High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  I could see Ian tensing up. No wonder he was drinking his second scotch. “I’m half Korean. My mother was Korean.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Oh, I adore Korean food. Especially their barbecue. I can’t remember the name of it, but you know what I’m talking about. Although, it really makes you smell afterwards.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but wasn’t sure what to say. I shifted her coat and purse to my other arm, wondering what I should do with them. Ian stopped a passing server to grab two glasses of champagne. He offered one to me, but before I could find a way to take a much-needed sip, Beverly materialized.

  “Korea?” she said. I wondered how much she had heard. Is she eavesdropping? “I’ve been to Japan, but never Korea. I hope you didn’t come from North Korea, with that ghastly fat little dictator? Were you born there? When did you immigrate to the U.S.?” Beverly didn’t care to hear my answers because she turned to Mrs. Williams and added, “We already have far too many immigrants in the country, don’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Williams nodded in firm assent.

  “I’m not an immigrant,” I said too loudly, making me come across defensive and pouty. “I was born in LA. My dad was American.”

  “Was?” Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. William said in unison.

  “Both my parents died several years ago,” I said, struggling to keep my gaze upright on their faces.

  Mrs. Williams shook her head. “Terrible.”

  Then she recognized someone and scampered off. I sipped my champagne, still fumbling with her coat and purse. “I should put these away for her.”

  Ian reached for them. “No, Kelly, give them to me—”

  “Really, it’s okay.” I gave him my glass and walked away.

  Entering the main lobby, I searched for Franco. Noticing him near the doors, I headed in his direction. Suddenly, a splash of pink entered my line of sight, followed by a smack. Cold liquid spilled all over me. I looked up to see a model-thin blonde in a light pink dress, holding a glass of red wine, sharing a similarly shocked expression.

  “Jesus!” she said.

  To my horror, the red wine seeped onto Mrs. William’s coat and bag, dripping onto the floor. Then, I heard a high-pitched scream.

  I turned to see Mrs. Williams speed walking over to us, spilling champagne out of her own glass as hurried over.

  “My bag!” She yanked it away from me. “How could you be so careless?”

  “I’m so sorry, I was looking for—”

  “You came out of nowhere,” the blonde said. “What, were you texting or something?”

  “No, I just—” I could feel the lump in my throat forming. No. Do not cry. “It was an accident.”

  “Kelly, don’t worry about it.” Ian came over, his mother’s steps behind. A waiter with a dishtowel appeared at my side, and I took the black linen, trying to wipe off the bag. Mrs. Williams swung it farther away from me.

  “No, don’t wipe it. You’ll make it worse.”

  I wanted to die. Right here. Right then.

  “Mrs. Williams, we’ll replace it,” Ian said.

  “Who will?” Beverly pointed at me. “Her?”

  Hot tears pooled at the corners of eyes. I dared not blink.

  “Kelly, why don’t you go to the bathroom and freshen up? I’ll stay here and help,” Ian gave me a look. He was trying to get me out of this.

  Thankful for the exit, I followed the waiter to one of the many restrooms. I closed the door behind me, trying not to break down. It’s not your fault. She spilled wine on you.

  I collapsed onto the closed toilet lid, breathing in chamomile incense. Tiny hand towels sat stacked beside a wicker basket holding fresh soap the shape of white roses. I stared at their simple elegance as tears continued to well. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  I took a deep breath, then looked in the mirror. I fixed some smeared black eyeliner, steeling myself. The right sleeve of the cardigan was stained burgundy. I would Google how to get it out later. If that didn’t work, I would work extra shifts to pay it off. I would even work to pay off Mrs. Williams’ bag—for the rest of my life, if it took that long. I halted at the door, willing myself to leave. Then, I heard Ian’s voice and stopped.

  “Mother, give Kelly a break. It was an accident. Why did you have to embarrass her like that?”

  “Don’t blame me,” she whisper-yelled. “That Birkin costs over $30,000. She should be apologizing to me. Embarrassing poor Mrs. Williams in front of everybody.”

