Wang Zi Yu's birthday

 Wang blowing out her candles

 TingTing in the dress and bow we brought her from the US

 Me and Wang

TingTing and Anson

 It was when we were walking down the street together toward the bakery that I longed for it. I missed her company. I wouldn’t move back to Tianjin for anything, under the current circumstances, but I felt nostalgic for that feeling of walking together, quietly. We were on our way to the bakery to buy her a birthday cake and it was the first time that day that she and I had been alone together. As we walked together I looked into the tiny shops that instantly redefined my perception of a “hole-in-the-wall.” We passed racks of cheap pajamas and lingerie, boxes with strange tubes and toilet parts, and stands of odd fruit. The bakery was tiny and cramped, but clean and new. As we climbed the two steps to the entrance she pleaded over her shoulder to me, “Let’s get a small one.” The bakery boasted only one cake at the bottom of the case, topped with glazed fruit, whipped cream frosting, and chocolate curls. “There’s only one,” she pointed. It wasn’t small but the price was right at 80 RMB. As the baker packed it up for us, I perused the pastry cases. I chose out a pain-au-chocolate and a croissant for Dad: a thank you gift for lending us the car and thoughtfully filling it with gas before our trip. She carried the cake box suspended by a ribbon. As she walked I slid the paper birthday crown on her head from behind. I had fastened it too tightly so that it was too small for her head, and it popped off and fell to the ground. I sheepishly mumbled, “太小。” She picked it up and held it on her head with one hand as she walked.

We were standing between the condom rack and the ice-cream case, smiling and waiting for Paul to snap our picture. “茄子！” (Eggplant!) she exclaimed as I equivalently smiled “Cheese!” She stood in front of the cake, its long spindly candles waving their hot flames, her hands pressed together at her lips, as if in prayer, as she wished. Her slick black hair bunched under the paper crown and fell across her acned forehead. Her glasses obscured her eyes, but tears ran over her cheeks and down the channels by her nose. I wondered what she was wishing for, what she had left to wish for. I felt that I had done all in my power to fulfill her wishes, humble and sweet as they were, and pleased at having the privilege of being the only person to have thrown her a birthday party. Her first birthday party we had celebrated together two years ago. The gift I had given her she proudly wore on her wrist today, a valuable pure white jade bracelet that had been a gift to me. As I served the cake, she stood at her sausage shop window, selling her fine sausages to a customer, still proudly wearing her birthday crown. We had proven her right. Her American expatriate friends did love her dearly and had come all the way from Beijing to see her, only her, especially her. The shopkeeper, her landlord, austerely observed the scene, graciously allowing us to use the ice-cream case as a serving table for the cake. I bought a package of tissues as thanks to the shopkeeper for allowing us to stage the party in her store. The night was falling fast, so our family packed into the car. She watched us pull into the bumpy road, and around the corner out of sight.