Heading for the Plains - Chapter 8

Ping Yuan was startled when she got home.

Through the door, she could hear a rhythmic clattering and clinking inside. Her first thought was a burglar; her second was that Xia Chao had dismantled the apartment. But when she pushed the door open, she found that a “Snail Girl”, a secret helper had taken up residence in her kitchen.

Xia Chao was busy at the stove. Her apron was tied neatly behind her back, accentuating her clean, lithe waist. She held a spatula, expertly tossing ingredients in a pan, before turning to lift the lid of a Le Creuset Dutch oven, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear with her free hand.

As she stirred the soup, a savory aroma billowed upward. Her features blurred in the pale mist. Ping Yuan watched her ladle out a small bowl of broth to taste; she took a sip, only to recoil with a sharp “Oof!” at the heat.

She then stuck out the tip of her tongue, panting like a puppy trying to cool it down.

Ping Yuan couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, though she quickly stifled it. Hearing the sound, Xia Chao looked toward the entryway. Seeing Ping Yuan, a look of bashful realization crossed her face.

“You’re back?” she asked, stating the obvious.

“Mhm,” Ping Yuan nodded.

Today’s Ping Yuan looked different again, wearing a grey sleeveless dress paired with Chelsea boots. The suit fabric was crisp and structured, the tailoring sharp. Even standing there silently, she radiated a cold, cutting edge.

However, her complexion looked even more fatigued than the day before. Xia Chao said softly, “You’re home earlier today.”

“I usually take the subway. Yesterday I had to pick you up, so the traffic delayed me.” Her tongue remained as ungracious as ever. “Today I happened to catch an express train, at the cost of being squashed like a sardine in a tin.”

She closed her eyes wearily and handed something to Xia Chao. “I bought half a watermelon. Put it in the fridge.”

“Oh…” Xia Chao took the melon, remembering the voice note from that morning. It had indeed been recorded amidst the chaotic noise of the subway.

Recalling the fresh perfume she had smelled in the car yesterday, Xia Chao couldn’t help but ask, “Why don’t you drive to work?”

Ping Yuan remained expressionless. “Because of the morning rush hour traffic.”

“Oh…” A child of the mountains had no concept of urban gridlock, but that didn’t stop Xia Chao from nodding obediently. She paused, then found the logical flaw: “Then why did you buy a car?”

Ping Yuan froze.

She had plenty of excuses ready. It’s convenient for errands; I can drive for short business trips; or she could simply say, “Because I wanted to.” Any of those would have brushed Xia Chao aside.

Ping Yuan stood tall and silent, thinking. But she couldn’t brush aside her own heart.

It had been a long time since anyone asked her that. She had bought the car in her second year of working, not an expensive model, costing just over 200,000 yuan including the loan. At the time, she had just finished paying off her student loans and switched jobs for a 30% raise. She had immediately emptied her remaining savings to buy it.

She wasn’t someone who spent beyond her means. Her colleagues had been shocked, asking why she suddenly decided to buy a car. She had given them those same hollow reasons: convenience, avoiding the subway.

Only she knew the truth: she bought the car because, at the age of four, she had been kidnapped.

In the early 2000s, identity checks weren’t strict. Trains and buses used paper tickets. She still remembered her four-year-old self being lifted by the back of her collar by that woman, hauled like a piece of livestock to dodge fares. When checks got too tight, the woman would force her into unlicensed, illegal vans.

In those days, “black cabs” were rampant. A twelve-seater van would be crammed with twenty or thirty people. As an adult, Ping Yuan learned those vehicles were locally mocked as “pig-selling trucks” chaotic, lawless boxes filled with people being tricked into illegal labor or sold into human trafficking.

Because of her heart condition, she would often cry and fuss. The kidnappers simply spiked her water with sleeping pills. Most of the time, she was shoved into a corner, unconscious. During the brief moments she woke up, groggy and tucked under the woman’s arm in that cramped space, she smelled the stench of sweat, spoiled leftovers, and the sour scent of vomit on clothes.

