When Dick came the next time, Nan showed him Neary's letter. After reading it, Dick put it on the table and grinned mischievously. "What?" Nan asked. "What do you make of it?" "I think he's an old lech." "You mean he's gay?"
"No, everybody knows Neary is an inveterate womanizer." "Zen why did you smile like zat?"
"He remembered you wrong and took you for another person." "I don't get it."
"Remember Emily Choi, the Korean girl at the bar? He must've gotten you and her mixed up."
Blushing, Nan muttered, "Zat's ridiculous." He recalled the young woman, who had indeed had a sweet face and also bright, smiling eyes.
"Look, your name Nan must have suggested to him a female, like Nancy and Nanny and Nanette. As a matter of fact, Nan is a diminutive of Anne and Anna."
"Actually, Nan means 'male.' My name means 'martial man.' "
"But Neary doesn't know Chinese."
"I see. He just wants to sleep wiz me, right?" Nan burst out laughing hysterically.
Dick looked startled, staring at his friend, whose face was distorted by the laugh. When Nan had stopped, Dick said, "Forget about this letter, okay? You can always show me your poems, and I'll tell you what I think honestly."
"I will do zat, sanks." Nan felt better, though his cheeks were still twitching. He remembered that when he was at Brandeis, he had once received a small package containing a pair of tampons mailed to him as a target consumer. Over the years he had run into many Chinese who had transformed themselves into Barry, or Harry, or
Mary, or Larry, or Carrie, and he had wondered whether he should have changed his name too, but he had always chosen not to.
Having translated the Blue Stars article on Bao, Nan mailed it to his friend. To his surprise, Cathay Herald, a Chinese-language newspaper circulating in Tennessee, Georgia, and Florida, published the article two weeks later. The translator's name wasn't given; that bothered Nan a little. He was also annoyed by the author's new tone, which had been altered quite a bit from the English, more formal and more authoritative now. Evidently, either Bao or the editor had tampered with his translation. In the space of a month the same piece was reprinted in a magazine called Art World. Obviously Bao had been busy promoting himself. Why did he take his student's article so seriously? The original publication was only in a new, obscure journal. Why should Bao be so obsessed with such an amateur piece of writing? He was too vain. No wonder he couldn't concentrate on real work.
Then Nan realized that in this case his friend had indulged his fraudulence more than his vanity. Bao tried to utilize the gap between the two languages-since few Chinese were familiar with the journal Blue Stars and Tim's writings, they could be misled into believing that it was a magazine as reputable as any major Chinese-language publication and that Tim Dullington must be an established art critic. Art World is a top-quality magazine printed outside China, so the transferring of the original article into such a major publication would present Bao in a different light, as if he were already a celebrity in America. In short, the whole misleading process helped to raise Bao's image to a higher level to the Chinese audience.
It was clever chicanery. Bao would have been better off, Nan thought, if he had spent the time working on his art.
A few days later Nan received a painting from Bao, a bizarre piece in which Sakyamuni, the founder of Buddhism, was riding a white horse and leading a batch of his disciples. It was signed as a gift for Nan. Nan didn't like it because it looked dark and muddy, lacking in life. Without his friend's explanation in the note, he could hardly have figured out what it was about. Still, the piece was an accomplished painter's work, so he was glad to have it. Then the thought came to him that Bao must have meant to pay him for his translation with this painting and wanted him to keep mum about the original article. This realization further dimmed his interest in the gift, and he didn't even bother to write back to thank Bao.
PINGPING'S diabetes was under control through her low-carb diet. By late June she had been pregnant for five months. Dr. Walker, her obstetrician at the Norcross Medical Center, suggested that Pingping go to the headquarters of their medical group in Dunwoody to be examined regularly, since that clinic had more advanced equipment and eventually the baby would be delivered there. It would be better for the Wus to acquaint themselves with the people at that place. Nan phoned the clinic and made an appointment with Dr. Smith.
On Friday morning Nan and Pingping arrived at Dunwoody Circle at nine. The clinic was almost like a small hospital and occupied an entire four-story building. Before meeting with the doctor, Pingping was to go through a comprehensive checkup, including an ultrasound, a urine test, and a blood test. Accompanied by Nan, she was ushered into a dim room with a single window covered by teal curtains. She lay down on a sloping bed, as she was told.
