Then he’s gone before I can ask him for his key.
An hour. First I call the nursing home and they reassure me that Mom’s fine. Then I check my list, which is getting stressful and daunting again. What if I try sorting the tasks out by the time they will take? I spend a happy twenty minutes sorting and resorting the tasks from least to most time needed before deciding the value of the task was more important. Once they’re listed, I realize I’d spent the whole time working on the list instead of doing any tasks. It could be because one of those tasks, call the lawyer, makes me so uncomfortable I have trouble seeing the words. My eyes skitter over them.
Not a good start to creating my own productivity method. I add “find a way to deal with disagreeable tasks” on the list.
At least I’ve left myself enough time to get ready. I stick the plastic disks Mei found to my boobs, impressed at their enhanced perkiness. I should wear these all the time. She left me with instructions about freshening my face, and I dab and shade and line like a soldier applying camouflage paint before battle. The jumpsuit, which Trace and Hendon tailored with expert fingers before they left, slides over my skin like space-age armor, and I begrudge Sam slightly for having such good taste. I adjust the wig.
When I look in the mirror, this time I’m Fangli. Or Fangli in cute but comfortable shoes.
Mei ordered me to wait until Fangli arrives home so there aren’t conflicting reports of her being seen twice. I come out when I hear our adjoining door open and nearly exclaim out loud. If she looked beaten down that first day I saw her in the SUV, today she’s so drained she’s transparent.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She rubs her forehead. “A bit tired.”
This isn’t regular physical fatigue. I normally have the emotional sense of a squirrel but Fangli’s entire being radiates a feeling I’m very familiar with. She’s so tense she can barely move and so lethargic she doesn’t want to. I think she’s depressed. Not sad. Depressed, with all the loaded meaning the term brings.
“Fangli?” My voice is tentative.
She raises her head and tries to smile before her eyes widen. “Incredible. It’s like looking at my reflection when you have on makeup. Where did you get that jumpsuit? I want one.”
“Thanks.”
“You need better jewelry than those little gold hoops, though. Red for some color.” She calls to Mei, who appears in a few minutes and puts a pair of earrings and a bracelet into my hand.
“Please tell me these are fake.” The heavy cool weight of the bracelet slithers over my fingers when I pick it up.
Fangli shrugs. “It’s all insured. Put them on.”
The earrings are chandeliers that are surprisingly light for the number of gems in them, and the tennis bracelet of alternating rubies and diamonds soon warms on my wrist.
“Lovely,” Fangli approves. “Now you look finished.”
She stands up and we look at ourselves in the mirror. “How is it possible we look so alike?” I ask. “Do you have a photo of your parents?” Obviously Brad Reed of Brampton, Ontario, won’t look like Fangli’s father, but maybe our mothers are long-lost twins.
“Only my father.” We both pull out our phones, and when Sam comes in, we’re comparing and contrasting nose and eye shape.
Sam shakes his head. “If you weren’t only half, I’d think you were a real Chinese.”
My breath catches but before I can think of what to say, he turns to Fangli and speaks to her in Mandarin. His casual dismissal makes me… I don’t know. I’m sure German, which came up with schadenfreude and kummerspeck, has a word for the unnamable mix of emotions I have, but even as an adult, I don’t have the language. Why did it bother me less when Anjali said almost the same thing?
“Ready?” Sam turns to me and I decide it’s not worth the fight. What would I say? Tell him half is good enough to be real?
We’re both quiet as we descend. I’m not sure what Sam’s thinking but despite my choice to not mention what he said, the words keep turning over in my mind. A past therapist had once gently invited me to sit with the idea that I had internalized having less of a claim to call myself white or Chinese because I never felt I belonged to either group. I had ignored that because it’s not like I was going around feeling bad when no one gave me one of their Team White or Team Chinese T-shirts. But Sam’s comment has stirred up some apparently unresolved feelings.
I push those thoughts back down into the dark hole where they usually lurk. This won’t be the last time I hear something like this, and it wasn’t the first, but I don’t have the capacity to work through it, not when I’m about to go out in public impersonating an international celebrity. I firmly invite myself to sit with the idea that it’s time to concentrate on the job at hand.
This time when we go through the lobby, I channel my full Fangli attitude as I sweep through. It’s much easier when I don’t have to worry about tottering on pencil-thin heels and my boobs look aerodynamic.
The car is waiting and I’m a little horrified at how easily I’ve adapted to a life of deluxe perks. Thou art but an impersonator, I chant to myself. Two months and you’re back to the subway at rush hour, unseen and unknown.
Sam doesn’t comment on my performance, and I go under the assumption that no news is good news. Instead, he starts running through tips on how to handle the upcoming event. I would listen but his collar is slightly open at the neck and I’m distracted by wondering what he looks like with no shirt on. I bet there are images online but I definitely can’t check that on my phone here in front of him. Honestly, I wouldn’t even if he weren’t here. A few weeks ago, I’d have no hesitation about searching shirtless pictures of him, but now it’s squicky to even think of looking for them, as if I’d be violating his privacy—even if he’d posed for them.
I’d tucked Mei’s art dossier into my purse before I left, and I pull it out to give me something to think about besides Sam’s chest. Fangli’s favorite theme is rejuvenation and she built her collection around that, although it’s bizarre to me that a person my own age has an art collection, let alone a thematic one. I flip through the printouts again, frowning at a photograph of an upside-down face with the lips spread far apart in a pained scream, and try to see how it’s at all invigorating.
Sam sees my struggle and points to the artist’s statement. I read it twice but it might as well be written in Swedish for all that I understand it. “I’m not going to talk about the art,” I say. “I’ll furrow my brow and nod as I pace in front of it.”
“What if you’re asked what you think?”
I role-played this with Mei, so I feel confident. “That I’m fascinated and then ask them what they think.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Really?”
“Well, what would you say?”
“I’d pick an element and comment on it before asking them their opinion.”
I wave the pain-face picture at him and he plucks it out of my hand. “The placement calls to mind Yong Chen’s work on loneliness and juxtaposes the idea of isolation with that of rejuvenation. Is it an individual or communal activity?”
I try to release my clenched fists. “Because I am familiar with the works of Yong Chen.”
“Or you could say what you honestly think when you see it. How does it make you feel? What does it evoke?”
Before I answer, he’s barreling on to his next point, waving at the dossier. “Once art is out of the artist’s hands, it’s up to the viewer to determine meaning.”
“I disagree.”
“You do?” He raises those fine slanted eyebrows.
“Isolationism is passé.” I give a theatrical sniff and toss my wealth of fake hair. “You need to consider the context of the work and intent. Art isn’t created in a vacuum.”