That smell haunted her years later. A short subway commute was bearable, but once a trip exceeded forty minutes, she would begin to shake.

This was a feeling Xia Chao could never understand.

Nine years of time stood between them. Ping Yuan thought of yesterday; while she was suppressing her nausea near the high-speed rail station, Xia Chao had stood there with bright, expectant eyes. An eighteen-year-old girl, brimming with vitality, grinning at her, clearly knowing nothing of such horrors, yet clearly knowing she was loved.

After all, even on her deathbed, Xia Ling had been entrusting Xia Chao to her, noting it was her sister’s first time far from home and asking for her protection. Compared to that heartfelt plea, the concern shown to Ping Yuan felt like nothing more than a formal, stranger’s greeting.

Ping Yuan’s gaze turned cold.

Xia Chao didn’t understand the look. She just looked up, her clear eyes unblinking, still waiting for an answer.

Finally, Ping Yuan asked, “Have you ever had a time where you wanted to leave, but couldn’t?”

“I have,” she said quietly. “So I like the sense of control I get from driving.”

Control over life. To her, the car was a lifeline. No matter the fear or the shaking, as long as she gripped those car keys, she could tell herself: It’s okay. I’m an adult now. I can leave whenever I want. I can escape at any time.

******

Ping Yuan’s expression had turned icy again. Xia Chao was confused. How does driving a car lead to a lecture on “control”? Do city people always talk in such grand metaphors?

But she didn’t dare say it. This was the first time Ping Yuan had actually engaged in small talk with her; in her mind, that was practically a warm welcome. She had to cherish her sister’s good mood.

So, Xia Chao nodded solemnly. “I get it.”

“There’s this girl back home, Er-Gou-Mei. Her family bought a car when their chicken farm took off. Last New Year, she took all of us kids for a joyride from the east end of town to the west. We blasted Phoenix Legend in the car. It was so cool.”

“Boom-tss-boom-tss,” Xia Chao mimicked a heavy DJ beat with a nodding motion like a chicken pecking at grain. “That’s control!”

Control my foot. Ping Yuan’s face darkened; she wanted to smack her.

But she restrained herself and simply said, “Let’s eat.”

******

The dishes Xia Chao prepared were simple, home-style fare, but the flavors were excellent: a plate of stir-fried beef, a bowl of silky-smooth steamed egg custard, and a pot of creamy-white bok choy soup. The pork and dried shrimp had been sautéed first to release their fragrance before the greens were added, boiled over high heat until the broth turned milky.

Ping Yuan took a bite of the beef and had to grudgingly admit it was delicious. Her Dutch oven and cast-iron pans were finally seeing the light of day. She had bought a full set of cookware when she moved in, only to discover she had neither the talent nor the time to cook.

It wasn’t that she lacked talent, exactly, she just had no experience with home-cooked meals. She’d eaten from mass-produced vats in the orphanage, then in school cafeterias, and since graduation, she’d worked overtime every day. Cooking for one was a hassle; it was either too bland, undercooked, salty, or burnt. After a few tries, she’d given up and settled for company meals.

But Xia Chao was different. She sat on the other side of the table, her eyes sparkling with pride in her cooking and a hunger for the meal. Ping Yuan watched her scoop a spoonful of egg custard and take a large bite of beef, nodding enthusiastically. “Mmm, so good! Your big iron pot is great for stir-frying.”

“…It’s a cast-iron pan.”

Is there a difference? Xia Chao wondered. Iron is iron, right? Except it was a bit heavier to lift.

She ladled a bowl of soup for Ping Yuan. “Why aren’t you having soup? There are vegetables in it. Eating greens is good for you.”

The soup was seasoned with white pepper, smelling fresh and savory without the bitterness of the greens. Ping Yuan froze for a moment; few people ever served her soup. Xia Chao mistook her silence for dislike and grew nervous. “Uh, do you not like it?”

