Seventeen
The next day, I wake early, right at dawn, and lie for a moment on the sheets debating whether to get up or go back to sleep. After the emotional eruption of the previous night, I’d thought my rest would be wrecked by nightmares but I slept better than I have in a long time. Out of habit, I check my phone. No texts from Sam, the same as always, because he has never thought about me as anything other than a job.
Right. Get up.
In the bathroom, I check my skin. As hoped, the blotches are gone. My eyes are lit with a subtle golden light, a nice side effect from the crying, as if I’ve flooded the impurities out of my eyeballs. I wash up, and after I remove the traces of tears from my cheeks, I’m refreshed in a way that I haven’t felt in a while.
Back in the main suite, I make a coffee from the pod machine and pull out my laptop to transcribe and organize all the notes about my new task system. My breakdown last night was an eye-opener and I face the coming day with something approaching zest. Fuck Sam. He thinks I suck? I’ll show him. He thinks I’m not trying? Screw him.
Fuck Todd, on principle.
I’m on a roll. Fuck you, Sam, and you, Todd, and you, Mei, for making conversation hard even though I was an asshole to blame you for my shortcomings. Not you, Fangli. You’re okay.
I might be fueled by negative energy but I tap away with frantic fingers, not even going back to correct my typos because I don’t want to break my train of thought. I lose myself in my own words as I write, each idea leading to another and connecting again. I’m so involved that I don’t even notice Mei entering the room—since she comes from the adjoining suite, the multiple door locks don’t block her—until she sits beside me at the table. Even then it takes me a few seconds to get out of my mind space.
She says nothing but puts her tablet down on the table in front of me. It shows a photo of me from last night, and although I’m initially relieved to see that I look exactly like Fangli because makeup is magic, I can tell from Mei’s face the story isn’t as positive as it could be. I skim the text.
Chinese megastar Wei Fangli was missing her megawatt smile last night at a private exhibit at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It might have been the sore throat that prevented her from speaking, but sources say there’s trouble in paradise in her rumored long-time relationship with superstar Sam Yao. Both are in Toronto starring in Operation Oblivion, a World War Two drama showing at the Royal Alexandra Theatre.
“Who are the sources?” I ask. This is bad news because I thought Sam and I had been doing quite well, at least in public.
Mei says nothing, as usual.
Fangli comes in, her eyes wide. “What happened?” she demands. When she sits, her right leg jiggles up and down in a rapid staccato.
“It was my fault,” I say. Fangli isn’t herself.
“I thought you said you were getting along.” Her leg moves faster, and Mei shifts her gaze to the floor.
“We are.” I lower my voice to soothe her. Mei meets my eyes but I can’t tell what she’s thinking so I’m on my own. “Fangli, look at me.”
She does with wide eyes that I don’t like the look of.
“It was my fault,” I repeat slowly. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
This seems to get through because the leg shaking slows.
“It was an off night,” I say. “I was nervous but I know what to expect now. It won’t happen again.”
As I say the words, I realize I mean them. Despite the dickish way he delivered the message, Sam was right. I’ve been a half person, just doing the minimum to get by because I haven’t had the spirit to do more, not with Todd and my mom and life. I don’t want that anymore. I told Fangli I’d do a job and I’m going to do it, but in my own way. I’ve been too passive, a balloon buffeted by the wind.
Fangli’s face doesn’t change, but her leg stops moving.
“I need to visit my mom this morning,” I say in a firm voice. “I’ll be back by noon and then I’m going to practice your autograph for twenty minutes. Fangli, are you here today?”
She looks at Mei, who looks at me.
I soldier on. “If you’re free this afternoon, when I’m done, I’ll come to you and you can show me the way you’d act if someone approaches you so I know what to do.”
“Ms. Wei has several appointments before she has to go to the theater,” says Mei.
“We can work around them.” I wave my phone at her. “Send me a meeting invitation for any time after noon.” If this is a job, I’m going to treat it as a job.
Fangli bends her head and takes a deep breath.
“I’ll see you this afternoon,” I say. “Unless you want to come visit my mom.”
Her face brightens before Mei shakes her head. “Ms. Wei has several meetings this morning,” she repeats. “It’s not wise to risk photos of you two together.”
“Next time, then,” I say. “You’re always welcome to come. I’ll wear a pirate disguise so no one will see the resemblance.”
This is a very bad joke but Fangli does me the favor of smiling before Mei ushers her out. I check the time and calculate that leaving in ten minutes will give me plenty of time to get to Mom’s, stay for a couple of hours, and head back. In the bathroom, I keep my face bare and decide with my short hair and pale lips, no one will see me as Fangli. I discover my old clothes in the bottom of the chest of drawers and pull on a pair of baggy jeans with a loose tank. Accessorized with sunglasses, I look like me again.
