Chapter 6: Candied Hawthorns and the Fifth Floor

Yimin Residential Area is located at the end of Jianshe Road, a cluster of tenement buildings from the 1990s crammed into the old city. There are no elevators, no property management, and eight out of ten motion-activated lights in the stairwells are broken, with the remaining two only working for a couple of seconds after being slapped three times. The fifth floor rents for 800 yuan a month, utilities not included.

I came alone this morning, signed the contract, paid the deposit, and then went upstairs to take a look around. It’s 35 square meters. To the right of the entrance is a two-square-meter kitchen, with a built-in stove, a mini-fridge, and a range hood crammed together—the spatula was practically touching the wall, and the wall was touching the refrigerator. Directly opposite is the bathroom; the shower, toilet, and sink are all squeezed in. The door lock is one of those old-fashioned bolt locks, covered in a layer of verdigris; it’s easy to push open from the outside with a little force after inserting it from the inside. I tried it a couple of times, and it’s definitely not secure; I’ll have to replace it with a new one sometime.

The only room was inside. An old spring bed, about 1.5 meters wide, stood against the wall, with several yellowed stains on the mattress. Opposite was a folding sofa that could be pulled out to sleep on. By the window was a small desk, half of the paint on the tabletop peeling off. The balcony faced south, and the clothesline was rusty; I had to wipe it twice with a cloth before it was barely usable.

The walls are yellowed, the ceiling is stained with water, and it’s as hot as a steamer in the summer. The only good news is that there’s a window air conditioner, which, although it sounds like a tractor, at least blows cool air.

At 2 PM, I went back to the hospital to pick up my mom. She had already changed into the T-shirt and sweatpants I had brought her, her hair tied in a low ponytail, and was waiting for me by the window of her ward. The gray T-shirt looked strange on her; the shoulders and cuffs were wide open, and below the waist it hung loosely like a skirt, but the chest area was stretched tightly, with obvious stretch marks on the fabric. The two high bulges completely shattered the concept of “size L men’s.” The sweatpants were even more exaggerated; the waistband was two sizes too big, and she used one of my shoelaces to tie them up, with the cuffs rolled up all the way to her calves.

How to put it? It’s like a little girl who stole her father’s clothes, but her figure is not that of a little girl at all.

”Let’s go.” I stuffed her things into a woven bag and carried it on my shoulder. “Take the bus, it’s three stops away.”

As she exited the hospital, she hunched her shoulders and slowed her pace. The sun outside was scorching, and she squinted to adjust to the light. Passing the glass door of the convenience store, she paused, glancing at her reflection. A young woman in an ill-fitting grey T-shirt, black hair in a ponytail, her face pale, but her features excessively delicate.

She moved her lips, but said nothing.

I didn’t rush her. I stood behind her for a few seconds, then gently patted the back of her head: “Let’s go, cousin.”

She turned around and glared at me. That glare was exactly the same whether she was twenty or forty: her mouth turned down, her nostrils twitched slightly, and her eyes had more white than pupil—the standard “you little brat, try being naughty again” look.

”Who are you calling your cousin?” she said in a low voice, squeezing out between her teeth. “Call her again and let me hear it.”

”Let’s go, cousin.” I smiled. The curve of my lips was probably a bit irritating, because she reached out to grab my ear. I turned my head to dodge, and the woven bag almost slipped off my shoulder.

The bus wasn’t crowded, and we sat in the last row. She kept clutching the new ID card I’d given her, turning it over and over in her hand. It read: Su Qingqing, female, born July 15, 2004, address a string of place names she’d never heard of.

”Is this address real?” she asked in a low voice.

”real.”

”What if someone investigates?”

”We can’t find anything wrong.” I leaned back in my seat, feeling drowsy from the sun. The bus jolted as it went over a speed bump, and her soft flesh bounced. I quickly turned to look out the window. “Just remember, you’re my distant cousin, and you came from the countryside to stay with me after your parents passed away. You don’t need to say anything else.”

She put her ID card in her pocket and remained silent for a while.

”Mom isn’t used to it.” Her voice was very soft, almost inaudible amidst the roar of the bus engine. “I’ve lived for forty years, and suddenly I’m a little girl, and I can’t even call you Bao’er…”

”You really can’t shout outside.” My voice softened. There were other passengers nearby, so I couldn’t say too much.

”Go home, close the door, and call out however you want.”

She hummed in agreement and didn’t say anything more. She leaned her head back in the seat and closed her eyes to rest. Sunlight streamed in through the car window, illuminating her face and casting a small shadow on her cheekbone from her eyelashes. Her face looked unrealistically young, but the expression on her face with her eyes closed was exactly the same as the one I’d seen countless times since childhood: tired, restrained, and with a hint of grievance she was unwilling to show in public.

I placed the woven bag I was carrying on my knees to block my view. My throat tightened.

Three stops away, we’ve arrived.

Yimin Residential Complex, Building 5, fifth floor, no elevator. I carried the woven bag and climbed the stairs in front, with her following behind. She started panting when we reached the third floor, not because she lacked stamina, but because the inertia of not climbing such high stairs for twenty years had completely messed up her rhythm.

”Take your time, there’s no rush.” ​​I stopped at the corner of the stairs to wait for her.

She stood on her knees, about half a flight of stairs down, looking up at me with a thin layer of sweat on her forehead. The collar of her gray T-shirt clung to her collarbone from the sweat, and her chest rose and fell dramatically with each breath, her breasts heaving up and down. The fabric stretched taut with each inhale and relaxed slightly with each exhale.

”Go upstairs and open the door first.” She waved her hand. “Mom will climb up slowly by herself.”

I grunted in agreement, rushed up to the fifth floor, and opened the door. I tossed the woven bag inside and went back to the stairwell to wait for her. She finally climbed up, leaning against the doorframe and catching her breath.

