Thank God I understand that and can say, “Ni de Zhongwen shuo de hen hao.”
“I’m learning so I don’t have to read the subtitles of Sam’s movies,” he says with pride. “I have a lot of time here at the hospital.”
“What about his movies is appealing?” My thighs ache and I lower myself to my knees.
“He’s real, don’t you think?” He bites his lips as he considers his words. “And good. Even when he beats people up, it’s to protect others. Not to be mean or show off.”
“A very decent trait.”
“I think you’re the same in your movies. When you sent Sam on that mission in that movie to die, you didn’t want to. Why did you?”
“In The Pearl Lotus.” I think about how to describe it to this child and then decide what he thinks is more important. “Why do you think the empress did that?”
“Well, you loved Sam,” he says promptly. “He loved you, too.”
“The characters did in the movie,” I clarify. “Yes.”
“I don’t think you should have,” he says earnestly. “You didn’t even talk to him about it. He might have had more ideas.”
“That would have been smarter,” I say. “You should write your own movie.”
He frowns. “What do you mean?”
“You can write a movie. A screenplay of your own, telling the story you want. Or a play if you want actors to do it on a stage at a theater, like Sam is doing now.”
Laurence’s eyes are huge. “People do that?”
“Sure they do. It takes a lot of work, but you can do it.”
The boy looks down at the floor. A woman comes up and smiles at me. “Mom,” he says, adjusting his glasses. “Wei Fangli says I can write a screenplay. Is that true? I can do that? She’s in the movies, so it must be true, right? Is it? She wouldn’t lie to me, would she?”
I’m about to explain to the woman but she’s busy nodding. “Sure you can, baby.”
“Will you show me how?” Laurence turns to me with huge eyes.
“I’ve never written one,” I say. That at least isn’t lying to the kid. “An actor’s job is to act out what you write. I can tell you one thing that might help. Do you want to hear it?”
He nods.
“No one else can be you. No one else can tell your story like you. You are unique, so write the movie you want to see.”
“No one can tell my story,” he repeats with wonder.
“Only you.”
He beams at me. “I’m going to start right away. I already have an idea about a dragon. Do you think Sam will star in it?”
“Will I star in what?” Sam comes up beside me and Laurence’s eyes go so big they engulf his little face.
“The movie I’m going to write. Fangli says I should. Do you think I should?”
“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. “You do it and then send it to me.”
Behind Laurence, his mom ducks her head as the boy screeches in joy. I see the tears on her cheeks.
“We need to head out but can I give you a hug?” asks Sam. “Thank you for inviting me.”
Both Sam and I hug Laurence, who is so fragile I’m scared to hold him too tightly. He’s like a tiny bird. His mother walks us out. “Thank you for coming,” she says quickly.
“I hope I didn’t overstep by suggesting he write his own work,” I say. I’m filled with regret that I said something wrong.
She shakes her head. “To have a project to absorb him will be wonderful.”
The mom disappears and Jessica leads Sam and me back out to the entrance. She’s thrilled with how it went, and I let Sam deal with the small talk because I’m racked with guilt about Laurence. He thought I was Fangli. It didn’t matter that a bunch of rich art collectors or movie industry people or randoms on the street think I’m Fangli, but this does. She wouldn’t lie to me, would she?
We thank the woman and get into the car for the gala. Unlike me, Sam is jazzed by meeting the kids and can’t stop smiling. The event is down near the water at an art gallery/event space, and I pray there’s no art I need to have intellectual opinions about. This day has drained me, and I press my forehead against the window.
“Are you ill?” asks Sam.
“Thinking,” I say. “About the kids.”
“They were great.” He fixes his collar and smiles so big his dimples appear. “You did well to suggest writing to that boy. Laurence. I could see in his face that it was like a door in his mind had been opened.”
“He wanted to do it because Wei Fangli told him he could,” I burst out. “I’m not Fangli. It was a fraud.”
Sam’s dimples vanish. “The trigger is irrelevant. Once the idea you can do something occurs to you, that’s all that matters. Who cares who twists the handle for Laurence as long as he can walk through the door?”
“It’s not right,” I say, digging in. “The ends don’t justify the means.”
“I disagree,” he says. “A positive outcome can come from a negative path.”
Deciding this conversation is about to devolve into an unwinnable does not, does so argument, I grit my teeth and let it go, in part because this is a deep philosophical debate and I need time to organize my points. I need an Eppy for that as well, a way to neatly categorize the swirl in my brain and formulate the mess of impressions and reflections into clear and arguable ideas.
Sam has already moved on to remind me who we’ll be meeting at the gala and I try to focus on him. We’re there to represent the Operation Oblivion cast since the director couldn’t make it, and Mei had confirmed that none of Fangli’s personal contacts are on the guest list. If arriving at the movie premiere was a solid eight on the stress scale, this hovers near a three.
“Gracie?” Sam peers at me. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t. Maybe Fangli was right. Laurence and other fans want the idea of Fangli, what they project on her.
“What was I talking about?”
I take a guess. “The guest list.”
Sam looks suspicious but we arrive before he can reply. He helps me out of the car, and I make sure my smile is calibrated to show how happy I am to be here. There’s a photographer—I now understand that every event hires their own photographer—and this one is stunned silent when Sam looks at her, her camera lowering so she can see him without a filter.
We walk into the event space, which has been decorated with huge floral garlands woven with dyed daisies that sweep across the ceiling and are draped down the walls, interspersed with long fringes hanging from the ceiling and lit from within to look like they glow. There are pastel neon lights along the floor. The art direction must have been to make it look like a unicorn is hosting a wedding at club night, and I wonder why they didn’t give the money they spent on those decorations directly to the hospital. We wander up to the silent auction tables, covered with tablets to enter bids. I try not to choke when I see that minimum bids are in the thousands or tens of thousands, for everything from a cruise (be the private guest of a bank CEO) to a spa week for the winning bidder and three guests.
It’s a lot. It’s too much. I need to take a breath.
“Excuse me,” I say to Sam. “I’ll be right back.”
He follows my glance to the washroom and nods. A minute later, I’m alone in a stall and breathing in the light lavender scent of the diffusers on the counters. I can’t stop thinking about Laurence’s expression. In the car, Sam asked who cared how the handle was twisted.
Me. I care.
Mom said my uncle He had rectitude. I pull out my phone and quickly google to confirm it’s what I think: moral righteousness. A sense of right and wrong and the willingness to act on it. I did not show rectitude today. I have not been showing rectitude since I took the job with Fangli. Is this the person I wanted to be? I need the money for Mom, but I know if I told her what I was doing to get it, she would be horrified.