Chapter 2

My mind went blank with a buzz.

Last week, I overheard my husband, Arnold Lawrence, on the balcony, lowering his voice into the phone: late-stage lung cancer, three months at most.

But when I asked him about it, he said I'd misheard, and told me to stop imagining things.

If his mother really did have a terminal illness, then all of it finally made sense.

I was about to message that anonymous account when the lock rattled at the door.

Arnold was home from work, a bag of pork ribs in one hand.

"Mom said you need to build your strength back up, so she had me pick these up."

He dropped the ribs into the fridge, his eyes sweeping across the half-full cup on the coffee table. "Where's the cup Mom gave you? Why haven't you finished it?"

My stomach dropped.

"It was too hot. I'm letting it cool."

Arnold frowned, and the expression was exactly like his mother's.

"Wendy, Mom's making a huge sacrifice for you. Don't be so ungrateful."

He crossed the room, picked up that specially made cup. The water inside had gone cold, a grayish-white film floating on the surface.

"I'm going to watch you drink it now."

I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms.

"Arnold, that cup makes my skin crawl. How am I supposed to drink from it?"

"That's Mom's love and care! You think she'd ever hurt you?" Arnold's voice shot up. "She raised me, gave me everything, and now she's giving up her own life for that baby in your belly. You can't even drink a mouthful of water?"

I drew in a deep breath and took the cup.

"I'll drink it, but I'm nauseous right now. Can it wait a little?"

Arnold stared at me, then suddenly reached out and wiped the corner of my mouth.

"No tricks. Mom said she's checking by video every night."

He turned to go shower, and the second he was gone I poured the rest of the water into the trash.

I opened my messages and jabbed at that anonymous account.

"Are you there? What do I do now?"

The reply came instantly:

"Bone-and-womb rebirth needs a blood relative beside you to guide the way. Doesn't your husband sleep on your left side every night?"

A cold went through me.

Yes. For the past two weeks Arnold had turned strangely attentive, insisting every night on sleeping pressed against my left side. Was he in on it too?

"The left side is the yang meridian. Sleeping there, he's guiding the way for the thing inside your belly."

"Now listen. Within seven days, you have to make another pregnant body take in the water from that cup. Otherwise, once the seven days are up, the child in your belly won't be yours anymore."

I didn't sleep all night.

Early the next morning, I said I was craving fresh farm eggs and got Arnold to drive me out to my cousin's pig farm in the country.

Arnold didn't want to, but his mother said over the phone: "Let her go, let her get some fresh air. It's good for the baby. And don't forget the cup."

Like she was terrified I'd run.

The pig farm was out in the suburbs, and my cousin happened to be away on business, so she'd asked me to look after the place for two days.

In the pen, a black-and-white sow lay sprawled and lazy, her belly so huge it nearly touched the ground. She was about to give birth any day.

I crouched down, looking at the sow's round, swollen belly, and an idea came to me.

"You'll do."

I washed out the cup Hope had given me, filled it again with warm water, and set it beside the stone trough in front of the sow.

The sow sniffed at it, then, of all things, stuck out her tongue and started lapping.

In no time the half cup of water was gone.

Then I went over to the pottery studio next door and fired a cup close enough to match.

I quickly recorded a video of myself drinking and sent it to Hope.

"Mom, I brought it out to the country to drink. The air's good here, good for the baby."

Hope shot back a smiley face right away: "Good girl. Seven days straight, don't miss a single one."