Playing Pretend Box Set

by Natasha L. Black

  I’d tried going to the police the other day, but they'd only smirked at me and promised to do everything they could. Their faces had told me a completely different story. I'd been a journalist long enough, had interviewed enough people, to know when someone was looking me in the eye and lying straight to my face.

  I forced myself to let go of the newspaper, to sip my bubble tea some more. I was practically radiating tension. The two girls chatting lightheartedly a few tables down were sneaking side glances at me.

  Then again, I probably looked like crap too. I hadn't been sleeping since Jin disappeared, and I had barely managed to wrangle my hair into a ponytail today. Added onto all that was the fact that I didn't look Chinese in any way, shape, or form. My parents were both hardworking Germans, and I looked European, whatever that meant.

  European was just what people kept telling me, indicating my large, 'soulful' eyes as one former boyfriend had described them. My dark, thick, perpetually unkempt hair and my narrow nose and full, well-spaced lips. Yeah, I stuck out like a sore thumb. But by now I'd gotten used to it. Gotten used to Shanghai... To China. To having to shove your way down the sidewalk, remove your shoes upon entering someone's home, or the loud, obnoxious yelling conversations in the street.

  Staring out the window dully, I watched as the masses of people passed. Had any of them seen my article? Would they ever? Would they even care?

  Reaching absently for my tea, I knocked it over.

  "Shit," I grumbled under my breath as the sticky liquid spilled over my table and most of the newspaper. Grabbing the newspaper, I used it to sop up the spill. My eyes fell on a headline. It wasn't much of a headline, since it was in the middle of the newspaper, in the middle of the page, but still.

  My hands tightened instinctively.

  No.

  But there it was—University Man Disappears: Journalism Prof Missing for Days.

  It was in the newspaper for God's sake! There, in the middle of the paper, was a small grainy photo of Jin, with his unmistakable smiling eyes and calm mouth.

  My heart thumped against my chest. He was gone.

  I anxiously scanned the article, but it didn't say much. Nothing that I didn't know or wouldn't have occurred to me already. He hadn't been seen for a week. I checked the name of the writer, but it wasn't anyone I recognized.

  Damnit. If I was still at Rayli... There was no use thinking that way.

  There was also no use staying here making a fool of myself—the clumsy girl at the counter who keeps spilling her bubble tea, acting all weird. No. What I needed now was to go home, lie down, and maybe talk to my best friend Jen.

  2

  Giovanni

  I paced back and forth, my Testoni shoes keeping an incessant beat as I moved across the hospital floor.

  My father rasped something unintelligible. Then, "Giovanni, Giovanni, stop. You know how I hate it when you pace like that."

  I stopped. Although I didn't turn to look at my father head on. Not yet.

  The image of him there, behind me, was branded into my brain. It was completely at odds with the expensive, polished details of his private care room we were situated in. His weathered, tube covered body a slump of wheezing and beeping. The number of machines now required to help him survive were beyond count. The tubes, wires, all of it... I couldn't distinguish or name any of them.

  God, why did it have to be here?

  "Hey," my father called, "Cheer up! At least you guys will save on airfare back to the States!"

  He laughed, coughing a few times, the result sounding more like he was choking more than anything.

  I rushed to his side.

  "Papa."

  He tried to wave me away, impatiently, and succeeded in only waggling a finger. "Don't you Papa me. I am going to laugh until it kills me, you hear? If I can't laugh, I can't live!"

  I chuckled. That was Papa for you.

  "It was a lovely trip," I said, changing the subject, "Remember that one restaurant you picked out?"

  "I'm not senile, Son," he wheezed, though he was visibly pleased at my having brought it up, "And of course I remember the place. Go-go dancers and disco lights? It was a blast."

  As I racked my brain for something else to say, anything else to distract Papa from the situation at hand, my stomach growled.

  "What are your mother and sister doing down in the damned hospital cafeteria," Papa wheezed. "Ordering everything on the menu?"

  "Hopefully," I said, "Could use that about now."

