We thank the woman and get into the car for the gala. Unlike me, Sam is jazzed by meeting the kids and can’t stop smiling. The event is down near the water at an art gallery/event space, and I pray there’s no art I need to have intellectual opinions about. This day has drained me, and I press my forehead against the window.
“Are you ill?” asks Sam.
“Thinking,” I say. “About the kids.”
“They were great.” He fixes his collar and smiles so big his dimples appear. “You did well to suggest writing to that boy. Laurence. I could see in his face that it was like a door in his mind had been opened.”
“He wanted to do it because Wei Fangli told him he could,” I burst out. “I’m not Fangli. It was a fraud.”
Sam’s dimples vanish. “The trigger is irrelevant. Once the idea you can do something occurs to you, that’s all that matters. Who cares who twists the handle for Laurence as long as he can walk through the door?”
“It’s not right,” I say, digging in. “The ends don’t justify the means.”
“I disagree,” he says. “A positive outcome can come from a negative path.”
Deciding this conversation is about to devolve into an unwinnable does not, does so argument, I grit my teeth and let it go, in part because this is a deep philosophical debate and I need time to organize my points. I need an Eppy for that as well, a way to neatly categorize the swirl in my brain and formulate the mess of impressions and reflections into clear and arguable ideas.
Sam has already moved on to remind me who we’ll be meeting at the gala and I try to focus on him. We’re there to represent the Operation Oblivion cast since the director couldn’t make it, and Mei had confirmed that none of Fangli’s personal contacts are on the guest list. If arriving at the movie premiere was a solid eight on the stress scale, this hovers near a three.
“Gracie?” Sam peers at me. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t. Maybe Fangli was right. Laurence and other fans want the idea of Fangli, what they project on her.
“What was I talking about?”
I take a guess. “The guest list.”
Sam looks suspicious but we arrive before he can reply. He helps me out of the car, and I make sure my smile is calibrated to show how happy I am to be here. There’s a photographer—I now understand that every event hires their own photographer—and this one is stunned silent when Sam looks at her, her camera lowering so she can see him without a filter.
We walk into the event space, which has been decorated with huge floral garlands woven with dyed daisies that sweep across the ceiling and are draped down the walls, interspersed with long fringes hanging from the ceiling and lit from within to look like they glow. There are pastel neon lights along the floor. The art direction must have been to make it look like a unicorn is hosting a wedding at club night, and I wonder why they didn’t give the money they spent on those decorations directly to the hospital. We wander up to the silent auction tables, covered with tablets to enter bids. I try not to choke when I see that minimum bids are in the thousands or tens of thousands, for everything from a cruise （be the private guest of a bank CEO） to a spa week for the winning bidder and three guests.
It’s a lot. It’s too much. I need to take a breath.
“Excuse me,” I say to Sam. “I’ll be right back.”
He follows my glance to the washroom and nods. A minute later, I’m alone in a stall and breathing in the light lavender scent of the diffusers on the counters. I can’t stop thinking about Laurence’s expression. In the car, Sam asked who cared how the handle was twisted.
Me. I care.
Mom said my uncle He had rectitude. I pull out my phone and quickly google to confirm it’s what I think: moral righteousness. A sense of right and wrong and the willingness to act on it. I did not show rectitude today. I have not been showing rectitude since I took the job with Fangli. Is this the person I wanted to be? I need the money for Mom, but I know if I told her what I was doing to get it, she would be horrified.
Worse, she would be disappointed in me.
The door opens and I realize that if my university years have taught me anything, it’s that although bar washrooms have witnessed many an existential/love crisis, they aren’t great places to have them. I check my face in my phone and go out to wash my hands. I might not have shown any ethical morals earlier, but my business morals know that I made a deal to pretend to be Fangli and being present at this event is part of the job. I can have my meltdown later, I tell myself as I push my hair behind my shoulders.