He Used to Talk About the Future. Now He Just Hands Over the Schedule.

Chen Mo set his phone to silent and placed it face down on the table.

In the meeting room there were six people; five were talking. The project was three days late; the client had been cursing for forty minutes. Chen Mo waited until everyone had finished, then pushed a printed sheet of A3 paper across the table. On it was a new schedule, with three milestones marked in red. He explained nothing.

After the meeting broke up, Lao Zhou clapped him on the shoulder: “You didn’t use to be like this.”

Chen Mo smiled, fished two mint candies from his pocket, and handed one over. Lao Zhou took it. Chen Mo unwrapped his own and put it in his mouth. The candy was cool.

Ten years ago, it hadn’t been like this. Ten years ago he would talk at the dinner table about his goals, about what car he’d buy next year, about opening a branch within three years. Then the company collapsed, and he owed 800,000 yuan. He deleted his WeChat Moments until only a single line remained. The day Lin Zhao left, he stood downstairs until three in the morning. The security guard asked him who he was looking for. He said he was looking for himself.

Now he called his mother every Wednesday. The calls lasted no more than ten minutes. His mother asked if he’d eaten; he said he had. His mother asked if he was busy; he said it was all right. His mother said Auntie Wang’s son next door had gotten another promotion. He said oh. Before hanging up, his mother said, “You talk less and less.” He said, “To save on phone bills.” His mother laughed once.

On Wednesday afternoon, Lin Zhao came to the company to do an interview. She wore a gray suit, her hair cut short. Chen Mo showed her around the site and introduced the materials. She recorded; he walked. Passing the cafeteria, she suddenly said, “You didn’t use to eat cilantro.” Chen Mo glanced at his tray; the cilantro had already been picked out. He said, “I still don’t.”

After the interview ended, Lin Zhao put away her voice recorder. They were the only two in the elevator. The floor numbers counted down. Lin Zhao said, “My mom asked about you.” Chen Mo stared at their reflection in the elevator doors. Lin Zhao said, “She said you fixed her water pipe before.” Chen Mo said, “The valve needs replacing.” The elevator reached the first floor. The doors opened. Lin Zhao didn’t move. Chen Mo didn’t move either. Her fingers rubbed the edge of the voice recorder. His left hand curled at the seam of his pants, then relaxed.

His phone rang. It was his mother’s neighbor. His mother had fallen.

The hospital corridor lights were white. Chen Mo sat on a plastic chair, clutching a payment slip. The numbers on the slip had smeared with sweat. The day his father died, he was out of town drinking with a client. The phone rang three times. He declined it three times. The fourth time he answered, his father was already gone. He had been wearing a white shirt that day, the cuffs stained with wine. After that he never wore a white shirt again.

His mother woke up; the right side of her body couldn’t move. She looked at Chen Mo, her lips trembling. Chen Mo put a straw in a cup of water and held it to her mouth. His mother took a sip and said, “When your father left, you weren’t there.” Chen Mo said, “Mm.” His mother said, “I don’t blame you.” Chen Mo put down the cup and went to the end of the corridor to get a cup of hot water. Steam rose from it. He held his hand above the rim, then jerked it back from the heat.

Lin Zhao sent a WeChat message: “How’s your mom?” Chen Mo typed three words: “Stable now.” Lin Zhao replied: “I’ll come see her tomorrow.” Chen Mo typed: “No need.” After sending it, he put the phone on the windowsill. Outside was a plane tree, half its leaves yellow. He stood for ten minutes. Then he unsent the “No need” and typed again: “What time?”

Lin Zhao didn’t come the next day. She had gone out of town. Chen Mo stayed in the hospital room, opening a folding bed at night. While his mother slept, he looked at Lin Zhao’s WeChat Moments. She had posted a photo from the airport, captioned: “Departing.” He liked it. Then he unliked it.

A month later, his mother was discharged. Chen Mo took a long leave. He brought his mother back to the old house and cooked every day. He learned to use a pressure cooker and how to read a blood pressure monitor. His mother said, “You didn’t even wash bowls before.” Chen Mo said, “That was then.”

