Twenty-Four
Sam leaves and I turn to the dress sector of the closet to find one I can easily change in and out of while in the car. It’s hard to focus, because although this isn’t the first time the home has called about coming to calm Mom down, it feels odd, more urgent. I bite down hard when it occurs to me that her Alzheimer’s might be getting worse. The doctors warned me to watch for mood and personality changes and I thought I had. Had I been so concerned with this Fangli plan that I hadn’t noticed?
When I finally find a dress, I have to wipe my clammy palms on my thighs before touching the delicate material. I pull it out and check it quickly, eager to get going. It has a tight waist and full skirt but the real draw is that it zips up the side, so I don’t need Sam’s help to change. The makeup and wig go on quickly. I’m getting used to it.
Sam arrives—with his key, which I had him get back from Mei in case of future emergencies—as I’m stuffing a skirt and tank into a backpack.
He gives my bag an incredulous look.
“You can’t seriously think you can walk out wearing that evening dress with a nylon backpack slung over your shoulder,” he says.
“How else do I pack my clothes?”
Like a magician, he displays a plain leather tote large enough to transport a small farm animal.
“Hermès,” he says as he puts in my clothes, as if this explains the gargantuan size. Maybe it does. “Where’s the hat? You’ll need that to try to cover your face when we get to your mother because you’re fully made up.”
I give it to him. “What about you?”
“I’m fine. Fangli came back about fifteen minutes ago, so we’re good to go. Luckily she was early.” He looks me over and I wonder what Fangli appearance checklist he runs over before he gives a single approving nod.
We head down to the car and this time I’m able to simply move through the lobby without obsessing about my walk. I’m too worried about Mom to care—why’s she so upset? Sam hands me into the car and I give the driver the address.
Then I turn to Sam. “Since I’m changing in the car, won’t the driver notice that I’m not Fangli when we get to the home?”
“I’ve known Gregor a long time,” Sam says. “He can keep a secret.”
“Good.” I pull off the wig and ruffle up my hair. “I need some privacy.”
He turns to look out the window, which is luckily tinted.
“Can you cover your eyes?”
“Really?”
“Please just do it.”
He shoots me a glance but then covers his face like a child playing hide-and-seek. I get changed in stages to maximize the coverage, like at a badly designed gym where the door to the change room could open any moment and reveal you to the world. On goes the skirt, pulled up under the dress. I unzip the top, turn to face the other way and pull on the tank top. I take off the dress, yank on my hat, and I’m Gracie again, or Gracie with fantastic contour.
“Your turn,” I say.
He turns around and peers at me. “You smeared your lipstick.”
“I did?”
“Here.” He reaches out with his thumb and rubs under my lip.
Oh. My. His touch is gone almost as soon as it happens, but the echo of it thrums through my body.
“It’s gone now,” he says, looking at my lip.
“Good?” I clear my throat. “What about you?”
He shrugs off the blazer and the collared shirt to reveal a white T-shirt that he untucks, then pulls out a smaller bag from his huge bag. Inside are a pair of sneakers. He bends over to put them on, swears as his seat belt ricochets him back, manages his shoes, and then pulls his own hat down to shade his eyes. Transformation complete, he lifts his hands as if to invite comment and I have to laugh.
“You honestly think no one will recognize you?”
“You need to see your mother, don’t you? It’s the only way we can do that and get to the gala. The risk is negligible.”
“Is it?”
“How many Asians will we see?”
I think about the home. “My mom.”
“Yeah. I think it’ll be fine.” He smiles.
“I’ll introduce you as a friend from work who gave me a ride,” I say. “She doesn’t know I was fired, so keep that quiet. In fact, best if you don’t talk at all.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“I don’t want to upset her.” I look out the window, feeling the worry rise and dip as I tell myself that her mood might have passed by the time I arrive, then convince myself that she’s in serious distress and the home is downplaying it so as not to worry me and her Alzheimer’s is getting worse and I’ll need to find her more help and…
Catastrophizing is such a bitch.
