High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  “He was always such a good boy. Always did what was asked of him and never argued about anything. I’m not sure what you’re doing to him, but if it means I have to make an effort with you, then so be it.” Well, she was certainly getting right to the point. It was clear she casted me as the villain in her maternal psychodrama.

  “I’ll make sure he calls you.”

  “I hope you do that, otherwise it’ll just make things difficult between us. You wouldn’t want that, would you?” I didn’t like the tone in her voice. It sounded almost like a threat you’d hear on The Sopranos.

  “Of course not. I promise to talk to him as soon as I see him.”

  “That’s a good girl. Now, let’s focus on having some fun together. Tell me, what are your favorite brands?”

  I had no idea how to respond. Does Topshop or Zara count? I was aware of famous brands like Chanel, Gucci, and Prada because of all the reality shows Halmuni watched, but I had never actually stepped foot in one of their stores. Halmuni would scoff at how much money the “housewives” she saw on TV dropped on shoes, saying, “Why they waste money on stupid things? What so good about ‘Lu Be Ton?’” I think she meant “Louboutin,” but I never dared correct her. I chuckled to myself just thinking about Halmuni.

  “Was something I said funny?” Beverly asked, obviously annoyed.

  “I was just thinking about what my grandmother used to say about women who spend too much money on shoes.”

  “Shoes can be works of art,” she snapped. “And like all fine art, the best ones are worth paying more for.”

  Oh, no. I did it again. I’d managed to upset her.

  “I didn’t mean it that way. Umm ... I don’t really have any favorite brands. I just buy comfortable things that I like, but I rarely go shopping anyway. My mom used to take me on my birthday and stuff. We would plan ahead to make sure we would go on sale days, and then we would get an Auntie Anne’s pretzel and Cinnabons with extra frosting —”

  “Ugh. Those things are horrible for you.”

  “Yeah ... I mean, yes. But we only had them once in a while. Like a treat, you know?”

  “Try not to say, ‘You know.’ It’s a bad habit. Almost as bad as saying ‘like’ in every other sentence.” Beverly eyed my dress again. “Shopping is important. Your clothes are a reflection of your character. When you buy cheap outfits or borrow from a friend, they are more likely to lose their shape. Or shrink. Which will make others think less of you.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” My words came out stilted, as if I was reading from a script. But I couldn’t help it. I felt like she would attack me at any second for saying the wrong thing.

  If Beverly’s criticism was bad, her silence was worse. After my last comment, Beverly clammed up, and so did I. The next 20 minutes passed with painful slowness, both of us looking out the window or at our phones to avoid eye contact. At long last, Franco dropped us at the corner of 60th Street and Madison Avenue. Perhaps someone else would be excited to venture into an exclusive department store with Beverly Anderson, widow of a billionaire mogul, but I would’ve rather been anywhere but here. Looking up at the display window mannequins clad in their high-end couture, I got the sickening sense even they were judging me, reminding me I didn’t belong.

  As usual, Beverly took charge, pushing open the glass doors for us. Sophisticated purse and shoe selections lined the walls. Racks of stylish and tasteful outfits beckoned to us. Unlike the discount stores I shopped in L.A. where every square foot was designed to yield their owners the maximum possible profit, here everything was spread out, allowing each item to breathe. Meanwhile, soft recessed lighting shone down, making the colors pop. Every inch of the displays and counters were immaculately kept with not a speck of dust in sight.

  A young, well-dressed saleswoman in a tight skirt and fitted blazer approached us with a chipper smile. “Mrs. Anderson, such a pleasure.”

  Beverly didn’t halt her stride. “I’d like to see the latest collection, especially in Chloe, Valentino, Dior, and YSL.”

  The woman presented us with different selections. All the clothes looked way too trendy, too sophisticated, too tailored. Certainly not the loose, comfy clothes I preferred.

  I was so focused on thinking of a joke text to send Ian, I didn’t realize both women were both staring at me.

  The saleswoman gently touched my shoulder, then ran a finger down my arm. “Maybe a size 36.”

  “Yes, yes. Let’s try that,” said Beverly. “We’ll try them all. Start a room.”

  “Yes, of course.” The woman eagerly sifted through the hangers.

  The way in which the saleswoman and Beverly kept poking and prodding me made me feel like I was in a doctor’s office, instead of a dressing room. They spent more time talking to each other than to me as they readjusted blouses or slacks, reviewing potential sizes and styles. I wanted to call Ian and beg him to save me. I was tired of dressing, undressing, dressing, undressing, only to model for two people whose only response seemed to be: “Definitely not.” I just wanted to rip off this stupid, expensive clothing and go get my pretzel.

  Wriggling a constricting bold printed silk chiffon blouse over my head, the price tag scratched my arm, and I took it out. $595. For a blouse? They had to be joking. I put on the rest of the outfit they had chosen to go with the blouse—black flare pants with a cream wool belted blazer—and looked at myself in the mirror. It fit me well, accentuating my legs and hips, but it looked like a business outfit a middle-aged professional would wear.