A tall nurse with blond hair stepped in and said to Pingping, "I'm going to do an ultrasound for you, okay?"
"Sure."
"Happy about having a baby again?" "Yes." Pingping smiled faintly.
Nan was sitting on a low-backed chair in a corner and watched the nurse putting on a pair of latex gloves. She then rubbed a bit of gel on Pingping's abdomen and began massaging the lubricated area with the black transducer, turning the thing slowly clockwise. As she proceeded, her mouth fell ajar. Nan gazed at the sonogram and saw the shape of the tiny baby but not the twinkling star they had last seen at the Norcross Medical Center.
"I can't find the baby's heartbeat," said the nurse. A mournful expression widened her face as her eyes dropped. Silence filled the room.
Nan was staggered, choking and motionless, his eyes still fastened on the dark screen. A few seconds later the woman asked Pingping, "D'you understand what I mean?"
Pingping nodded without a word. Nan 's heart contracted as if a hand were tugging and twisting it. He finally stood up but still didn't know what to say.
"I'm so sorry," said the nurse. "You should go see Dr. Smith right away."
So they skipped the urine and blood tests and went to the doctor's office. Dr. Smith, a portly black man with an amiable face and a graying mustache, said to Pingping in a soft voice, "I'm sorry about the loss. This often happens with women your age. It's hard to explain why nature does this."
Nan felt sobs rising in his throat but he choked them down. He glanced at his wife, who somehow looked emotionless, though more pallid than a moment before. She seemed too benumbed to say anything and just nodded at Dr. Smith as he was telling her to go home and wait for her obstetrician to call. "Dr. Walker will let you know what to do next," he said.
The Wus thanked him and left for the garage.
On the way back they were silent, their car zooming down the bypass. In the blue and cloudless sky, a blimp was sailing, dragging along a Coca-Cola ad. Nan was stunned by the sudden descent of death in the family. Now and again he felt a wave of nausea surging in his chest, but he was driving carefully, his hands in the ten and two positions on the steering wheel. His mind couldn't focus on any thought, yet he tried to remain calm and avoid saying anything that might trigger an outburst from his grieving wife. Meanwhile, Ping-ping looked distant, her face stony, as though she were oblivious to things around her. Before they reached the junction of I-85, she said finally, "Let's go to the Korean supermarket."
"Why?" He was amazed she felt up to doing some shopping.
"I promised Taotao to get garlic stems for him."
Nan got off I-85 and pulled onto Buford Highway. In the half-filled parking lot before the store, a pigeon dropped a load on the door of their van, and Nan didn't bother to wipe off the two white stains. As he and his wife headed for the entrance, he wanted to hold her arm to support her, but he couldn't do that, hardly able to lift his own hands. His legs were so weary that he was afraid they might give way at any moment. He had to exert himself to follow her.
ONCE HOME, Pingping broke down, sobbing wretchedly and blaming herself for the loss of the child. She went on saying, "Our baby sacrificed herself for me, because she was afraid I couldn't survive the childbirth. She didn't want to put my life in danger." The more she raved, the harder she cried.
Nan could no longer control himself either and wept too. He felt a numbing pain sinking deeper and deeper in him and squeezing every ounce of his strength out of him. If only he had thought of the possibility of such a loss. If only he hadn't raised his hopes. Now his world was upside down.
Pingping lit two squat white candles and placed them on the bar table in the living room, on either side of a large yellow chrysanthemum stuck in a cylindrical vase. Not absolutely sure of the result of the sonogram, Nan phoned Dr. Walker at the medical center. The bad news had already reached there, and the obstetrician wanted Pingping to come that very afternoon for another checkup, but he told Nan that the accuracy rate of the ultrasound was more than ninety-nine percent. Nan called the Gold Wok and asked Niyan and Shubo to tend the restaurant for the rest of the day. In the afternoon he took his wife to see Dr. Walker. The result of the reexamination was the same. Now that it was beyond any doubt that the baby was lost, the dead fetus would have to be aborted soon, for which Nan agreed to take his wife to Northlake Hospital three days later, on Monday morning.
Although she sauteed the garlic stems with slivers of pork for Taotao, Pingping couldn't help lashing out at the boy at dinner. She declared that only Nan had been good to the baby and that both Taotao and she herself had been heartless and selfish. She said to her son, "You never want baby sister. Now we lost her, you're happy." "Mom, I'm sad too," Taotao wailed.
