A/N: Double Happiness is a brilliant little movie. Go rent it. Now.
Like Those White Ghosts
She sits and stews in the passenger seat of the car all the way down Bullington Drive. It isn't that she finds Doctor Ming particularly disagreeable; he's relatively undisturbing as a matter of fact, handsome and successful if apparently unwilling to speak to her. He's the right ethnicity, but even at this point, to dislike someone because his background is so similar to hers still resounds as ridiculous.
No, it's the fact that her parents are probably still back there in front of the house, waving inanely, grinning proudly at each other: Mission Accomplished. Job Well Done. Jade Has Left The Building With Suitable Chinese Boy. It burns her up, chars and jangles at her nerve endings. She taps her foot on the car floor, a nervous gesture that her mother always chided her for. Never get a man that way. Hold still!
She says aloud, "You know, it's possible we're related. I mean, we could be third cousins or something. Isn't that illegal?"
Doctor Ming smiles. Either he's pretending or he really doesn't understand anything she says. She eyes him resentfully, a little suspiciously. He's been over here in Vancouver for the last nine years of his life, and on the phone his English was passable. Was it faked, was he a phony, was he just very well trained? He did a lot of nodding during conversations in English. Maybe he was just an idiot.
That was entirely possible.
It doesn't bother Jade, though; well, maybe just the idea that someone would live in a country for nine years without trying to learn the language. Without being willing to change; that bothers her a lot. But as far as she's concerned, Doctor Ming means nothing to her. She could date him for a year and he could ask permission to marry her, he still wouldn't mean anything. The thought occurs to her that she could even marry him, still with this cool detachment, and bear his children and watch years go by and still he wouldn't mean anything. The idea terrifies her, grips at her stomach with icy fingers, makes her feel stifled and stuck, and so as they approach the junction of Hallaway and MacKenzie, she says, "Would you stop the car?"
The best thing he did that aborted enchanted evening was to let her out without asking questions.
The ideal date drives away, and she stands for a moment on the sidewalk, wrapping her arms around herself. She doesn't worry about him driving back home to tell on her; probably couldn't get the words out, for one thing, she thinks with a wry start to a smile, and for another, it would be an embarrassment to him. She made me stop the car so she could run away. Except she isn't running.
She takes a few tentative steps in the right direction. This— this seems like a small thing, standing on a street corner all by her lonesome, but it's much bigger than that. Her subconscious knows it. She can't think about it just now, because it'll paralyze her legs and she needs desperately to move. Where to? Where's she supposed to go, now that she's taken this huge step that no one can know about? She feels vindicated, a little triumphant; she feels scared and wobbly, too. Her twenty-third birthday is fast approaching, and her parents are worried about what her life is going to turn out to be. She couldn't go home even if she wanted to.
And she really, really doesn't want to.
She starts to run.
Mark lives on the top floor of an apartment building on the extreme south side. Nosebleed seats, he called it when they were in the elevator for the first time, the rackety, complaining elevator that was desperate for retirement. Jade had smiled to herself and kept her eyes on the lighted numbers as they escalated one by one. Eventually he'd apologized and told her, "Next time we'll take the stairs." She'd barely paid attention to this, of course, because there wasn't supposed to be a next time.
Now, though, she takes the stairs two at a time. She's heaving and puffing when she gets to the top, and meanders her way through the hallway to number 717, leans her forehead against it for a moment before she knocks. He'll be out, she thinks. Standing in a nonexistent line in front of some bar, waiting to be picked up as the next best thing.
He must have seen who it was through the peep-hole. He opens the door so fast she falls inside. As he's righting her, his hands careful and tender on her arms, he says, "I'm still mad at you."
"Why, because I wouldn't hurt my family?" He's pulled her all the way in, and shuts the door behind them. It's dim in his apartment, the main light comes from a reading lamp poised over a table in the corner. She walks towards it. He was working on a model ship. A grown man— two years older than her— a young man who was hovering somewhere between the toys of his childhood and the hobbies of the old man he would eventually be. It makes her sad, but she laughs. "What is this?"
