The Stand-In(90)

She’s crying now for her dead brother and talking in fast Mandarin.

“She’s back in China and begging him for help,” whispers Sam. “I think she’s reliving a memory.”

“Xiao He,” calls my mother.

“She thinks I’m her brother again,” Sam says.

I grab Mom’s hand as if my touch can yank her back from the past. “Mom?”

She mutters in Mandarin but Sam shakes his head in confusion when I look at him for a translation.

“Xiao He?” Now her voice is tremulous and pleading.

I say the idea before I think it through. It makes sense. It might work. “Can you be her brother?”

He turns to me, perplexed. “What are you asking, Gracie?”

I don’t think, just whisper so Mom can’t hear. “Please, pretend to be Xiao He to calm her down. Only for a minute.”

Sam steps back. “I can’t do that.”

“You’re an actor for fuck’s sake.” I stand up and work my hand out of Mom’s grip to motion Sam to the far side of the room. “You do this all the time.”

“Not this,” he says in a quiet voice. “I won’t do it.”

He won’t do it, when I know he wouldn’t hesitate if it was Fangli who asked? If he cared about me at all, he would. “Please.”

“Gracie, no. It’s wrong.”

The pettiness of his refusal is like a match lighting up my stressed mind. “It’s wrong?”

“To fool your mother like this, yes.” A muscle twitches in his jaw.

“This is wrong. You helping me out with my mother is wrong. Me pretending to be Fangli isn’t? Where were your high morals when I was tricking that kid at the hospital? When we were lying to him? How come the ends justified the means then?”

His face goes still. “It’s not the same.”

“It’s absolutely the same and you know it.” I glare at him. “Fangli wanted it. That’s what makes the difference. Fangli was the one asking.”

“That’s not fair, Gracie.” His voice is hard. “Your uncle is real and your mother is real. Fans have an idea of Fangli—they don’t know the real person and they don’t want to. They want the fairy tale.”

“I’m asking you to do this.” I don’t add because I’ve done a lot for you and Fangli but the silent words hang between us, unsaid but not unheard.

He turns abruptly as if to walk away.

“Fine, leave,” I say. “If you’re not going to help me, get out. You hypocrite.”

Mom starts to call for her brother again. I’m about to go to her when Sam turns around and starts to speak in Mandarin, a soft and assuring tone with no trace of his earlier reluctance. I have no idea what he says, but Mom calms almost immediately, eating him up with hungry eyes.

It only takes a few minutes for Mom to begin to drift, her face relaxed. She’s having more trouble staying awake, and the violence of her emotions would have tired her out more. Sam speaks in a lower tone that takes on the feel of a lullaby and soon Mom’s fast asleep.

He waits until her chin is buried against her chest before he looks at me with a grim expression. “I want to talk to you.”

We move into the doorway because I want to stay near Mom but also don’t want to stand in the middle of the corridor for all to see.

“What did she say?” I ask. “What did she talk about?” I know Sam’s mad but I’m desperate to know what could have upset her so much.

“She said she was sorry and she did as he asked. She said she wished she could have seen him again and that he needs to be at peace.” He reports on their conversation without comment on what it could mean.

“Thank you.”

Sam leans against the door and crosses his arms, the image of a man taking his ease. “I don’t want your thanks. I wanted you to not make me do that.”

“I didn’t make you,” I say. “I asked and you agreed.”

“You knew I would do what you asked, Gracie, and you took advantage of it.”

Fuck. He sounds resigned, like he should have expected it. “I didn’t assume you would, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“No?” His expression is unreadable. “Making it a ranking between you and Fangli wasn’t a deliberate choice?”

I can feel the prickling heat of shame. “It was an emergency, Sam. You saw how she was.”

“Would she have calmed down if you tried a bit harder to talk to her?” He runs his hand through his hair in what I now know is his habit whenever he feels uncomfortable. It falls back over his eyes. “Without making her believe her dead brother was talking to her? Without making me do that? It was wrong.”

“So?” I turn on him. “Maybe I’d take a bit of wrong to give her some peace.”

“She said she admired your integrity,” he snaps back. “Do you think she wants truth or peace?”

“I think you don’t know her, so you can keep your speeches to yourself.”

“You could be right. I don’t know her but I know you.”

“You don’t know me,” I say. “We’ve known each other a month. You don’t know a fucking thing about me and I don’t know anything about you, okay?”