Nan intervened, "We shouldn't blame each ahther. We have to live on, zat's what our baby wants us to do."
That evening Janet came. She had heard the bad news from Niyan. She embraced Pingping and wiped away tears from her own cheeks. "This is too cruel," she said, shaking her roundish chin. Pingping took her friend into her bedroom and showed her the clothes she had made for the baby: a miniature jacket, two bibs, a pair of woolen socks, a silk quilt, and a cotton mattress that was yet unfinished. Janet stayed until ten o'clock.
Nan wanted to inter their child in their backyard; so did Pingping. He planned to lay her down beside the large Russian swan that had died two years ago in the lake, buried under the tallest sweet gum. He had marked the spot with a brown boulder. Now they must bring their baby home after the abortion. But how? They were unsure whether there was a coffin made for such a tiny body. It was already the weekend, and the funeral home on Lawrenceville Highway was closed. Nan went to the Korean supermarket again and bought a large jewelry box. He dismantled its tiny drawers and made it empty, like a casket. He planned to take their daughter home in it, and when the funeral home was open the next week, he'd go buy a real coffin for her, which should be large enough to contain this makeshift pall. Meantime, Pingping finished sewing the little cotton mattress. She made the bed for the baby inside the box with the clothing she had prepared. In a way, the interior of the container resembled a tiny, comfortable cradle.
ON MONDAY MORNING Pingping didn't eat breakfast, as the doctor had instructed. The Wus arrived at Northlake Hospital before nine o'clock. Dr. Walker wasn't there yet, but a Filipino nurse in scrubs led Pingping into a curtained area in a large room. Pingping undressed and lay down on a gurney; then the nurse covered her with a sheet, checked her vital signs, and gave her an IV. An anesthesiologist came and began administering an anesthetic to her. He said to Nan, "My wife lost a baby last year too. It was hard. I know how you feel." As he spoke, his large Adam's apple was joggling.
Nan said, "Doctor, we would like to take our baby home."
The stumpy man looked surprised, but told him, "You should talk to her obstetrician. To my knowledge, this hasn't been done before."
Pingping said in a frightened voice, "We want her stay with us forever."
"I understand."
The man's eyes dimmed, and he turned and hurried out. Nan kissed Pingping and said, "Don't be scared. Everything will be all right."
She nodded, smiling a little. Then the nurse unlocked the wheels of the gurney with her toe, pulled it into the hallway, turned it around, and pushed it away. As they were moving toward the operating room, Pingping still fastened her eyes on Nan as if eager to pull him along. His stomach lurched, though he forced a smile, waving to assure her that she'd be fine.
Nan was pacing up and down along a wall in the lobby with a canvas bag containing the casket slung over his shoulder. He was worried about his wife and prayed that she would come out of the operation safely. At last the warty-faced Dr. Walker appeared and hurried up to Nan. He said in an adenoidal voice, "We have everything in place. Pingping will be all right." But when Nan said he wanted to take the baby's body home, the obstetrician looked away. His blue eyes were downcast, but then they turned back to look at Nan. Dr. Walker told him, "I can feel your pain, but the baby would look very messy, an awful sight." "Can you let us have her?"
"I have no objection to that, only because people usually don't do this. In any case, don't worry about the baby. We have to focus on the mother now."
That was true, so Nan didn't press further. Dr. Walker headed away and disappeared past the red-brown door to the operating section.
Nan resumed pacing the floor while thinking about the obstetrician's words. The thought grew clear to him that the baby would be shapeless, maybe torn to pieces in the operation. That might be why people didn't take the fetus home after an abortion. All the same, he hoped Dr. Walker could let him keep his daughter's body, broken or intact. If only Nan had given him the casket. Yet he didn't blame himself for not having handed it to Dr. Walker, who might have refused to take it even if Nan had insisted. The doctor was right- what was at stake now was Pingping's safety. Her life might indeed be in danger. That thought frightened Nan. He tried to imagine how she was suffering on the operating table. Were the doctors using all the blunt metal instruments to open her and tear out the dead fetus? Could the anesthetic they'd given her suppress all the pain? That was unlikely. However effective the drug was, she must have felt she was being butchered.