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.