Chapter 57: Pat

After another moment of silence, my hand intertwined with Gan Ling’s. It was unclear who was comforting whom. When I snapped back to reality, I panicked and pulled away, as if someone had burst through the door and caught us in that pose.

In the past, I would hold hands with other believers and pray, channeling the power God sprinkled upon me like water through my palm to the other person. Now, the power flowed between Gan Ling and me, threading us together like two women bound by an invisible line.

Even after I stood up, slung on my bag, and prepared to leave, that sticky connection lingered, impossible to shake off. Our conversation abruptly halted, but we both knew where continuing it would lead, so silence became our final farewell that day.

Gan Ling grabbed the keys to unlock the door, slid back the bolt, and walked me to the alley entrance.

I was about to say something, and as she opened her mouth, I did too—but the bus came rumbling and swaying to a stop right behind me. Amid the billowing exhaust, it beckoned me aboard. I hurriedly rummaged for change, glanced up in a fluster, and with a hiss, the doors closed. Gan Ling walked out of frame through the bus window, leaving behind a reflection as subtitles slowly scrolled by and the colorful ad lights flickered.

After that day, I didn’t see Gan Ling for nearly a month.

I didn’t go to Jiaxing Supermarket or her place. We barely chatted on WeChat, and she didn’t come by either.

This month, I truly had nothing to do.

My days on the calendar were a blank slate, with no events to fill them.

At first, there had been some friction after I suddenly fled back to Neng County— I’d reported my experiences in the city to Zhu Erting, who was surprised. But afterward, life became extremely peaceful. I watched movies, scrolled my phone, did crafts, and went downstairs to eat.

But things were different from my previous seven years. For a stretch, Neng County had nonstop rain. On a rare clear day, a half-arc rainbow appeared on the horizon, but rain clouds like wadded quilts rolled in from the other side. I donned my raincoat early and sped my scooter toward the cemetery. Midway, the downpour hit, pounding my plastic hood with a relentless patter. That battered old scooter pressed on through the deluge, wheels churning stubbornly. I spread my legs wide, coasting down a small slope, and dashed into the cemetery just as the shower paused behind me, parting to let a shaft of sunlight illuminate Zheng Ningning’s tombstone perfectly.

I couldn’t help thinking that God had started guiding me again. But I was about to do something superstitious. I wiped away the rain, brushed off God’s intent, grabbed the little shovel from my seat, and dug up every weed sprouting on Zheng Ningning’s grave mound after the rain. I selected the prettiest ones to pile in front, shoveled soil from elsewhere to fill the holes, reshaped the mound until it sat round and firm.

Even facing the dead, I wasn’t good with words. After a moment’s thought, I finally muttered, “Your mom really loves you.”

There wasn’t much else to say.

On the ride home, my heart wasn’t as anxious. I took the hill slowly. Surprisingly, someone had pitched a tent for camping in the cornfield. Curious, I slowed down, wiped my face, and peered over to hear adults and kids giggling inside.

For some reason, camping had become hugely popular in recent years—adults playing house. I often saw similar short videos and variety shows.

From afar, I snapped a photo of the tent and sent it to Gan Ling without waiting for a reply.

On the way home, I suddenly remembered my childhood at Apricot Garden. My parents held my hand as we sat on stools, cheap skewers bought and wrapped in plastic bags in front of us. The potato chips and grilled mantou had gone soggy from the steam, the braised chicken legs cold, but we still prayed hand-in-hand unhurriedly. My mom thanked God for our good life, then we ate the cold skewers, swatted mosquitoes, drank room-temp water. When the skewers ran out, Mom brought out a jar of steeped tea eggs—one each—with spices and tea leaves floating on the surface and bottom. She pointed to the fennel and said that’s where my name came from.

A week before kindergarten started, I made a trip back to Peng County.

First, I called the village committee to confirm no quarantine was needed, asked in detail about pandemic policies, got a nucleic acid test, then set out—not like going home, more like traveling somewhere. Packing felt absurdly unfamiliar.

Peng County’s dialect was much like Neng County’s, differing only in stress on certain phrases, but you could still tell them apart. When I took a cab from the train station, the driver said I wasn’t local, and I didn’t deny it. I’d been fully assimilated by Neng County’s accent and forgotten how to speak Peng County dialect.

Unlike Neng County’s cemetery, Peng County’s graves easily revealed the deceased’s or family’s religion based on burial spot. Sweeping a tomb there, you’d likely run into church folks—they didn’t worship the dead, believing the faithful were already joyfully with God. Maintaining graves was just for show—to look respectable, lest outsiders think church people were unkempt lunatics.

Since moving to Neng County, I’d only returned once. Lu Jinshi and I stood by the roadside watching the lunatic who killed someone wander the street, the world like a grand stage with demons and ghosts parading like a movie intro. Lu Jinshi urged me to let go.

