Since I was a child, I had also kept and treasured a large scrapbook laced carefully with red ribbons. It was my hope chest of everyday memories, of pictures and little-known episodes of the life of the ordinary Emily Chen. There was a picture of six-year-old Emily trying on cousin Betsy's snow white ballet dress, a recital program proudly listing nine-year-old Emily's piano sonata on parents' day, a photo of eleven-year-old Emily pouting during her birthday party in Lee's Garden because a hungry little boy licked her birthday cake prematurely. There were also her first poem on water lilies read on Mother's day, her pencil portrait of grandmother Lu-lu before she passed away, and the crunched-up balcony ticket to her only Chinese opera with the entire Chen clan. Such collection of mundane, casual happenings were to continue slowly and patiently, piece by piece for a lifetime, so her beloved children would one day know their mother was also loved and cherished. Then life’s transition to England caused sudden waves of ideological battles, philosophical self-examinations and daily busyness, which overwhelmed me during college. The scrapbook was soon neglected.
In the midst of the unrelenting college turmoil, Bailey came quietly and softly like a gentle autumn breeze. What I saw most endearing in Bailey was his disarming smile, as if the toils and worries of the world would simply vaporize from the sunlight of his carefree, innocuous ways. In his presence, commonplace troubles melted and I found peace. We lived the lives of an unremarkable Asian couple in Britain; time passed in rhythmic cadence and peacefully for us without need for significance. Hours were filled with the delicious sizzles of home-cooking for two, late evening strolls side-by-side in the after-dinner middle-income neighborhood, and flickering of dim lights from an old TV unit showing black-and-white rental movies. In the silence of the night while he slept, I would steal time and engrave once again my forgotten scrapbook with fresh and dear memories.
We made our first trip together to Washington DC in July during the summer of our senior year. Two foreign bodies in a strange and exciting world, a brave new beginning was anticipated as we deciphered subway maps and navigated through museums and monuments. On Independence Day, we sat restlessly on the enormous grass lawn with the anxious locals waiting for the impending fireworks. It was then Bailey noticed a small trace of blood dripping down my leg, and a look of fright permanently swept away his tranquility. He gently lifted my weakening body on his strong back and marched cautiously but heavily towards the hospital. Wrapping my arms around him tightly with all my strength, I was mesmerized by heaven's orchestra of brilliant lights red, white and blue painted on the star-sprinkled black canvas, synchronizing with the screams and awes of the people, before fading slowly and unwillingly into the night. I saw surreal images of my future family and happiness with Bailey that should have been rightfully mine if I could only be normal and healthy. As thousands of eyes continued to yearn and gaze upward at the radiant sky, we departed slowly and unnoticeably towards distant darkness and disappeared, leaving behind only a faint trail of red. I had the surgery the next day.
Days were numb and repetitive. Bailey would talk but I would not hear. The scrapbook was unwanted and covered with dust. Some days when the sun was setting, I searched beyond the rays to see if there lay hidden in the distance were the mayflowers or the white roses arching their backs towards heaven. When the moon lit the night, I searched lazily for the short-lived falling star that sprinkled almonds and rice cakes in its tail. Three months later, I found a short note from Bailey on the dining table:
"Life does not end with infertility. It is too difficult. Forgive me."
Slumped in silence on the hardwood floor, I stared blankly at the empty walls. An hour passed; the apartment grew dim. Then suddenly, it arrived menacingly like the unexpected and violent torrential rain. I cried manically, pulling tightly on my long, pitch black hair with my bare hands till they flew and scattered like needles on the floor. I screamed hysterically, crunching my toes compulsively till convulsion, digging my fingernails deep into my palms till they bled. My voice was scarred and coarse, my head was throbbing in pain, and my eyes ached from acerbic tears; I knew then that in the stillness of my cold dark apartment, no one cared to hear my cries but the apathetic cracked yellow walls. I finally exhausted myself from my wails. Another hour passed; I was wrapped by complete darkness. I found myself lighting a small fire in the kitchen sink, staring at the flickering flames changing colors from red to orange to yellow. As I methodically tore out pages from my scrapbook one at a time, each lightly coated with wetness from who-knows-where before being tossed, crackled and slowly disintegrated in the pale-blue flame, I wondered why God curses those who love dearly and feel deeply. Fairy-tale endings and happy-ever-afters are reserved for the fortunate and beautiful, while the nameless commoners wallow in anonymous misery and eventually fade away.
In the dark airplane cabin, only flickering lights from the centre screen showing a run-of-the-mill Hollywood melodrama disturb my weary eyes. After a lukewarm pedestrian dinner obsequiously served, most travelers have retired into their own designated enclaves for handful of hours of sleep and restoration. I lay my old worn-out edition of Emma on my knees, looking but not reading the familiar story as the words swim in front of me. Ironically, it is in the overcrowded passenger section of an oversea flight to NY that I recovered my senses and finally found a small degree of quiet serenity. 