Sam touches my hand briefly and begins humming quietly as he repacks his bag. I start humming along with him to cover the rotating thoughts in my head, getting distracted by knowing the song but being unable to put a name to it. Soon we’re in a humming war, each of us trying to hum louder than the other until I slap my leg in triumph, letting out a small yelp.
“‘Girls & Boys’ by Blur,” I announce.
“Took you long enough.” He grins.
“There used to be a club that did Brit pop nights and they played this every time,” I say. “Had dollar shots, too.”
“Not sure if that sounds appealing or dangerous.”
“Little bit of A, little bit of B.” I sigh with nostalgia. “It was such a dingy club and they had those blacklights so if you wore a white bra it would show through your shirt.”
Sam’s eyes drift down but then snap up to my face. “I never had to worry about that.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “Not like I go to those places anymore.”
“I never went.”
I frown. “Are there no clubs in China?”
“Of course there are but I always had to go to ones that were good for my image.” He looks out the window.
“Then no dollar shots. Bummer.”
“Definitely not.”
“I was kidding about it being a bummer,” I assure him. “I mean, at the time, it was fun to get drunk and grind on the dance floor with random people you’d never see again, but cheap booze hangovers are a real pain.”
He groans. “Not helping.”
I know he’s trying to make me laugh and it helps get me through the drive, even though my knee is jiggling as I try to chill out. Mom’s not hurt. She’s upset. The doctors said this can happen. It’s not good but it’s not unusual.
We turn the corner and the dread returns. “We’re here.”
He catches the change in my tone and nods. He gives my hand a soft touch and holds the door open for me as we enter the home. I try to keep from running in the hall.
“You said my mother was agitated?” I ask when I arrive breathless at the desk.
“It’s been a bad day for her,” says the nurse. She glances at Sam and then ignores him. “Is it an anniversary? Something that would trigger her?”
“No, I don’t…” I stop, appalled. It’s the anniversary of my dad’s death. “I’ll go see her,” I whisper.
How could I have forgotten? Guilt sickens me. Sam waits until we’ve cleared the desk to touch my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
With her dementia, I can’t believe Mom remembers what today is, but I suppose some dates are seared on your mind forever. Or, in my case, not. “My father died ten years ago today. It’s why she’s upset. I should have been with her.”
“Gracie.” This time he takes my hand in his. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
I want to believe him, but I can’t. He keeps my hand in his as we go to Mom’s room, where he releases it. “Work colleagues,” he murmurs.
With a brief nod, I poke my face around the door. Mom is up and wandering around the room, arms clasped close to her chest. I must have made a noise because she looks up as Sam runs his hand down my back.
“Mom?”
She greets me with a burst of Chinese that I can’t understand. “Mom, it’s Gracie. You need to speak English, okay? Shuo Yingyu.”
Mom sees Sam behind me and her eyes widen. “Xiao He?”
This I understand. “No.” I nearly lunge forward. “This is Sam, a friend. From work. He’s a friend from work. Work friend.”
To Sam, I say, “She thinks you’re her little brother.”
Sam comes into the room and reaches his hand out. “Ni hao. Wo jiao Sam. Wo shi ni nu’er de tong shi.” I bless the app because Sam spoke slow enough to let me understand what he said.
Mom blinks again. “Ni hao?” She glances at me. “Gracie? Sweetie?”
“Sam dropped me off. It was on his way,” I say.
“He’s a friend? Chinese?” She sizes him up. “Married?”
“Mom!”
Sam laughs. “Only to my work.”
She clucks at him. “Do you like my Gracie’s hair? She cut it the other day. So short.”
“Gracie is lovely.” He says it simply as he looks at me. “You are lucky to have her as a daughter.”
She nods, satisfied with this polite answer because what else can the poor guy say, and reverts to Mandarin. Sam listens before he turns to me. “Your mother wants to show me a photo of her brother.”