  Papa caught my eye and we laughed; a healthy sense of humor was a strong trait in the family.

  "As long as they don't give me any more of that mashed rice," Papa vowed, his face set into firm wrinkles, "I swear, every meal I've had rice. And that’s fine, but let me tell you, Son, mashed rice—"

  "I know," I said, "You forced me to taste some. Remember?"

  The bland, lifeless, gelatinous taste of the rice quickly came to mind and made my stomach roil. The rice had become a sad metaphor for Papa. Now, also, a lumpy, lifeless, grey mass of wheezing and coughing in a hospital bed.

  Over the past few months, he had deteriorated from the lung cancer that hollowed out his handsome and lively face. It had carved whole slopes underneath his eyes, the grooves falling down his face in wearisome lines. And yet, as soon as he woke up, began talking and became animated, Papa was the same. Almost.

  "Ah," Papa said, contorting his brows, "Probably for the best. It's about time we had a talk."

  "We are talking," I said lightly.

  I had a good idea what he wanted to talk about. I didn't really want to get into it.

  "I know, I know," Papa said, "You're a working man. A man of the world. And I can't fault you for how you've turned out. You've turned Bruno Industries into the leading lamp-makers on the market. But there is more to life, my boy, than making beautiful lamps to brighten other people's lives."

  "I came on this family vacation, didn't I?" I reminded him, "I even got Maria to come along, even though she had meetings booked solid for the week."

  "Yeah, yeah," Papa said, "But you know what I’m talking about. Giovanni, you’re thirty-one years old, when are you going to settle down?"

  "I have had girlfriends," I pointed out, "Sandra, Cecelia..."

  "Cecelia, and poh-tay-toe, and poh-tat-toh," Papa said irritably, his lower lip trembling with the effort of holding in a cough, "Let's get real here, Son. Those were fine women. Fine looking and fine acting, but they were not your woman. I could tell, the first second I laid eyes on them. You're just whiling time away. When are you going to start looking for your woman?"

  His voice had risen to a yell, although I knew he didn't mean anything by it. That was just how the Bruno family communicated, by good-natured yelling that occasionally would turn into something that looked like a feud to end the family. It never was.

  "Papa," I said, "I told you—"

  "You're too busy, you haven't met the right one," Papa said, "Yada, yada, yada. I've heard it all before, and I’m not buying what you’re selling."

  He was insistent, his jowls wagging with indignation. This was the attitude of never-say-die that had gotten Bruno Industries, which started out as a simple lamp shop making custom shades, to a top-tier industry superpower that produced quality, artistic pieces that also happened to light your room.

  But if there was one thing Papa had taught me, you can’t sell someone something that they have no interest in buying.

  "That time may come," I said tersely.

  "Not if you’re in the office from seven in the morning until eleven at night, it won't!" Papa yelled back, brandishing a weak fist, "Or what—you expect the pizza girl to be your woman?"

  "We don't have pizza at Bruno’s on Friday's anymore," I reminded him gently, "The employees took a vote and we decided on Vincenzo's; so pasta, pizza, salads—"

  "You’re getting off-topic on purpose," Papa declared, "Point is, you need to get your head in the game. And I can't be passing Bruno Ind
ustries, and all we've accumulated, to some boy who won't get serious. Who thinks life is all work, and no play."

  He stabbed a finger at me, "What do you think made me the man I was? Hey figlio? Working so much that I walk into a glass door?"

  I didn't say anything, or remind him that he was remembering Gino, who'd walked into the glass door at home one time he was so drunk he could barely speak, let alone stand. It hadn't been me.

  "So, what's it going to be?" Papa said, eyeballing me.

  "Meaning?" I said, confused, and genuinely getting angry now. I knew why he was bringing this up, but what did he really want to know?

  The nurse said he only had a few days left. If that. But still. This was my life he was talking about. I wanted to enjoy the last few days I had left with my dad. I didn't want to spend the time arguing over stupid bullshit we would just never see eye-to-eye on.