I trusted my parents’ graves would be well-maintained incidentally—there were good but powerless souls in the church. I left decisively; no harm to parents. They wouldn’t let the graves overgrow untended.

My parents’ tombstones were side by side; even underground, they nestled close. They weren’t buried per church rites. Some doubted: had they secretly done evil behind their good-guy facade, angering God who took them in wrath?

To me, this was slander—not just of my parents, but of God. God had authority over their lives; the questions that followed were the issue.

Even when some insisted on church procedures against opposition, I refused, slashing all rituals. No wreaths, no wailing, no prayers, no consolations—good or bad, all barred. I hired someone alone to bury them, erected the stone, and left Peng County.

By filial standards of grand funerals, I was undoubtedly unfilial.

Years without return nailed it.

I could never face my parents’ graves—God seemed to wait there for me to question Him.

All that resentment, anger, slander, incomprehension—I’d have to pour it out crying for answers at their graves.

But I stood a long time, just placed a bouquet. The soil was patted firm; someone tended it. I didn’t linger to chat. Dark clouds suddenly closed in; as God descended on Sinai, He departed the cemetery, abandoning me to the wilderness as torrents poured.

At the train station, I was still wringing out my clothes, tousling my messy hair when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Gan Ling, out of touch for ages.

I fished out my earbuds, put them in, kept an eye on boarding info, and stealthily swapped masks away from people.

“Why aren’t you home?” Gan Ling cut straight to it, as if she’d been coming over daily.

“Went back to my hometown for a look.”

Nearby, the attendant announced the Peng County to Hohhot train boarding. I grabbed my bag, panting toward the gate.

“Oh, no worries. We split some durians privately today—got some for you. What time you arriving? Don’t wanna let it spoil.”

“It’s pretty close; around afternoon…” I figured the time, scanned my ticket, and went in. “Five-ish?”

“I’ll wait for you at the noodle shop.”

We met at the noodle shop; my clothes and hair were nearly dry. Neng County wasn’t raining, but thick clouds loomed.

Gan Ling sat at a corner table, slowly chewing pickled veggies. Spotting me, she jerked her chin. I got it, headed to the kitchen, ordered two small bowls of noodles—egg and fried tofu for her, fried tofu for me, cilantro on both.

She lifted the plastic bag: pre-opened durian scooped into a disposable container.

“Jiaxing Supermarket treats you well, handing out pricey stuff like this.”

“Neng County folks don’t like it, and we ordered too much.” Gan Ling aligned her chopsticks; the noodles arrived.

A month without seeing her, Gan Ling hadn’t changed much. Her hair had grown a bit, casually tucked behind her ear. Still skinny and lanky, her phoenix eyes held a sly gloom, lips pursed like she had worries. She ate fast and focused.

Sensing my gaze, she tapped my bowl with her chopsticks, signaling me to eat.

Noodle soup splashed in. She picked up some pickles. Someone asked to share the table; Gan Ling flatly said no, set the durian down—the scent wafted—and they went elsewhere.

As prickly and unapproachable as ever.

I slowly ate the noodles, picking them up bit by bit. Gan Ling looked up at me from the rim of her bowl but didn’t say anything. She finished her noodle soup, stood up to pay the bill, waved her hand, and left without a word, leaving me with just two pieces of durian and that lingering smell that wouldn’t go away.

I couldn’t figure out why this woman hadn’t spoken to me for a whole month, only to act like this when we finally met.

But I couldn’t think of any other explanation either—this woman could do anything around me and it would seem reasonable, as long as she didn’t go off murdering people. Even if she ate durian, I was willing to grab a spoon, watch some TV drama, steel myself for that first painful bite, snap some photos: one of the durian in the spoon, one of it dug open, and one of the empty takeout box. I tweaked the filter, posted it to Moments, and raved about how delicious it was.

Gan Ling liked the post. It felt like I’d completed a mission. I reached out through my phone to touch Gan Ling’s avatar but accidentally patted her instead.

I patted Gan Ling and got hit with a massive slap in return.

I went silent for a moment and planned to unsend it.

Suddenly, her avatar shook.

“Gan Ling patted your shoulder and said ‘received.'”

I’d set it up this way to make it easy for parents to reply…

Gan Ling really was a very cold, hard-edged person.

I didn’t have the nerve to unsend it after that. Suddenly, Gan Ling said: “Pat me one more time.”

I figured she probably wanted to give me a second big slap.

If someone slaps your right cheek, turn the left one toward them too. I steadied myself, ready to offer up the other side of my face for the beating.

I patted Gan Ling and heard a “sorry.”

Jiang Huixiang: Durian is delicious.

“Gan Ling patted your shoulder and said ‘received.'”

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