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couldbarely move. She was so heavily sedated, she had difficulty keeping her eyes open.
    “You’re here,” she whispered weakly when she recognized my mother. “Where is Maomao?”
    Mama held her hand and told her I was at home, exhausted after the long train ride. “She’s asleep in your bed, Mother,” Mama said, her voice breaking.
    “I want to see her,” Grandma said.
    “I’ll bring her tomorrow,” Mama promised.
    “And how is she? Does she miss Grandma?”
    “She cries for you every night.”
    “Does she have enough to eat?”
    “Yes, Mother, she does. She has grown. She is healthy.”
    Mama shared the news of Papa’s restoration as a teacher. Grandma was relieved. Mama said that her sister could not come from Changsha because she had given birth to a big healthy baby boy. Grandma smiled.
    The day was hot and humid. The hospital had no air-conditioning or electric fans. A nurse suggested that Mama buy ice for her mother in a nearby market.
    Mama left for a short time and brought back a big bowl of chipped ice. She held each piece of ice to Grandma’s lips and touched it to her forehead and her arms. Mama stayed with Grandma all afternoon and evening, returning to the street two more times for ice.
    At about four in the morning, Second Uncle arrived and took Mama’s place at Grandma’s side. I was up before anyone else that morning. I dressed and brushed my hair and washed my face and waited for Mama to get up.
    Second Uncle came in the door. His eyes were swollen and red. He noticed me sitting with my doll in the early-morning light. He passed us without saying a word and hurried to the room where Mama was sleeping. There was a brief exchange and suddenly Mama screamed, “No! No! No!”
    Others in the house awakened, and before long, there was crying from every room. I found Mama slumped on the edge of the bed, holding her head in her hands, sobbing.
    “Can we see Grandma now?” I asked.
    “No,” Mama said. “We can’t. Grandma passed away this morning.”
    I did not understand what “passed away” meant. Mama pulled me to her and held me tightly and sobbed.
    I did not know what death meant. I was unaware of its finality. I’d heard Papa say to Mama that he’d “returned from the dead” when he came back from the concentration camp. I believed, therefore, that death was a temporary condition of separation. I cried with everyone else. But I hoped that soon there would be no more tears and I’d see Grandma, that she’d return from the hospital and hold me and play games with me. I waited for that day. Only slowly did I realize that I would never see her again.
    A memorial service was held. We learned that my auntie in Changsha had given birth to a girl. My uncles and aunts thought this might have disappointed Grandma, which is why Mama had told her it was a boy. But I knew she would have loved another granddaughter. I knew it in my heart.
    We returned to Hefei in late August. I resumed my chores in the household and was enrolled again in the child care center. Mama went back to work and Grandmother cared for my younger brother. Papa taught his classes in the university. Yiding went to school. I soon came to believe I lived in a secure world and that day followed day and season followed season without unusual disruption or disappointment. I thought if I did what was asked of me and did it well, if I was a good and obedient daughter, that the world could be a good place, even without Grandma in it.

9
    In the summer of 1965, a few weeks after my seventh birthday, I began to suffer from frequent severe headaches. My joints ached and I lost my appetite. For over a week, I endured these discomforts and afflictions without complaint.
    One warm afternoon, while I played with Xiaolan in the sandpit near our apartment, I was struck by a throbbing headache so severe that it made me dizzy. I pressed my hands to my head to make the pain stop. I was terrified and began to cry. Xiaolan took my hand and