Nineteen
I make an effort with Fangli. I’m not comfortable talking to her about her mental health straight on, but one night when she comes over, I mention that I forgot to take my medication and let her see me swallow a pill.
“Are you sick?” she asks with concern.
I try to respond casually. “I have depression and panic. These SSRIs help calm me down because they adjust my brain chemistry.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“I’ve had it a long time, but I only started dealing with it a couple of years ago,” I say. “It was hard for me to admit I needed help.” Try excruciating, but I’m trying to make it sound easier for Fangli, like this is something she can do.
She doesn’t reply for a moment, then says, “I’d like to go for a walk.”
I take the hint. “You should. Fresh air is good.”
“I don’t know the city very well. I get driven everywhere.”
“Let’s go together,” I say suddenly. “We’ll go to a shitty dive bar where no one will expect you. You can wear my clothes.”
She looks torn. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Someone might get a photo.”
I think. “What if we get ready and you take a look at yourself? We won’t go unless you’re comfortable.”
Fangli looks out at the dark night through the window. “It’ll be hard to see my face on the street,” she says as if convincing herself.
I pull a pair of jeans and a tank top out of my drawer. “Here.”
She grins and trots away with the clothes. When she comes back five minutes later, I have to laugh. She’s added a belt, tied the shirt with a small knot, and added heels. She looks fantastic.
“Close.” I fix the shirt into a messy French tuck and give her a pair of my flat sandals and a hat. “No makeup.”
“Not even lipstick?”
“Use this.” It’s a tinted lip balm.
When we stand side by side, we look almost like sisters, but there’s no way an average person will mistake the slight, ponytailed and bare-faced woman in the ball cap for a film star, at least not in Toronto. “Looks good to me,” I say.
“Let’s do it.” She has a pink flush on her cheeks. “We’ll wander around with a coffee from the Starbucks.”
“I’ll go down first and wait for you outside the lobby doors, just in case,” I say. “The lobby’s the worst part for people watching who’s coming in and out.”
Fangli nods as she takes the little cross-body bag I give her. With my short hair and minimal makeup I look like no one in particular, so I stroll through the lobby without an issue. Fangli joins me and we hit the streets.
I decide to ditch the dive bar idea and take her up Yonge Street, which is only a few minutes from the hotel. I tap in our coffee orders for the mobile pickup, and soon Fangli is living the dream of sipping a decaf Americano as she walks up a dirty sidewalk. Since it’s summer, there are people milling around, and except for a guy who walks in front of us to say, “Hubba-hubba,” Fangli is thrilled to discover no one gives a shit who she is.
“What’s it like for you back home?” I ask. “Can you walk around like this?”
She shakes her head so hard her hat falls off. “I have a driver and security.”
“Even to go to the store?”
Fangli waves her coffee at me. “I don’t go to the store. It’s not safe for me or people around me. I get mobbed.”
“But not here.”
She grins. “I’m not as popular here. It’s a pleasure.”
I try to imagine being this famous. “Do you like it?”
“It’s not a matter of like or not. It’s what it is. I need to act because I want to be remembered for something, for this life to mean something.” She shrugs. “I can do what I love and make money at it. How can I complain that I can’t go get coffee whenever I want?”
We pass a drugstore and Fangli pauses to look at a sign promoting a sale on Trident. “Do you need some gum?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I haven’t chewed gum in years. My manager forbade it. It looks inelegant.”
Imagine being forbidden a stick of Juicy Fruit. “Tonight’s for you,” I say. “Go nuts.”
We duck in. I leave Fangli deliberating over the candy display—how are there so many gum flavors in the world?—and look around. It’s a big store, with a high-end cosmetics counter. I have all I need back at the hotel, but my eyes linger on the lipsticks. The last one I bought was the unflattering neutral I got for Garnet Brothers.
“Can I help you with something?” A sales associate comes over with a practiced smile.
“No, thanks. I’m only browsing.”
“Of course. I’m right here if you need me.”
She heads over to organize a shelf of concealers. In front of me are a shiny line of Diors in little black and silver cases. They look sleek and chic, and in the last row, on the far left, is a deep oxblood shade. It’s darker and edgier than the brighter reds I used to wear and I now wear as Fangli, but I can’t take my eyes off it.
“Excuse me.” The woman turns back around at my call. “Sorry, can I get that lipstick?”
“Sure.” She opens a wide drawer and grabs it. “I’ll cash you out.”
After I suffer a momentary heart attack because since when has lipstick cost fifty bucks, I join Fangli at the front of the store where it looks like she’s buying one of every gum on display. Not quite under-the-radar behavior but she’s so happy I don’t mention it.