  I stepped outside anyway.

  “Lovely,” Beverly cooed. “Definitely a yes.”

  The saleswoman nodded her approval. “Do you want the black Sergio Rossi pumps, as well?”

  “Yes, she will take those, too. Add a pair for me—size 8.”

  I returned to the dressing room and froze. Wait, she doesn’t expect me to pay for this, right? No. That can’t be possible. But what if she does? Doesn’t she know that there’s no way I can afford this? What if this was her plan all along? To publicly humiliate me...

  “That outfit looks so much better than what you were wearing. Very sophisticated,” Beverly said through the door.

  I tugged it off, barely getting the blouse over my head. “I don’t think I really need this.”

  “Don’t you want to earn the respect of your peers? Future employers? When I was your age, I would save for months to buy one item of designer brand clothing.”

  I left the dressing room with the new items draped over my arm. Beverly met me at the counter with her credit card. Thank God she’s paying and not me, but at the same time, I don’t want these things. It doesn’t feel right having her buy them for me.

  She took the items from me and handed them to the saleswoman. “We will take these and don’t forget the shoes.”

  “Beverly, thank you so much. But I feel so bad. They’re so expensive,” I said, thinking of all the more useful things I could have used the money for.

  “If we’re going to spend time together, I need you to look presentable. So think of it as you doing me a favor. Now, we’ll have lunch, then get our nails done.”

  “Really, that’s okay. You’ve been so nice already,” I replied, hoping that I could get out of the lunch and mani.

  Beverly took my hand in hers, examining my fingers. “You’re still nail biting, aren’t you? You’d better nip that in the bud.”

  I was too tired to argue. After profusely thanking her, we went upstairs to the building’s ninth floor to a restaurant called Fred’s.

  “This place is fantastic. You will love it,” she said as she marched towards the hostess.

  There was a line, but the hostess recognized Beverly immediately. “Mrs. Anderson! I’m so happy to see you again. Please follow me to your table.” She grabbed two menus and sat us by the window.

  Our waiter, a younger man with a tan and slicked back hair, ran through the daily specials. The restaurant was packed and noisy with chatter. The afternoon sun
shone a little too brightly through the glass, and I scooted my chair to the side, trying not to let it hit me in the eyes.

  “I already know what I want,” Beverly told the waiter. “The chopped chicken salad, please. No onions, and I would like the dressing on the side. And a glass of that Chardonnay you know I like.”

  “Very good.” The waiter turned to me. “And for you, miss?”

  “Can I have the club sandwich? With fries, please. Thanks.”

  When he was gone, Beverly put her hands together with a deep breath, preparing herself like she was trying to explain something incredibly simple for the hundredth time. “Dear, you shouldn’t pick meals on the menu that may prove difficult to eat, especially those you have to pick up with your hands.”

  “Okay,” I replied quietly.

  “And also ...” she looked me up and down, “... consider fresh fruit or a small salad for your side.”

  I picked up my water glass and drank from it deeply, using the time to get my rage under control. Why does she have to pick on me so much? I already felt inadequate. Will she ever stop? I had to remind myself she is Ian’s mom. I had to do my best to get along with her for his sake.

  Beverly continued to lecture me about the importance of taking care of one’s appearance. She went on a rant about proper skin care: I need to use SPF every day, I should make sure I am using the right facial cleanser and use Vitamin C serums. Then she continued on about how to keep my weight in check: I must stay away from gluten, try 16-hour fasting, and abstain from junk food. I knew she meant well, but I wasn’t interested in what she had to say. I pretended to listen, nodding so often I felt like one of those bobble-head dolls. She didn’t seem to care I hadn’t said a word since ordering.

  Finally, our food arrived. Removing the toothpick from the sandwich, I tried to lift it as carefully as I could with my fingers. Even as I did, a piece of bacon fell out of my sandwich onto the table top. Perfect timing.

  “This is why you shouldn’t order things you must eat with your hands. I would suggest a soup or salad next time.”

  I chewed slowly, counting silently to 10 to keep from screaming.

  “In general, as I said, sandwiches should be avoided, not only because you have to use your hands, but bread is pure starch,” Beverly continued. “As you get older, your metabolism slows and carbohydrates pack on pounds.”

  I put down the french fry I was biting into. I looked down at my plate: the sandwich with two bites in it, the steaming french fries—they all looked so beautiful in their greasy, high caloric glory. What I wouldn’t give to be in Ian’s car, munching on chicken wings from KFC, laughing and carefree. Not here. Anywhere but here.

  Beverly ordered another glass of wine, and soon it became clear her salad wasn’t buffering the increasing alcohol in her bloodstream. Her face flushed, and her gestures became exaggerated. I noticed her elbow on the table and restrained myself from the urge to remind her of “manners.”

  “Kelly. In some ways, you and I are not dissimilar.”

