"Is this your first pregnancy?" A dark-headed nurse with almond-shaped eyes and cinnamon-colored freckles set a tray of foreboding metal instruments on the counter next to Eileen's bed. An evil-looking device that reminded Eileen of blunt scissors lay next to syringes, tubes, and many other sharp, impaling things. "Yes," Eileen said, eyeing the tray and shrinking toward the opposite side of the bed. "Relax," the nurse encouraged. "I'm only going to take your blood pressure right now. Your arm." Eileen complied and allowed the woman to strap the wide black band around her arm. She studied the nurse and decided she must be Japanese. The woman's nametag said "Nishimura," and that was definitely Japanese, as far as Eileen could tell. Back in Roe, Louisiana, Eileen had never laid eyes on an oriental before, but since the Army sent Larry here to Schofield in Hawai'i, a day didn't go by that she didn't see an oriental. Eileen was pleased she'd grown accustomed to the islands enough that most of the time, she was able to tell a person's ethnicity without judging her last name. The nurse for instance. Eileen saw that the black of the woman's hair was an absolute pitch. Her skin was a creamy pale and clear, but for the splash of freckles across her nose. Her eyes were a smooth, sharp oval, and her mouth was small, the slopes of her lips gentle and even. Yes, she must be Japanese. "Has someone notified your husband?" asked the nurse. Notified. And Eileen knew she was in a military hospital. Back home in Roe, if a girl were to land herself in the hospital, a nurse might ask, "Anyone called your mama or your daddy yet?" or "Where's your mama work, hon?" But in the Army, one's husband must be notified. If his wife is having their child, he is notified. If his mother's just passed away, he is notified. If hell freezes over and the island on which his family resides suddenly sinks into the depths of the ocean, he is notified. For all Eileen knew, Larry had not been notified, for he was across the island on base, probably stuffed halfway down the belly of a tank, shouting orders or having orders shouted to him. Who in the hell was his superior anyway? Eileen just flew in from Roe only three weeks ago. She'd barely had time to attend a wives' coffee, much less memorize the roster of rank and seniority. All she had was a number, and it was an anonymous number, scrawled in pencil on the inside of her checkbook. Larry told her to use it in case of emergencies. Eileen thought this qualified. "I don't think anyone's called him yet," Eileen said. "I haven't had a chance to. I came straight here." "You drove yourself?" Nurse Nishimura asked. She did not seem surprised. "Yes." "Looks good," the nurse said as she loosened the strap from around Eileen's arm. "You sit tight while I go make that phone call. Here's some water if you need it." "Thank you," Eileen said, rubbing the patch of strawberries on her bicep. The small clock on the wall opposite the bed read 10:00 in the morning. Larry would be in the thick of work right now, and Eileen would have been, too, but the contractions were regular. They hadn't intensified much since they began two hours ago, but they were spot on every ten minutes. During her pregnancy, Eileen had read every book about pregnancy she could get her hands on. The library in Roe was grossly insufficient. Eileen wasn't sure if it was because the topic required such discretion on the part of the staff, they were more comfortable with a limited circulation, or if it was because most pregnant women in Roe didn't rely on books for their information. Most women Eileen knew learned everything they knew about children and child bearing from their mothers and aunts. But Eileen neither knew her mother nor had aunts. The surrogate, in the end, was the Roe Public Library. None of the books Eileen had read mentioned when was the exact time a woman in labor ought to check herself into the Emergency Room. "When the contractions are regular," one book said. "When the contractions begin to increase in intensity," another book said. Unsure which was the correct advice, Eileen hopped in the car and drove to Tripler Army Medical Center when the contractions came ten minutes apart, predictably. Better drive while I can, she thought. Eileen found the longer she was pregnant, the less she understood about pregnancy. Thus far, being pregnant was nothing like what she'd read in novels or seen on television. Why didn't a pregnant woman on a TV show get up and wash the dishes? Or haul a basket of laundry through the house? Or carry a full-sized suitcase through the airport to the Baggage Check? Why did it seem like so many people thought the slightest exertion of effort would "hurt the baby?" And the books Eileen read were vague, at best. Over time, she developed a guiding philosophy: eat well, sleep well, and if you're not in pain, carry on. And she did, without fear. But now, with those sadistic instruments poised to invade her body in unknown ways, with the bright lights of the ward shining down as if she were in a cruel theatre, she began to worry. She hoped somebody would "notify" Larry and get his ass over here.