Strangely, while she didn’t usually care about others’ opinions, she felt anxious about her cooking. She said in a small voice, “Um… I remembered Xia Ling saying you loved this soup when you were little, so I made it. If you don’t like it, don’t force yourself…”

She understood the awkwardness of being served something you hated. Then, realizing she hadn’t used serving chopsticks, she wanted to die of embarrassment. I remembered when I was tasting it! she wailed internally. How could I forget at the last second!

“It’s good,” Ping Yuan said suddenly.

She took a bite of beef, chewing thoughtfully, and asked as if casually, “Did Xia Ling teach you this recipe?”

“Ah… mhm,” Xia Chao nodded blankly. “Whenever she made this soup, she’d mention that I had a sister who loved it.”

“Anything else?”

“She said you were a picky eater from the start. You’d only eat greens if they were cooked with chicken, fish, eggs, or meat until the ‘green’ taste was gone.”

“…Oh.”

Ping Yuan poked at her food to hide her reaction. She had always thought her aversion to vegetables was a result of the orphanage food. She hadn’t realized she’d been a picky eater since birth. She cleared her throat guiltily, deciding to take that secret to her grave.

Fidgeting with her chopsticks, she asked with feigned indifference, “Then… what was my original name?”

She had never known. When she was brought to the orphanage, she was too young and barely literate. She could only tell the adults her name was “Yuanyuan.” As for which character “Yuan” it was, no one knew. Eventually, they gave her the surname of the director and named her Ping Yuan.

It didn’t really matter; she didn’t care much about names. She was only asking… out of curiosity. Mystery is what makes things linger; once you know the truth, it’s easier to forget.

Ping Yuan held her breath, waiting. Xia Chao shook her head. “I only know you were called Yuanyuan.”

“Yuan as in ’round and chubby’, it was a nickname,” she said. “So, sometimes I’ll call you Sister Yuanyuan.”

Ping Yuan was stunned. She looked up. Her eyelashes were beautiful—long and straight, casting a delicate, feather-like shadow over her eyes when she looked down, making her seem almost fragile. But when she raised her eyes, that same straight fringe made her gaze appear intensely focused, as if you were the only thing in her world.

The steam from the soup rose again, blurring the air. Xia Chao looked at her, and her heart gave a sudden, strange throb.

Then, Ping Yuan said coldly, “Don’t call me Sister.”

Definitely an illusion.

Ping Yuan was still Ping Yuan—proud, beautiful, like a cedar tree growing in a forest of steel. No one would ever connect her to the chubby little girl in Xia Ling’s stories. And no one would ever guess she had been a picky eater.

Xia Chao watched her, remembering how Ping Yuan had sat across from her just now, eyes lowered, gently blowing on the soup to cool it before taking tiny, cat-like sips.

A cat’s tongue, Xia Chao thought. She remembered Xia Ling scolding her for being a slow eater. Somewhere deep inside, a part of her felt as soft as if it had been soaked in warm soup.

She wasn’t even angry at Ping Yuan’s cold words. She looked up and asked out of the blue, “Can I just call you Yuanyuan?”

Ping Yuan gave her head a light, firm pat.

After holding back all evening, she finally made a move. She looked up and refused without a second thought: “No.”

“Don’t forget your manners.”

The sensation of Ping Yuan’s fingers lingered on the back of her head. Xia Chao felt as if her head had turned into a watermelon; one tap, and it made a hollow thump.

My brain must be filled with water. How could she be smiling like an idiot after being scolded?

But the grin wouldn’t fade. Xia Chao stuffed more food into her mouth, chewing and thinking with a puzzled expression like a hamster. With every chew, her eyes blinked as she watched Ping Yuan.

But the culprit had already turned away, seemingly feeling a bit awkward herself. She let out a light cough and refused to look back.

*****

Author’s Note:

Melancholy moods are always interrupted by silly puppies.

Cat Yuanyuan: “Mind your manners!”

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