The Stand-In(10)

Anjali glares at me. “Are we about to have the same talk about your mom as we did about your boss? The trust-your-friends talk I gave twenty seconds ago?”

She’s right. “She lives in the past more often. Her Alzheimer’s is slow but it’s progressing.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, me, too.” That’s the best I can expect now, and I don’t want to go into the mess of feelings I have about Mom because I’m not even sure about them myself. I’ve been dealing with the situation rather than analyzing it, and I’m happy with that. Anjali senses this and turns the conversation to a workplace drama that we happily dissect as we assign outlandish ulterior motivations to all players.

We drink another glass of wine and finish the chips and talk about my new skincare routine (now including double cleansing, toner, and a shitload of moisturizer that guarantees smooth skin into my crone years) and Anjali’s crush on the guy at the gym that she decided she’s never going to pursue. “If it’s a mess, I’d have to find a new gym and this one’s cheap as hell,” she says.

Anjali slops more wine into our glasses, then grabs a notepad and a pen. “Enough of this. I came here to drink wine and organize your life, and it looks like we’re almost out of wine.”

I snuggle back into velvety pillows that were specifically bought for the purpose of snuggling. “What’s first?”

She taps the pen on the paper. “We can go about this two ways. Practical or blue sky.”

“Practical.”

“Boring but okay.”

I tip my glass back and frown at the ceiling.

“You need money,” Anjali prods. “How much fuck-you money do you have?”

Fuck-you money is the money you save for whenever you need to tell your boss or your partner where to go as you blow out the door. Except I used my fuck-you money to pay the extra fees for Mom’s private room at Glen Lake. The government only pays the cost for shared rooms and Mom would hate that. We once visited my grandfather in a shared room—he liked the company—and she came out and whispered to me that she’d rather be left in a forest to be eaten by animals than have to deal with a stranger’s noises all day. Mom needs quiet.

“Enough for one month and they offered three months of severance.”

“Get the lawyer to boost that. Not bad, though. You have time.” She writes Find new job on the list and then under that, without asking my opinion, four things I need to do to achieve it. She looks up.

“Aren’t you obsessed with those to-do list apps? Seems like a good time to bust one out.”

“I decided I don’t like any of them.” None of them do exactly what I want, but what ever does?

“Make your own, then.” She tosses this off like it’s no big thing and bends down to write:

Clean apartment.

Get Todd cursed.

Call Fred about termination.

Exercise every day.

Assassinate Todd.

Visit Mom.

The last makes me catch my breath. What if Xin Guang has a room available soon? It’s impossible to know when a room will come free, as it depends on…well, someone dying, which is awfully morbid. They only give you six hours to accept before it goes to the next person on the list. I need to have money ready for a deposit, and I won’t have it without a job.

Anjali taps the pen against her leg. “Do you do a monthly budget?”

“Of course.” I meant to do one, at least.

She stops tapping. “If I asked, could you provide it in paper or digital format?”

“It’s more of a mental tracking.”

She doesn’t bother to answer. Her pen flies over the paper as she lists out my expected monthly expenses. With each line, my breathing gets a little shallower. Rent. Food. Phone, utilities, Mom’s private room. Transit. Clothes. She purses her lips and crosses that out. “Better get used to shopping your closet,” she says.

I have no job. No income. No recruiters banging on my digital door to hire a woman who can only offer an average skill set and termination letter instead of a glowing reference.

Suddenly Fangli’s offer seems more appealing. I empty my glass and open my mouth to ask Anjali her opinion, then shut it fast because I don’t want her answer. I know what it will be.

Instead, I take the paper she hands to me and look it over before adding an invisible task.

Call Wei Fangli.

Anjali leaves an hour later, and with the daring of almost a bottle of wine in me, I text the number on the card.

I’m interested in learning more.

I don’t even hesitate before I hit Send. This isn’t like me but, again, wine.

I pose in the bathroom mirror, trying to imitate Fangli’s serene smile and confidence. Both are unsuccessful.

We’ll see what tomorrow brings. Probably more failure.

***

The hangxiety hits at exactly four in the morning. I jerk out of sleep, heart hammering and dread breaking over me. I had a few drinks and my entire body knows I fucked up and humiliated myself. What? What? What did I say? I curl up and bury my head under the covers. Anjali came over. We drank wine, made my list. I emailed Fred to set up an appointment about my termination agreement. Anjali read it over, so I know that was fine. When she left, I texted Wei Fangli and very proudly put a thick, black mental line through that task.