My new purchase is tucked safely in my purse, a secret that gives me as much joy as Fangli seems to be getting from the gum. It’s such a small thing, that little tube in my purse, but it’s so big at the same time. It’s mine.
Fangli finishes scanning her items at the self-checkout. When we leave, she swings her bag like a kid with a new toy.
“Want some?” she asks, digging into the bag.
I hold up my coffee. “Later.”
A roar comes from the crowd ahead; there’s a concert at Yonge-Dundas Square. “Want to check it out?” I ask. It sounds fun.
Fangli’s face is longing but hesitant. “Will it be safe?”
“Sure. We’ll stay on the edge so we don’t get squished in the crowd.”
This eases her concern. The music isn’t crazy loud, and on the edges, people are dancing and smoking. Fangli stares around with wide eyes. Most of the people are in their twenties and they cover all styles. “Everyone is different,” she marvels. “The crowd is so small.”
I try to see it from her perspective. “How many people live in Beijing?” I ask.
“Over twenty million.”
About ten times the size of Toronto. I can’t even comprehend how big that is. There’s a churro truck nearby, so I grab a couple. We get covered in sugar, lick dulce de leche off our fingers, and shout out the chorus to the song, or at least what we think are the words. It’s fun until I pull out my phone to check the time and see a row of increasingly frantic texts from Sam.
Where are you?
Are you with Fangli?
Then variations on this for the last hour. He must have come by right after we left. The final message sounds like he’s about to call the police so I shoot him a quick reply.
We’re on a walk. All good.
The set ends and people cheer. Fangli turns to me with shining eyes, hardly looking a day over twenty. “That was amazing.”
Yonge Street’s now packed with the dispersing crowd, some yelling out the lyrics in a call-and-response that echoes up the street, so I lead her over to Dundas Street and then down through Nathan Phillips Square, where we walk up the winding concrete path to the green roof. It’s locked so we can’t go in, but we stand on the city hall balcony and hang our hands over the edge, the concrete rough under our arms. “I’d forgotten what it was like to be around people enjoying their lives,” she says.
“What about when you go home?”
She snorts. “My father’s life is his work. I might as well be at my own place.”
“Surely you have friends.” Actors are people, for crying out loud.
“All actors or in the industry.” She runs her hands over her arms. “We can’t escape each other. All of my friends I made in school… I fell out of touch with them.”
“What about Chen, the guy you had a crush on?”
“Only a small crush. Him, too, and it’s hard to meet new people. I don’t know what they want from me, and I work so much I can’t give them the time they deserve.” She speaks matter-of-factly and then glances at the dark sky. “We should head back.”
I check my phone and see I missed a text from Sam. Can I join you?
Damn, he must be really worried about Fangli if he’s willing to be seen with both of us. I shove down the wistful thought of him worrying about me one day and type out a response. We’re on our way back now.
We walk by the fountain pool and are almost at Bay Street when I say, “Why don’t you email him?”
“Who?” Fangli is looking curiously at her reflection in the dark window. “I don’t look like me at all.”
“Chen.”
She shrugs. “Why? Another person to ignore for my career?”
I’m no therapist but I power on. “It could be that. Or you might find someone to talk to.”
“That doesn’t work out for me.” She sounds defeated. “I need to be alone too much.”
I won’t fight her on it, not wanting to wreck the vibe tonight, so I tell her about an epically bad holiday party I endured at a restaurant as we pass it. “No one knew the drinks were doubles and the CEO did a cancan dance on the bar. People were making out all over the place.”
Fangli’s holding her stomach, wheezing with laughter. “Then what?”
“The CEO slipped in the guacamole and put his back out. Didn’t come to work for a week, but the next day, we got an all-staff email about no more alcohol at company parties.” I pause. “Two of the couples making out got married, though.”
We giggle in intermittent bursts all the way to the hotel. Fangli goes up first as I hit a convenience store to grab some chips. The churro whet my appetite and I want to balance the sweet with salt.
A knock on the door comes after we get in, and I open it to reveal Sam. He looks serious but when he sees Fangli, all the tension melts out of him. He comes in and rummages in the fridge for a beer. “Did you have fun?”
Fangli chatters to him in Mandarin as I open the chips and take the beer Sam holds out for me. I guess he’s forgiven me because he smiles as he takes the chips I pass over to him. It’s a good night, I congratulate myself, looking at Fangli. She has gum. I have my Dior.
We’re both happy.