Thirty-Four
When the phone wakes me up, I want to ignore it because I’m curled against Sam and he’s warm.
“Forget it,” I mumble.
“It might be important.” He gropes around the night table and hands me the phone.
He’s right because the nurse on the line tells me Mom’s distressed again. “It’s been a few days since your last visit,” says the nurse. “It might cheer her up.”
I hang up and Sam leans over to cover my body with his. Last night was… I can’t think about it because I need to be out the door in a few minutes.
“Everything okay?” he asks. He brushes my hair back from my face and nuzzles into my neck.
“I need to see Mom.”
“Want company?”
I do, I realize. Sam gives me a kiss on the forehead, which is good because the idea of kissing anyone, even Sam, with morning breath is not a pleasant one. “Give me twenty minutes,” he says.
He disappears and I get out of bed rejoicing. The morning after is always a crapshoot, filled with worries about making things weird. But it wasn’t; Sam is as attentive in the light of morning as he was in the dark last night.
Which was very attentive indeed.
I almost skip over to the shower, where I wince when the water hits the burn on my skin left from Sam’s stubble. Towel-dry my hair, minimal makeup, a dress, and I’m out the door. Sam’s waiting by the elevators.
We take public transit and don’t talk much. Sam sits close to me, lazily watching the people around us from under the brim of his hat. The fact that no one has noticed us on previous outings must have made him more confident about coming out with me.
I want to curl up into his shoulder. It would be so nice to keep going on this bus and never look back, but guilt hits the minute I think it. What kind of a daughter thinks such selfish thoughts? Sam tucks my hand in his and an ache goes through me when I remember Dad picking up Mom in those bear hugs or planting raspberry kisses on her cheeks as she laughed.
It hurts. I pretend I need to check my phone and take back my hand. When he doesn’t reach out again, it’s almost as if I have proof that he doesn’t care. Why am I doing this to myself? We had a great night and he’s here with me now, on the bus, to see Mom. That’s what matters. He wants to be here and I’m not forcing him.
When we sign in at the home, the smell of bleach is almost unbearable and it stings my nose. Mom’s in her room, the album of photos open in front of her. Her eyes skate over me to land on Sam. “Xiao He,” she says, her fingers stroking the page in front of her. Tears stream down her face and I don’t know what to do. I’ve seen my mother cry exactly once in my life, when we came home from the hospital after Dad died and she tripped over a shoe he’d left by the door. She’d picked it up and hugged it and sobbed as I held her. She hadn’t even cried at the funeral.
She’s crying now for her dead brother and talking in fast Mandarin.
“She’s back in China and begging him for help,” whispers Sam. “I think she’s reliving a memory.”
“Xiao He,” calls my mother.
“She thinks I’m her brother again,” Sam says.
I grab Mom’s hand as if my touch can yank her back from the past. “Mom?”
She mutters in Mandarin but Sam shakes his head in confusion when I look at him for a translation.
“Xiao He?” Now her voice is tremulous and pleading.
I say the idea before I think it through. It makes sense. It might work. “Can you be her brother?”
He turns to me, perplexed. “What are you asking, Gracie?”
I don’t think, just whisper so Mom can’t hear. “Please, pretend to be Xiao He to calm her down. Only for a minute.”
Sam steps back. “I can’t do that.”
“You’re an actor for fuck’s sake.” I stand up and work my hand out of Mom’s grip to motion Sam to the far side of the room. “You do this all the time.”
“Not this,” he says in a quiet voice. “I won’t do it.”
He won’t do it, when I know he wouldn’t hesitate if it was Fangli who asked? If he cared about me at all, he would. “Please.”
“Gracie, no. It’s wrong.”
The pettiness of his refusal is like a match lighting up my stressed mind. “It’s wrong?”
“To fool your mother like this, yes.” A muscle twitches in his jaw.
“This is wrong. You helping me out with my mother is wrong. Me pretending to be Fangli isn’t? Where were your high morals when I was tricking that kid at the hospital? When we were lying to him? How come the ends justified the means then?”
His face goes still. “It’s not the same.”
“It’s absolutely the same and you know it.” I glare at him. “Fangli wanted it. That’s what makes the difference. Fangli was the one asking.”
