The Stand-In(61)

“There’s no way you’ll make it,” he says. “I’ll come with you.”

“What? No.”

“It’s easiest and the most effective use of our time.”

“Think this through. Why would Sam Yao, celebrity, be visiting my mom? With me as Fangli?”

“Well, and what would Fangli be doing taking the subway in full gala dress?” He grins and those dimples appear like magic. “I bet you dinner no one will notice. Do your makeup and put on your Fangli clothes for when we leave the hotel.”

“You’re sure you want to go? We might get rumbled.”

“As I said, this will be more efficient so it makes practical sense.” He gives me a look. “Trust me. I’m not reckless.”

He must be confident if he’s willing to risk blowing my Fangli cover, so I don’t back down from the bet. “You’re on.”

“Pack a hat and change of clothes.” He raises his eyebrows. “I’ll start thinking about where you’ll take me for dinner.”





Twenty-Four


Sam leaves and I turn to the dress sector of the closet to find one I can easily change in and out of while in the car. It’s hard to focus, because although this isn’t the first time the home has called about coming to calm Mom down, it feels odd, more urgent. I bite down hard when it occurs to me that her Alzheimer’s might be getting worse. The doctors warned me to watch for mood and personality changes and I thought I had. Had I been so concerned with this Fangli plan that I hadn’t noticed?

When I finally find a dress, I have to wipe my clammy palms on my thighs before touching the delicate material. I pull it out and check it quickly, eager to get going. It has a tight waist and full skirt but the real draw is that it zips up the side, so I don’t need Sam’s help to change. The makeup and wig go on quickly. I’m getting used to it.

Sam arrives—with his key, which I had him get back from Mei in case of future emergencies—as I’m stuffing a skirt and tank into a backpack.

He gives my bag an incredulous look.

“You can’t seriously think you can walk out wearing that evening dress with a nylon backpack slung over your shoulder,” he says.

“How else do I pack my clothes?”

Like a magician, he displays a plain leather tote large enough to transport a small farm animal.

“Hermès,” he says as he puts in my clothes, as if this explains the gargantuan size. Maybe it does. “Where’s the hat? You’ll need that to try to cover your face when we get to your mother because you’re fully made up.”

I give it to him. “What about you?”

“I’m fine. Fangli came back about fifteen minutes ago, so we’re good to go. Luckily she was early.” He looks me over and I wonder what Fangli appearance checklist he runs over before he gives a single approving nod.

We head down to the car and this time I’m able to simply move through the lobby without obsessing about my walk. I’m too worried about Mom to care—why’s she so upset? Sam hands me into the car and I give the driver the address.

Then I turn to Sam. “Since I’m changing in the car, won’t the driver notice that I’m not Fangli when we get to the home?”

“I’ve known Gregor a long time,” Sam says. “He can keep a secret.”

“Good.” I pull off the wig and ruffle up my hair. “I need some privacy.”

He turns to look out the window, which is luckily tinted.

“Can you cover your eyes?”

“Really?”

“Please just do it.”

He shoots me a glance but then covers his face like a child playing hide-and-seek. I get changed in stages to maximize the coverage, like at a badly designed gym where the door to the change room could open any moment and reveal you to the world. On goes the skirt, pulled up under the dress. I unzip the top, turn to face the other way and pull on the tank top. I take off the dress, yank on my hat, and I’m Gracie again, or Gracie with fantastic contour.

“Your turn,” I say.

He turns around and peers at me. “You smeared your lipstick.”

“I did?”

“Here.” He reaches out with his thumb and rubs under my lip.

Oh. My. His touch is gone almost as soon as it happens, but the echo of it thrums through my body.

“It’s gone now,” he says, looking at my lip.

“Good?” I clear my throat. “What about you?”

He shrugs off the blazer and the collared shirt to reveal a white T-shirt that he untucks, then pulls out a smaller bag from his huge bag. Inside are a pair of sneakers. He bends over to put them on, swears as his seat belt ricochets him back, manages his shoes, and then pulls his own hat down to shade his eyes. Transformation complete, he lifts his hands as if to invite comment and I have to laugh.

“You honestly think no one will recognize you?”

“You need to see your mother, don’t you? It’s the only way we can do that and get to the gala. The risk is negligible.”

“Is it?”

“How many Asians will we see?”

I think about the home. “My mom.”

“Yeah. I think it’ll be fine.” He smiles.