“What did he say?” asks Sam.
“My father thinks it’s a good idea. He’s been after me to marry because he wants a grandchild.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and lets it drop down. “Why now? We’ve known each other for years.”
“Lili says we look happy together.”
Fangli groans. “That’s Gracie, not me.”
“Sorry,” I say weakly. “I can dial it back.”
Sam puts his hand on mine. Fangli notices and her eyes widen. “Oh my God,” she says. “How long has this been going on?”
“What?” we ask in unison.
She stares pointedly at our hands, because Sam hasn’t moved. “No wonder they think we should get married.” Then she laughs and I can tell she’s not upset but more bemused at the situation.
Then she shoots me a look. “You didn’t say a word the other night.” Another frown, this one at Sam as she points at him with a dramatic gesture. “Neither did you!”
He snorts. “You took that right out of January February.”
“When I was accusing my mother-in-law of murder.” She nods. “It’s a powerful movement.”
“Very good,” he compliments her.
“But not an appropriate reflection on the situation.” Fangli winks. “Unlike when I unleashed it on my killer mother-in-law, I’m happy for you.”
He tightens his hand on mine as Mei comes into the room. Her immobile face stiffens even more and I assume she’s put off by PDA. She turns to Fangli and speaks quickly.
“My therapist is here,” Fangli says. She wiggles her eyebrows at me and leaves, Mei closing the connecting door firmly behind them.
“She said that more openly than I would have thought,” I say.
He nods proudly. “She’s trying hard.” Then he gets up to clear the dishes. “Do you have plans for tonight?”
I play it casual. “Not really.”
He sits back down. “Want to come here, then?”
I go over and sit on his lap. Sam takes my leg and pulls me over until I’m straddling him and we’re face-to-face. He’s warm and the flutters that start in my stomach take only moments to ripple out over every inch of my skin. Sam runs his hands along my back, and when I bend to kiss him, I make sure my eyes stay on him.
Two hours later, I’m very glad I shaved above my knees.
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.