“Sure.”

I wrote: “This is how Mel and Sally spend their time in Florida, swimming and getting fat. We hope you are too.”

Mel was hunched over, scrawling something complicated to Douglas. The errant hair like an exclamation point was standing up. I reached over and brushed it down. “Your gas station lady won’t recognize you, you’re so dark.”

“Nothing compared to you.”

“I could stay here forever.”

“I know what you mean, honey.”

“What’s going to happen? I mean, when we get back.”

“I’m going to summer school and you’re going back to New York City to your advertising job.”

“What about us?”

“We’ll talk.”

I knew, then, for certain, that it was over. Something was over.

After a while I asked: “What are you telling people? About the hospital, I mean.”

“The truth. It’s kind of hip to have a screw loose, don’t you think? Especially if you’re an artist.”

“Not if you’re a graphic designer.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grinned and then leaned over and whispered: “You know what I’m going to be thinking about every single second I’m on the road?”

“Yeah, right.”

“Swear on my mother’s honor. You are unquestionably the sexiest woman I have ever known.”

“Out of how many? You are so full of it.”

“Admit it, Sally. You know we’re a match.”

And it was true, driving back to my uncle and aunt’s, I wasn’t sure whether I could let him go. I had an image of us pulling up in front of the house and him asking one last time if I wanted a ride up and I’d say yes and run in and pack in two minutes and we’d be off, speeding up 1-95 where it would grow cooler and cooler, back into early spring like a time warp. Somewhere in the Carolinas we’d pick up a six-pack and check into a No-Tel motel and mess up the sheets. But he didn’t ask, and after we’d kissed good-bye he let me off at the corner and said, “I’ll miss you, honey.” As he pulled away, honking the horn wildly, I felt something extreme lift from me, and I was almost relieved, as if this were a signal that I could go on with my life, although I knew I was going to be sad later.

Uncle Richard wanted lobster, but my aunt took the menu from him and gave the waiter directions: scrod, broiled, margarine, no sauce. Uncle Richard pointed at me. “Niece, you order anything you want. Shrimp, huh? They have them delicious here, jumbo prawns, you’ll like.”

“I think I’ll have the lobster.”

My uncle leaned back, unbuttoning his vest. “So how old are you, Niece? Twenny-eight? What was I doing when I was twenny-eight? I got my accountant’s degree, thought I was a big shot. Impress your aunt, huh?”

“Ding-ah!”

“Work extra hard to impress this lady. She’s so sophisticated, from good family. I wear flashy clothes, doesn’t impress her. She wants to know how much money I have in the bank.” My uncle hoisted his glass of Perrier. “To my niece on her twenny-eighth birthday. Prosperity, long life, and good fortune.”

When our entrees came I broke off a claw of my lobster and put it on my uncle’s plate. Vertical lines appeared in Aunty Mabel’s forehead but then she said: “Okay, it’s special occasion.”

Daddy hadn’t believed in birthdays. New Year’s is everyone’s birthday, he always said. In fact we never did anything for his, which was sometime in September, I don’t even know the date. On hers Ma would get a call from Aunty Mabel. For her daughters she’d buy bakery cake, devil’s food with chocolate frosting for me, and two weeks later, strawberry cream for Marty. Every year Daddy would say the same thing: “Remember, this is not a day to celebrate yourself. This is a day to remember your mother’s pain and your father’s sacrifice.”

Ma had called just before we left the house. She wanted to know what time my flight was arriving, when she should pick me up at Connecticut Limousine. I told her I was going straight to my apartment in New York.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, happy birthday. You think I forget?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“With your sister home, maybe we can have double celebration when you get back.”

There were gifts. A package from my mother, fancy stationery, cream-colored with my name embossed: Sarah Collisson Wang, I guess to replace the dozen boxes of Sarah Wang-Acheson stationery she’d ordered for me when I got married. From my aunt and uncle, a set of Chinese calligraphy brushes in a satin box. I fingered the bristle: fox, sheep, goat. The sheep was the softest. Good for ink, of course, or watercolor.

“San zhi mao bi,” I said.

“Three Chinese brush.” Uncle Richard chuckled. “Very good.”

Nothing from my sister, but it had been years since we’d exchanged presents.

After dinner we drove into Tampa to play bingo at the Seminole reservation. Over a thousand people, mostly over the age of sixty, were seated in numbered plastic chairs at long tables with cards and good-luck charms lined up in front of them. They used monster highlighters to daub each number as it was called out. Except for the caller, it was as still as an examination room. When someone won they’d raise their hand or say “bingo” very quietly, and the whole room would go up in a sigh.

Was anyone even having fun?

Bingo at the slot machines was depressing in another way, because you could lose so much hard cash so fast. “Not your game, Niece,” Uncle Richard said finally. “Like basketball not my game. Too bad we never go back see the puppies run.”

“Next time, Uncle Richard, I promise.”

What I couldn’t tell him was that my power wouldn’t work if I tried to do it on purpose. Luck could be chased away if you took it too seriously, like those silent bingo players. The trick was to concentrate without focusing, to let yourself feel without understanding.

When we returned to the house I went out to the patio to smoke. Before lighting up I just sat there, staring into the dark, breathing the now familiar mix of jasmine and honeysuckle. Then I saw the mother armadillo. She came lumbering through the grass to the edge of the pool of kitchen light, a homely plump hunkering shape like one of those old-fashioned rag dolls where limbs, head, and torso are each a separate stuffed piece. Her tiny black elephant eyes caught the light and she squinted. I don’t think she saw me, but she must have sensed something alien because she froze before backing off into the darkness.

When I went back into my room to pack, the tiger kitten appeared out of nowhere like cats do and followed me, jumping up onto the unused bed next to the stuffed white cat. Aunty Mabel knocked at the open door. She was carrying six gemlike jars, sealed with wax and labeled. It was the calamondin made into jam.

“Here, you take. Give some to your ma-ma, too. She like sour thing.” She set the jars in a row on the bed next to the kitten, who matched them in color. I imagined my aunt bent over the stove stewing the fruit on one of those sultry afternoons Mel and I had spent in bed.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been home much lately, Aunty Mabel.”

She waved her hand. “You marry too young,” she said, as if that explained it in some way. She watched in approval as I wrapped each marmalade jar in an article of clothing as carefully as I had packed Lillith’s food sculptures in her socks. “You know, back when your ba-ba died I was so worry about you.”

“I was okay,” I said. “I had friends.”

“Friends not like family. Your ma-ma and I discuss this. What if we were in China? What if you grow up surrounded with relatives, like you’re supposed to? Maybe you both be happier, you and Marty. And your ba-ba is such a sad man. You know how his father die?”

“No.”

“He commit suicide.”

“I didn’t know that.”

My aunt was silent for a moment, and I saw from her face how difficult it was for her to say what she was about to say. “I know about this thing your ba-ba did when you were small. I know what he did, Sal-lee. Terrible.”