Page 88 of The Gods Will Sing Our Song

“Good afternoon, Hamada family,” she says, her voice turning up too much at the end of her greeting. She shakes Mama’s hand and reaches for mine. I pause, but Mama nudges me. I grasp it, and when I meet her eyes, she gapes at me. “My, you’re even taller than last time.” She addresses Mama. “Whatever are you feeding him?”

“Nothing,” Mama responds dryly, as though Mrs. Ross is infinitely stupid, which she probably is. “They provide the food.”

“Now, I do forget why I’m here. Silly me.” Mrs. Ross’s high-pitched voice rings through the office. “Mr. Ross calls me a birdbrain for good reason. My thoughts just fly away, flitter flutter!” Her fingers jump to her pearl necklace again, tugging on it. “I understand the baby was born? I received a letter from here, sent on your behalf. It requested canned milk.”

She must be referring to the letter I rewrote and asked Violet to mail for me. But all I wanted was her to mail canned milk, not show up.

“Hai,” Mama says. “She was.”

“A granddaughter,” Mrs. Ross whispers almost to herself. She addresses us again. “And she’s…in good health, aside from the allergies? No infirmities? No polio or anything like that?”

“She needs the canned milk,” I say. “She needs it badly. The powdered milk bothers her stomach.”

“But she’s well,” Mama interjects sharply. “Very healthy, very fat. Looks white, too.”

What’s Mama doing? Mrs. Ross beams as though she’s won at baccarat. Mama’s eyes are narrowed, her mouth is tight, and she’s lying like her pants are on fire. Cosette is skinnier than a wet alley cat and it kills me every day.

“Wonderful! You’ve…named her?”

“Emi named her,” I say before Mama can respond. “Cosette.”

The way it’s going, Mama will probably tell her the baby is named Mary Sue.

“Cosette?” Mrs. Ross sniffs in confusion. Her fingers twist the pearls on their string. I wish it would break. I wish those damn white pearls would bounce all over the office floor. “Oh, my. I was wondering if the name might be…foreign…but I wasn’t expecting it to be—now then, what exactly is that?”

“It’s very fancy,” Mama says. “It’s very elegant. It’s French, from Les Misérables.”

“Cosette Ross,” Mrs. Ross tries out the name and it almost makes me choke. Ross. Cosette’s last name is not Ross. It’s Hamada. Or is it? My mind stumbles. I’ve never thought about Cosette’s last name. Because she’s Emi’s baby, and as such she’s ours. “I would certainly love to meet her. To be frank, I would like to take her home.”

“Home?” I demand.

“Mr. Ross can ensure it. He was terribly upset to learn I’d been communicating with you, but I’ve worked on him, and he’s warmed to the idea. We have a room perfect for a nursery in our house in Pasadena. I don’t mean to be boastful, but Cosette”—she can’t help but wince at the name—“will want for nothing. We have a huge backyard with gardenias and a tree for a swing. When the time comes, she’ll attend the finest private schools. Did I mention Mr. Ross went to Harvard? As a legacy, she’ll not only be able to attend but would meet a husband of the highest pedigree. I’m getting ahead of myself. I only wish you to understand.”

“We understand plenty.” I don’t bother keeping the harshness out of my voice.

“I would compensate you,” Mrs. Ross says quickly. “You’ve lost everything and will need money after the war. It’s the least we can do. We are prepared to offer a very significant sum.”

“We don’t want your bribe,” I scoff.

“No, no. It’s not a bribe. It’s merely a token of gratitude and an attempt to cover the time and effort you spent caring for her until this point,” Mrs. Ross says. She pauses, and her hand closes entirely around the strand of pearls before releasing it again. Each one reflects a pinpoint of light. Looks like a pupil. Makes it seem as though Mrs. Ross and her pearls are watching me.

“We will think about it,” Mama says. Fire blazes through me. Her arms are crossed. Long, fake gold earrings swing from her ears and gold bracelets encircle her wrists, her armor on full display.

“Ah, well. Please do let me know. We’d like to fetch her as soon as we can.” Mrs. Ross trails her gaze over to the window and the barren, wintry camp outside. “This is no place for a baby, you must agree.”

This is no place for anyone, I want to retort.

When we leave, Mama walks fast. With my longer legs, I easily keep pace with her. I’m burning with anger.

“What’s wrong with you?” I demand. “Why do you want to give Cosette away when Emi did everything she could to keep her?”

“Think, Ren.” Mama is emotionless. I’d think she didn’t care a bit if not for her pace. “Mrs. Ross is right. America is going to win the war, and we’ll get out of here. Then what? We have nothing, don’t you realize that?”

“We don’t have nothing. I’m working. I have a job.”

“That lady and her family are wealthy. Cosette’s life will change if she’s with them. She’ll be white. Do you know how valuable that is?”

“She won’t be white,” I protest. “You can’t change what someone is. She’ll always be us, too. We can’t let her go.”