Chapter 14 – Xing Baichuan 0.6

Our home was completely transformed.

From the moment I pulled out the death certificate, I knew that the scene I dreaded most had unfolded before my eyes.

Cries from my parents echoed incessantly in my ears—their heart-wrenching wails left me writhing in agony.

My mother’s relentless questioning of “why,” coupled with her unbearable anguish, left me kneeling there, unable to utter a single word of comfort.

There was no comfort to offer; every attempt would be futile. In the face of reality, all we could do was weep.

The two elders couldn’t accept this truth, their reactions even more intense than mine had been. My mother, her face streaked with tears, clung to my clothes as she pleaded, “Baichuan, take Mama back. Mother needs to see your brother.”

My father, an optimistic and broad-minded man who had always been a role model for Bolin and me, instilling in us the values of responsibility and integrity, now sat beside me, his silver hair catching the light. We embraced my mother together, tears streaming down our faces.

People of a certain age don’t have the same resilience. I led my mother back to her bedroom, hoping she could rest.

She clung tightly to my wrist, sobbing uncontrollably.

I soothed her, enveloping her hands in mine. “Mom, I’ll book the flights. We’ll return home as soon as possible, alright?”

She nodded repeatedly, her voice breaking as she spoke, “Bolin isn’t dead, is he? Baichuan, what is your brother doing?”

I knew my current state wasn’t pretty. The family needed me to hold it together; I couldn’t collapse.

“Mom, Bolin will always be with us,” I said, my tears trailing down my cheeks. I wiped away her tears and held her close. “Mom, you mustn’t let anything happen to yourself. You still have me.”

My mother, already frail, eventually fell asleep after taking some medication.

As I closed the door behind me, I heard muffled sobs. I knew she was crying into her pillow. I didn’t dare speak to her anymore, fearing it would only make things worse.

In the living room, my father remained seated on the sofa, cup in hand, frozen since the moment he saw Bolin’s death certificate.

Their generation was accustomed to expressing love through actions, silently dedicating everything to us.

I approached him, gently removing the cup from his hand. His immobility tore at my heart.

Kneeling beside him, I took his hand, trying to remain calm. “Dad, you should rest too. I…”

“Boston said we’d spend Christmas together,” my father suddenly interjected, his lips trembling, his gaze fixed on the death certificate. His hands were ice-cold.

I knelt down, cradling his face to meet my eyes. “Dad, we’re going home. From now on, we’ll always be with Bolin.”

I don’t know how I managed to book the flights or how I got my disoriented parents onto the plane.

The flight attendants noticed our distress and took special care of us.

Throughout the long hours of flight, my father was lost in thought, while my mother continually wiped away her tears. I knew they, like me, were suppressing the overwhelming anguish threatening to burst forth. We couldn’t break down now, not when Bolin’s funeral awaited us.

Jiangluo came to pick us up. My mother’s gaze toward him was filled with resentment.

I understood her thoughts. Seizing the opportunity when Jiangluo went to queue for a taxi, I explained to my parents that the matter had nothing to do with him.

Regarding the reason for Bolin’s suicide, I was vague, prompting my mother’s relentless inquiries.

She seemed possessed, repeating, “My son won’t die. He wouldn’t abandon his mother so cruelly.”

My mother, usually meticulous, now appeared haggard, stray strands of hair stuck to her tear-stained face.

With one arm around her and the other holding my father’s hand, we moved forward. From this point on, our family of four was reduced to three.

Jiangluo hailed a cab, placing our luggage in the trunk and opening the doors for us to sit inside.

I sat on the outermost side, patting his shoulder before entering, whispering, “Thank you.”

Jiangluo stole a glance at my parents, his eyes instantly reddening. He remained silent, taking the passenger seat.

During the entire journey, no one in the car spoke, save for my mother’s intermittent sobs.

Since learning about Bolin’s fate, her tears hadn’t ceased.

I worried about her health, but no amount of persuasion could stem the tide, sometimes even causing me to shed tears alongside her.

It’s often said that men don’t easily cry. But my beloved younger brother was gone; such conventions held no weight in my grief.

However, no matter how much sorrow we felt or tears we shed, Bolin wasn’t coming back. His death was a fact, the cause a source of shame, his funeral awaited our attendance, and his tombstone awaited a bouquet of flowers.

We returned to the police station, where Xu Zhao was leaning against the window, smoking.

Repeating the same words he had said before, Xu Zhao coldly recounted the events to my parents.

