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“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 reassuring 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.
Yen-yen’s face sags like a sack of flour. Father’s eyes are as dull and dark as lumps of coal. Vern takes the news physically, wilting before the rest of us like a cabbage after a terrible storm. But Sam … Oh, Sam. That night ten years ago when he confessed his life to me, he said he didn’t need a son, but these last months I’ve seen how much he wanted—needed—a son who would carry on his name, who would venerate him as an ancestor, who would live all the dreams that Sam has but will never achieve. I’d given my husband hope, and now I’ve destroyed it.
May pushes the others out of the room so Sam and I can be alone. But my husband—this man with his iron fan, who looks so strong, who can lift and carry anything, who can absorb humiliation upon humiliation—cannot spread open his chest to bear my pain.
/> “While we were waiting …” His voice trails off. He clasps his hands behind him and paces back and forth, struggling to maintain his composure. At last he tries again. “While we were waiting, I asked a doctor to examine Vernon. I told the doctor my brother has weak breath and thin blood,” Sam explains, as though our Chinese ideas would mean anything to the doctor.
I want to bury my face in his warm and fragrant chest, absorb the strength of his iron fan, hear the steadiness of his heartbeat, but he refuses to look at me.
He stops at the foot of the bed and stares at a spot somewhere above my head. “I should go back to them. Make the doctors do their tests on Vern. Maybe there’s something they can do.”
This, even though they couldn’t save our son. Sam leaves the room, and I cover my face with my hands. I’ve failed in the worst way a woman can, while my husband, to bury his grief, has shifted his concern to the weakest member of our family. My in-laws don’t come back, and even Vern stays away. This is common practice when a woman has lost a precious son, but it hurts me nevertheless.
May does everything for me. She sits with me when I cry. She helps me to the toilet. When my breasts become painfully swollen and the nurse comes in to squeeze out the milk and throw it away, my sister pushes her out of the room and does the job herself Her fingers are gentle, loving, and tender. I miss my husband; I need my husband. But if Sam has abandoned me when I’ve needed him the most, then May has abandoned Vern. On my fifth day in the hospital, May finally tells me what’s happened.
“Vern has the soft-bone disease,” she says. “Here they call it tuberculosis of the bone. This is why he’s been shrinking.” She’s always been loose with her tears, but not this time. The way she fights to keep them inside tells me just how much she’s come to love the boy-husband.
“What does this mean?”
“That we’re dirty, that we live like pigs.”
My sister’s voice is as bitter as I’ve ever heard it. We grew up believing that the soft-bone disease and its sister, the blood-lung disease, were markers of poverty and filth. It was considered the most shameful of all the diseases, more terrible than the ones transmitted by prostitutes. This is even worse than my losing a son, because it is a visual and very public message to our neighbors—and to the lo fan—that we are poor, polluted, and unclean.
“It usually attacks children, and they die as their spines collapse,” she continues. “But Vern’s not a child, so the doctors can’t say how long he’ll live. They only know that his pain will give way to numbness, weakness, and finally paralysis. He’ll be in bed for the rest of his life.”
“Yen-yen? Father?”
May shakes her head, and her tears break free. “He’s their little boy.”
“And Joy?”
“I’m taking care of her.” Sadness fills my sister’s voice. I understand too clearly what my losing the baby means to her. I will return as Joy’s full-time mother. Maybe I should feel some sense of triumph about this, but I don’t. Instead, I swim in our shared losses.
Later that night Sam comes to talk. He stands at the foot of my bed, looking awkward. His cheeks are gray and his shoulders droop from bearing the weight of two tragedies.
“I thought the boy might be sick. I recognized some of the symptoms from my father. My brother was born with a no-good fate. He never hurt anyone and has only been kind to us, and yet there was no way to change his destiny.”
He says these words about Vern, but he could be speaking about any of us.
THESE TWIN TRAGEDIES bind us together as a family in ways none of us could have imagined. May, Sam, and Father go back to work; sorrow and despair hang around their necks like cangues. Yen-yen stays in the apartment to take care of me and Vern. (The doctor is very much against this. “Vern will be better off in a sanatorium or some other institution,” he tells us, but if Chinese are treated badly right on the street, where everyone can see, how can we possibly let him go to a place behind gates and closed doors?) Paper partners fill in for us at China City. But fate is not done with us.