Then I pick up my phone. I have Sam’s number because Mei gave it to me for emergencies but I’ve never used it. I could text him to say…what? I stuff the phone into my purse and head for the door. Finding pathetic excuses to accidentally be in the same place or texting “just to see” is the same technique a teenager with a crush would use and I’m not going to do that. Sam made his stance clear.
I’ll respect it. It’s time to step up.
* * *
As I anticipate, no one in the Xanadu lobby looks twice at the messy and unstylish figure who passes through on her way to public transportation. I miss the attention, but only a bit.
The nurse nods at me when I arrive, judging me because it’s been a few days since I’ve been by. I sign in and head down the hall. Mom’s routine is structured, and I have the timetable up at home and saved as a photo in my phone. Ten in the morning means free time/social activities but Mom would rather gnaw off her own face than play cards, which is one of the only activities they have, so I peek in her room first. To my surprise, it’s empty. I quickly check to make sure she has clean clothes and everything is tidy, then head over to the solarium.
When I reach the room, I stand between the open French doors and search for her. The solarium is busy enough, perhaps ten or twelve people all sitting alone with a newspaper in front of them or looking out the window. There’s no music or conversation, and inside my chest, a little hole widens. I need that money from Fangli so I can slap it down on the table when Xin Guang calls. It could be any day now. I’ve been on that list forever.
I cross the room to Mom, grateful she doesn’t need a wheelchair. I’ve seen some of the other residents, their arms too weak to roll themselves along, waiting for a nurse or volunteer to have a moment to take them where they want to go. Mom remains mobile and that’s good news.
I want to bury my face in her shoulder the way I did as a child. Instead I reach out and give her a gentle hug. Her bones are light under my touch but her eyes crinkle when she smiles, the same as they always do, the deep lines radiating out to her temples.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says. Then she shakes her head. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Do you like it?”
“Aiya. So short.”
She settles me in a chair beside her, and I sit for a moment with her hand on my head. She’s always had a very soft energy, and I close my eyes to let it wash away the wretched shame left over from last night. Mom energy, man. When it works, it works good.
I talk to her about the people I saw on the way over. Then I lie about work and tell her it’s the same-old, same-old, elaborating a bit on some fake work drama. She bobs her head as she listens to me, but when I ask her questions, she only smiles and strokes her hand down my arm. I chatter on for a few more minutes before I lapse into silence. The other people in the room are so quiet it’s like being in a gallery surrounded by sculptures. When a volunteer comes in to ask if anyone wants tea, her voice echoes off the walls.
After fetching some tea for Mom and coffee for myself, I grab a newspaper and start reading out loud. I go slowly but don’t pay attention to the words because I’m thinking about building out my planner again. I need to check over what I wrote this morning but I know the idea’s there. I know I have it. A warm flush steals over me, a deep satisfaction I haven’t felt in a long time.
The two hours pass slowly and I fetch more coffee, more tea, and some cookies. Mom leaves the tea to form a scum on the top as she focuses on the nothing happening outside. Around us, the other residents flow into the room and take positions. That each has their own preferred chair is clear and I wonder what happens when an oblivious resident takes the wrong seat. Probably a cage match.
I get Mom to lunch, then head back to the Xanadu after giving her a kiss. Seeing her has calmed me and put this entire situation in perspective. I know what I need to do and I’m now ready to do it right.
No one is in my suite when I arrive but Fangli’s voice comes from next door. Mei sent me a calendar invite for an hour from now so I don’t waste time. I have to rummage around to find the paper Sam left me last night, and I spend exactly twenty minutes repeating the signature until I can mimic the smooth strokes without looking. I tuck the paper away with pride. A small achievement but done. A check off my list. Dopamine achieved.
I have forty minutes left so I pull out my laptop to make more sense of my notes. I’m in the middle of sketching out a visual for how my task list could look when a knock comes on the interconnecting door between the suites. Must be Fangli, ready a few minutes early. I leave my laptop up and go to open the door.
Sam stands there, hands placed elegantly in pockets, excellent wrists revealed.
I strive for a neutral expression as I step back and gesture for him to come in. Professional. Polite and distant in the way new colleagues should be. “I thought you were busy today.” We don’t have an event for a couple of days. Mei sent me a slew of calendar invites while I was with Mom that I read over so I knew what was coming before accepting rat-a-tat.
“I finished early and I don’t need to be at the theater until later.” He runs his hand through his wavy black hair and it falls back into his eyes exactly as it was, covering the thick, straight brows. “Fangli is upset because of our fight last night.”
He’s here because of Fangli. I try not to resent it. “I told her it was fine.”
“Good.” He hesitates and then glances over his shoulder. I peek over and see Mei standing alone in the middle of Fangli’s suite, watching us.
Sam closes the door and spies my laptop, which I shut down. “What are you working on?”
“Notes on what I’m doing here so I can sell them to the highest bidder when I leave.”