"The Robert MacKenzie. Of course I'm not mad because you wouldn't hurt your family, I just—" His hands in his pockets, his sentences trailing like loose shoelaces. He can't finish it, because it's not true. He was angry that she'd said she wouldn't see him anymore. That she wouldn't toss up her family for the guy who was mostly a one-night stand. And he's angry with himself, too, because he knows how ridiculous it is. How far beyond what he could reasonably expect.
"Well, good news," she says, and folds her arms. "Looks like I'm going to hurt them after all."
He looks up at her then, the black frames of his glasses sliding down his nose, and she's surprised and pleased to see there's no triumph on his face; only worry. "Is this about when I was at your house? Because they don't need to worry about it. I'm not going to stalk you or anything. I mean, that's been a week and I haven't even been within five streets of there."
The thought of being stalked by Mark makes her genuinely laugh. "No, it's not that. They were mad, sure, but it's not that."
Mark shoves his glasses back up his nose with one finger and eyes her warily. "Is this going to be a long conversation?"
Jade, taken aback, swings her arms loosely and claps her hands together. "Well, not if you've got something going on. I wouldn't want to get in the way of your social life."
"No, no." He shakes this off, impatient. "I just think we should sit down, is all. Except—"
"Except you don't really have any chairs, do you?" she finishes for him, looking around the apartment. She remembers that from the first time. Mark grins a little, all teeth, embarrassed. He pulls the stool away from the table and sets it in front of the bed.
"Your choice," he says, and waves grandiosely to both of them. She takes the bed, and he perches on the stool like a large bird, his feet hooked back on the legs of it, both hands planted between his own legs to steady himself. "So what is it?"
She has to look at him for a moment, take him in. This skinny, pale, funny-looking boy with experimental hair, gawky and awkward, twitching a little, full of nervous energy, in perpetual motion even when he was sitting still. Brilliant, Jade. Run away from the rich doctor, run to the guy who builds model ships. There's echoes of their first set of conversations banging around in her brain.
"What do you do?"
"Well, uh, after I got out of college I went to work for this company that cans corn."
"You're kidding me."
"No. Unfortunately. But I got fired."
"What? You mean they really—"
"Canned the corn, yeah."
"And now?"
"I'm a free lancer. I write articles for newspapers and magazines all across North America. Mostly just here, I mean, but I had one taken by this little outfit in Pennsylvania once. Mostly human interest."
"Oh yeah? And would I merit an article?"
His voice is fervent, and he is truthful. "You're the most interesting human I know."
She has to smile, because to do anything else would be lying without words. "They set me up on a date. My parents. He was a great guy, apparently."
"Apparently?"
"I didn't stick around long enough to find out for myself."
"Oh yeah?" He's curious, but unwilling to press. Pressing brings all sorts of trouble, in Mark's experience. He doesn't want her to leave, unless by some miracle she's going to take him with her, which seems highly unlikely. Then again, it's something of a miracle that she's sitting on his bed. It's something of a miracle that they met in the first place. He can't believe the enormity of the yearning sensation in his stomach, and with Jade sitting right here in front of him, too. It's like being homesick when you're at home.
Jade clears her throat and tucks her hands under her knees. "Here's the problem. I'm of marrying age, and my parents are determined. If I don't get married, my life isn't worth living, as far as they're concerned."
He raises his hand.
Jade looks at him and twists her mouth in that way that means she's trying not to smile. "Yes, Mark?"
He puts his hand down. "I'll marry you."
Jade tenses for a minute, but she can see that he's joking. "Uh-huh."
"I mean it. I realize it would be a serious task, no small thing. But I'm willing to take a blow for the good of the country." His grin is even wider, if possible. Jade smirks.
"Yeah, except I don't want to get married. Not to you, not to the rich Chinese doctor, not to anyone my parents pick out."