“That’s not fair, Gracie.” His voice is hard. “Your uncle is real and your mother is real. Fans have an idea of Fangli—they don’t know the real person and they don’t want to. They want the fairy tale.”
“I’m asking you to do this.” I don’t add because I’ve done a lot for you and Fangli but the silent words hang between us, unsaid but not unheard.
He turns abruptly as if to walk away.
“Fine, leave,” I say. “If you’re not going to help me, get out. You hypocrite.”
Mom starts to call for her brother again. I’m about to go to her when Sam turns around and starts to speak in Mandarin, a soft and assuring tone with no trace of his earlier reluctance. I have no idea what he says, but Mom calms almost immediately, eating him up with hungry eyes.
It only takes a few minutes for Mom to begin to drift, her face relaxed. She’s having more trouble staying awake, and the violence of her emotions would have tired her out more. Sam speaks in a lower tone that takes on the feel of a lullaby and soon Mom’s fast asleep.
He waits until her chin is buried against her chest before he looks at me with a grim expression. “I want to talk to you.”
We move into the doorway because I want to stay near Mom but also don’t want to stand in the middle of the corridor for all to see.
“What did she say?” I ask. “What did she talk about?” I know Sam’s mad but I’m desperate to know what could have upset her so much.
“She said she was sorry and she did as he asked. She said she wished she could have seen him again and that he needs to be at peace.” He reports on their conversation without comment on what it could mean.
“Thank you.”
Sam leans against the door and crosses his arms, the image of a man taking his ease. “I don’t want your thanks. I wanted you to not make me do that.”
“I didn’t make you,” I say. “I asked and you agreed.”
“You knew I would do what you asked, Gracie, and you took advantage of it.”
Fuck. He sounds resigned, like he should have expected it. “I didn’t assume you would, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No?” His expression is unreadable. “Making it a ranking between you and Fangli wasn’t a deliberate choice?”
I can feel the prickling heat of shame. “It was an emergency, Sam. You saw how she was.”
“Would she have calmed down if you tried a bit harder to talk to her?” He runs his hand through his hair in what I now know is his habit whenever he feels uncomfortable. It falls back over his eyes. “Without making her believe her dead brother was talking to her? Without making me do that? It was wrong.”
“So?” I turn on him. “Maybe I’d take a bit of wrong to give her some peace.”
“She said she admired your integrity,” he snaps back. “Do you think she wants truth or peace?”
“I think you don’t know her, so you can keep your speeches to yourself.”
“You could be right. I don’t know her but I know you.”
“You don’t know me,” I say. “We’ve known each other a month. You don’t know a fucking thing about me and I don’t know anything about you, okay?”
Even as I say the words, I want to grab them back. Sam’s face goes hard. “Is that what you think?”
“Forget it,” I mutter.
“How am I supposed to forget it?”
“I didn’t mean it.” Now that the flush of my anger is gone, I’m mortified. I was in the wrong to ask Sam. The nasty motivation that made me push him would be as obvious to even the worst Psych 101 student as it was to Sam. I wanted him to show me he cared by making him do what I wanted. I feel nauseous that I stooped so low. This is not cool. Not remotely cool.
Mom stirs and I glance over at her. “We can talk about this later. Are you staying?”
“I think I should leave.” He hesitates, then looks over my shoulder. Someone’s coming down the hall. Sam tilts his head down and jams on his hat, then leaves without saying another word.
“Gracie?” The brief rest has brought Mom some clarity. I walk over. Damn, I should have taken the photo album away while she was sleeping.
I’m so upset with what’s happened that my hands shake when I reach out to close the photo book. Mom’s hand lands with surprising strength on mine. “Tell Xiao He I kept my promise,” she says in English, looking at me. “I kept the past in the past and lived my future.”
“I will.” I soothe her with gentle pets on her hands. I don’t know who she thinks I am. “It’s time to relax now.”
It takes me about an hour to relax her enough to get the album away. I hold it in my hands, wondering if it would be better for me to take it home, when a sheet falls out, the edge jagged from where it’s been ripped out of a magazine. It’s a photo of Sam and Fangli, a publicity shot from one of their movies. I guess Mom took it because it reminded her of Xiao He. I can’t bring myself to deprive her of the memories, even if they cause her pain, and I put the album back in its drawer.
Finally I see residents walking by on their way to the morning coffee break. “It’s time for a cookie,” I tell Mom. “Let’s see if they have chocolate chip.”