I go to the cabinet and pull out the tattered photo album. Before Mom came into the home, I made digital copies of all the photos and have another identical album ready if something happens to this one. I wait until she sits down and wave Sam to the seat across from her before I pass over the album and sit down on the bed.
Mom’s crooked finger jabs down at a photo, and I lean over to see a man who looks like Sam only because they’re both Chinese men. Sam gives her the same smile as her brother does in the photo, and she slaps his leg and laughs.
“Gracie is much like Xiao He.” Mom reaches over and pats my hand like she did when I was small. “Much integrity. True to himself, with a core of rectitude.”
Such an old-fashioned word and my face flames because in thirty minutes, Rectitude Gracie is going to leave and put on a wig in a car so she can trick a bunch of kids into believing she’s a film star.
“Tell me more about him,” says Sam.
“Ah, he was an engineer. Smart, smart. We were all very proud of him.”
“Does he live in China?”
Her smile fades. “He died in an industrial accident after Gracie was born. She was named after him.”
“I didn’t know that.” How could I not know that?
“He, for harmony, and there must be harmony to have grace. I owed him much.” She shakes her head. “The past remains in the past.”
The bell rings in the hall and Mom perks up. At the home, meals are what tether her and she gets upset if she needs to wait, so I tell Sam I’ll be back in a minute. Dinner has wiped thoughts of Sam’s singledom status out of Mom’s mind and she walks eagerly to the dining hall after giving him only a cursory farewell nod.
I decide not to mention Dad as she’s better now and instead give her a kiss and greet the dinner ladies at her table. They all fuss over each other, making sure they have forks and water.
Sam is flipping through the album when I return. “I don’t understand how you can look so much like Fangli when this is your father.”
The page is open to a classic picture of Dad from the early 1990s. His reddish hair is permed and he wears a turtleneck and fanny pack, arm slung around a young and happy Agatha who only reaches to his shoulder. Mom’s wearing bike shorts and an oversize sweatshirt. What an era.
“He always said he was happy I took after my mother instead of him because she was the most beautiful woman in the world.”
Sam smiles and hands me the closed album to tuck away. “They were very much in love.”
“They were.” My voice catches as I hug the album. It’s silly but I’m loath to hide the album back in the dark drawer, like I’m tucking away Dad’s memory. “The money from this job for Fangli… I want it for Mom, to move her into a better place. It’s not because I’m greedy.”
Sam comes over and pulls me into his chest. “Gracie.” His voice is low, and for a brief moment, I let my eyes close and simply feel. On the day he died, Dad held me fiercely, as if he couldn’t bear to let me go. He’d lost so much weight from the treatment that his bones almost creaked as he gripped my shoulders.
“Ten years ago when Dad hugged me, I didn’t know that was the last time I’d have his arms around me,” I say into Sam’s chest. “I didn’t know.” Why didn’t I know? I should have sensed it, I should have acknowledged that I’d never feel his touch again. It passed me by and I’d never get that chance back. There’s no redo for that moment.
“Gracie.” Sam brings his hand up and rests it on my hair but doesn’t say more than my name.
I can’t cry. I cried so much for Dad over the years that right now my dry eyes are burning. My breath goes hot against Sam’s shirt and I turn my head slightly to the side. I’m not panting but my heart is racing and he runs his hand over my head with slow and deliberate strokes to calm me. I look at the wall but I can’t see a thing. I’m only existing.
I don’t know how long it is before I break away from him. “We should go,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Oh God, my makeup.”
Sam’s shirt is stained with a perfect imprint of my face. He looks down, and when he meets my eyes, his are lit with gentle laughter. “This is more than I wear on the stage.”
“That’s my special occasion face,” I say. “Or was.”
I don’t look at the album as I put it away. “Thank you,” I say to the doorway instead of Sam. I don’t want to look at him. I’m embarrassed for him to have seen me like that.
“You’re welcome.” That’s all he says, and I decide to leave it at that and walk out the door.