"Why is it such an issue?"
She shakes her head. "You don't know my parents, or you wouldn't have to ask."
"You're right. I don't." He bows his head, like this is some failing on his own part. She eyes the nape of his neck, which makes him look exposed and very young.
"But I feel stuck," she says. "I feel like I can't go anywhere. I can't be with the people I want to be with." A slow blush spreads over his neck; he knows she's referring to him. "I'm standing still when I should be moving forward."
"So do something. Change."
"I can't."
"Why don't you move out? I'll help you." He's eager now, looking up at her. "I can find boxes— there's tons in the alleyway behind the Echo. I can borrow my brother's truck. You could even—" The flow of ideas suddenly dries up.
"What?" she asks, gently.
"You could even move in here. For a while. If you want. Till you find something else. Or you could stay."
"Did I ever tell you about my brother?" she says suddenly, and she senses that a breakdown is not far off.
"I didn't know you had a brother."
"We're not supposed to talk about him. He moved out, and my father disowned him. He pretends Winston was never born. He won't let him visit. He's acting like he never existed in the first place, and if Pearl or I say his name when there's no company around he puts on this very cold expression and he says, Who?"
"That's awful," says Mark, and he's for once very still.
"It's going to happen to me," says Jade.
"But don't— how do you know? Don't say that. How long ago was that?"
"Almost a year."
"You see?" He's trying to coax her into feeling better, which she's grateful for, even as pointless as the effort seems. "A whole year. People change."
She shakes her head. "Not my father. He doesn't change. He won't change. He's like— he's like someone moving to a new country and they refuse to learn the language, just keep spouting off in their own. Meanwhile no one understands him. But he's oblivious, he doesn't know, or doesn't care. One way or the other, he's still the same."
"You'll change him," says Mark. "Maybe if you just asked."
"It's no good." She's crying, just a little, but helplessly. She wipes the tears away with both hands. The run through the streets was like a release, full of wild sobbing, but here she will be comforted, she knows it and expects it; so when he slides onto the bed next to her it's as though she's issued him an invitation. He's all elbows and knees, but once enfolded in his arms she feels like she's been wrapped in a blanket.
"People change," he says. His mantra, as faulty and foolish as it is. It's been proved and disproved over time. Some people change, she wants to correct him. Some. Not all.
He feels familiar, she told Lisa when asked for details about this white boy, this odd duck, this one-night stand that still hasn't quite come out of the dark. She doesn't know how to explain it other than that. Her entire life has been built with relationships based on commonalities: background or beliefs or the right look. Mark has none of these; he's seriously lacking.
"I could never introduce you to my parents," she mumbles into his shoulder.
"Maybe I'll introduce myself. And you won't have to." His breath is warm, a little wet, near her ear. She can feel something strong in the way he holds her. She's turned him down more than once, and though he doesn't like it, he won't let it keep him from coming back. Asking again.
"We're not going anywhere," she says, and his back is hunched, curled over her. Tips her chin up so he can finally kiss her. Since the beginning of the world there's never been anything like the way this boy kisses her. He obviously disagrees with her sentiment: no, everywhere is the unspoken reply. Everywhere.
So much later, wrapped again in the sheets, she prods at his bare shoulder. He stirs and mumbles, his hair sticks up, he is pale and thin, his backbone protrudes. She leans down to put her forehead on his arm. He twists his head around to look at her, eyes slightly blurred. She had put his glasses down on the table, carefully, before this all began.
"Why are you so hopeful?" she wants to know.
Mark thinks about this, and after a moment he grins.
"Why are you so hopeless?" he counters, and it isn't an answer, and it is. The light is cold and predawn, but it's still light, and somewhere, somehow, he'd given her exactly what she was looking for. As long as she needed to run, a place to run to. As long as she needed it, a hand to hold onto. He's given her flesh and blood, and the white ghosts of her father's invective were all in the imagination.
Maybe he'll change; maybe.
The possibilities, it seems, are endless.