Chapter 2

Wind rushed into the courtyard from every direction.

Howling, it charged.

Crash!

The old window shattered in an instant, spraying glass across the floor. The obedient wind swept an iron bucket in from the yard and dropped it squarely over the charcoal brazier.

I let out a breath and turned to Grandma.

Even after that succession of deafening noises, she did not stir. She slept on in silence.

Fortunately, Grandma’s neighbor had come outside to sweep the snow and heard the commotion. Carrying her broom, she came to investigate. Her face changed at once, and she scrambled through the broken window, trembling.

“Xiuhua! Xiuhua!”

An ambulance came wailing toward us.

Grandma was taken to the hospital. Drop after drop of fluid flowed into her veins. As the hands of the clock crawled on, she finally opened her eyes.

Her gaze had not yet focused, but she was already smiling and reaching out as if to embrace someone.

Seeing her awake, the neighbor began to fuss. “Xiuhua, you nearly scared me to death! You have to ventilate the room when you burn charcoal for heat. How could you not know that?”

Grandma’s smile froze.

She turned in confusion and saw her neighbor sitting beside her.

She closed her eyes, then opened them once more.

Nothing had changed.

She was still in a world of disinfectant, hospital beds, and blue-and-white striped gowns.

In despair, she shut her eyes again.

Visitors came in wave after wave. Friends and relatives, still badly shaken, scolded her. How had she grown less sensible with age? Burning charcoal with the windows shut—did she not know how dangerous that was?

Grandma offered no explanation. She merely handed them bananas or apples. “Have one.”

Only when a lively little boy came to visit and called her Great-aunt did she smile. She stroked his head and patted the edge of the bed. “Come sit.”

The boy pointed to the photograph beside her pillow. “Who’s that?”

One snowy winter, a grandmother and granddaughter had borrowed a neighbor’s camera and taken a family portrait with only the two of them.

The older one had lost her husband and daughter in an earthquake. The younger had lost her father while she was still an infant, then later lost her mother too.

They should have been the two loneliest, most pitiable people in the world.

Yet that Lunar New Year’s Eve, because of this photograph, they had been happy.

The grandnephew’s eyes were guileless. His finger landed squarely on the smiling face of Grandma’s little one.

Grandma fell silent for a moment. “That’s your older cousin, Cancan.”

“Then why doesn’t she come visit you?”

His parent smacked him hard on the bottom. “Quiet! Eat your apple. Why do you ask so many questions?”

Grandma sank into another long silence.

Only when the family rose to leave did she look up and tell the boy, “Cancan will come see me. She just hasn’t found the road home yet.”

Outside the door, Grandma’s neighbor stood holding a thermos and quietly wiped her eyes.

Grandma tried to repay the woman for her medical bills, but her neighbor refused. She pulled Grandma aside and asked, “Xiuhua, did you light that charcoal on purpose?”

Grandma smiled without answering.

Her neighbor grew frantic. “You’ve lost your mind!”

Grandma poured her a glass of water. “Have a drink.”

Her neighbor seized her hand. “Stay alive. Cancan might not be dead. You may live to see her come home!”

Grandma answered calmly, “Cancan isn’t coming back.”

The north wind roared beyond the window. Great flakes of snow floated down like ashes from paper money burned for the dead.

Grandma blinked against the sting in her eyes and added, “It was all my fault.”