143: Chapter 148 The Coopers and 2015

New York, Upper West Side.

When he woke up, the fire in the fireplace had already gone out.

Only a few dark red embers remained in the ashes, faintly radiating residual heat. Morning light squeezed through the gaps in the heavy curtains, tracing a golden line across the ceiling.

A cup of warm water sat on the coffee table, with a folded piece of paper pressed beneath it.

Chen Mo sat up, the cashmere blanket sliding from his shoulders. He picked up the paper; it was a note from Taylor.

"Santa Claus has been here. He said you did well this year, so keep it up next year. — T.S."

Chen Mo folded the note, put it in his coat pocket, took out his phone, and sent a message to Taylor: "Santa didn't give me a gift."

The reply came almost instantly.

"I gave it to you while you were asleep, but you didn't wake up."

"What gift?"

"I'm not telling you."

Chen Mo looked at the screen, the corners of his mouth lifting very slightly, then he stuffed his phone into another pocket.

He didn't ask further, nor did he need to. On the way to the airport, he called Changsha.

It was afternoon domestically; his mother should have just finished lunch.

"Mom."

"Hey, are you having fun in New York?" Xiuying's voice came through the receiver, with the sound of a television in the background, seemingly broadcasting news.

"It's going well." Chen Mo looked at the snowy scenery flying past the window. "Are you and Dad at home?"

"Yes, we are. Your dad spent the whole night watching the live stream of the snow in New York on his phone, muttering, 'This is where Chen Mo is in America,' until very late." His mother laughed on the other end.

"It's cold over there, so remember to wear your scarf and dress warmly. Don't worry so much about style."

"I know."

"Eat well over there, and don't keep eating that unhealthy food."

"Mm."

Half an hour later, waiting at the boarding gate, his phone vibrated. It was a voice message from his mother.

Chen Mo tapped it open. Xiuying's voice was steady and gentle: "Momo, I spoke with Martha on an overseas call last night. She said tomorrow is Christmas, and the weather in Los Angeles is nice with sunshine. You should go over there to join the festivities; don't just work by yourself."

Chen Mo listened to the voice message and replied with a simple "Mm."

Los Angeles, Pasadena, that old house with the red tile roof and the old swing.

The sunshine was indeed very nice, dazzlingly bright.

Chen Mo parked the car by the roadside, carrying two paper bags. One contained a cashmere qipao dress and gloves for Martha, the other a cashmere coat and hat.

Before even entering, he heard a "meow" from the porch swing.

Rachel was squatting on the swing ropes sharpening her claws. Seeing him, those amber eyes narrowed, then she jumped down gracefully and rubbed against his feet.

Chen Mo knocked on the door.

Martha was wearing a dark red cardigan, still holding a needle and thread. Seeing him, her face blossomed into a smile. She said, "I was just wondering why I heard a magpie chirping today. Come in quickly, it's very sunny outside."

"Didn't you say you weren't coming?" George poked his head out from the kitchen, holding a wooden spoon, looking quite disheveled.

"I wanted to give you a surprise." Chen Mo bent down to change his shoes and handed over the paper bags. "Gifts."

"Oh my, you're spending money again." Martha took the bags, touched the soft cashmere, and frowned with heartache. "This must have cost a lot, right? Don't buy anything next time."

"It didn't cost much," Chen Mo said.

"I guarantee this year's turkey isn't burnt," George shouted from the kitchen, sounding very confident.

"Last year's wasn't burnt either, it just had a bit of a charcoal-grilled flavor." Chen Mo took out the scarf and unfolded it to show George. "Dark gray, it doesn't show dirt."

George walked over, took the bag, and his rough, large hands touched the fabric. He chuckled twice and said, "Good, good, I'll put it on right now to show off... oh no, to sweep the floor."

Dinner was sumptuous.

George brought the huge turkey out of the oven. This time it was indeed roasted well; the skin was golden and crispy, and when cut, the juices flowed along the grain without being dry.

Chen Mo ate a large plate.

Breast meat, leg meat, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce—he even went for seconds. He ate with great focus, not speaking, just nodding occasionally.

Martha sat opposite him, watching him eat. Suddenly she put down her fork and said, "Chen Mo, I can't tell if you really think it's delicious or if you've learned to act."

Chen Mo looked up, still chewing a piece of meat. He was stunned for a moment, then swallowed and said, "I'm not lying to you, it really is delicious this time."

"You child..." Martha tilted her head and studied him for a few seconds. "Alright, I believe you. After all, you've won so many awards this year, your acting skills must have improved."

After dinner, George couldn't wait to unwrap the clothes and hat. He stood in front of the mirror in the porch entryway, posing and walking around the living room to show off.

George walked into the yard in his slippers and started sweeping the fallen leaves with a broom.

The old jacaranda tree was already bare, and there weren't actually many leaves on the lawn, only a few stray oak leaves blown over by the wind.

Chen Mo stood in the shadow of the porch, watching, and said, "It fits perfectly."

Martha walked over with coffee, standing beside him, also watching the old man in slippers sweeping the floor in the yard.

"Let him show off." Martha sighed, her tone full of indulgence. "Jesse isn't coming back this year, so he was just hoping you'd come see him."

Chen Mo turned his head and said, "Go try yours on, see if the size is right."

Martha returned to the living room and opened the gloves. They had cashmere lining, and a very faint gray flower was embroidered on the back of the hand.

She put on the gloves, spread her fingers and closed them, held them up to the light to look at them repeatedly, then lowered her hands and looked at Chen Mo.

Martha held up the qipao dress to measure it against herself, then put it away, keeping it in the box.

"Will you come again next year?" Martha asked.

"Yes," Chen Mo answered firmly.