She follows me like an obedient child, and after she’s had two cookies and a cup of tea, she seems to be back to her old self. “You’re a good girl to visit, but go back to work,” she says. “You are hired to do a job and shouldn’t disappoint them.” Her tone brooks no argument and I give in the same as I always did growing up.
Sam isn’t outside waiting for me and the taste of disappointment comes up hard and sour. I told him to leave. Why would he stick around after what I pulled? I was worried about Mom but it wasn’t the choice I should have made.
I blink back the tears as I turn the corner and head for the bus stop. It’s a long ride home, made even more depressing by the lack of texts from Sam. I take my phone out to check again and my finger hovers over his contact. I need to apologize.
He said I knew he would do what I asked. I want to ask him exactly what he meant.
On autopilot, I go from the bus to the subway, the subway to the hotel, the hotel to my room. I get a glass of water and sit down on the couch to decide my next and hopefully less disastrous step when the phone rings.
Sam or Anjali would text and the home is the only one who phones so I answer without checking who’s calling. “Hello?”
“Is this Gracie Reed?” It’s a woman.
“Yes.” I stare hard out the window at the lake without focusing. Definitely the home and please let Mom be okay.
“This is Miranda calling from ZZTV. We’d like a comment from you.”
ZZTV? My heart slams into my throat but I try to play it cool. “From me? About what?”
“We have a tip that you’re impersonating Wei Fangli and want to give you a chance to tell your side of the story. We pay well and it would play in your favor to get ahead of the story.”
I hang up without saying another word. Shit. How could they have found out? Who gave them the tip? Then I know. Todd, of course. Sam had only told me he took care of it, not what he did. I’d trusted Sam, through his lawyer, to take care of this but it’s becoming clear Todd is a Terminator—always coming back when I think he’s out of my life.
I put the glass of water carefully on the coffee table because my arm is shaking so hard I can’t control my hand.
The secret is out. I check online immediately and sag with relief when nothing comes up, then take a deep and shuddering breath before sitting on the couch and mentally running through my options, which are very few. Obviously the best one is to tell Sam and Fangli what’s going on and let them deal with it because I’m no PR shark to try to make deals with ZZTV. I’d make a bad situation worse.
I pick up my phone but hesitate, not wanting to commit the words to a screen. Maybe ZZTV is hacking my phone and that’s how they know. I put the device down on the table beside the water and eye it like a loaded gun before staring up at the ceiling. Could the room be bugged?
God, what about Mom? If they know who I am, they’ll go digging. What if they call the home and ask about her? I should call them. I stop again. For all that Glen Lake isn’t Xin Guang, I do trust them to keep their patients’ privacy. Plus, if my phone is hacked, I don’t want to give any clues. I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or realistic.
The luxury Xanadu suite feels like a cage, the walls closing in over my head. I jump off the couch and go out to the balcony, where I grip the rail so hard my knuckles go white. This is the exact situation Anjali warned me about. Now that it’s here in front of me, what do I do? That sensation of powerlessness binds me—the same feeling I felt going in to work for Todd, which makes sense because here he is ruining my life again.
I never want to feel this again.
With a quick shove, I push away from the rail and check the time.
I need to talk to Fangli and Sam to get a solution. I won’t let this happen to me as if I have nothing to do or say about it. For the first time, it dawns on me that I need to give myself the same consideration I do Mom, or Fangli or Sam. I need to matter.
I go back into the suite and over to the connecting door. Better to do this in person than by phone, even though I’m not sure what to say. I know Sam’s very rightfully angry with me but this is urgent enough a problem for him to put aside his personal feelings, at least until it’s fixed.
I’m about to knock when I hear voices—Sam and Fangli are both in.
“She told ZZTV?” It’s Sam’s voice, colder than I’ve ever heard him. “You have to let her go.”
Are they talking about me?
“I trusted her.” Fangli sounds sad. “I thought she was paid enough. How could she?”
Shit, it is me. They think it’s me who ratted them out. My hand hasn’t moved but now it’s frozen. All I need to do is walk in there and tell them the truth.
What if they don’t believe me? Miranda had my name. What has she told them?