  “It’s not Kelly’s fault someone decided to spend thirty freaking-thousand-dollars on a purse that looks like the skin of some swamp creature. If anything, Mrs. Williams should be thanking her for getting rid of that ugly thing.”

  “What have I told you about being judgmental? You have no idea it’s sentimental to my friend.”

  “Sentimental? What? Is she chairwoman for the Florida Alligators Board?”

  “Why did you even bring her into our home? Are you really so bored you have to go chasing—”

  “Mom.” Ian cut her off. “Kelly is a wonderful person. If you gave her a chance, you’d see that.”

  I felt nauseated. I knew exactly what Beverly meant even without her saying it. I wasn’t part of their class. I was common. I didn’t want to hear any more. I wanted to leave, to get as far from this place as possible. I opened the door loudly on purpose to alert them of my presence. Ian was on his knees, wiping up the spilled wine with paper towels. Two uncomfortable waiters kept trying to intervene. Ian passed a towel to one of them, stood, and took my hand.

  Then he turned to his red-faced mother. “I never gave Kelly a tour.”

  He guided me past her, taking the grand staircase two steps at a time. My feet ached in my heels, but I said nothing, happy to get away. Entering a long corridor on the second floor, we passed a few closed doors and abstract art pieces until he opened one on the right hand side. We slipped inside a massive master bedroom with a king-sized bed in the middle that was overflowing with golden comforters and throws. It looked like it had never been touched, much less slept in. I saw Ian’s bags in the corner.

  Ian dropped on the bed with a loud sigh. “Just had to get away for a second. Unless you really want a tour.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I do need to tell Franco to get your stuff.”

  Before he reached the door, it opened from the other side. Beverly glowered in the doorway with her champagne in hand.

  “I thought you might stop here.” Then her face changed in an instant. She smiled at Ian as if the last exchange had never occurred. “Did Franco get your bags, sweetie?”

  Ian backed up. “Yes. Right here.”

  “Did you show your friend the rest of the house? Seemed like an awfully quick tour to get here.” She eyed me. “But maybe you’re the kind of girl who’s been in a lot of houses like this.”

  Did she think I slept around to get invited to swanky Thanksgiving parties like this? “Oh, no.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Mother, where are Kelly’s bags?”

  “In the east wing.”

  “What? Are you gonna buy her a bus ticket there, too?”

  “Ian. Tone.”

  “That’s on the complete other side of the house. Where the maids...”

  I dropped my eyes, silently wishing I could leave again.

  “We have a full house. Your second cousins are here. And I didn’t know she was coming.” She stepped to closer to me. “You understand, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “No problem.”

  “No. It is a problem.” Ian picked up his bag, swinging it like a javelin. It crashed against the dresser, knocking down a framed photo. It landed on the floor with a loud thump. I had never seen him so angry.

  Neither Beverly nor I moved as he seethed between clinched teeth. I honestly thought he might hurt someone.

  I put my hand on his arm and spoke softly. “It’s fine. Really.”

  Ian glared at Beverly. “She can sleep wherever the h
ell she wants.”

  I squeezed his hand and leaned into him, turning my head so I could whisper. “Breathe.”

  He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. No one said a word. A moment later, he turned and gave his mother a small smile. She looked suspicious. She didn’t like what just happened.

  I tried to defuse the situation. “I’ll sleep in the east wing. It’s fine.”

  “See?” Beverly raised her hands. “Problem solved.”

  She eyed both of us again, cleared her throat, then exited, pushing the door so it stayed wide open.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ian could only stay away from the party for a few minutes before it became obvious something was amiss, so we had to return. Entering the dining hall, I placed my hand over my right sleeve to cover my wine stain. He adjusted his white shirt. Despite his “underdressing,” I still felt like I looked like an eight-year-old at a teenager’s birthday party.

  By now, the hall buzzed with chatter. Even more people must have arrived since we left. At the end of the cavernous room, right in front of stained-glass windows composed of blues and greens forming abstract shapes, a long line snaked around the buffet. Serving tables abounded with mind-boggling varieties of dishes all attended by red-coated waiters.

