Chapter 14: You Missed Dinner
Zhiyi walked to the entrance and used the key that she hadn’t used in ten years to unlock the door.
However, the door opened before she could turn it.
Her stepmother stood on the other side.
Relief crossed the woman’s face before it changed into anger. The transition happened quickly, but not quickly enough for Zhiyi to miss it.
"There you are. Do you have any idea what you’ve put this family through?"
Zhiyi stepped inside, not bothering to answer the open ended question. It used to drive her crazy when the woman did it, but now that she had spent time with Hanchuan, she didn’t feel the pressure on her chest anymore.
The driver remained visible through the open door and her stepmother quickly noticed the car.
"Who brought you home?"
"A driver."
"What driver?"
"The one operating that vehicle."
Her stepmother’s mouth tightened. "I can see that. Whose driver is he?"
"Hanchuan’s."
"Who is Hanchuan?"
That question was too broad and much more important than asking what she had put the family through.
Zhiyi needed to determine how much information could be provided without revealing the apocalypse, rebirth or seven years of an undocumented relationship with a man her family had never met.
Her father entered the hall before she reached an answer.
"Close the door," he ordered and Zhiyi did.
The driver had fulfilled Hanchuan’s instruction.
Her father stood beside the sitting-room entrance with both hands clasped behind his back. One of her stepsisters remained near the stairs while the other sat on the arm of a chair, holding her phone.
All four had apparently been waiting for her.
"You left the university before the end of the day," her father said.
"Yes."
"You ignored my messages."
"Yes."
"You missed dinner."
Zhiyi glanced toward the dining room. The table hadn’t been set.
"Dinner hasn’t started."
"That isn’t the point."
She had suspected it wasn’t.
Her stepmother pressed one hand to her chest. "We didn’t know where you were. Your father was about to call the university."
His phone was currently in his pocket and the university administration office closed at four.
But Zhiyi didn’t mention either fact.
"Where were you?" her father demanded.
"With Hanchuan."
Her older stepsister looked up from her phone.
"Who?"
Zhiyi considered using his full name. That would create more questions, but the questions would at least become specific.
"Pei Hanchuan."
Silence entered the hall.
Her older stepsister laughed first.
"President Pei Hanchuan?"
"Yes."
The girl laughed again and turned her phone so the younger sister could see it. "She expects us to believe President Pei picked her up from school?"
"He didn’t pick me up from school."
Her father’s expression darkened. "Enough."
Zhiyi stopped speaking.
"I don’t know what game you’re playing," he continued, "but you will not use the name of a man like President Pei to excuse irresponsible behavior."
"I wasn’t excusing it."
"Then apologize."
That instruction was incomplete.
"For what?"
Her stepmother gave her father a wounded look. "This is what I mean. She doesn’t care that we were worried. No matter how carefully I try to guide her, she acts as though I’m attacking her."
"I didn’t say you were attacking me."
"You see?" Her stepmother’s voice softened. "She twists every word."
Zhiyi reviewed the conversation.
She hadn’t altered any of the woman’s statements, but her father’s anger increased anyway.
"Your mother has done everything possible to make you part of this family."
"She isn’t my mother."
The older stepsister lowered her phone even as her stepmother’s eyes filled with tears.
The probability that the lecture would exceed an hour increased substantially.
"Apologize," her father said.
Zhiyi looked at him.
When she was nineteen the first time, she had believed there was a correct response hidden somewhere inside these conversations. If she explained herself clearly enough, remained quiet at the correct moments and apologized for the correct offence, her father might recognize that she was still his daughter.
She had spent years attempting to solve a problem that didn’t have the outcome she wanted.
People said that when a child gained a stepmother, she gained a stepfather too.
Zhiyi had once thought the statement unnecessarily dramatic.
Now, she no longer did.
Her father had made his choice long before the world ended. Nothing she said in the entrance hall would alter it.
"I understand," Zhiyi said.
"Then apologize."
"I understand what you want."
Her father stared at her.
Understanding did not require agreement.
Zhiyi adjusted the strap of her bag. "I have work to do."
She walked toward the stairs.
"Qiao Zhiyi, I am not finished speaking to you."
She stopped.
The unfinished conversation pulled at her. Her father had stated that he wasn’t done, which meant leaving would interrupt the sequence before completion.
But the conversation had no defined conclusion. Her stepmother could continue producing new complaints indefinitely, and her father could demand apologies without identifying a specific action that would satisfy him.
It couldn’t be completed because they had no intention of allowing it to end.
Instead of stressing over things with no defined conclusion, Zhiyi resumed walking.
Her father called her name again.
She continued upstairs.
The older stepsister stood abruptly and moved out of her path, leaving her bedroom door open behind her.
Zhiyi glanced inside as she passed.
The same man appeared in at least fourteen places.
His face filled the phone still clutched in her stepsister’s hand. It covered framed photographs, magazine pages and a large poster above the bed. A life-sized pillow rested against the headboard, printed with an image of him wearing unfastened trousers and no shirt.
Zhiyi had seen the room before, but she had never understood the pillow.
She still didn’t.
The man’s face was familiar only because her stepsister had placed it on nearly every available surface.
Zhiyi dismissed him and continued down the hall.
She entered her room and locked the door.
Her father’s voice carried upstairs. Her stepmother answered him in a quieter tone that required more effort to hear, almost guaranteeing everyone would try.
Zhiyi set her bag on the desk.
The room looked exactly as she remembered it.
Textbooks filled two shelves in order of subject and publication date. Completed assignments were stacked beside the printer. A narrow bed stood beneath the window. There were no photographs on the walls and no personal objects on the desk beyond a lamp, a laptop and three precisely aligned pens.
She sat.
For the first time since waking, no one was asking her a question.
Zhiyi opened a new notebook.
The blank page created too many possible beginnings.
Shelter design depended on the duration and severity of the heat. Supply calculations depended on the number of people. Transportation depended on the locations they selected. Every decision required information from another category, and each category depended on decisions they hadn’t made.
She couldn’t plan for an undefined group.
Zhiyi wrote a heading across the top of the page.
CORE UNIT
She placed the pen beneath it.
The first name was easy.
1. Pei Hanchuan
Hanchuan’s friends followed in the order she had memorized them from his stories.
2. Rong Jingwei
3. Song Zeyu
4. Liang Shichen
5. Wen Qinghe
Zhiyi looked at the list.
Five people.
Food, water and medical supplies could now be calculated for five. Shelter capacity required additional space for equipment, redundancies and long-term storage. The mobile transport would need five permanent sleeping positions unless they used rotational rest schedules.
Her phone vibrated beside the notebook and Hanchuan’s name appeared above a message.
Start with the first heat. Nothing else tonight.
Zhiyi read it once and her shoulder’s dropped.
The flood calculations closed.
The ice stopped demanding attention.
The unknown second cycle moved out of reach.
Instead, she turned the page.
At the top, she wrote:
HEAT — FOUR YEARS
Then she began.