Heading for the Plains - Chapter 15

“Why are you nodding?” Ping Yuan asked, looking at Xia Chao with confusion. “You haven’t even asked me what I meant.”

“Huh?” Xia Chao froze. “Wasn’t it about holding hands?”

“We’re both women; why would I even ask about that?” Ping Yuan replied, as if the notion were utterly absurd. Being someone with a strong sense of entitlement, she immediately knitted her brows. “Do you dislike me?”

As if I’d dare! Xia Chao shook her head frantically to prove her innocence. “Not at all!”

A reserved smirk touched the corners of Ping Yuan’s lips—the kind of look that said, ‘You’d better not.’

Having successfully asserted her “Big Sister” dominance, she continued with satisfaction, “What I meant was… back in the shop, I took it upon myself to pick clothes for you. Did you find that overbearing?”

When she’d seen how nervous Xia Chao was, Ping Yuan’s initial thought was to grab a few items for a quick round of trying on, intending to browse more slowly later if those didn’t work. But the “incident” had thrown them both off balance, and neither was in the mood to keep shopping after that.

She watched Xia Chao’s expression. The girl thought for a moment and then said, “No.”

She spoke earnestly. “Actually, when you were picking clothes for me, I felt relieved.”

This was the truth. Xia Chao wasn’t a child without opinions; in fact, back home, Xia Ling used to scold her for having too many “wild ideas.” But no matter how independent you are, a strange environment can still trigger nerves.

It had been a long time since she had new clothes. Since Xia Ling fell ill, no one had bought her anything new. Standing before the racks earlier, she had felt a wave of vertigo. It wasn’t that the decor was overwhelming; it was the intrusive thoughts: Can I take this one? Is it too expensive? Is it ugly? Will I look like a country bumpkin and embarrass Ping Yuan?

When you overthink, you lose your footing. She was genuinely grateful for Ping Yuan’s decisiveness; it had rescued her from that suffocating embarrassment.

When she shared this, Ping Yuan didn’t have much of a reaction beyond a simple, “Oh.”

“As long as you’re fine with it.”

See? The gentle sister who held her hand was just a fleeting mirage. Xia Chao curled her lips into a tiny smile, though she felt no disappointment. She thought for a bit and asked, “The first time you entered a mall like this, were you nervous?”

“That depends on how long ago you mean,” Ping Yuan said.

But today, for some reason, she didn’t want to lie. Perhaps Xia Chao’s vulnerability reminded her of her younger self. “The first time I was taken to a mall, I was seven years old.”

The escalator reached the top, and they stepped off into the flow of people. Xia Chao listened to her soft voice, which sounded like a dream drifting through the night.

“It was twenty years ago. I told you before, I grew up in an orphanage. When I was six, I met a couple who wanted to adopt me. They were in their thirties, both teachers, well-off. Apparently, the husband had fertility issues, and they’d never had children.”

“They didn’t pick me at first, of course. Because of my illness, they were more interested in a little boy—healthy and energetic,” Ping Yuan’s voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “But boys are always in high demand. In the blink of an eye, he was adopted by someone else.”

“So, they noticed me. I always worked hard to be obedient and well-behaved,” she smiled faintly. “And I suppose I looked piteous. To be fair, the orphanage didn’t mistreat me, but I was so sickly and the caregivers were overwhelmed. That winter, I got very sick. When the fever was at its worst, I desperately wanted a home.”

“So, when they came to visit, I pretended I was delirious from the fever. I grabbed their hands and wailed, crying for ‘Mama and Papa’ not to leave,” Ping Yuan laughed again. “Man, I was quite the actress at such a young age.”

She rarely used such a light tone; she likely didn’t want Xia Chao to pity her.

Xia Chao said nothing for a moment, then asked very softly, “And then?”

“Everything fell through. They were planning to adopt me; the paperwork had already started. I even overheard them discussing taking me for heart surgery.” She lowered her eyes, watching the crowds in the central plaza. “And then, they found out they were pregnant.”