  "I can promise you, Papa, that it is something I would consider giving more thought if—"

  Papa scoffed. "That’s exactly what you’ve been saying for the past five years! That you'll consider it, that you're working on it, that you'll take care of it. But Giovanni, if it smells like bullshit and it tastes like bullshit, then a bull has shit on your plate. Are you a bull at my table?"

  This was getting annoying. I decided to try another tactic.

  "What would you have me do then, Papa?"

  He threw his arms up. "It's not rocket science! Find a girl and put a ring on it."

  "So, any girl then?" I inquired innocently.

  A cloud passed over Papa's face and his eyelids lowered so much, it almost looked like they'd fallen closed.

  "Don't patronize me, boy. I know very well that the wrong woman can make or break a man. But you know as well as I, that back home in Miami, there is a whole city full of eligible, sun-kissed ladies. Datable women. There are thousands of them, in fact, a good deal more than when I met your mother."

  "I know the story," I said dryly.

  One of Mama and Papa's favorite things to do after a glass or two of red wine was to lean back in their creaky old rocking chairs and muse about growing up in Bedoni, a small Italian town an hour and a half outside of Genoa. They would laugh at how, in their small town of less than 3,500 people, they had met as kids and fallen in love by the age of nine.

  "We're here!" Mama's forced cheery voice came through the door.

  The state of her normally coiffed curls revealed how she really felt—flustered. Her eyes darted to Papa, relief flashing over her face to see him awake.

  "We got spaghetti," she said, shrugging, "and spaghetti."

  "We weren't finished talking," Papa grumbled at Mama as she fussed over his hospital blankets and gown. Seeing Mama's face fall, he gently raised his withered hand to her cheek and said, "Oh you... Come here."

  He leaned in and they exchanged a tentative, loving kiss, their arms folded awkwardly around each other from their respective positions.

  I caught my sister's eye and we smiled. Our parents made it look so easy. Papa even made it sound easy. Just pick a girl, go on a few dates, and settle down.

  But it wasn't that easy. Most women didn't understand that I needed time to work, a lot of time in fact. It wasn’t just the responsibility of running the business, I was also the leading designer on our steel-based, solar-generated, LED lighting units. It was a passion, combining art and functionality. I was married to my work, and I just didn't feel chemistry with so many of these women; what was I to do? My past relationships had been decent, some of them I'd even kept around thinking things might change until they didn't.

  "You just going to stand there or come and get some of this linguini alfredo?" Maria teased, her eyes laughing as she lifted a delectable-smelling plate under my nose.

  My growling belly answered for me and we chuckled.

  I started spooning as much of the pasta into my mouth as possible, appreciating the flavor immediately. Maria leaned in and, her eyes on our parents, asked me, "How is he?" Her voice a hushed undertone.

  "About the same," I said with a shrug, "Still able to yell, so there's that."

  We chuckled some more.

  Mama was busy helping Papa with his pasta, so we were able to speak freely together, albeit quietly.

  "What was he talking about anyway?" Maria asked between mouthfuls of linguini.

  "The same thing he’s been trying to talk to me about for five years. Marriage."

  Maria giggled. "We all want you to get married, Mimmo."

  "You just want a little niece or nephew so you can see whether you actually like kids," I pointed out.

  "Yeah, so? Not that it’s working; at the rate you're going I should probably get on the idea of adopting a dog.” She smirked at me, “Did you manage to come up with a new response to Dad? Something to change the outcome of the conversation?"

  "No. I won’t lie to Papa, even if he’s..." I trailed off. I wasn't going to say it.

  Part of me, the last part that held on hope, figured if I didn't say it out loud, then maybe it wouldn't happen. Wouldn't be true.

  "Be careful though," Maria cautioned me, putting down her fork.

  "What do you mean? Why?"

  "Just... Papa," she said. "Lately he's been doing a lot of that, talking about the end and how he wants to leave things in proper order. He worries about Gino, obviously, but he’s more worried about you."