Finally, he added, “Li Jiangluo almost became a sacrificial offering for Xing Bolin. As a friend, I hope you don’t make things difficult for him.”

I frowned, a twinge of displeasure stirring within me.

My parents were educated and reasonable people. Although my mother initially suspected Jiangluo’s involvement, after my explanation, she even held my hand, lamenting the boy’s misfortune.

I shot him a cold look. “Jiangluo will be family from now on. This matter doesn’t concern Officer Xu.”

Leading my parents out of the police station, Li Jiangluo waited outside for us.

He wore very little, the biting northern wind causing his coat collar to flutter around his neck.

“Jiangluo,” I called out.

He turned immediately, approaching cautiously and quietly asking, “Going back?”

Due to the incident, I developed a distaste for Xu Zhao. His words also hurt my parents, and I didn’t want them staying at that man’s house, nor did I wish to return.

“Let’s go to a hotel,” I suggested.

Jiangluo was taken aback, unsure of the reason.

But he didn’t ask further, nodding and running out to hail another taxi.

My mother leaned against me, her crying less intense. Glancing at my father, I noticed him sigh deeply, following Jiangluo towards the roadside.

“Mom, go back and rest properly. We need to handle Bolin’s affairs promptly,” I said, avoiding the word “funeral.”

We checked into the same hotel as before, booking two rooms.

Initially, the plan was for my parents to share one room, while I would stay in the adjacent room. However, my mother wouldn’t let go of me, so I stayed by her side as she slept.

My father looked at my sleeping mother with heartache, gently smoothing her hair. Shaking his head, he continued to sit on the sofa, lost in thought.

Jiangluo brought food over, setting it aside in the neighboring room, nervously urging my father to eat something.

No one had an appetite. I saw my father discreetly wiping his eyes.

I never pondered what lay beyond death, nor did I imagine watching my younger brother cremated.

My parents finally succumbed to their grief, wailing uncontrollably in front of the crematorium’s furnace.

Jiangluo stood against the wall, biting his hand as tears dampened his shirt.

I restrained my mother, who tried to approach the furnace, her body half-kneeling on the ground as she loudly called out Bolin’s name.

My father and I helped her up, then hugged my mother as she sobbed, reassuring her, “Bolin is watching us. You can’t be like this.”

I gazed up at the gray sky, observing black crows flying overhead.

Bolin, are you really watching us?

Tell me, why did you choose this path?

We hadn’t had time to buy a burial plot for Bolin, nor did we have a stable place to stay, so we temporarily stored his ashes at the crematorium.

My mother clung to the urn, refusing to let go, eventually collapsing in tears.

I called for an ambulance, rushing around with medical personnel, forgetting about Jiangluo.

When my mother’s condition stabilized, I turned to search for him, finally spotting him in the room where ashes were kept.

The radiant smile of the once lively Bolin was now reduced to a black-and-white photograph, among rows of urns, appearing lonely and helpless.

Jiangluo stood before it, expression forlorn, his hand gently caressing the cold rosewood box.

I approached, wrapping my arm around his shoulders.

He seemed startled, turning to see it was me, relaxing slightly.

“I miss him so much,” Jiangluo said softly. “If this were just a dream, a nightmare, waking up to a new day would be a relief.”

Unsure how to console him, I simply patted his shoulder lightly, offering what little comfort I could.

Staring at my brother’s smiling face, memories of him riding piggyback on me as we roamed the alleys flooded my mind.

Back then, we were around seven or eight years old. Now, over two decades later, how I longed to carry him once again.

“Jiangluo,” I said, “Bolin was my brother, but his current predicament is entirely of his own making. Not only that, but he also hurt you.”

Jiangluo paused his caressing of the urn, shaking his head. “No, it’s my fault.”

“Our family originally consisted of four members. Now that Bolin is gone, if you’re willing, you’ll become part of our family.” Releasing him, I turned to face him. “You were Bolin’s lover. He mentioned that you no longer had any family. I believe this might be what he wished for.”

Jiangluo slowly turned to me, remaining silent for a long time before finally speaking.

His voice choked with emotion as he addressed me, “Brother.”

In that instant, I might have imagined it.

That one word, “Brother,” sounded as if it came from Bolin.

I knew it was impossible, likely a product of my grief and longing.

But I held back my tears, nodding and embracing Jiangluo.

We were both abandoned, forsaken by my heartless younger brother.

Yet, Jiangluo was even more pitiable, utterly devoid of support in this world.

I promised to take care of him for my brother’s sake, a form of atonement for that remorseless individual’s transgressions.

Love was not meant to be treated so callously.