a waterfall, like a dam burst open, like a tidal wave that breaks, destroys, and then pulls the evidence back to sea. Our men try to act strong, but it is May, Yen-yen, Joy, and I who must steady them and help them bear their pain, anguish, and shame.

IT'S THE BEGINNING of summer 1949, and the June gloom is worse than usual, especially at night. Damp fog creeps in from the ocean and hangs over the city like a soggy blanket. The doctor tells me that the pains will start any day now, but maybe the weather has lulled my baby into inactivity or maybe he doesn't want to come into a world so gray and cold when he is surrounded by warmth where he is. I don't worry. I stay at home and wait.

Tonight Vern and Joy keep me company. Vern hasn't been feeling well lately, so he's asleep in his room. Joy has just one more week of fifth grade. From where I sit at the dining table, I can see her curled up on the couch and frowning. She doesn't like practicing her times tables or seeing how fast she can complete the pages of long division her teacher has given her to increase her speed and accuracy.

I look back down at the newspaper. Today I've returned to it again and again, believing and then refusing to believe what I've read. Civil war is tearing apart my home country. Mao Tse-tung's Red Army has been pushing across China as steadily and as relentless as the j.a.panese once did. In April, his troops seized control of Nanking. In May, he grabbed Shanghai. I remember the revolutionaries from the cafes I used to frequent with Z.G. and Betsy. I remember how Betsy used to get more riled up than they did, but for them to take over the country? Sam and I have talked a lot about this. His family were peasants. They had nothing. If they had lived, they would have had everything to gain from a Communist system, but I came from the bu-er-ch'iao-ya-bourgeois cla.s.s. If my parents were still alive, they'd be suffering. Here, in Los Angeles, no one knows what will happen, but we hide our worries behind forced smiles, no-meaning words, and a constant false face presented to Occidentals, who are far more terrified of the Communists than we are.

I go to the kitchen to make tea. I'm standing in front of the sink, filling the teakettle, when I feel a rush of wetness down my legs. This is it! My water's finally broken. Grinning, I look down, but what I see running down my legs and pooling on the floor is not water but blood. The fear that grips me starts somewhere in that down-below area and comes all the way up to my heart, which pounds in my chest. But this is like a small tremor compared with what happens next. A contraction wraps from my back to my belly b.u.t.ton and pushes down with such ferocity that I think the baby will fall out in one fast whoosh. That doesn't happen. I don't even know if that could happen. But when I reach under my belly and pull up, more liquid gushes down my legs. Squeezing my thighs together, I shuffle to the kitchen door and call to my daughter.

"Joy, go find your auntie." I hope May's in her office and not out with the studio people she entertains to keep her business connections strong. "If she's not in her office, go to the Chinese Junk. She likes to meet people there for dinner."

"Ah, Mom-"

"Now! Go now."

She looks at me. She can see only my head peeking out of the kitchen. For this I'm thankful. Still, my face must betray something, because she doesn't try to fight me as she usually does. As soon as she leaves the apartment, I grab dish towels and press them between my legs. I sit back in my chair and grip the armrests to keep from screaming every time another contraction hits. I know they're coming too fast. I know something is terribly wrong.

When Joy returns with May, my sister takes one look at me, grabs my daughter before she can see anything, and pulls her out of sight.

"Go to the cafe. Find your father. Tell him to meet us at the hospital."

Joy leaves, and my sister comes to my side. Creamy red lipstick has turned her mouth into an undulating sea flower. Eyeliner widens her eyes. She wears an off-the-shoulder dress of periwinkle satin that hugs her body as closely as a cheongsam. I smell gin and steak on her breath. She looks in my face for a moment, then lifts my skirt. She tries not to reveal anything that will be less than a comfort, but I know her too well. Her head tilts as she takes in the blood-soaked towels. She sucks a tiny bit of her lip into her mouth and holds it between her right front tooth and the tip of her tongue. She smoothes my skirt carefully back over my knees.

"Can you walk to my car, or do you want me to call an ambulance?" she asks, her voice as calm as if she's asking if I prefer her pink hat or the blue one with the ermine trim.