  Ian and I passed polished silver tray after silver tray on our way to the back of the line. I couldn’t believe the selection. Turkey was just one protein option, along with prime rib, roasted honey ham, barbecue short ribs, chicken tenders, pork chops, lamb chops, sausages, and venison. There were boats of gravies and sauces and something called gravy bordelaise. The only reason I even knew the last one—or the venison—was because of the little cards denoting each in cursive font. Forget cans of cranberries, the Andersons went all out with pickled cranberries, dried cranberries, and spiced cranberry sauce. The salad bowl put Olive Garden’s to shame. You could choose between six different dressings in various porcelain bowls, each labeled in different calligraphy. Beyond the usual holiday fare, more exotic selections awaited us, including a sushi station and a place to design your own pasta.

  I was still trying to grasp all the amazing choices when we encountered an older, petite woman wearing a monochrome beige dress. Her jewelry was expensive but tasteful, and her dark brown hair shone as if it has been brushed with a good 50 strokes. She had a sweet face with wrinkles that creased when she smiled.

  “Mrs. Granoff, how are you?” Ian said.

  “Oh, honey. It’s so good to see you!” she patted his cheek.

  “Mrs. Granoff, this is Kelly, my girlfriend.”

  Hearing him again call me his girlfriend lifted my spirits as I shook her hand.

  “We’ve got some choices to make.” He pointed to the buffet. More servers crewed each station, picking up crumbs just as soon as they appeared. I couldn’t help but think how they were missing out on celebrating Thanksgiving with their own families.

  “Too many. Your mom loves to overdo it,” she chuckled.

  “Why don’t we try the kids’ table.” Ian pointed to a smaller area with a black tablecloth. A female server lifted the silver handle from a tray, revealing creamy, baked mac ‘n’ cheese to a crowd of eager children with smaller-sized plates. She also scooped up baked vegetables and a fruit salad, which they seemed less excited about. “That mac is amazing.”

  Mrs. Granoff put her hand to the sash on her dress. “No thanks. I have to watch my girlish figure.”

  “You always look fantastic,” Ian said, giving her a sly wink.

  As Ian handed Mrs. Granoff and me our plates, I wondered if his interpersonal skills would ever rub off on me.

  Following them as they made their selections, I considered whether I could get away with just taking a little bit of food for appearance’s sake. It all looked so delicious, but my stomach was still tied in knots.

  Two huge, silver tongs rose above my plate with mixed greens and crotons. “Salad, miss?” the waiter asked.

  Ian touched me, and I turned. Holding a phone to his ear, he covered the bottom, whispering, “Be right back.”

  “Oh, okay.” I tried not to let my voice waver, hoping he would return soon; otherwise, Beverly might stick me at the kids’ table. Or worse, beside her.

  As I made my way down the line, I scanned each perfectly bended card in front of the tray, only asking to be served the things I could pronounce. Reaching the end, I realized, out of all the fancy options, I chose the ones most closely resembling Halmuni’s attempt at a Thanksgiving feast: turkey, cranberries, and mashed potatoes. Without the addition of rice and Kimchi, of course.

  I slowed down, hoping to buy myself more time. Ian still hadn’t returned, and I dreaded what was in store for me at the table: uncomfortable questions, remarks about my outfit, thinly veiled racist comments. With growing apprehension, I desperately searched the room, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Slowly, I grabbed the gravy boat at the very end of the line, allowing the seconds to draw out, praying he’d return. I wanted to feel his hands on my shoulder, his smile reassuring me everything would be okay. I held the boat over my plate as long as I possibly could, pretending to decide where to pour until the man behind me let out an audible sigh. I looked out of the corner of my eye for Ian. No sign. I poured gravy over my turkey and potatoes, almost spilling it due to my shaking hands.

  Though I tried extra hard not to be clumsy, gravy still dribbled onto the table cloth. I apologized to the man behind me before a waiter rushed over to wipe it up. Then I also apologized to the waiter.

