The words were a bit harsh, but that was indeed the meaning.
I didn’t speak up—she’d already said it all. I lowered my head and picked at the felt edging the kang, swallowing my words before walking over to lift the portrait off the cabinet and examine Zheng Ningning, unchanged after seven years.
Gan Ling sneered. “You ask then.”
With Zheng Ningning right there before us, mother and daughter separated by life and death, I was just an outsider with no grounds to condemn anyone.
“Ask what?”
“Then what did you come here for?” Gan Ling found me laughable, her face full of contempt. This woman had muscles that could crush my skull in one fist—the tire-slashing knife from before felt like mere child’s play. If she really wanted to kill and dump a body, it’d be in this forgotten little shack where no one would ask questions.
But strangely, I wasn’t afraid. Perhaps Zheng Ningning’s spirit in heaven was watching over me. I stared at the photo for a long time.
“This photo… it doesn’t seem like there were many copies printed. Did you… um, take this one from Zheng Ningning’s grandma’s house?”
After Zheng Ningning’s funeral, the portrait had sat on the cabinet in the entry hall, a stack of withered melons offered before it, incense always burning in the censer with smoke curling up. On the few times I’d visited, I’d be inspected by Zheng Ningning the moment I stepped inside. I was her teacher, yet I felt as guilty as a student, keeping my head down and not daring to look too closely.
But I’d memorized every detail of this photo perfectly—even if I sniffed carefully, I could almost smell the lingering smoke from the burned incense on the frame.
Gan Ling said, “It’s that one.”
“Not leaving the old lady a memento?” I tried to keep my tone as even as possible, though deep down I wanted to condemn Gan Ling. A mother vanishing for seven years only to swoop back in and steal her daughter’s affection from a grandmother who’d had no hope left.
But then I thought about how vicious mother-in-law and daughter-in-law relationships were the norm, coexisting perfectly with the grandmother-granddaughter bond. Three generations of women turning on each other, forming alliances and counter-alliances—Gan Ling ignoring the old lady’s feelings was par for the course.
Gan Ling snatched the frame from my hands. There wasn’t anywhere high to set it, so she just held it. “The old lady’s dead.”
“Ah?”
Zheng Ningning’s grandma was dead.
I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Last year when I’d seen the old lady, she’d been threading wire through a sack stuffed with plastic bottles, full of vigor as she huffed and puffed, her wrinkled face set in fierce determination against the trash. This year, I hadn’t even gotten around to buying her a gift.
Once people age, they turn fragile—one accident and half their foot’s in the grave. A bump here, a knock there, a hidden ailment burrows in, the fuse lit. Then it explodes when no one’s paying attention.
Young folks these days often drag their parents for annual checkups to root out those invisible threats. Even so, death doesn’t come with a movie-poster countdown. It’s sudden, more terrifying than Gan Ling, who at least knocked on the door. Death kicks it down.
Gan Ling saw I wasn’t speaking and asked, “Surprised? She was ancient, picking trash daily, filthy habits, overworked, no good karma, always pinching pennies off people. Neighbors didn’t want to deal with her—no one even knew she died. When I opened the door, she was already rotting.”
I didn’t agree. I told her about how Zheng Ningning’s grandma used to come pick up Ningning.
I said the old lady was always kind, thrifty and clean, smiling pleasantly when she came for Ningning.
Gan Ling said, “Picking up the kid means she’s good to her?”
“What else? The child was so little.”
“She was seven already, and it was close by. What’s wrong with a kid going to school alone?”
“Plenty of kids are thirteen or fourteen now and still get picked up.”
“Back in our day, nobody picked us up. Kids ran in packs, made plans to head home together.”
Gan Ling spoke of ditching her kid like it was perfectly reasonable, excusing her irresponsibility.
“You know there are drunks roaming Neng County at night. I was wandering the streets, and you chased me off. The kid was that young—security was even worse seven years ago. Letting her walk home alone? Still irresponsible.”
I’m no good at arguments, bad at facts and logic, worse at tantrums. I’ve seen too many fights pass by, but I’m still tongue-tied, worse than a duck. I could only fake seriousness, go as deep-voiced as possible, mimicking Gan Ling’s cold edge a little—not to wound, just to get my point across.
“I’m irresponsible. No need to belabor that fact.” Gan Ling turned away, snapping the topic dead. I’d finally landed a solid hit to take the upper hand, only for it to flop into cotton. I got flustered, lost my footing. “Then how’d you find out Ningning’s grandma passed? When did you come back to Neng County?”
Gan Ling suddenly grabbed my collar, hauling me toward the door.
In a stroke of desperation, I hugged the doorframe. “Didn’t you snap over a thousand photos? I look through a hundred, you answer one question. Deal?”
Physically, I couldn’t take Gan Ling—she was tall and ripped. Brains? Wang had outplayed me several times already. Nothing left but bargaining.
I clawed chunks of dirt from the doorframe as she yanked. Dust flew everywhere. One hand clutching the frame, the other pulling me—she couldn’t manage it. I held firm.
Gan Ling let go and thought it over. “You look at two hundred, and I’ll volunteer one piece of my info.”
I was about to haggle when she glared—I nodded like a total pushover.
A thousand-plus photos for five bits of info.