He stares at me with wide eyes and I rub the back of my neck.
“Give me a break,” I say. “It’s a personal project that has nothing to do with you, because you know what? I’ve had nothing to do with you for most of my life.”
There’s a brief silence and Sam rocks forward, hands in his pockets. “We might have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he says.
“We?” This is an impressively broad statement. “Might?”
He sits down. “I was in the wrong.”
“What?” I sit down as well and push my laptop to the side. The usual sharpness is missing from Sam’s voice and I think I’m talking to the real man, a creature as elusive as a cryptid.
He’s not looking at me but somewhere over my shoulder. “I was angry in the car last night and I took it out on you.”
“You were right,” I say. I end up looking over his shoulder as well, out toward the lake. “I wasn’t taking this seriously, but I will.”
“You’re not doing badly,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, the fake sore throat was an appalling idea, but generally you’re trying.” Now our eyes meet and his skim away. “It’s what you said in the car. About Fangli.”
I want to interrupt but it would only be to hear my own voice. Instead I stay quiet because Sam is struggling and I don’t want to silence him.
“You’re right. Fangli is sick.” A light flush goes up from his throat. “Not physically. In her mind.”
“What is it?”
“She gets panic attacks. Bad ones, where she can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. She started getting them when we were students.” He pauses. “It can make her too anxious to work and she won’t talk about it much. Her manager told her to keep it quiet, said no one wants to think that Wei Fangli is crazy. She doesn’t either. It frightens her.”
The bitterness in his voice confirms the truth. “What has she been doing?”
“Acupuncture. Diet.” He sighs. “I talked her into working the show in Canada because I thought a new environment might help ease her into talking to someone and getting help. She can’t do that back home. She feels too much shame.”
“It’s getting worse?”
He drops his hands down between his legs and lowers his head. “She’s struggling. She’s desperate to hide it from everyone and I’m the only person she can talk to. I’m so used to protecting her secret that to hear you say it made me overreact.”
“She needs to talk to a therapist, a doctor. There are medications that help.” I hesitate. “I’m on them.”
His eyes flash back to me. “What?”
“I have panic, too. Depression. I started taking meds two years ago.” It’s hard to talk about. I know it happens and I know it’s not uncommon, I really do, but part of me still thinks being on medication seems weak, like I can’t deal. I know it’s wrong, but in my head, it’s a willpower issue, not a brain chemical issue.
His grin is wry. “Sounds like you’re similar in more ways than appearance.”
“How can I help her?”
“I wasn’t lying last night when I said you being here was helping her. She’s managing better.”
I make a decision. I hold out my hand, palm raised. “Let’s start over. Instead of you thinking I’m a hopeless failure and me thinking you’re an arrogant two-dimensional douchebag, let’s be Gracie and Sam, doing a job together.”
“I never said you were that,” he protests. Then he pauses. “Hold on. That’s how you see me?”
I stare pointedly at my hand in answer.
“I’m sorry.” He takes my hand briefly and lets it go. “I took my anger out on you because I couldn’t stop this plan of Fangli’s from happening. It was a dick move, as I think you would call it.”
“I would,” I agree with equanimity.
“Right, okay. Glad we got that sorted.”
“Hi, Sam,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”
This time, he’s the one who reaches out his hand. “Gracie. I look forward to our partnership.”
When we shake, I’m not touching Sam Yao, famous movie star. He’s only Sam.
A Sam who becomes awkward when our hands release. He looks down, flexing his fingers and frowning. “Where do we go from here?” he asks.
His open uncertainty is comforting in one way—it’s nice to see he’s only human—but also disturbing in that at least one of us should know how the hell to navigate this situation.
That person will have to be me.
“We keep working but we do it together,” I decide. “I’ll tell you if I need help instead of avoiding the situation.”
“I’ll try to listen.”
“Sam.”
“I will listen,” he says.
I pull out a paper and he watches as I write. Although I can see him almost vibrating with curiosity, he waits until I’m ready. I hand over the sheet and he reads out loud in his low voice.
“‘This agreement (the ‘Agreement’) dated on this 26th day of June lays out the working arrangement (‘Arrangement’) of Sam Yao and Gracie Reed.’” Here he looks up. “Is the legal language necessary?”
“Makes it binding.”
Sam goes back to the sheet.
“‘Both parties solemnly swear to: One. Treat each other with the respect due to a work colleague,’” he reads. “Why did you number it if you only have one rule?”
“You can add more,” I say. “Everything else seemed redundant.”
He thinks for a while, then shrugs. “You’re probably right.” He signs with a flourish and hands it over. I sign and fold the paper.
“Now it’s official,” I say. “We’re partners.”
He grins, a lopsided expression that soon turns into a boisterous laugh. “You’re something else, Gracie Reed.”
I can’t help but smile back. I think he might be right.