I don't want to be any trouble, and I don't like to waste money. "Let's go in your car, so long as you don't mind the mess."

"Vern," May calls. "Vern, I need you." He doesn't answer, and May goes down the hall to get him. They come back a minute or so later. The boy-husband's hair is tousled and his clothes wrinkled from sleep. When he sees me, he starts to whimper.

"You take one side," May instructs, "I'll take the other."

Together they help me up, and we walk downstairs. My sister's grip is strong, but Vern feels like he's crumbling under my weight. There's some kind of fiesta on the Plaza tonight, and people pull away when they see me with my hand pressing something between my legs and my sister and Vern holding me up. No one likes to see a pregnant woman; no one likes to see such private business made public. May and Vern put me in the backseat of her car, and then she drives me the few blocks to the French Hospital. She parks in the porte cochere and runs inside for help. I stare out the window at the lights that illuminate the parking area. I breathe slowly, methodically. My stomach sits on my hands. It feels heavy and still. I remind myself that my baby is an Ox, just like his father. Even as a child, the Ox has willpower and inner stamina. I tell myself that my son is following his nature right now, but I'm very afraid.

Another contraction, the worst one yet.

May returns to the car with a nurse and a man, both dressed in white. They shout orders, put me on a gurney and wheel me into the hospital as fast as they can. May stays by my side, staring down at me, talking to me. "Don't worry. Everything will be fine. Having a baby is painful in order to show how serious a thing life is."

I grasp the metal bars on the sides of the gurney and grind my teeth. Sweat drenches my forehead, my back, my chest, and I shiver from cold.

The last thing my sister says as I'm wheeled into the delivery room is "Fight for me, Pearl. Fight to live like you did before."

My baby son comes out, but he never breathes the air of this world. The nurse wraps him in a blanket and brings him to me. He has long lashes, a high nose, and a tiny mouth. While I hold my son, staring into his lonely face, the doctor works on me. Finally, he stands up and says, "We need to perform surgery, Mrs. Louie. We're going to put you under." When the nurse takes the baby away, I know I'll never see him again. Tears run down my face as a mask is put over my nose and mouth. I'm grateful for the blackness that comes.

I OPEN MY eyes. My sister sits by my bed. The remnants of her red lipstick are just a stain. The eyeliner has muddied her face. Her luxurious periwinkle dress looks tired and wrinkled. But she's still beautiful, and in my mind I'm transported to another time when my sister was with me in a hospital room. I sigh, and May takes my hand.

"Where is Sam?" I ask.

"He's with the family. They're down the hall. I can get them for you."

I want my husband badly, but how can I face him? May you die sonless-the worst insult you can give.

The doctor comes in to check on me. "I don't know how you carried the baby as long as you did," he says. "We almost lost you."

"My sister is very strong," May says. "She's been through worse than this. She'll have another baby."

The doctor shakes his head. "I'm afraid she won't be able to have another child." He turns to look at me. "You're lucky you have your daughter."

May squeezes my hand confidently. "The doctors told you that before and look what happened. You and Sam can try again."

I think these are among the worst words I've ever heard. I want to scream, I've lost my baby! How can my sister not know what I'm feeling? How can she not understand what it is to have lost this person who's been swimming inside me for nine months, whom I've loved with my whole heart, whom I've steeped with so many hopes? But May's words are not the worst I can hear.

"I'm afraid that won't be possible." The doctor covers the horror of his words with his strange lo fan cheerfulness and rea.s.suring smile. "We took out everything."

I can't bear to cry in front of this man. I focus my eyes on my jade bracelet. All these years and for all the years after I die, it will remain unchanged. It will always be hard and cold--just a piece of stone. Yet for me it is an object that ties me to the past, to people and places that are gone forever. Its continued perfection serves as a physical reminder to keep living, to look to the future, to cherish what I have. It reminds me to endure. I'll live one morning after another, one step after another, because my will to continue is so strong. I tell myself these things and I tamp steel around my heart to cover my sorrow, but they don't help me when the family comes into the room.