It was afternoon, still sweltering. I’d grabbed two fistfuls of dirt. Gan Ling pumped the well a couple times, scooping cool water into a ladle to rinse my hands.
The well water had a crisp chill. I shook them dry, and Gan Ling whipped out her phone lightning-fast.
I had no idea how things had spiraled like this. I should’ve stuck to my guns: I don’t know, won’t say. But snapping back to reality, Gan Ling had seemed on the ropes luring me to her place, but she’d wrung a concession out of me. She was fishing the vast ocean; I was the idiot holding the bucket.
I figured nothing would turn up, but where there’s a will… miracles happen sometimes?
After the first batch of two hundred photos, I tallied silently in my head, then shut my eyes for a breather.
Eyes closed, I was like a facial recognition machine, every face replaying in my mind. If I spotted the killer, my face would’ve given it away instantly.
The swiping motion slowed in my brain. Suddenly, Gan Ling’s new phone became mine?
I jerked my eyes open. Gan Ling thrust the phone at me. I shoved it away, yanked out my own, frowning as I scrolled ahead.
Gan Ling asked what was wrong.
I’d found it: seven years ago, post-rehearsal, raining. Parents picking up kids, adults and children huddled under the eaves with all sorts of expressions.
Zoom in, zoom again—to that black raincoat.
“This—this—isn’t this you?” I was buzzing with excitement, but Gan Ling didn’t even glance, just said, “Then I’ve answered? No info dump from me.”
“Fine.”
Only then did Gan Ling look down. I shoved the photo in her face.
Her eyelids flicked up, brows furrowing in thought. She shrank the image, spotted the cluster of girls in white stockings.
A cold woman whose face was perpetual gloomy pond water, like a she-wolf bereft of her pup, coiled to pounce—even her photo-staring gaze had a vicious edge.
But after a moment, her expression eased a touch. Her eyes shifted slyly, and without manners, she swiped away to others. I lunged for it; she held the phone high, flipping through a full round before handing it back.
“It’s me.” Gan Ling pursed her lips, gesturing to her own shoulder, her gaze indifferently flicking to me. “Answer’s given. Keep looking at the photos.”
“Since you were here not long before Ningning died…” I snatched back the phone, checking if Gan Ling had cheekily deleted anything. “Why’d you leave back then? Where’d you go afterward?”
“Look at the photos.” Gan Ling’s voice was ironclad as she pulled out the phone again and set it before me.
“Then why the sudden return? In seven years, you never once asked about Zheng Ningning? How’d you learn of the old lady’s death? Did you handle the burial?” Questions poured out of my brain unbidden.
I’m a kindergarten teacher—I shouldn’t meddle in parents’ private business. Even if Gan Ling was rare human garbage, I had no right to judge. My role was the diligent old farmer minding the yard, not the landowner. If the owner squandered, wrecked, or abandoned it, I couldn’t say a word. Zheng Ningning wasn’t my child.
I just couldn’t stomach it.
I have many things I want to interfere with but am powerless to change, because I can’t make decisions for other people. For example, a kid in my class cried and told me his parents were getting divorced and begged me to help. Besides comforting him and protecting him in kindergarten, there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t tell the kid’s mom, “For the child’s sake, just endure it a little longer.” I couldn’t run to the kid’s dad and say, “For the child’s sake, think it over again.” I could only brush the child off: go to sleep, go to sleep. When the sun rises, all the adults’ problems will sort themselves out automatically. Little kids just need to eat and sleep happily.
A kid told me her mom had scolded her for being useless. I could only indirectly suggest to the kid’s mom not to resort to violence or else this and that—I couldn’t barge into their home and, when the mom was beating the child, charge forward with a flurry of Wing Chun Tai Chi Descending Dragon Eighteen Palms to subdue the abusive mom.
A kid made a mistake, felt so guilty they stopped interacting with others. Professionals had several pieces of advice for kindergarten teachers and parents alike, but the parents still yanked down the child’s pants in front of everyone and gave them a harsh beating. The other kids in the class watched it all happen; the beaten child gritted their teeth, remembering that humiliating scene for the rest of their life.
I couldn’t do a thing. I didn’t even have the standing to go question them.
But I still wanted to question Gan Ling: Where had she been for those past seven years? Since she was around seven years ago, why wasn’t she there when the child died? If she’d been there, could this tragedy have been avoided?
I unpacked the yogurt from my electric bike’s basket, fished out a bottle, and viciously stabbed the straw into it. The moment I sucked up a big mouthful, my eyes started to burn.
I was just trying to push the blame onto someone else. The fault was too heavy.
But my wrongs would always be my wrongs. Gan Ling had her own wrongs. None of us could escape blame.
In Zheng Ningning’s case, I had even less right to question Gan Ling about anything.
Gulp gulp—the yogurt bottle was drained dry by me, letting out an empty rattling sound.
Gan Ling suddenly tugged at the hem of my tank top. I looked down and saw two drops of yogurt on the rabbit’s face, like it was crying.
“I don’t want to talk about it, Teacher Xiao Jiang… don’t ask anymore.”
Gan Ling wiped the tears from the rabbit’s eyes with her finger. She didn’t force me to look at the photo anymore and just pressed me down onto the electric bike, saying softly, “I’ll think of another way.”
