Secret Shopper

by Tanya Taimanglo

  The final leg from Honolulu to Guam reassured me. I already recognized almost half the passengers—the girl who went to elementary school with me, the cashier from the local market with her family, the bank teller I thought was cute from the Bank of Guam, my auntie’s ex-boyfriend. It was odd that no one really recognized me. I liked it, but I also felt removed. I didn’t have to explain myself in the way you have to explain yourself to anyone from a small town. Guam is essentially a small town with the same mentality. Everyone was in everyone else’s business and I was happy to be above the fray.

  Pharaoh was set to pick me up at the airport. I wondered if people thought I would look like the image on CNN, fair-haired Phoenix who dropped a ton of weight. I had been in my clothes for almost a full day and aside from seeing my dad right away, I just wanted to take a hot shower.

  After retrieving my two luggage, easily identified with the purple ribbons I tied on the handles, I headed out into the humid Guam evening. I scanned the awaiting crowd of family and friends, recognizing every other person. I had enough sense to wash my face and freshen my make-up. A dab of perfume as well, in case a random acquaintance or family member expected a hug.

  Then I saw Pharaoh, hairless and massive. He looked menacing, but he still had his baby face. He held up a cardboard sign that read, “Phoenix L—A**Kicker!” There were three other massive Chamorro boys flanking him. They must be from his gym, Countershot. I got teary-eyed when the real purpose of the visit home gripped my heart. I hugged Pharaoh tightly, not caring what other people thought. Then a few flashes from someone’s expensive camera caught my attention. I recognized the photographer from the local paper and the woman next to him had a notepad and pen in hand. They both went to my high school, like I said, Guam is small. I looked at Pharaoh questioningly. He shrugged his shoulders indicating that he was as clueless as me.

  “Hi, Phoenix! My name is Jan Cruz and I wanted to ask you some questions about your visit home and your recent attack in California.” Did she have to be so loud? I didn’t greet Jan with a smile. I realized she was just doing her job, but I had to get to my father. I wondered who called the media about my return and figured it was one of my brother’s goonies. My eyes raked over the three faces, the muscle bound group of cage fighters. My sights landed on the guy avoiding my eyes.

  “Hey, did you call them?” I asked. Busted. Pharaoh grabbed him by his gruff and yanked him aside to have a word. I didn’t want to be perceived as a bitch, so I gave her a nibble.

  “Jan. I’m here for my dad and I really need to get to GMH right now.”

  “Oh, I totally understand, but perhaps you can give me a brief summary of the ill-fated night in San Diego?”

  “No. I can’t, and it really wasn’t ill-fated since I’m alive. Correct?” Pharaoh returned and growled at the poor girl. I placed my hand on my giant brother’s arm and looked at Jan again. “If we can set this up for some other time, I should be able to give you a proper interview, but really, I miss my dad and I have to see him. Now.”

  That seemed to do the trick and Jan offered her business card. I asked her to give me until the end of the week to get over my jetlag and settle matters with my ill father. I hoped she wouldn’t write anything up yet. I didn’t want to be misquoted. And, I wouldn’t want to have to visit her, or worse yet, Pharaoh. She trotted off and I flicked her card into the trash when she rounded the corner.

  Leaving the airport, the humid air felt like someone dumped a giant circle of uncooked pizza dough on me. I sweated instantly. Pharaoh and his hanger-ons managed my luggage and Hello Kitty backpack with ease. Pharaoh still drove his old white Toyota truck. It was nice that some things didn’t change. His friends piled in the back of the truck. Was that still legal on Guam? I wondered. Pharaoh and I retreated into the air-conditioned comfort of the cab.

  “Sorry, about Ken. He’s a dough-head. He just likes attention.” My brother said. “I think Jan’s his ex or something.”

  “That’s obvious, that he’s a dough head. Can we just get to dad already?”

  “Of course.” Pharaoh peeled out once he got a green light. We felt the men shift in the bed of the truck, they cursed loudly and Ken knocked on the back window. My brother and I shared a laugh.

