Ingrid ZH | Fangruo’s Cereal — Writing, Food, Travel & Coaching

When things do not unfold the way I expect them to, a very heavy feeling settles in my chest.

I can’t remember when this feeling first appeared. I remember one day in fifth grade when I went to school after something had happened at home the night before. I had spent the evening comforting the adults. That night, I completely forgot about my homework.

Looking back now, that feels like a kind of ability I no longer possess. Perhaps that was the moment the seed was planted. Since then, it has become very difficult for me to forget anything—especially things on my to-do list. On quiet mornings like this, when I’m alone, I sometimes miss that state of being immersed in my emotions, sitting inside them, forgetting reality for a moment.

The teacher sent me out into the hallway. Inside of me, it felt as though ten thousand ants were crawling. I felt wronged, maybe even humiliated. I hadn’t intentionally forgotten my homework. I had simply forgotten.

My heart sank.

That feeling left a mark on my young, malleable, soft heart. It was like a meteor crater. Whenever it rains, that crater fills with water. Or like a volcanic eruption: magma rising to the surface of the earth, cooling into thick layers of asphalt-colored rock, smooth around the edges. Sometimes I feel that I am incomplete; other times I feel unbearably heavy.

This is me—like a planet whose surface carries the geological traces of time. These are the features time has carved into me. As a person, they form the habitual circuits of my reactions.

Two days ago, I went to the dentist again. The place where I had just had a wisdom tooth removed had become infected. The doctor needed to cut a small opening in the inside of my mouth so the fluid could drain out.

After the procedure, I lay on my bed at home, trying to understand what pain really is.

I had planned to get up and attend my afternoon work meeting, but my boyfriend told me to rest.

Oh, right—when I left the clinic and stopped by the pharmacy to pick up antibiotics, someone rear-ended my car.

It had been a long time since I’d had any kind of car accident.

I got out and asked if the other driver was okay. He was a college student who had never been in an accident before. His insurance was under his parents’ policy and expired. I looked at the cars and told him the first step was to take photos and exchange contact information. He hoped we could settle it privately because he didn’t want his parents to find out. I still took his insurance number.

My car wasn’t badly damaged. Just the rear bumper was bent out of shape. His car, a small sedan, was in worse condition: the headlight shattered, the front and side panels crumpled. I estimated the cost of both cars’ damage and told him I’d go to a repair shop to get a quote before contacting him.

The place where I usually get my oil changed is called Jamie’s. His shop is right next to my office at the time. Oil changes there are cheap. It is usually around fifty dollars, while other places might charge a hundred. I had changed my oil at the end of November before my boyfriend and I went back to his hometown, and after driving back from Wisconsin in January it was almost time for another one.

So I went to see Jamie.

“You just changed your oil! Why are you here again?” Jamie complained.

“Well, I just finished a long road trip,” I said.

Jamie’s shop only does routine maintenance, not full repairs. He has a good friend named John. Two years ago, when I hit a deer, I went to John’s shop. I didn’t have John’s number saved, so I stopped by Jamie’s place to ask. Jamie recited the number as if he could do it in his sleep.

“301-xxx-xxxx…”

I called, but John wasn’t there. When I arrived at the shop, I saw a mechanic I recognized—an Argentine man who had helped me before. He walked once around my car and quickly printed out an estimate.

“Do you remember me?” I asked. “I came here two years ago. I used to drive a Civic. I hit a deer.”

He nodded. He remembered my name.

Back then, Alaska was the only thing in my mind. I felt I absolutely had to drive there. I told everyone about it, over and over. The mechanic had advised me not to go. He said that as someone without American citizenship, making a trip like that could be risky. I remember he spoke somewhat awkwardly, then later admitted that he had done the same thing when he was young.

“I went to Alaska anyway,” I told him. “And I made it back.”

He looked up at me with a half-smile.

“Can I rent a car?” I asked.

My car would need repairs for a while. The student who hit me didn’t even have his own insurance, and I didn’t feel like arguing with him over rental costs.

“We don’t have a rental for you,” the mechanic said.

“What if I’m John’s friend?” I asked.

John is Jamie’s friend, and the owner of this repair shop.

The mechanic glanced around at the other customers.

“Alright. We have an old Honda. Let me see.”

The last time I hit a deer, John had mentioned they could rent me a car. But back then I didn’t even have a valid driver’s license. He had laughed and said he couldn’t rent a car to a kid without a license.

“Go take the green Accord,” the mechanic said. “It’s outside.”

“You’re not charging me?”

“If you crash it, you pay,” he said, giving me a look.

I walked around the old Accord.

“The tire looks a little flat,” I said.

“Fine. I’ll pump it up.”

I thought to myself: they really don’t treat me like a stranger here.

I had to go back to my own car to grab my toll pass. I had already handed my keys to the mechanic, so I had to ask for them back.

“You locked your car already?” he asked.

I laughed.

“You really trust nobody,” he said, handing me the keys.

I drove the old Accord away and looked up the VIN number online. It was a car from 2003.

After work, I drove it home, feeling as though the car might fall apart at any moment. On roads where I usually drive eighty, I only dared to go fifty-five. At the gas station I noticed the plastic tether connecting the gas cap to the car was broken. The brake was loose. After half an hour, the ABS warning light would come on. The steering alignment was off too—if I let go of the wheel, the car drifted right.

I’d been talking with coworkers about cars recently. I joked with them: “You know when it’s time to change your tires? Look at the tires on this old Accord—when the tread wears down like that, it’s time.”

Snow began falling on the way home. I drove slowly along the highway, perfectly content to let trucks honk at me as they passed.

But I felt incredibly lucky.

My boyfriend and I talk about many things. Sometimes I think that if I had never left China—if my family had always been close by—I might not have become the person I am today. I might never have had to solve so many problems on my own.

Before falling in love, I always believed I was completely alone and I could handle everything by myself. In an intimate relationship, I discover new kinds of pain. Often I find myself trying to understand why I allow someone else into my life at all.

Why do I need help from others?

At the same time, I sometimes feel impatient when I have to adapt to another person’s rhythm. These small deviations from my expectations make me feel annoyed, out of control, even angry.

That day, after my dental surgery and the accident, I wanted to rest for exactly twenty-five minutes before getting up for my meeting. My boyfriend laughed and asked, “Are you using the Pomodoro technique to rest too?”

I felt my own fragility then. And in that fragility, I stayed in bed for forty-seven minutes.

Just like this afternoon, before finishing this essay.

My boyfriend and I drove to an H-mart to buy food. On the way home, the sunset was beautiful, and the air outside was cold. We sat inside this twenty-two-year-old car and drove slowly back home.

There’s no Bluetooth in the car, so we played music through my phone’s speaker—“Hana wa Saku / Flowers Will Bloom” by Ryuichi Sakamoto.

Inside the car there was a faint orange-colored scent. Warm air flowed slowly from the dashboard and spread gently through my body.