The day Lin Zhao came back, it was raining. She stood at the door of the old house, her umbrella dripping. Chen Mo was in the kitchen stir-frying greens. Lin Zhao said, “I came to see your mom.” Chen Mo said, “She’s asleep.” Lin Zhao said, “Then I’ll come another day.” Chen Mo said, “Come in.” Lin Zhao changed into slippers. They were the ones she had bought before, pink, the soles worn flat.

They sat in the living room. The TV was on, the volume low. Lin Zhao said, “I’ve transferred back here.” Chen Mo said, “Mm.” Lin Zhao said, “Chen Mo, we…” Chen Mo stood up and went to the kitchen to turn off the stove. The greens in the pan were a little burnt. He served them onto a plate and put it on the table. Lin Zhao followed and stood in the kitchen doorway. Chen Mo said, “Have you eaten?” Lin Zhao said, “No.” Chen Mo took a pair of chopsticks and handed them to her.

Lin Zhao took the chopsticks. Her fingers touched his. Chen Mo’s hand paused. Lin Zhao looked at him. Chen Mo’s Adam’s apple moved. He lowered his head and put the chopsticks on the bowl. He said, “You didn’t use to eat greens.” Lin Zhao said, “I do now.”

Chen Mo pushed the bowl over. He said, “Eat, then go.” Lin Zhao said, “Chen Mo.” Chen Mo said, “My mom needs to rest.” Lin Zhao said, “I didn’t come to talk about that.” Chen Mo said, “I know.” Lin Zhao said, “You don’t.” Chen Mo said, “I do.” He said it again. Then he turned and went to wash the dishes. The faucet ran hard.

Lin Zhao left. The door closed softly. Chen Mo washed three bowls and two pairs of chopsticks. He put the bowls in the dish rack. Then he sat on the sofa; the TV was still playing. He picked up the remote and changed the channel. Changed again. Finally he turned off the TV. The living room was quiet. His mother coughed in her room. He got up to pour water.

His mother said, “Xiao Lin left?” Chen Mo said, “She left.” His mother said, “Did you ask her to stay for dinner?” Chen Mo said, “I did.” His mother said, “You never used to ask people to stay.” Chen Mo said, “That was then.”

In the third month after his mother was discharged, Chen Mo went back to work. He cleaned out his desk. In the drawer was an old business card; the company name was the one from his former startup. He threw the card in the trash. Then he picked it back out and tore it into four pieces. Then he went to the break room and changed the water for the pothos. Two leaves had turned yellow; he cut them off. Lao Zhou came over and said, “Drinks tonight?” Chen Mo said, “No.” Lao Zhou said, “You never drink anymore.” Chen Mo said, “My stomach is bad.” Lao Zhou said, “You used to drink until your stomach bled and you were not scared.” Chen Mo said, “That was then.”

That night at home, Chen Mo called his mother. His mother said, “Auntie Wang came by today. She said her son got divorced.” Chen Mo said, “Oh.” His mother said, “You and Xiao Lin…” Chen Mo said, “Mom, the water’s boiling.” His mother said, “Go do your thing.” Chen Mo said, “Mm.” He hung up. The kettle was whistling. He turned off the stove and poured the water. Water splashed his hand. He turned on the faucet and rinsed it. Cold water for ten seconds. He turned it off. The back of his hand was red.

He sat on the balcony. The pothos was by his feet. The soil was dry. He picked up the spray bottle and watered it a little. His phone lit up. Lin Zhao sent a link, an article she had written. Chen Mo opened it. The data in the third paragraph was wrong. He took a screenshot, circled it in red. He typed a few words: “This is wrong.” Sent it. Lin Zhao replied: “Thanks.” Chen Mo did not reply. He put the phone on the floor. Night wind came through the screen window. The pothos leaves moved once.

He got up to go to sleep. He had a report to submit tomorrow. He set the alarm for six. Before turning off the light, he glanced at the balcony. In the dark, the pothos had no color.