  "Me?" I said incredulously, "With Gino and how he is?"

  "I know," Maria said quickly. "It’s ridiculous. But you know how Papa always saw so much potential in you, so much of himself. He's worried you will become a workaholic like Uncle Raymond, die of a heart attack at forty-five, and never love or have children. He thinks he needs to nudge you along."

  My teeth ground together. "Nudge me along how, may I ask?"

  Maria gave an uncommitted, one-shouldered shrug and brushed one of her dark curls away from her wide-set, dark eyes. "Don't ask me. Just something he and Mama have been whispering and fighting about. Mama won't tell me. She's promised to keep quiet, but... I don't know. It seems serious."

  I didn't have anything to say to that. Our father was dying. Of course nothing looked good.

  What my sister had said stayed with me though, wrapping around my forearms and coursing into my fingers, tightening my hold on the plastic spoon so much that I broke it in half.

  What could Papa possible have planned that would succeed in making me find a wife?

  3

  Kandice

  Here I was, The Elegance Bund Hotel and it was... Elegant?

  I took in my neat and well-organized surroundings with a shrug.

  It wasn't home. That was for sure.

  But after Jin had disappeared, I hadn't felt safe sleeping in my apartment. I wondered if maybe I'd seen too many political dramas and thrillers, but I kept having the sneaking sense that someone might be coming for me too.

  I mean, sure, I had my parent’s previous role as former government diplomats as a thin layer of protection, but that was it. Who knows how much actual popularity they'd have when it came down to it. All I knew now was that I had to keep my head low for a few days, maybe even weeks.

  Despite the circumstances, the gravity of my situation still wasn't settling with me. The other day, I'd applied to a few jobs. Many of the receptionists, as soon as they entered my name into the system, gave me a look of pure horror, as if I'd been convicted for child-trafficking. They just shook their heads at me tersely and denied my request to see the editor.

  It looked like my job prospects here were done. Crap.

  Maybe the US would be better? But then, there was the issue with my parents. They already worried like crazy with me being over here alone. If they got too worried, then they may demand I move home and go live with them. Not that I would have to listen, but still. I'd grown up with the world’s most over-protective parents imaginable.

  I was never sure if it was the fact that I was their only child, or just that I had a long history of being accident-
prone, but they had dogged my every step from the moment I stepped on the school bus until the moment I walked off the graduation stage. Even when I played alone in my room as a kid, my mother would hover protectively outside my door, as if my Legos could explode at any moment.

  They had started backing off a few years ago when I turned twenty-three. I couldn't go back to that space with them again, where they would hover by nonstop when I was there, then call me up and demand to know the who, what, where, and why's of my life when I wasn’t.

  Flopping on the bed, I called up the only person I could be truly frank with.

  "Kandice, hey!" Jen said. "What’s up?"

  During our last conversation, I had filled her in on me losing my job and Jin being gone, but I hadn't had a chance to tell her that he was now officially missing.

  "Jin still hasn't turned up," I said.

  Jen made an exasperated sound. "Don't," I warned her.

  It was too late, she'd already gotten into her real-friend-real-talk spiel I’d heard a million times before, "Kandice, look. I know you liked the guy, and I know he liked you too and meant well but come on. Face it. You weren't even that into him."

  "Remember that time he surprised me with all those blue roses, for no reason at all?" I said defensively.

  "And that other time when he proposed to you in that beautiful cherry blossom garden, and had an amazing plan he carried out and surprised you with and when you didn't answer him, you both just silently let it go..." Jen said, "Listen I'm not saying Jin is a bad guy. Far from it. You guys had similar interests and you were both good-looking, but you weren't that into him."

  "But—"

  "Remember the time you were on a date with him, and I called you from a payphone about how Alt-J was going to be at that club playing a set? I was so excited, and for some reason you dragged him there to get a picture for me since I’d left my camera and phone home like an idiot, instead of spending a romantic evening with him?"

  "Okay, listen. That was a long time ago. I was a jerk in the beginning and hey—I got that photo for you!"