Secret Shopper

by Tanya Taimanglo

  “Do you have time to meet me for dinner or lunch or anything?” Rachel asked in a tone that told me she understood my dilemma.

  “Maybe next week. Dad might come home.” Once dad was settled at home I would be more inclined to go around the island. I thought of taking pictures for Thomas.

  “How long are you staying?” I really couldn’t answer my best friend’s question. Would it be another two weeks, or two months?

  Rachel gave me two size 6 tops right off the rack that she saw me eyeing.

  “This is for you.” She swiftly placed it in a large lavender bag marked with her frilly font, S.P.T.

  “No, Rachel, I can’t just take things off the rack.” Rachel showed me her star tattoos. I counted five more and congratulated her. “Japan?”

  “Hai! Five stores in Japan now carry my line.” Rachel beamed.

  ShinyPurpleThread was a bustling store. Most of her business was from tourists who kept our economy afloat. Rachel required at least one sales associate on hand who spoke conversational Japanese and Korean.

  Rachel shoved the bag into my chest again. “If you don’t walk out of the shop now, I’ll call security and tell them you shoplifted!” I knew she would, so I thanked my bestie, hugged her quickly and promised to call her at the end of my day.

  I stopped for a caffeine boost and the warm cup of coffee reminded me of Thomas. I finally called my friend. It had been

  weeks since I heard his honey butter voice.

  “Hello.” Thomas answered without realizing it was me. He sounded like he just awoke from sleep. He probably didn’t check the caller ID or he just wasn’t expecting a call from me.

  “Hey there, Thomas Patrick Roberts. This is your conscience calling.” I said animatedly. Along with his cute chuckle, I heard some shuffling and then some really loud clanking.

  “Shit, sorry Phoenix! I dropped the phone.”

  “Are you that surprised to hear from me? I’m sorry it wasn’t sooner.” I suddenly missed San Diego and him.

  “Actually, yes. I miss your voice, Phoenix. How are you? How is your dad? Your mom? Your brother?” I giggled. I loved that he was always inclusive.

  “Fine. Seen better days. Hanging in there. Massive and deathly afraid of blood and bodily fluids.” I knew Thomas would be able to figure out the answers.

  “I’m glad you’re fine. Your dad seems stable for now and your mom is a tough cookie. Your brother is not cut out for nursing and his bulging muscles would look ridiculous in scrubs. Sounds about right?” He laughed heartily and it washed over me leaving me warm and bothered.

  “You always get it right. How are you?”

  “Backache. Tummy ache. Headache. Heartache.” My silence the only response. Heartache? For me?

  “Wh-where are you?” I asked.

  Thomas explained that he had been crashing in a sleeping bag on the floor of the Oceanside shop. They were going to open in another week and he took it upon himself to paint and work on fixtures.

  “I didn’t know you were such a handyman!”

  “I’m not. I’ve got Youtube constantly running with do-it-yourself tutorials on my laptop. I’ve done the track lighting and painting so far. My Sunday is looking like more Bob the Builder B.S., but I love my sister that much.”

  “That’s sweet. I can’t wait to see the shop. Will it look like the San Diego one?”

  “For the most part. Guam photos included. I wanted to ask you to get some new shots of the island for me, but I know you are way too busy with your dad.” He was right, and I was happy to hear that the new shop would maintain the simplicity of the original. I wondered if I wasn’t on Guam, if I would be at the shop spending evenings with Thomas and helping him renovate. I thought it was better that I didn’t share this thought out loud with him.

  “Make sure you’re taking care of yourself. You must be freezing!” I teased remembering San Diego in winter—sunshine, but chilly at night. Guam basically had two types of weather, sunny or rainy, sometimes both at the same time. If it was 85 degrees out, that was a normal day. January to December.

  “It’s chilly here, but not because of the weather.” He said. I smiled to myself. “How’s Rachel?” He asked and I grew suspicious.

  “She’s dandy, but remember our agreement.” I warned.

  “Yes, ma’am. She does not text me at all.”