  My mother had carefully chosen our unique names. She learned English by watching Sesame Street and had my dad read her Encyclopedias. Those thick brown books, pages trimmed in gold from the 70s? Yeah, we still have our set. My mom always loved the letter P, perhaps because she mastered those words easily. She asked my father for strong things that start with P. He offered her Pewter, Power, Pharaoh, Phoenix, Platinum and Piranha. She chose wisely.

  “What’s with the bald head?” I touched the sandpaper skin on the side of Pharaoh’s coconut head. He swatted my hand away playfully.

  “You look pretty fit there big sister! So, how much do you weigh?” It was nice that the athlete in our family noticed. I wore my favorite red t-shirt, which was considerably spacious now, a pair of dark blue jeans and my black Chuck Taylors. I wasn’t home to impress anyone, even though a few of Pharaoh’s buddies asked him about my availability. They really were numbskulls to think that they would get pass him to me. My heart was already claimed anyway, I thought.

  “How about I tell you how many pounds I lost. Thirty five. And you never ask a lady how much she weighs.”

  Pharaoh drove forty miles per hour and was technically breaking the law. Once, we hit Marine Corps Highway, the largest vein of road on Guam, the speed limit was thirty five and nothing more. The pace was excruciating to bear since I knew the hospital was only about five miles away from the airport, if even that. I was so used to moving at warp speed on the mainland. I turned up the rock music and closed my eyes. I hadn’t been gone long enough to miss the island and no major changes occurred in the last year, I was sure, so I caught a kitty nap.

  Less than ten minutes later, we parked at the hospital. We loaded my luggage in the cab and locked up. Pharoah placed his heavy arm around my shoulders, pointed at his buddies and he walked me in. His buddies hung back, faces buried in their smartphones. I guess by my kid brother’s simple gesture they were instructed to stand guard. I needed privacy with my father anyway. He was still in intensive care unit and might be moved to a regular room by evening according to Pharaoh. Mom saw us walk by the cafeteria and raced after me.

  “Fee-nux! Aigoo! My girl! Oh, you look so good! But, too skinny.” We embraced tightly. My mom was always a superb hugger. She was both soft and hard and I felt like a little girl every time she hugged me even if I was almost a foot taller than her. Her smell was familiar, a mix of her flowery perfume and lots of garlic. It was distinctly my mom and I loved it. She told us to wait for her while she grabbed the cup of coffee she abandoned at the table.

  “Oh, how was you flight?” She asked, even her bad grammar was welcoming. I smiled, but I didn’t want to exchange pleasantries. I wanted to see my dad. I held her hand and kept her in step with my pace.

  “Mom, how is dad?” She explained his ordeal from the start, but I kept my frustration with redundancy at bay. Mom finally said that she believed he was getting better. I hoped she was right, but I wanted to hear it from the doctors. I felt like a zombie and I eyed my mom’s coffee. She always drank hers black and I wasn’t that desperate. We arrived at the ICU, which was a cluster of rooms locked away from other rooms—the rooms with hope. We had to be buzzed in. Mom drank the rest of her coffee quickly, complaining about the heat.

  The smell of the ICU hit me first. It was the bitter smell of dread. I held my breath outside dad’s door. I really didn’t want to see my dad in any other way than the way he was last year. Strong, robust, happy. Pharaoh held the door open for mom and me. I walked in and looked at everything but my dad. A tray full of medications, machines, wires, blinking lights, tubes. All attached to the blanketed man who was my father. I finally looked at his face. His sad, helpless face. His eyes were closed and sunken in. His gaunt face rocked me to my core. He loo
ked like the shell of the man I knew. My dad’s brown and gray hair wasn’t combed to the left like it usually was and for a split second I was mad at my family for not grooming him. Dad’s mouth was wedged open by a clear tube that entered the side of his mouth. If this was dad improving, it didn’t look right. I kept that thought to myself.

  I knew dad had an Ischemic stroke. The more common kind, but I wasn’t comforted by that truth. I wondered if stress caused it. Dad never told me about his health problems, and we never asked. Maybe dad had high blood pressure and bad cholesterol and diabetes. I didn’t really know. What kind of daughter was I? Rachel’s aunt had a stroke several years ago, but she didn’t suffer many adverse affects from it. I was hoping for the same for my father. I wasn’t that confident though, since being in ICU was pretty serious.