Fate has a cruel sense of irony, yet it’s impossible to blame people for wanting their own. Ping Yuan remembered the couple being very kind; even after deciding to abandon the adoption, they donated a portion of the surgery costs to the home. Later, when she was raising funds for her operation, she was still grateful for that gesture.

“The mall trip came later. To comfort me, a teacher from the orphanage took me into the city. We even had McDonald’s—I think back then you used those little paper coupons to order,” Ping Yuan mused, her voice airy. “But I don’t remember the taste of the McDonald’s.”

Because it was while she was eating that chicken leg that the teacher told her the news. She didn’t say that part out loud. No need to sell a sob story. In the end, she had finished every bite of that meal with a fierce, angry hunger.

That was the one time in her life she had “faked” being piteous, and it had led to the worst result. She would never let anyone pity her again.

She just smiled and concluded, “It was fine. I wasn’t actually that attached to them.”

That was the truth. After all, it was a relationship of weekly visits over half a year. Ping Yuan figured the couple had dodged a bullet, not having to raise a cold-hearted daughter like her. As for how much of those childhood tears were real? She traced a semicircle on the floor with her toe and thought, I don’t remember.

Xia Chao looked at her profile in silence. Ping Yuan was so finely made—her translucent, pale face was set with a jawline as stubborn as a taut bowstring. Xia Chao couldn’t help but think: How can you NOT be sad? Something that huge would have devastated her; she might have held a grudge for years.

But she didn’t say it. She knew Ping Yuan didn’t want to dwell on it. Instead, she reached out, quietly took Ping Yuan’s hand, and asked in a low voice, “What do you want to eat tonight?”

Ping Yuan looked up into those clear, deer-like eyes. She felt the warmth of Xia Chao’s palm against her wrist. The girl gave her hand a little shake, like a puppy gently tugging on a sleeve.

The gaze washed over her heart like warm water, yet the humidity seemed to clog her chest. Ping Yuan hated that look—she hated it more than pity. She turned her head, seeing that Xia Chao’s eyes were impossibly soft. Damp eyes suggested weakness, but fortunately, Ping Yuan was bulletproof.

Ping Yuan smiled and said noncommittally, “We’ll see. Let’s buy your pajamas first.”

She had been annoyed by those old pajamas for days. Xia Chao hadn’t brought many clothes; heaven knows what was taking up all the space in that bulging backpack. Ping Yuan refused to see a manic SpongeBob SquarePants on her meticulously curated grey-blue bedding ever again—clearly a fifty-yuan-for-three special Xia Ling had bought years ago.

Even if Ping Yuan herself wore nineteen-ninety-yuan discounted slippers, it was different; she called that “spending where it counts.” The very quality-conscious Ping Yuan thought this with cold, calm logic, seeing no resemblance at all between herself and the mother-daughter duo of Xia Ling and Xia Chao.

Xia Chao followed her into a home goods store. The lighting was soft, and large, fluffy decorative cotton clouds hung from the ceiling.

A sales assistant greeted them warmly. “Combed cotton loungewear, 149 yuan for two sets. Skin-friendly, soft, and breathable. Have a look if you’re interested?”

Xia Chao glanced at Ping Yuan.

Ping Yuan cleared her throat, maintaining a dignified air. “I’ll take a look.”

They ended up buying four sets—a “double-discount” total of 250 yuan (two-fifty). Ping Yuan also bought herself a silk nightgown for another 250.

Xia Chao looked left and right, not daring to say a word. (In Chinese slang, 250 means “idiot/simpleton.”)

After the pajamas, they hit the supermarket downstairs to restock the fridge with milk, fruit, and vegetables, and bought disinfectant wipes and spray. A clean freak is a clean freak; Ping Yuan actually stood there comparing whether the lemon scent or the new gardenia scent was better.

Xia Chao liked being clean too, but she didn’t agonize over the smell of bleach. Looking at Ping Yuan’s serious profile, she suddenly found her adorable. In this regard, she’s actually a lot like Xia Ling, Xia Chao thought. Xia Ling was also a woman who did her best to be clean, comfortable, and decent, even when she lived in the mud.