  There was no escaping the fact I needed to sit down. Anymore time dawdling and people would start to wonder about me. I searched for a place to sit. This was worse than high school. I looked for Mrs. Granoff since she was one of the few people who seemed friendly, but she was already surrounded by others.

  Everyone looked so relaxed, laughing with their neighbors or shaking hands with someone across the table. They sipped from their wine glasses as if they had been born with an anti-spill gene. It was like they were all listening to the same song and everyone knew exactly when to clap and step to the right. Just as I was seriously contemplating the kids’ table as the most suitable option, I felt a warm hand on my arm.

  “Sit by me, won’t you?” Beverly motioned to the head of the table.

  I nearly dropped my plate. It felt like every eye in the room followed me as I followed Beverly to our seats. I could swear people stopped their conversations mid-sentence just to stare. My number one desire was to flee from more attention, and now I was becoming the center.

  I sat to Beverly’s left, being extra careful setting my plate down. With my trembling hands, I worried the contents would end up on the floor, or worse, I would spill on someone else.

  To my relief, Beverly spoke to Mrs. Granoff a few seats away, taking some pressure off. I used the distraction to deduce the silverware setup. Two different-sized forks occupied the left side of the plate, no doubt perfectly arranged to make sure they were equidistant. Two knives and a spoon sat on my right. Meanwhile, a miniature plate was arranged across from my wine and water glasses, with an even tinier spoon and fork at the top of the plate. I didn’t know how anyone could focus on their meal with so many cutlery options.

  I began with the forks. One had to be for the salad, but I had forgotten which. I thought of Sophia. If she were here right now, she’d shake her head at me for not paying enough attention to her lectures. I checked to see what other people were doing, but it was difficult to tell since they all faced me. And of course, I couldn’t ask Ian.

  At last, I settled on the outermost fork, weighing it in my hand. Then, I put it back down. No, I should pick the larger one closest to the plate. That would make sense—after all, you eat the salad first. Though my stomach still felt queasy and I had no desire to eat, I dug in.

  The dressing was perfect, like a burst of lemony ranch exploding in my mouth. I was so focused on taking miniscule bites with my trembling fork I didn’t notice Beverly staring at me.r />
  She put a hand on my arm, smiling that fake smile again. “Kelly?”

  Picking up the linen swan in front of my plate, she unfolded it. “This goes on your lap.”

  Though I could feel my cheeks heating with a blush that must have gone all the way to my ears, I tried to laugh it off. “I was so excited about the food I forgot.”

  “And this fork is for your salad.” She picked up the smaller one farthest from my plate, the one I had picked up first. “Always start at the outside and work your work way in each course.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  The chair next to me scooted out, and I looked up to see Ian. Phew.

  “My apologies.”

  Beverly trained him well. He pulled his chair in, then immediately unfolded his swan napkin, placed it in his lap, and picked the right fork.

  “Where were you?” Beverly asked.

  “Someone interested in the company.”

  Beverly groaned. “Don’t they realize it’s a holiday?”

  “That’s what I said.” He whispered in my ear. “You okay?”

  I nodded. It was better just to play along in front of Beverly. Plus, I didn’t want to ruin Thanksgiving any more.

  As the meal continued, conversations and red uniform coats swirled around us. A rainbow of ladies in pretty dresses swept past Beverly, patting her on the shoulder, thanking her for hosting. Diffused light from the stained-glass window waned as the afternoon stretched to dusk. Soon, the chandeliers glowed, bathing the festivities with a dim but elegant illumination. Looking up to the source, I saw hundreds of vertical crystals dangling from chandeliers across the vaulted ceiling. I tilted my head down; I didn’t want to be caught staring in awe.

  No matter how much water I drank, someone was there to refill my glass. Every few minutes, another server offered a different selection of wine or a bowl of creamier mashed potatoes. I politely declined each time. Despite my sincerest efforts, my plate appeared to be growing.

  Mid-meal, a few loose peas scattered across my dish. I tilted my fork to catch them, but couldn’t scoop them up, so I used my fingers to put them on my fork.