Free Homesick by Jean Fritz

had her fingernails cut yesterday,” my mother said.
    That was wonderful news, I thought. If her fingernails were growing, the rest of her must be hurrying up too. I leaned over the basket to see.
    â€œWould you like to hold her?” my mother said.
    I had never supposed that they would trust me to hold her. I sat in a chair and my father placed her gently in my arms. She didn’t cry. She just looked up at me and I looked down at her. I’m so lucky, I thought. Who would have dreamed I would be so lucky?
    When I went back to the house, I told Lin Nai-Nai about it. The next morning at breakfast I was telling the Jordans when one of the servants came in with a note and gave it to my father. He tore it open and as he read, his shoulders slumped. When he looked up from the note, there was emptiness in his eyes.
    â€œMiriam died last night,” he said. “They don’t know exactly why.” He pushed back his chair. “I must go right down to the hospital.”
    I didn’t recognize my voice when I spoke. “Will you tell Mother?”
    â€œShe knows.”
    â€œBut I thought—” I didn’t go on. I thought something awful would happen to my mother if she were even a little bit upset. I was afraid that now she might break in two. Mr. Jordan went out of the house with my father and Mrs. Jordan put her arms around me. I think she expected me to cry, but I didn’t feel like crying. I felt numb. Wooden. Oh, I should have known, I told myself. It was too good to be true. I should have known.
    Later that morning my father took me to see Mother. She was lying white-faced in bed and she put up her arms to hug me, but she didn’t say a word about Miriam. It seemed to me that I would never dare say Miriam’s name to my mother for fear of what it might do to her.
    In the afternoon Lin Nai-Nai came to me with a little picnic basket in her hand. “We’ll go to the bluebells,” she said. “That will be good for you.”
    Still wooden, I followed her. We sat down by the pool and she spread out the picnic. Almond cookies too—my favorite. I tried to eat but I couldn’t.
    â€œCry,” Lin Nai-Nai said. “Put your head down,” she patted her lap, “and cry. It’s the only way.”
    â€œI don’t feel like crying. I don’t feel anything.” But suddenly I did feel. Not grief. Anger. It flooded through me. I was furious. At first I couldn’t figure out whom I was furious with, but then I knew. I was mad at Dr. Carhart. I picked a daisy and began ripping off the petals. Who did he think he was? What did he know? Standing up in a pulpit and saying death was a glory! Nothing to be sad about! What kind of glory could it be for a little baby who wouldn’t know if she was in a dark tunnel or not? I took a bite of hard-boiled egg and chewed it furiously. I ate my whole lunch that way. In a rage. Then we went back to the house.
    That night I tried to write to my grandmother but no words came. It would be weeks and weeks before she’d know that Miriam had died. In fact, she was probably still getting used to her being born. She was still happy. I crumpled the paper.
    We had a funeral for Miriam in the living room. My mother couldn’t leave the hospital, of course, but my father and the Jordans had invited a few friends. The tiny white coffin was set on a table. There was a wreath of flowers on it but no bluebells. I ran out and picked some bluebells and put them in the center of the wreath before the service started. We sang hymns but I didn’t sing. There was no song in me. The minister from the Kuling church read the twenty-fourth psalm and said a prayer, but he didn’t mention glory, thank goodness. Then because Miriam was to be buried in Hankow, two coolies carried the little coffin down the long narrow path. Standing alone with my father on the porch, I thought I had never seen anything as sad as that tiny