Peaches and Plums Don’t Speak – Chapter 11

Taotao, Don’t Cry Anymore

When Yan Xi returned to the room, Anzhi had already finished her shower. She was still wearing one of Yan Xi’s old T-shirts as pajamas.

“Did you put the ointment on? Let me see,” Yan Xi said, checking the girl’s knee.

“Mhm…”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Not anymore…”

Yan Xi stroked her head. “You can tell me next time…”

Anzhi’s gaze fell to the floor. Yan Xi reached out, her arm wrapping around the girl’s small body.

“Okay,” Anzhi said obediently.

Changing the subject, Yan Xi said, “Come on, let me see your homework.”

“What are you learning in kindergarten?”

“This week, we learned Initials¹ and addition within 10.”

Yan Xi flipped open the workbook. “This is all pretty easy for you, isn’t it?” She had a hunch, having never met another kindergartener who could write out the periodic table of elements. She also knew that Anzhi’s maternal grandfather had been a teacher.

“Mhm.” Anzhi gave a tiny nod.

“I can recite all the Initials and Finals², the multiplication table³, and do double-digit addition and subtraction. And! The periodic table of elements! Because… my maternal grandfather taught chemistry…”

Anzhi’s face had been bright with excitement as she spoke, but her voice grew quieter and quieter as she mentioned her grandfather.

“I miss him so much.”

For a moment, Yan Xi truly thought the girl was about to cry. Instead, Anzhi just sat there, looking vacant. A beat passed before a bitter smile touched her lips. “I know he’s not coming back…”

Yan Xi fell silent. She’d wondered if Anzhi had retreated into some kind of protective shell. She had silently endured her grandfather’s death, her mother’s abandonment, and her father’s neglect.

Other children her age, like her own nephews, would burst into earth-shaking⁴ sobs over the slightest disagreement.

It seemed the deepest hurts were the ones that couldn’t be spoken aloud. But that was a realization for an adult, one who had lived a long life—not for a child who was only six years old.

Still, this kind of confession was a good thing, no matter how small. Yan Xi listened.

“If only I had… called for help sooner that day…” Anzhi’s lower lip trembled, and her eyes reddened.

So she’s been thinking that this whole time? The poor child. Yan Xi pulled her close, letting Anzhi bury her face in her embrace. The little girl nestled against her shoulder, her nose turning red as she let out quiet, choked sobs.

Even her crying was repressed.

Yan Xi held her, choosing her words carefully. “Sometimes, things happen that we can’t control. A person’s fate isn’t always in their own hands… This isn’t your fault.”

“Anzhi, you can stay here for as long as you want.”

“There, there, be good…” Yan Xi patted her back, trying to shift her attention. “What’s this?”

Anzhi rubbed her eyes, explaining through her sniffles, “It’s a calligraphy copybook for practicing. My great-grandfather gave it to me.”

“Ah,” Yan Xi smiled. She knew this copybook all too well; her own paternal grandfather had compiled it himself. It was a large, eight-page volume—part textbook, part copybook, with illustrations all drawn by Grandpa Yan in his own hand. He had a magnificent Standard Script⁵, his brushstrokes powerful and his style full of spirit.

First, he taught them how to hold the brush, understand character structure, and use different strokes.

One book was for tracing, another blank one for practice. After imitating his characters for a while, they had a solid grasp of structure and could move on to other copybooks.

Once they could hold the brush firmly, after years of this practice, their grandfather mostly left them to it. Those who loved calligraphy continued to learn from him, and those who didn’t were free to stop, but everyone’s handwriting ended up neat and proper.

“My Geges⁶ and I started writing the exact same way when we were little. See? Your great-grandfather really likes you, doesn’t he? Anzhi is a very likable child.”

Yan Xi held her, speaking in a low, gentle voice, as soft as a cloud in a clear sky. Anzhi looked up at her, and without realizing it, she forgot to cry.

Yan Xi flipped to another page and let out a soft “Oh?” followed by a light laugh. Anzhi looked down and saw the practice sheet with her name on it.
She flushed. “I’m not very good at writing it yet…”

“Not at all, you wrote it beautifully… Here, I’ll write it for you again.”

Without letting go, Yan Xi gathered Anzhi in her arms, sat down on the rug, and picked up her pencil. She wrote her own character, “Xi,” and then Anzhi’s name: “Tao Anzhi.”⁷

The character “Xi” was, as always, perfectly formed and elegant, its strokes clean and simple.

The three characters for “Tao Anzhi” were just as refined but carried a hint of casual grace, suggesting the effortless beauty of moving clouds and flowing water⁸. The final downward stroke of the character “Zhi” was drawn out slightly, yet it was a perfect example of touching upon and stoping⁹—both restrained and free-spirited.

“Anzhi, you have a beautiful name.”

Anzhi pressed her face tighter against her, treasuring the embrace. She knew Yan Xi was not a relative and not an old friend¹⁰; she had no obligation to her. But she had been so, so good to her. She wasn’t her mother or anyone else who had a duty to care for her. She was someone else’s aunt. She was a grown-up with a job, a busy job. Anzhi couldn’t be greedy. She couldn’t ask for more.