Once inside, her gaze swept around the room.

”So small.” That was her first sentence.

Then came the second question: “How much is the rent per month?”

”Eight hundred.”

”Eight hundred?!” Her voice suddenly rose. “Eight hundred for this tiny place? I used to rent a two-bedroom apartment in the old town for only six hundred!”

Things can’t compare to the past, Mom. I sighed inwardly. The place you used to rent wasn’t near this school.

”Make do with this.” I untied the woven bag and started taking things out. Her old clothes, thermos, toiletries, and a half-finished box of Liuwei Dihuang pills. “I’ll sleep on the sofa, you sleep in the bed.”

”You sleep on the bed, Mom will sleep on the sofa.”

You sleep in the bed.

”Shen Qi, why are you arguing with your mother? I’m short, I can sleep on the sofa…”

”A person who is 1.65 meters tall can’t stretch their legs out when sleeping on a folding sofa. You should sleep on the bed.”

She glared at me, opened her mouth as if to speak, but ultimately said nothing. She put the thermos in the kitchen sink and started rummaging through the cupboards to check for cockroaches.

I put my things away and went downstairs to buy daily necessities: laundry detergent, clothes rack, a few towels, two sets of bowls and chopsticks, and a pack of tissues. Fifty meters to the left after exiting the community gate is the Jianshe Road vegetable market, with several mobile stalls at the intersection: fruit stalls, pancake stalls, and sock vendors.

Then I saw an old man selling candied hawthorns at the alley entrance.

Pushing a dilapidated tricycle laden with rows of bright red candied hawthorns, the old man, wearing a gray vest and a straw hat whose original color was no longer discernible, was arranging the bamboo skewers.

Normally I wouldn’t stop in front of a candied hawthorn stall. But as I passed by, the old man looked up and glanced at me.

That look made me stop in my tracks.

That’s not the way a normal street vendor looks at a customer. It’s too quiet. The pupils are so dark, I can’t even see them inside…

”Young man, want a skewer?” He smiled, a very ordinary vendor’s smile, but the curve of his lips sent a chill down my spine.

”No.”

”Buy one.” He pulled a skewer of candied hawthorns from the car and handed it to me. The hawthorns were large, with a thick sugar coating that reflected the sunlight. “This was her favorite food in her past life.”

My hand froze in mid-air.

”What?”

The old man smiled, his eyes narrowed: “Three yuan a skewer, WeChat or Alipay are both fine.”

I stared at him for five seconds. He was just an ordinary old man selling candied hawthorns, wearing a straw hat, vest, and a tricycle, with a sun-darkened face. But when those words came out of his mouth, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

I took out my phone and scanned the code. Three yuan. Standing at the alley entrance with that string of candied hawthorns in hand, the sun was scorching my scalp.

Looking back, the old man had already turned into the market with his tricycle and disappeared into the crowd.

In her past life, this was her favorite food.

I gripped the bamboo skewer for the candied hawthorn, my palms sweaty. I stood there for about half a minute before finally starting to walk back. I hadn’t finished buying the daily necessities, but my mind was buzzing, those six words replaying in my head.

When I returned to my rented room 502 after shopping, my mom had already wiped down the stove in the kitchen and was squatting on the floor wiping it with a rag, muttering, “The grout between the tiles is full of dust. I wonder what the previous tenant’s hygiene habits were like…”

I placed the daily necessities on the table and held the candied hawthorn in front of her.

She looked up and paused, then asked, “Candied hawthorns? What do you want to buy these for? How much do they cost?”

”Three pieces. I saw them on the street and bought them on a whim. Do you want some?”

She hesitated for a second, then reached out and took it, taking a bite. The sourness of the hawthorn berries mingled with the sweetness of the sugar coating. She chewed a couple of times, her expression softening slightly.

”It’s alright,” she said stubbornly, but took a second bite.

I sat on the folding sofa watching her squat on the floor, one hand holding a candied hawthorn and the other a rag. She had the face of a twenty-year-old, her mouth bulging from chewing the candied hawthorn, but her wiping posture and the frequency of her muttering were no different from before.

My throat tightened again. I rubbed my nose, pretending it was dust that was choking me.

”Mom, I’m starting work tomorrow.”

She looked at me while biting into a candied hawthorn and asked, “What kind of job are you working? Didn’t you drop out of school?”

”Work. Earn money. You’ll be starting school in September, and you’ll need to pay tuition.”

She stopped chewing. She held the half-eaten hawthorn in her mouth for several seconds before swallowing it.

”It’s okay if Mom doesn’t go to school, Mom can go out and find a job…”

“Su Qingqing.” I switched to a playful tone and tapped her forehead with my index finger. “You’re twenty years old now, with no education or diploma. What kind of job can you do? Wash dishes? You can’t even burn the pan when you’re frying an egg.”

”You!” She poked my arm with a bamboo skewer from a candied hawthorn skewer in anger. “What’s wrong with Mom frying eggs? Mom raised you for twenty years, you grew up eating my cooking, what are you complaining about!”

”It’s because I’ve been eating this for twenty years that I know its quality.”

The bamboo skewer jabbed into my ribs three times. I grimaced and dodged, but couldn’t help laughing out loud. She couldn’t hold it in either; the corners of her mouth twitched upwards, and she quickly turned her face away, pretending not to laugh.

”What time are we leaving tomorrow?” she asked, mumbling as she popped the last hawthorn into her mouth.

”Four o’clock in the morning.”

Her mouth stopped chewing.

”…Then Mom will get up at 3:30 to make you breakfast.”

”No need, I…”

”Shen Qi.”

They used his full name again. I shut up.

Okay then. 3:30 it is.