  “That’s good.” His usage of ‘ma’am’ didn’t faze me this time, maybe I was easing into my ladyhood.

  “Anyway, I’ve got an open line of communication with you now. Right?” He asked.

  “Right.” If he meant the open line on which I kept a tourniquet fastened, then sure.

  “I really do miss you, Phoenix.”

  “Um, I know.” I looked at the clock on the dashboard, thoughts of my father pulling me away.

  “Do you?” I wanted to share my concerns about my dad’s mortality with someone who had been through it, but I was scared that if I uttered it out loud something bad would come to my father. “Phoenix, are you okay?”

  “Oh, yes. I was just thinking of my dad.” And, I wanted to get off the subject of Thomas missing me. I wrestled with the idea of telling him the same, but the truth was—I was too preoccupied with my family and being home, that Thomas was really a small blip in my thoughts. Well, okay he was more like streaming classical music that played softly in the background every minute of my day, but my heart and mind could only focus on dad now.

  “Thomas. Thank you for being my friend through all this.”

  “Stop. You don’t need to explain yourself or feel guilty. When I say I missed you, it’s true. It’s not like I expect you to say the same back to me. I get it. You have bigger things on your plate right now. I’m okay being just the decorative parsley on that plate.” His melodic laughter filled my head. “I’ve been there, remember? I’m just happy we had some time to actually talk, okay?” Thomas always knew how to make my life easier and I guess I was beginning to love him for that.

  “Well, Dr. Feelgood, you set me straight. I’ll take two pills and call you in the morning.” And I told myself that I would.

  “Have a good rest of your afternoon, Sirena.”

  “You have a good day, Builder Bob.”

  I smiled as I drove to see my dad, energized by Thomas’s affection.

  After Pharaoh arrived for his hospital duty, mom and I headed back home to clean the house for dad’s return. I knew my dad would be excited about sleeping in his own bed again and being amongst his things. As mom and I headed to the parking lot, Bradley’s parents were checking in with the security guard. They were asking for my dad’s room number. Mom intervened. I stayed back a few paces. I hadn’t spoken to my former in-laws since the day I told them about the divorce. I loved them like a second set of parents since Bradley and I became a pair almost ten years ago. It wasn’t odd for them to be visiting my dad. My parents and Bradley’s parents were friends in their own right, but mom said that since our official divorce and dad’s health issues, she hadn’t seen or spoken to them lately. I always loved how Bradley Sr. and Rosalia treated my mom, like she was local—like she was Chamorro at heart. I didn’t want to address my ex-in-laws as mom and dad, but I felt like I had to. After a few short words with my mom, they both looked at me. Quiet, still, and then walking towards me with urgency.

  “Oh, Nix! You look wonderful, how are you baby?” Rosalia broke through the force field I tried to create around me. I’d have to work on that.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” I stepped forward and gave her a hesitant hug. Bradley Sr. kept his distance and I felt like he had shame in his eyes. I felt bad because they really didn’t have anything to do with the reason for our divorce, but I wasn’t going to discuss that in front of the people in the lobby. I opened my purse and pulled out a black ring box. I was half-expecting, half-hoping to run into my former mother-in-law. I returned her mother’s wedding ring, my ex-wedding ring and didn’t say a word. Rosalia opened it and a grimace flashed across her face. She pl
aced it without incident into her purse, smiled meekly and resumed her conversation with my mom.

  “Hi.” Was all I could say to my ex-father-in-law.

  “Buenas, Nix. When did you get back?” I was surprised that they didn’t know from Bradley that I had been on Guam for weeks. Bradley knew when I left and I also e-mailed him every few weeks about dad’s progress. Although I loathed Bradley, he still was a big part of my family’s lives. Dad worried about him despite the infidelity. At first, I was angry at my dad, but I couldn’t be mad at him for anything now. It’s not like they would take Bradley in. Mom was another story. She hated Bradley and made occasional comments about her disdain for her former son-in-law. When she ranted in Korean, I wondered if she was cursing him.