She just loved being held by her like this.

One second. Just one more second.

Anzhi closed her eyes, a film of moisture slowly gathering on her soft, young lashes.

The room was quiet.

Yan Xi didn’t speak either. To be honest, she wasn’t particularly fond of children. She had no choice when it came to the twin bear children¹¹ in her family; blood was blood. But she didn’t know if what she was doing was right, keeping Anzhi here at home. Watching her eldest sister-in-law dote on the twins all day must be so hard for her.

She couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered it before—that she’d only thought being around kids her age would help, never imagining it might cause Anzhi more pain. The hurt must have been what made her think of her grandfather…

That makes sense. Besides her grandfather, who else does she have to miss?

I’m the twins’ aunt, so Anzhi probably doesn’t even dare to hope that I’d ever take her side…

A sudden pang of sorrow struck Yan Xi’s heart.

Her hand gently stroked the little girl’s back. She could feel how much Anzhi craved this kind of closeness.

Yan Xi didn’t really remember being this age. She was five when her parents and her youngest Gege died in an accident. Her paternal grandparents’ hair had seemed to turn white overnight. She remembered seeing her other Gege-s crying inconsolably, but she hadn’t really understood. They had shielded her so well that she’d had a peaceful childhood, always believing her parents and her Xiao-gege¹² were just away. It wasn’t until she was a teenager, old enough to understand, that she realized she had lost her closest family. The heart-drilling pain¹³ of that moment still ached when she thought about it now.

Yan Xi lowered her lashes, hiding the light in her eyes. Her hand, as if with a mind of its own, continued to gently pat Anzhi’s back.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered.

The little girl’s eyelashes fluttered, but her eyes stayed closed. She seemed to be fast asleep.

“Then go to sleep.”

Anzhi wasn’t actually sleeping. When Yan Xi asked, she didn’t want to open her eyes, so she decided to pretend. She wanted to see what Yan Xi would do.

The woman lifted her. Her arms were soft, her movements light. She placed her on the bed and tucked a blanket snugly around her.

Something tickled her cheek—a strand of hair. Anzhi tried to ignore it. A moment later, gentle fingers brushed it away. Then… the fingers paused, and a knuckle lightly dabbed at her eyelashes.

Yan Xi turned off the main light, switching on the tall lamp by the bed. She angled the lampshade slightly away.

Anzhi peeked through her lashes. The orange glow outlined Yan Xi’s tall figure. She watched her tie up her hair, admiring the curve of her elbow and the full, graceful lines of her body.

Anzhi felt like she was watching a beautiful, unknown adult world.

Mindful of the sleeping girl, Yan Xi moved quietly, grabbing her pajamas and slipping into the bathroom to shower.
A little while later, just as Anzhi was drifting off, she felt the bed dip. A familiar, pleasant scent filled the air. Yan Xi must have lain down.

She checked her phone for a moment, then set it aside.

Anzhi secretly opened her eyes again. Yan Xi was lying under a separate blanket, her head turned away. Her long hair fanned out across the pillow, revealing a small, delicate earlobe.

Anzhi’s little hand snuck out from under her blanket, reached for Yan Xi’s, and grasped a corner. Only then did she fall asleep, content.

Anzhi thought she would sleep soundly until morning, but she didn’t. In a hazy dream, she saw white mourning clothes¹⁴ again, and paper money¹⁵ floating in the air before settling on the ground. A small version of herself followed the adults’ footsteps, lost and confused…

Someone was talking to her, but the people around her were just crying and crying. And there was that wooden box. Her maternal grandfather was inside it, getting farther and farther away…

The wind howled past, trees blurring by. Anzhi glanced at the man sitting beside her… she wanted to talk to him, but what could she say? He didn’t seem to like it when she called him “Father”…

“You saw for yourself. Your mom doesn’t want you. She only cares about herself… I won’t abandon you… Just stay here for now…”

The car drove away, leaving her standing all alone.

Then there were the strangers. They didn’t like her. They were laughing at her.

“This kid is so unlikable. She never talks or smiles.”

“She doesn’t cry when you don’t feed her, doesn’t cry when you don’t pick her up. I’ve never seen a kid who doesn’t even know how to act cute…”

“Right? How much longer is she staying here? Is she going to be formally accepted and recognize her ancestors and return to the clan¹⁶?”

“How could she? Her surname is Tao, not Chen. I heard they’re going to send her away.”

“The sooner the better. They expect us to raise another kid without a raise.”

Anzhi started crying in her dream. She tried to hold it in, but she couldn’t, and her sobs grew louder and louder. It’s a dream, it’s okay, she thought. I can cry as much as I want. I don’t have to hold back anymore.

A soft, clear voice floated into her ear. “Anzhi… Anzhi… don’t cry…”

Her little hands kept wiping at the tears, but more and more came. Helpless, Yan Xi threw back the girl’s blanket and gathered her into a hug.

“Taotao… there, there, don’t cry anymore…”

Anzhi felt herself being held in a soft, warm embrace that smelled of gardenias. The person kept cooing, “Taotao, don’t cry… be good…”

She sank into that boundless gentleness, her sobs slowly quieting as she finally drifted back to sleep.

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