I’m desperate to know more before I go bumbling in. I’ve learned my lesson that there are no clear-cut answers in the world, no unilaterally good actions. I can’t help my mom without hurting Sam. I can’t help Fangli without lying. What I can do is get all the facts before I open my mouth and embarrass myself yet again.
“Keep your voice down,” Fangli says. “She can’t hear this, not yet.”
Sam answers in rapid Mandarin, no doubt to hide what they’re saying about me from me, and I’m lost.
No, I’m not.
I grab my phone and tap the new language app I found, the real-time audio translator. My conscience hits as I hold it up to the crack in the door but it quickly disappears as I read the translated text. I know it’s not going to be one hundred percent accurate but it will at least give me the gist of their conversation so I can go in prepared.
“What benefit was there from the suitcase?” This is Fangli. This stupid translator. What the hell is the suitcase?
“Greed.” Sam’s voice comes through clear enough. I stare at the words appearing on the screen so hard they blur. “Envy.”
“There was enough.”
“For some people, there’s never enough. I should have traveled sooner.” He sounds furious. “That argument caused this.”
“You heat lamp have known.”
“We can’t trust coffee.”
“It must have been the mackerel.” This is Fangli. “I’ll talk to her. I hate it.”
“I’ll do it for cheese.”
“Sam, it’s my responsibility. I hired her.”
That’s me Fangli is worried about firing. And Sam offered to do it for her. Their voices dip too low for the translator, and I back away from the door until I bump the table with my hip. I look down without seeing it, my attention held by the conversation going on behind that door between two people I had come to consider friends and, in Sam’s case, more than friends.
Then I creep back and slowly twist the bolt to lock my side of the door. I act on impulse, only knowing that I need to stop any chance of either of them coming in. I need to think this through logically but my mind jumps from one idea to another without lingering long enough for me to process. I need to think. I can’t think. It’s too much.
There’s an aura around my sight, almost like tunnel vision. My eyes light on a jar of poppies on the table before they travel to my phone, which I don’t remember putting down. The chairs are all tidily tucked under the wooden table and I see a pen near the edge. My hand combs over my hair, short and stiff with product, before giving my earring a slight tug and running the hem of my shirt through my fingers. I grab the back of a chair. My thoughts begin to slow. A siren wails from the street outside and the refrigerator hums in the corner. In the hall, I hear someone laugh. The room smells of the candles I lit last night, a rich lavender, mixed with the purple hyacinth scent from the perfume drawer of wonders. Finally, I run my tongue over my lip and taste the synthetic fruit of my lip balm.
My chest hitches a bit as I inhale, like my body is trying not to cry but I force the air in again and again. I’m not okay but I can function, which is the best I can ask for right now.
Sam might have liked me but not enough. It’s only slightly less painful than if he didn’t have feelings for me at all. Whatever he felt, it wasn’t sufficient for him to default to my side when he thought I sold them out and called ZZTV. Fangli is the one who mattered.
I can’t prevent the wave of self-disgust. I should have known this would end in disaster because that’s what happens when you reach too high. I forgot that this little bubble I’m in isn’t real.
The best thing for me to do would be to unlock that door, explain that I did not call ZZTV, thank them for their time, and leave.
I want to. I know I should.
I don’t have the guts.
I’m done, but I can do Fangli the favor of not forcing her to fire me in a painful and stress-inducing conversation. I can help her one last time by clearing out with enough class to leave us all with some dignity and without hostility.
It doesn’t take me long to pack.
Then I write an email to Fangli.
You probably know that ZZTV called me to get my side of the story. I hung up on them. I know I signed the NDA, but even if I hadn’t, I never would have told them. I overheard you and Sam but I swear it wasn’t me who told ZZTV.
I wish I could spend more time with you. I’ll miss you. Thank you for everything.
I hesitate, weighed down by the thirty grand sitting in my bank account. Should I keep it? The money might be tainted but I did earn it. I decide to keep it but tell her I understand if she wants me to return it and of course I waive all rights to the rest of the money.
I read it over a few times before I decide it will do.
Sam, though, Sam’s another story. He knew I needed the money for Mom, not out of greed or ego. Refusing the rest of the pay seems like a message to Sam as well, at least in my head. I walk out the door, and right before I enter the subway, I click Send and then block both their numbers from my phone. It’s better this way.
Just like that, it’s all done. I’m back to being Gracie Reed, sad, jobless loser.