  “I’ve been home almost a month.” Bradley Sr. looked surprised. I later found out from mom that Bradley’s father stopped talking to my ex-husband, his own son after I called about the impending divorce. He wanted things to work out between Bradley and me. Rosalia told my mom that Bradley’s father’s last comment to his only son was to never get married again and that he didn’t want another daughter-in-law. It shocked me how loyal my ex-father-in-law was to me and I regretted not hugging him now. I would show him more gratitude and respect next time.

  The rest of the day, I shined up the house in preparation for dad’s return. Mom’s standards of clean far surpass my standards and I felt like I was in Mr. Clean boot camp. I just wished I had pads to save my knees on the hard Italian tile.

  It was a quiet Sunday when dad was discharged. Pharaoh cradled and lifted dad off his wheelchair. In a warped role reversal, Pharaoh carried my father like he was the child. Although we insisted that dad ride in mom’s low riding Tercel, he refused. He asked Pharaoh to go through the tourist village of Tumon and to take his time heading home to our home village, Mangilao. Mom and I followed the men in her car.

  “Fee-nux, you have boyfriend now?”

  That came out of left field. I looked at my mom, and shook my head, “No! Why?” I shot out my response, but she studied my face and smirked. I was told by a nosy aunt once who had asked me if I was dating Bradley back in tenth grade that because I denied it so quickly and vehemently, that I was lying. Mom must have the same belief.

  “Oh, my darling. You can tell omma.” She teased.

  “Why, did someone tell you I did?” Rachel’s cackling laugh filled my head. “Do you want me to have a boyfriend?”

  “That’s up to you. You adult. I just want you be happy.” Mom stated earnestly. She removed her right handed death grip on the steering wheel to pat my leg. That was a huge gesture from my mom.

  “I am happy, mom. I’m happy to be here and helping with dad.”

  “Mmm.” Mom stroked my cheek and hummed. It was a melodic tune she usually hummed to herself when she was busy around the house or thinking. It was nice to be near my mom’s healing and cleansing essence. I couldn’t however, share my budding enthusiasm about Thomas. That was mine for now.

  Thirty minutes later, with four Happy Meals in hand, our complete, whole family entered the Lizama home again. I had been restored to my previous state before marriage. It was odd to be home, but also comforting. My parents left my bedroom the way it always was, only selling my bed and placing a computer desk in the room. My stuffed animals, mostly pandas and Hello Kitties, still lined my small bookshelf. My hardcover books were left untouched, no one in my family sharing my obscene love for books. My favorite movie posters still lined the walls of my closet, where clothes from middle school could still be found.

  This guest room slash office was my space again. The futon couch was suitable, but I missed my high quality, semi-firm mattress. Bradley had been nice enough to let me keep it. I sprinkled holy water on it of course, well just Febreze, to excise all the evil marriage demons and sexual memories. I wrapped the bed and tucked it into expensive storage. My parents’ home was noticeably void of all photos of Bradley. Our framed wedding portrait sat in a box on the top shelf of my closet.

  That evening, I created a schedule for dad’s now twelve prescription medications. I was disoriented, having to take over what the nurses did so effortlessly. I made a chart on excel to mark the times and dosages for each medication. There were things like iron pills that would luckily be completed in a week, since dad’s bleeding subsided. Other pills that would prevent a seizure, one to keep his blood thin seemed more crucial. Dad remained in his room, glued to the television set. He caught up with all his police dramas and history channel documentaries. His appetite was still very suppressed and that evening we would have a battle about his meds.

  “How many pills?” Dad asked, agitated.

  “You need three at dinner and then four by your bed time.” Dad groaned. He pulled his sheets up and still had trouble grasping with his left hand. This frustrated him and as I reached out to help, dad looked up at me. The stern look in his eyes was a mixture of determination and hurt. I withdrew my hand and let my father do it for himself.

  “I hate those pills. My stomach hurts and my mouth is like cotton. I’m never hungry too, but I want to eat.” Dad said this series of sentences slowly, trying to emphasize each word. To someone not knowing his condition, dad perhaps sounded drunk. I focused on the dusty religious statue icon near dad’s T.V. Mother Mary. It was there since I could remember, smiling through the layer of dust. I choked down my tears with her help.