  I wanted to snort. We were as different as the New York Times and The National Enquirer.

  She took another sip of wine. “Like you, I came from the lower class. Well, lower-middle class. Married up.”

  I sat back in my seat, pushing my plate away. Oh, boy.

  “I wasn’t that in love with Ian’s father, you know.” Except the “father” came out as “fodder.” “He drank; he was angryyy. But he had a lot of ...” She rubbed the fingers of one hand together in the universal sign for “money.”

  Baffled as to what to say, I wore a neutral expression.

  Suddenly, Beverly put her glass down. “So I know a gold digger when I see one.” She squinted at me.

  Huh?

  “Look, let’s be honest with each other,” she said in a measured tone. Suddenly, she didn’t seem intoxicated anymore. “Ian can have anyone he wants. As my son, naturally, I want him to have the best. I want him to be with someone who can add value to his life. Do you understand?”

  I felt my face flush with rage. “No, I don’t understand. Just because I don’t have money doesn’t mean that I don’t ‘add value.’ Life is about more than money. In fact ... there are times that I wish he didn’t have any.” I was furious. Did she really think I was so shallow?

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all before,” she said wearily. “All the girls say ‘I don’t want his money.’ And we all know they’re lying through their teeth. Ian is probably just dating you because he finds you ‘exotic’ and maybe he even feels sorry for you. He was always the kind of boy to bring home stray puppies. But, to be honest, him dating you is a bit ... embarrassing. I’m trying my best to teach you how to be a lady, but you don’t even know the basics. Nor do you seem to care.”

  The gloves were now off. She had no problem punching where it hurt most.

  “I’m sorry you find me embarrassing. I love Ian, so I’m trying my best,” I blurted out. I couldn’t believe I told her that I loved him. But it was true. I loved Ian. Even if he didn’t have a penny to his name, I would still love him. And I knew he loved me, too.

  “Pleaasse,” she said with a dismissive eye-roll. “You two don’t even know what love means. You are both young and naive. As for your attempt at ‘trying’, I don’t see it.” She put her napkin back on the table. “I would suggest you consider etiquette school. That made a real difference for me. If you are serious about ‘trying’ as you put it, you should seriously consider it. For Ian.” The way she said “seriously,” it didn’t seem like I had an option.

  I put my napkin back on the table, too. Then I leaned away, frantically searching for the waiter.

  He saw both of us staring at him and rushed over.

  “Check, please,” we said in unison.

  * * *

  I flopped onto Ian’s bed. He sat at his desk, facing me. I could hear Kevin and Roy playing League of Legends in the other room and wanted to join them, or even escape into the game. Anywhere, really.

  “How was it?” he asked.

  I sat up. Could I go into everything? The expensive and itchy clothes, the dressing rooms, the condescension, the lunch, the incessant rambling about cultivating the correct appearance, the gold-digger accusation. But then I noticed the concern on his face, the way he leaned toward me, arms crossed, waiting. What good would my venting do, anyway? Beverly wouldn’t change. And what if he confronted her? It would only make her hate me more.

  “Fine.” I put on my waitress-performance face. “It went fine today. I’m just really exhausted from all that shopping.”

  “Cool.” He leaned back, relieved. “So it went okay?”

  I smiled. “It went great. Oh, and Ian, can you please call your mother? She misses you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I’m glad you decided to stay.” Ian leaned back on his hands. His eyes were shut, and he wore a look of contentment. We were both sitting on a stone bench in the middle of campus, tilting our heads back, letting the sun play warmly across our faces.

  This campus square and lawn had become my favorite part of Columbia University. There were multiple, miniature grass quads, each partially blocked off by little, black poles with connecting chains curving to the ground. Like outdoor classrooms, each quad possessed a tight circle of students pouring over textbooks or creating mnemonics for their next exam. The sun, a pleasant breeze, and the scent of freshly mowed grass lightened everyone’s mood. People here were definitely more relaxed than the hyper-focused coeds in the school library. I loved sitting here, people watching, listening as they chattered about molecular biology as if it was the most exciting thing in the world.

  The main walkway ran past the bench where Ian and I sat. Made up of red and gray brick squares looping inside each other like an artistic maze, at the center of the walkway stood a concrete fountain with a circular base and a wide, water-filled basin. Here, I watched as a girl paused, put a penny to her lips, gave it a kiss, and flipped it into the water.

  �
��Do you think they had that in mind when they designed the fountain?” I asked.

  “Could be,” Ian said. “Columbia students are wound so tight. Maybe someone thought they could stand to have a little bit of fun.”

  “Let’s give it a try,” I said with a giggle. Taking a penny from my wallet, I stood up from the bench, walked over to the fountain, paused for a moment, then tossed it in. “Let’s hope it works.”

  “What did you wish for?”

  “If I tell you, it won’t come true!”

  “Come on,” he teased. “I hope you didn’t waste it wishing for good grades.”

  “No. I wished that all the days this summer will be like today. Beautiful weather. