I jazz-hand my fingers to get them to stop shaking and email the South China Morning Post to set up an interview. Then the BBC and CNN Asia. When the Guardian and Bloomberg requests roll in, I accept those, too.
The interview requests arrive all afternoon, and after I do the first two, I notice the questions are similar. I get more comfortable each time I talk about how Eppy is designed to help you organize your whole life, since we’re all busy and multifaceted. I give examples of some of my tasks and why I add items immediately because I have the memory of a goldfish. When they ask how Sam Yao heard about a planner that’s only in beta, I laugh and say they’ll have to ask him but I’m glad it works for him and do my best to not let my voice shake.
The hardest are the TV interviews but the producers are kind and walk me through what to expect, since I suppose me freezing in fear doesn’t do them any good either. In between, I check my downloads.
The number keeps ticking up.
It’s almost midnight by the time I’m done, and I’m so wired I pace my apartment in circles. Anjali sends me an emoji-laden text with a link to the CNN interview. I knew you could do it, she says.
I did but it’s all thanks to Sam, who I can’t get in touch with. Can I email his agency? Agent? There has to be a way to contact him if Fangli doesn’t call.
I go to bed exhausted and my dreams are filled with Sam using my planner. Second sexiest night I’ve ever had.
Thirty-Nine
It takes me a couple of days to come down from my interview high. The downloads on Eppy keep going up, and even better, people like it. They really like it. I take careful note of the suggestions that come through on the Twitter feed I hastily set up and already have a rough version 2.0 ready. I send the link to Anjali to test.
Anjali: That fast?
Me: Maybe I didn’t sleep.
She answers with a GIF of a disappointed Dolly Parton.
I’m on the couch debating the merits of having a nap when the doorbell rings. Was I expecting a delivery? I can’t remember, but I like packages so I yawn and stumble over to the door to check.
Fangli stands there.
I freeze. I might have sent that text but I’m not ready to talk to her face-to-face. I thought she’d call me. Or text or email back, but that it would be a distance communication that would give me enough time to script out my response or at least think.
“Open the door, Gracie.” She closes one eye to peer through the peephole. “I can hear you.”
It takes me two tries to open the door because my palm is so sweaty.
Then we stare at each other. Fangli looks like, well, she looks like me. Her hair is pulled back in a neat, low ponytail that comes over her shoulder, and a ball cap shades her face, bare except for some gloss on her lips. She looks a bit tired and a lot nervous.
“You got my message,” I say.
She waves to herself as if to say, obviously.
“Sorry.” I move away. “Come in.”
Like Mei did, she takes off her shoes and pads barefoot into my place. Then she smiles. “It’s nice here,” she says. “Homey.”
“Would you like a drink?”
She snorts, a delicate sound as if from a small animal. “I would like to know what information you have about my mother. And why you left me like that. I would like a lot of things, Gracie, so I think we can skip the drink for now.”
“Fair.” I take a deep breath. “Give me a second.”
I go into my room and grab the duplicate photo album. When I get back to the living room, Fangli’s sitting stiffly on the couch, knees pressed together and hands folded in her lap. She looks small and a bit scared, and I feel like an asshole. I must have worried her with that message when I was doing my best to be sensitive.
Nice one, Gracie.
I open the album to the photo of Fangli and Wei Rong. She glances down, then brings the album closer as if to see better. “This looks like my father. With you?”
“No. With you.”
She flips the page as if to check to see if there’s more information about the photo on the other side. “Why do you have a photo of the two of us?”
As gently as I can, I tell her what I learned from Mom. Her escape from China, the secret baby who died, the deserted elder daughter who became a global superstar.
Who looks almost identical to her younger Canadian half sister.
“We’re sisters?” she repeats, hands splayed over the photo.
“It looks like we are.”
Fangli turns the pages until she gets to the one of Mom and Dad. “That’s her?”
“Yes, Agatha Wu Reed. Her Chinese name is Wu Miaoling.”
“She’s not dead? My father said she was dead.”
“Not dead,” I assure her. “Her Alzheimer’s means she drifts in and out so it was hard to get the whole story. I might have misunderstood parts, and we should get a DNA test to confirm it.”
“How sure are you that we’re sisters?”
I don’t hesitate. “Almost one hundred percent.”
Fangli slams the album shut and sets it down with trembling hands. I don’t know what to say or if I should reach out. I know how difficult it was for me to understand and Fangli is coping not only with a new sister but a living mother.
I shift on the edge of my seat, silent for fear of saying the wrong thing when Fangli opens the book again. She analyzes every page, her eyes fixed on the mother who left her. Her hands run up and down the pages and I watch them. I have Dad’s broader hands but Fangli’s are like Mom’s, with long, smooth fingers. She even wears the clear polish Mom always favored.
“Tell me again what she said,” Fangli says, flipping another page.
I go through the story again, right from Mom thinking Sam was her brother. She doesn’t look up from the book but I can tell she’s listening to each word, testing it for truth.
I finish the story as Fangli reaches the last page. Finally she looks up. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
“She left me?” Her voice breaks. Then she repeats it, changes the tone. “She left me.”
“I’m sorry.” This isn’t a trauma I can help with because I imagine it wounds Fangli to her core. I can only sense the edges around my own pain of all the things Mom stole from me when she decided to keep her secret. I also can’t fault Mom for trying to do the best she could, but I won’t blame Fangli if she can’t do the same. She’s just heard what must be one of the most painful rejections a child can know. No matter how much Mom might have loved Fangli, she chose to leave.
Fangli stands and then sits again. “My father kept this from me as well.” Her laugh is more of a bark. “Everyone lied to me.”
“Should I have told you?” Now I’m uncertain I made the right decision.
“Yes.” She’s sure. “This isn’t your fault.”
“I know. I guess I feel…” I hesitate, trying to name the emotion. “Guilty?”
She puts the album down on the coffee table. “Is that drink offer on?”
“Fuck, yes.” She follows me to the kitchen, where I skip the beer and wine and grab a bottle of gin from the cupboard. I pour us two very generous drinks, dump in some ice and soda, and we toss them down like water.
“Guilty.” She says it slowly. “Why?”
I shrug but when I go to pour myself another drink, she puts her hand on the bottle. “Later,” she says. “After we talk.”
She’s right. “I feel bad I had time with Mom that you didn’t.”
When she laughs this time, it sounds more like Fangli. “Not much you could do about that.”
“I’m mad at her, too,” I burst out. “I’m mad and I can’t be because I know she tried and she’s sick and what she did to me is nothing to what she did to you and I don’t understand why no one told me and—”
My big sister steps forward to enfold me in a tight hug. I clutch onto her, feeling her warmth under my hands as she simply lets me be safe in her arms. As we stand there, I feel her shake and she exhales, thin and unsteady.
“It’s okay,” I tell her and feel her nod hard against me. “We’ll be good.”