The Stand-In(63)

I go to the cabinet and pull out the tattered photo album. Before Mom came into the home, I made digital copies of all the photos and have another identical album ready if something happens to this one. I wait until she sits down and wave Sam to the seat across from her before I pass over the album and sit down on the bed.

Mom’s crooked finger jabs down at a photo, and I lean over to see a man who looks like Sam only because they’re both Chinese men. Sam gives her the same smile as her brother does in the photo, and she slaps his leg and laughs.

“Gracie is much like Xiao He.” Mom reaches over and pats my hand like she did when I was small. “Much integrity. True to himself, with a core of rectitude.”

Such an old-fashioned word and my face flames because in thirty minutes, Rectitude Gracie is going to leave and put on a wig in a car so she can trick a bunch of kids into believing she’s a film star.

“Tell me more about him,” says Sam.

“Ah, he was an engineer. Smart, smart. We were all very proud of him.”

“Does he live in China?”

Her smile fades. “He died in an industrial accident after Gracie was born. She was named after him.”

“I didn’t know that.” How could I not know that?

“He, for harmony, and there must be harmony to have grace. I owed him much.” She shakes her head. “The past remains in the past.”

The bell rings in the hall and Mom perks up. At the home, meals are what tether her and she gets upset if she needs to wait, so I tell Sam I’ll be back in a minute. Dinner has wiped thoughts of Sam’s singledom status out of Mom’s mind and she walks eagerly to the dining hall after giving him only a cursory farewell nod.

I decide not to mention Dad as she’s better now and instead give her a kiss and greet the dinner ladies at her table. They all fuss over each other, making sure they have forks and water.

Sam is flipping through the album when I return. “I don’t understand how you can look so much like Fangli when this is your father.”

The page is open to a classic picture of Dad from the early 1990s. His reddish hair is permed and he wears a turtleneck and fanny pack, arm slung around a young and happy Agatha who only reaches to his shoulder. Mom’s wearing bike shorts and an oversize sweatshirt. What an era.

“He always said he was happy I took after my mother instead of him because she was the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Sam smiles and hands me the closed album to tuck away. “They were very much in love.”

“They were.” My voice catches as I hug the album. It’s silly but I’m loath to hide the album back in the dark drawer, like I’m tucking away Dad’s memory. “The money from this job for Fangli… I want it for Mom, to move her into a better place. It’s not because I’m greedy.”

Sam comes over and pulls me into his chest. “Gracie.” His voice is low, and for a brief moment, I let my eyes close and simply feel. On the day he died, Dad held me fiercely, as if he couldn’t bear to let me go. He’d lost so much weight from the treatment that his bones almost creaked as he gripped my shoulders.

“Ten years ago when Dad hugged me, I didn’t know that was the last time I’d have his arms around me,” I say into Sam’s chest. “I didn’t know.” Why didn’t I know? I should have sensed it, I should have acknowledged that I’d never feel his touch again. It passed me by and I’d never get that chance back. There’s no redo for that moment.

“Gracie.” Sam brings his hand up and rests it on my hair but doesn’t say more than my name.

I can’t cry. I cried so much for Dad over the years that right now my dry eyes are burning. My breath goes hot against Sam’s shirt and I turn my head slightly to the side. I’m not panting but my heart is racing and he runs his hand over my head with slow and deliberate strokes to calm me. I look at the wall but I can’t see a thing. I’m only existing.

I don’t know how long it is before I break away from him. “We should go,” I say, rubbing my cheek. “Oh God, my makeup.”

Sam’s shirt is stained with a perfect imprint of my face. He looks down, and when he meets my eyes, his are lit with gentle laughter. “This is more than I wear on the stage.”

“That’s my special occasion face,” I say. “Or was.”

I don’t look at the album as I put it away. “Thank you,” I say to the doorway instead of Sam. I don’t want to look at him. I’m embarrassed for him to have seen me like that.

“You’re welcome.” That’s all he says, and I decide to leave it at that and walk out the door.





Twenty-Five


Gregor is down the street where I insisted he wait with the car so the nurses don’t see us get in and become suspicious. It’s a little too fancy even for an Uber Black, that great democratizer of swish rides. Once we’re in the car, my composure returns.

“I brought an extra shirt in case,” Sam says. He picks up the collared shirt he’d worn down to the car and puts it aside.

Then he strips his T-shirt off. Right there in front of me, Sam Yao is shirtless and he doesn’t even care. Half-naked, he rummages in that gigantic tote before murmuring in triumph and pulling out a folded black shirt that he shakes out with a snap. I know it’s rude but I have to stare because I have never seen a body like this in real life. He’s sculpted, his arms firm with muscle and his shoulders wide. Little muscles, I don’t even know what they’re called, ripple down his ribs. After he pulls on the shirt, he lifts up his hips to tuck it in—my mouth might have dropped open here—and then runs his hand through his hair.