  “I know dad, but they’re suppose to help you get better. And, you do need to have food or milk in your belly when you take most of the pills.”

  “Bah!” He grunted. Humbug, I thought.

  The first day home, dad did as he was told. But the following days were wrought with rebellion. Dad didn’t want to eat or take his medications. Only when mom cried and begged him, did he take the pills that didn’t make him feel groggy or nauseated. Pharaoh was home less and less and I felt that he was feeling relaxed now that dad was out of the hospital. He didn’t see what mom and I had to deal with for most of the day. In an effort to get my brother more involved with dad’s recovery, I tasked him with calling the at-home physical therapist. Dad needed to have physical therapy from the day he got home, but because of some hiccup at the insurance company, the therapist was never scheduled.

  “Sis, can’t you do it? I’m training for an upcoming match.”

  “And dad can’t walk without a walker!” I made sure we spoke outside. I didn’t care if the neighbors heard me, but I didn’t want dad stressed.

  “I know, but” he whimpered.

  “But, nothing. Pharaoh, just because dad’s home, that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods. When he’s well enough I’m going to offer to take them back to California with me so I can help out.” Pharaoh looked shocked. Life without me was one thing, but without the entire family was another.

  “Why can’t you just live here? You’re divorced now. What’s so important in California?” Pharaoh protested. Thomas’s beautiful smile flashed in my mind.

  “Medical is better for one thing. And, I happen to enjoy living out there. I’ve been toying with the idea of opening my own secret shopper company. You can come out too you know.”

  “No way. I happen to enjoy living on Guam.” Pharaoh was a big fish in a small tank here.

  “Well, tomorrow morning, I expect you to call the therapist and get dad on a regular schedule.” Pharaoh nodded in agreement and I handed him the business card.

  Changing the subject, I pinched the purple hickey on Pharaoh’s thick neck. “Got that from training?”

  He checked his reflection in the window and blushed. “No, from a girl I met.”

  “In training?” I joked.

  “No, in my psychology class.”

  “I don’t remember hickeys being part of the psych curriculum?” I teased. Pharaoh and I had an easy conversation that afternoon, one of our last.

  The next morning would mark dad’s first full week home. Typically, I would hear dad’s T.V. blaring, but my eyes popped open to an eerie
quiet. The brightness of my room told me it must have been past eight o’clock. I tiptoed to my parents’ room and pushed the door open slightly. Our home was always a home where bedroom doors were never locked. Mom was not in the room, but I could tell that already from the savory smells of breakfast wafting through the hall. Dad was still. I stood over him to make sure he was still breathing. I felt a wave of overwhelming relief when he snored loudly.

  In the lonely kitchen there were two pans of fried rice on the stove top and a pot of fragrant coffee. Mom had made a large batch of her delectable kimchee fried rice and a smaller batch plain, not spicy garlic rice for dad.

  I knew mom was outside tending to her orchids or watering the lawn. I reviewed the meds dad needed to take that morning and decided to let him sleep for half an hour more. I looked outside and sure enough, mom was pulling weeds, close to the earth in her classic Korean squat. Mom was like a hummingbird, fluttering around from one thing to the next, always keeping busy.

  I sat with my bowl of rice and steaming sweet coffee. A note written on a napkin from Pharaoh caught my eye, “Had to get to class, I’ll call dad’s therapist after lunch when I get home.” I dropped my spoon with force on the table. I hated that Pharaoh put things off, especially when it came to dad. I had seen enough of the physical therapy exercises that I decided that after dad had breakfast, I would run him through the paces. I opened the newspaper, then heard a crash from my dad’s room. I ran in to find that dad had awoken and attempted to go to the restroom. Medication bottles and colorful pills peppered his floor. Dad groaned, his walker upended next to him.

  “Dad!” I raced to him. He looked like a beetle turned on its back. I lifted him easily off the floor, his frailty scared me to my core. Panic and dread drenched my heart.

  “I wanted to go to the toilet,” dad slurred.