  “Is he sleeping?” I whispered. I wanted my dad to wake right up, jump out of bed and give me a hug.

  “Yes. You daddy sleep a lot.” Mom spoke loudly. I walked to his side. The room was so cold and smelled of rubbing alcohol and something repulsive that I couldn’t identify. I reached out for dad’s hand pierced by a large IV needle. I stroked his hand and traced the IV line to the source of its feed. I took his cold, bony fingers in mine cautiously and squeezed. He didn’t move. I desperately wanted him to know that I was there. I began humming, the tune emerging from me like a sorrow call. I sang his favorite Everly Brothers’ song.

  I whispered the song to his ear. When I finished, he squeezed my hand. It did the trick. Dad’s eyes popped open and he searched for me. He smiled, then grimaced. I saw that the right side of his lips did as commanded, but the left side of his face rebelled and stayed in place. I began to cry softly and I kissed my father’s bony cheek.

  “Hey, Nix, my princess.” I looked away. Tears flowed without pause now, because I had never heard my father call me his princess. I was always his tough girl, his tomboy, his ass-kicker. I smiled at him. I didn’t want to upset him and if he wanted me to be his princess, I would. Dad slurred and the sound of his deep, strained voice broke my heart.

  I kept my eyes on his and whispered, “Hi, daddy. I’m so glad I’m here with you.”

  “You. Look. Good. How. Are. You?” I was thankful that I could understand his slurred words even if it was slow coming and measured.

  “Thank you, daddy. I’m doing great, but I think we need to work on you, huh?” Dad chuckled. As he attempted another smile, tears soaked his pillow. I used my fingers to smooth out his hair to the left. I desperately wanted him to look his usual self. To be healthy, to be normal again.

  When dad finally fell asleep, I left the room and felt completely drained. My cup was emptied and I wavered between calling Rachel or Thomas. Rachel was in Japan and would get to see me by the weekend. I didn’t want to bother her. I decided to text Thomas while I waited for the doctor.

  I made it safely to Guam. I hope you are well, Thomas. My dad is as good as can be expected now. Waiting for Doctor Octopus to give it to me in laymen’s terms. P.R.L.

  Less than two minutes later, I received a response text from Thomas, but before I could read it. Doc Oc appeared. I wanted to speak to him without my mom trying to interpret or question him. I love her, but it would just delay the exchange of information. Pharaoh understood and took her for a walk.

  “Phoenix Lizama?” A young Filipino doctor addressed me. He looked like a teenager and I was concerned about his qualifications.

  “Hi, Doc.” Doogie Howser I really wanted to say.

  “Please, call me Gene.” He smiled widely. The doctor was a bit too chummy for my taste. I might just lose it if he asked about my attack in California.

  “Nooo. No first names, I would be more comfortable calling you Dr.? What’s your last name?” His badge covered by his clipboard. I folded my arms and my small smile faded.

  “Pallid. Dr. Pallid.” He sounded defeated.

  “Can I get your prognosis for my dad’s recovery please?” Doctor Pallid described my dad’s current condition. He said that it was a good sign that he could speak, but he would need extensive physical and speech therapy. He recommended a smaller clinic in another village for the recovery. Once an opening was offered, dad would be transferred. God, how long would that be? I thought if he needs it, he should get it, right?

  I thanked the doctor and deflected any attempts from him at small talk. Aside from my dad’s recovery, Thomas was on my mind. I later took Pharaoh aside to explain that I wasn’t on the market even if I was unattached. I didn’t really want to share Thomas with my family yet. Pharaoh knew not to advertise me as available to his friends or Doctor Talksalot.

  I finally read Thomas’s text.

  Hey Guam girl. I miss you. Thank you for checking in with me. I yanked out the one gray hair that sprouted since you left. T.P.R.

  Chapter 15

  If We Took a Holiday

  It took two days before dad was transferred to the skilled therapy clinic in the village of Barrigada. He was sitting up and eating soft foods, finally. To see him sitting, smiling and joking made me feel tons better. His daily physical therapy involved walking with his IV stand in hand. Gross and fine motor skills practice and speech therapy would also be tackled.

  No one was allowed to stay overnight with dad. We could be at the clinic as early as eight in the morning and stay until seven in the evening. My poor dad shared a room with another patient, only separated by a curtain.