But Xia Ling was open—a loud, bustling woman in her youth—while Ping Yuan was more guarded. Xia Chao thought of a stray cat she’d fed as a kid—a small white ball that wasn’t very friendly, only showing up at mealtimes to meow pickily. But if you reached out to pet it, it wouldn’t get angry; it would just flick its tail in a soft sort of annoyance, as if asking, “Are you done yet?” Then you’d let go, the cat would run off, and it would show up exactly on time for the next meal, meowing just as demandingly.

Xia Chao realized how strange her feelings were. She instinctively felt Ping Yuan was like Xia Ling, but the thought of Xia Ling’s loud voice only brought a sense of peace—like returning to her cool, bamboo-matted bedroom at eight years old. Seeing Ping Yuan, however, made her want to reach out and touch that warm, white shadow from her childhood.

But she did nothing, watching silently as Ping Yuan deliberated before finally tossing the classic lemon-scented disinfectant into the cart.

They drove home. Xia Chao was getting sleepy. Working all day and studying at night was draining, and with her period starting, her lower back felt weak and achy.

The groceries were in the back. She sat in the passenger seat, buckled in, taking sips of hot milk tea. Ping Yuan had bought it for her. They had made a deal: if she memorized Free and Easy Wandering, she’d get an ice cream cone. No one expected the “accident,” and the ice cream she’d been looking forward to all day was out of the question.

Xia Chao didn’t know why she had been so excited for it; she made ice cream cones every day at work. Maybe because Ping Yuan had promised it to her. She cared about that—like a kindergartner cares about a little red flower sticker.

Luckily, the hot milk tea was good—30% sugar with brûlée and pearls. It was sweet and tasted like cake.

She had a bad habit of biting her straw when she daydreamed, flattening it and then biting it back into a square. Ping Yuan, checking her mirrors as she backed out, saw Xia Chao’s cheeks puffing as she chewed away like a busy hamster.

Even though Xia Chao was the cook, her hands were always steady. Her long, elegant fingers could grip a knife and produce perfectly uniform scallion slivers and paper-thin fish slices with effortless skill. Ping Yuan wondered if Xia Ling had taught her that. If so, Ping Yuan figured she could be “rightfully” unapologetic about her own terrible cooking. After all, she didn’t have a mother to teach her.

The car emerged from the garage. The midsummer sun was blinding, making the road look white. The car was hot, and the AC hummed loudly. Ping Yuan caught a faint scent of fish from the backseat. It was fresh, so it wasn’t unpleasant.

Ping Yuan liked fish soup but hated killing fish. She was terrified of seeing a fish gutted at the market, just a tiny heart left thumping in a pool of blood. It reminded her of surgery. So, while Xia Chao was picking out a fish earlier, Ping Yuan had intentionally stood far away, letting Xia Chao jog over to her while danging the fish by its tail.

She admitted to a small, vengeful joy in that moment.

Xia Chao, unaware, simply thought she hated the smell. She reached out with her clean hand, her eyes crinkling. “Shall we go?”

Her palm was warm, her features clear and handsome—smiling like a young star. Ping Yuan looked at her and intentionally swatted her hand away. Xia Chao wasn’t angry; she just shook her head, her ponytail swaying in a soft arc.

How much love does it take to raise a kid like this? Ping Yuan wondered. Such a gentle, open temperament was almost enough to make one resentful. If it had been Xia Ling raising ME, would she have taken care of me like this? Simmering fish soup, brushing my hair, signing my failed exams, and then sighing as she patted my head?

She had no answer. For the first time, Ping Yuan felt a sense of trepidation. She realized that in her memory, Xia Ling was either a source of hate or a total blank. The only way she could “remember” her mother was through this stranger who shared no blood or kinship with her at all.

Even though she was the biological daughter.

Ping Yuan narrowed her eyes. They reached an intersection; the light turned green, and the road lines shimmered white in the heat. She turned left, her voice breaking the silence.

“Xia Chao.”

“What kind of person was Xia Ling?”

She asked tentatively, hating herself for finally being curious.

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