The Stand-In(18)

The nursing home’s vinyl chair creaks under me as I sit back, my sneakers squeaking on the worn linoleum, dingy with years of worn-in grime. I have uncomfortable emotions that I don’t want to pull out from the log I’ve stuffed them under. That a period drama has evoked them almost offends me because I should get upset at the news, not a make-believe story of two fictional people. Fangli and Sam—mostly Sam if I’m going to be honest—make me vulnerable. I have a yearning for…what?

I don’t know. More. That’s all I can tell. I don’t like that Sam can make me feel this deeply without even knowing his power.

After this scene, Mom wakes up from her doze and blinks as if trying to remember who I am. I smile. “Gracie, Mom. I’m Gracie.”

She doesn’t reply but turns from me to what I’m watching. Thinking to make it easier, I shift the screen so she can see it.

Her hand stretches out faster than I thought she was able, and she says something in Chinese. “It’s The Pearl Lotus,” I say helpfully, checking the screen to see what’s happening. “That’s Wei Fangli playing the empress. You know her. She’s an actor.”

She shakes her head desperately and I curse myself. There are rare days when the thought of home spirals Mom into a deep depression instead of making her comfortable. Past experience tells me there’s nothing I can do so I turn off the laptop and hold her hand as she rocks back and forth.





Eight


There are days when everything comes together as though part of a well-practiced symphony. Hair wisps stay down. Socks stay up instead of bunching in the toes of shoes. The keys are where you left them, the phone fully charged, and the pantry well stocked with coffee or, at the very least, instant packs.

Today is not that day.

I practice the deep breathing my favorite lifestyle blog insists will change my life—not that I need any help in that department, thanks kindly, I’ve managed to pull that off in spades this week—and stare at my phone, which I forgot to charge. I will it to reach the magical fifty percent charge point that’s the lowest I’m comfortable with leaving the house. Forty percent. Forty-one.

I pick up the book I’m reading and hesitate. I’ve never not finished a book, and although this one is trying my patience, I’m almost done. I should see it through. It might get better. I toss it in my bag. Then I take it out. New Gracie isn’t going to waste her time on a book she doesn’t like. I don’t owe the book anything.

I put it back in.

Forty-four percent.

I weigh the consequences of an undercharged phone against being late for my meeting with Fangli. Suddenly angry, I grab the phone. Today things are going to change. I’m not going to be limited by a list or a percentage on a phone screen. It’s a matter of having a growth mindset, and frankly, I should be embarrassed about a phone keeping me from my destiny.

I take the damn book out again and thump it down on my night table.

Fighting a slight twinge of anxiety, I decide to buy a portable charger and pocket the phone, grab my bag, and run out the door. My neighborhood is the residential equivalent of the golden mean, gentrified enough that I can choose between two hipster coffee shops filled with people tapping seriously on decal-covered laptops but not so slick that the rent is unaffordable for people with small kids or precarious jobs.

Today I don’t stop for coffee. Today I go to live a life of exquisite luxury and deceit.

This time, I walk into the Xanadu like I belong. That’s right, man wearing an excellent suit and so much plastic surgery your cheekbones puff into your eyes. This is my world now. Out of my way, little woman with head-to-toe Gucci. (I know it is, because every garment is labeled.) Take a hike, incredible-looking man at the elevator staring at me.

Oh, that’s Sam. I debate pretending I don’t see him because it might be less awkward than making conversation, but he waves me over with an almost imperceptible gesture. With the new Fangli-esque gait I practiced in front of the mirror, I stride over, dragging my suitcase behind me, and try not to let him notice my shaking knees.

“Did you hurt your leg?” he asks as he stabs at the number panel.

“I am walking like a movie star.”

“You’re walking like your shoes are too loose and you’re trying to shuffle them on your feet as you move.”

“Oh.” This is too precise a critique to be taken as an insult so I decide to file it under Potentially Useful and think about it later.

“You’re going through with this?” His beautifully accented voice is low. According to his Wikipedia page, he had a British tutor growing up.

“Obviously.” I own my decision the same way Anjali or Fangli would.

He blows out his breath. “I’m doing this for Fangli and I want to be honest with you. I don’t think you have what it takes. You couldn’t manage a single photographer, let alone fifty.”

True but no need to point it out. “I was surprised.”

“When you screw this up, you can cause more damage than you know. Why are you doing this? Do you want to be famous that bad?” Even though his tone is earnest, the words are rude and that’s what I react to.

“She. Asked. Me. I didn’t go hunting her down and begging to be her second. You were there.” I don’t want to be famous, which is such a boring and jejune goal for a self-actualized human being that I would be ashamed to admit it. I need the money for my mother—that’s why I’m here. Not the applause. Not being seen. Money for Mom’s room.