  “Phoenix. Can you get me a small CD player? I want to listen to my music here. It’s so boring.” A few days of recovery and my dad was speaking clearer and quicker. I could totally sympathize with him. I wanted to make him as comfortable as possible. He wasn’t at a point in his health to be home and receive therapy from a visiting nurse. There were no television sets in the rooms too, so I made a note to get a portable DVD player as well. A good Eastwood or Bronson flick should cheer him right up.

  The days bled into each other and a routine was set. For a week, it was much of the same. Mornings were usually with mom and dad and me, with breakfast that we snuck in from wherever dad had a craving for, Denny’s, Kings, McDonalds. I would buy him a big breakfast as requested. He barely ate more than three bites of his food. Mornings when he finished one over easy egg meant that he would be strong. Other days, the rest of the family ate his leftovers.

  The multiple prescription drugs dad took for various conditions were crazy. My last count was at ten different medications. I wasn’t a doctor, but I’m sure his organs were being taxed, I barely touched Tylenol. Pharaoh always showed up by lunch to finish off dad’s extra restaurant food and he would stay until his next college class or training.

  Thomas would send me an occasional text, sometimes with a picture of him being sad, or a lengthy e-mail about his screenplay or the progress for the new Bag It locations. He said he was a third of the way complete with his writing project, but he wouldn’t tell me the title, let alone the basic storyline. This was fine; I had other things on my mind.

  Christmas and New Year’s was celebrated together at the therapy clinic. Mom didn’t want to decorate the house with anything Christmasy, even when dad and I insisted. She brought a miniature tree for his room instead. The clinic held a luncheon with all the fixings. More than half the dishes on the table were bad for the patients, but this was Guam. Our lives centered on fandangos with salty, fatty, flavorful food. We piled my father’s plate with everything he craved, spinach in coconut milk, fried fish, turkey, red rice, spicy finadene sauce, and barbecued pork ribs.

  “So, where’s your veggies, dad?” I joked. He pointed to the onions swimming in the salty soy sauce, a common condiment called finadene. Just as I thought, dad left his plate mainly untouched. Pharaoh had no problem polishing off dad’s food.

  The best gift, aside from my dad’s continued improvement was that my divorce was final.

  I began to lose touch with the world around me, Thomas included. I focused so intensely on my father. He made progress everyday, and then the fall occurr
ed. I wish God would just cut my dad a break.

  Dad fell during his walking practice. I knew he was weaker from not eating well and the constant flow of medications in his body. He probably dropped another fifteen pounds since I arrived. The blood thinner he took made the bruise on his hip and thigh speckled like zombie skin. It got to the point that the excess blood in his leg pooled and caused swelling. Dad’s therapy was halted and he was placed back in the hospital. A two inch incision was made to gruesomely drain the dead blood. The open wound was reminiscent of my own trauma a month earlier. I was surprisingly at ease helping my father. Even dealing with taking care of his urine bag and changing his adult diaper were no sweat. When you love someone, you love them through the good and the not so good. My mom was the same way, but poor Pharaoh was in hell. He loved dad, but as tough as he was, my baby brother was easily grossed out. And, I think he was feeling like his hero, his dad who was strong and mighty was indeed frail. Human. Mortal. It was scary for us all.

  Rachel offered me a sanctuary when I needed a change of scenery. I would head to her shop on some mornings after situating my mom at the hospital. Dad would have to be there until his leg healed and the swelling went down. Therapy would continue at a slower pace. My family hoped he could be home after the New Year.

  “So, how’s pops?” Rachel asked. She placed her soft perfumed hands on my cheeks.

  “His leg is pretty messed up, but it’s healing okay. He’s on so many meds it’s crazy!” I felt like a hot kettle letting off steam, whistling and whining. Rachel responded by hugging me tight.

  “Run into any old friends? Other family?” Rachel continued to chit chat, distracting my brain to think about other things.

  “Actually, no. Thankfully, no I should say.” I was content not running into anyone I knew. My crowd really was just Rachel. I knew Rachel wanted intel on Thomas, but my focus was my dad. She knew better than to ask. I had no desire to go to our old haunts either. The most retail therapy I had was going to the grocery store.