"You say you'll come next year every time." Martha's voice was very soft, carrying a trace of imperceptible worry. "You're so busy now, flying all over the world. How much longer can you keep coming?"

Chen Mo looked at the Christmas tree in the living room. It was shorter than the one at Taylor's house, but decorated more densely, hung with things Martha had made by hand, such as knitted little snowmen, paper-folded angels, and last year's glass balls.

Piled under the tree were several gifts wrapped in old newspapers, with ribbons tied crookedly, two of which were labeled "Chen".

"As long as you are here, I will come," he said.

Martha didn't speak again. She folded the new gloves and placed them on her lap. The only sound left in the living room was the crackling of firewood burning in the fireplace.

In the afternoon, the sunlight shone obliquely into the living room, and Chen Mo fell asleep leaning on the sofa armrest.

Rachel curled up at his feet, sleeping sprawled out.

An old western movie was playing on TV, with John Wayne riding on a horse, and the red sandstone of Monument Valley in the background.

The sounds of gunfire and horse hooves mixed together, but Chen Mo slept very soundly.

Martha walked over on tiptoe and covered him with the gray-blue blanket she had knitted herself.

It was the one she had put the most effort into knitting this year, with dense stitches and the softest cashmere yarn. Perhaps in the old lady's heart, this boy far away in a foreign land was also her child.

Chen Mo was half-asleep, but didn't move.

He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds from the TV, feeling the weight of the blanket. He liked this sense of security that wrapped around him.

When he left in the evening, the sky wasn't completely dark yet.

George was still wearing the new coat and called out to him while standing under the porch.

"Chen Mo, this is for you."

He handed over a kraft paper envelope. It wasn't sealed, and the edges were a bit frayed from being handled.

Chen Mo opened the envelope in the car.

The reading light of the CLA glowed with a warm yellow light.

The photo slid out.

It was what he looked like on his first day in Los Angeles, wearing a black T-shirt, carrying the old suitcase that had accompanied him from Changsha to Los Angeles.

He was standing at the entrance of The Cooper Home, with an uneasy, even awkward smile on his face. His hair was much shorter than it was now, and his eyes were full of confusion.

He flipped the photo over.

On the back were words written in ballpoint pen. The writing was heavy, leaving deep indentations on the back of the paper.

"He came. And everything changed."

(He came, and then everything changed.)

Chen Mo put the photo back into the envelope and placed it in the paper bag on the passenger seat.

He started the engine and drove into the night.

Outside the window, the lights of Los Angeles lit up one by one.

He now truly understood that sentence.

My home is where my heart is at peace.

After Christmas passed, the bustle faded away.

The streets of Los Angeles hadn't yet taken down the colorful lights, and pine needles from Christmas trees were piled up on the roadside, waiting for the cleaning trucks to slowly collect them.

Chen Mo locked himself in the recording studio.

There were only a few days left in 2014, like the coda of a song; the chords had already settled, and the sustain was slowly decaying in the air.

Then he did one thing: he found the original demos of every song he had released since his debut and arranged them in chronological order.

He turned off his phone and put on his monitor headphones. A small piece of the leather on the earcup had fallen off again, revealing the gray foam inside.

Every time he said he would replace them, he forgot.

The first one, 《Stressed Out》.

Time went back to last year.

At that time, his voice was thin and fierce; every word sounded like it was squeezed out from between his teeth.

He was angry.

That kind of anger, not knowing if he could make it but still daring to roar at the world, overflowed from every rough note.

He resisted skipping and listened to the whole song.

Then it was 《Believer》.

The first version in the garage only had drums and an electric guitar; the bass line was something he had hummed and then layered on later.

The rhythm pattern of the drums simulated a heartbeat. When recording, he turned off all the lights, leaving only the light from the mixing console screen, and his knuckles were knocked red.

That version was much rougher than the released version; the drums were early in one spot, and the distortion on the electric guitar was turned up too high, but his voice overpowered all the noise.

After recording, he collapsed on the swivel chair and panted for a long time, as if something had been ripped out by the roots from his chest, leaving a void.

This was determination.

The next one, 《Stay》.

This version was slower than the released version, and the tail of the chorus was cut in half because his throat suddenly choked up when he sang to that point; he suddenly felt very cold.

《Timber》, 《Exile》, 《Closer》, 《7 Years》...

He listened to them one by one.

Until the last one, 《Perfect》.

On a snowy day in New York, he played the intro alone using a keyboard borrowed from the hotel.

The snow in Central Park outside the window seemed to be melting, so he sang very softly, afraid of waking the people next door.

After the last note fell, he pressed the stop button.

The recording studio fell back into silence.

Chen Mo opened his notebook and turned to the front page where the photo of The Cooper Home was tucked.

He wrote a line:

[The anger is gone, the anxiety is still there, but there is something else. I know, that is growth.]

On the afternoon of the 29th, Scott came.

He had just returned from skiing in Aspen with his family. His face still had the flush from the snow reflection, and he was wearing a charcoal coat, looking refreshed.

He pushed the door open, took off his coat and draped it over the sofa, sat down in the control room, and looked at Chen Mo on the other side of the glass.

Chen Mo was holding a guitar, leaning on the piano stool, casually strumming a few chords.

"Happy holidays, Chen." Scott said, "It seems you didn't lock yourself in the recording studio to get moldy."

"Just finished one," Chen Mo said, "It's quite personal."

"Personal is good." Scott smiled, "Personal things are the most valuable. By the way, the lineup for the Grammy Awards is out. The medley segment is scheduled for the second act. You'll be sitting in the same row with Taylor and Ed Sheeran. Don't be nervous, just like that day on the beach."

Chen Mo nodded, his fingers unconsciously plucking the strings.

"I am fearless now."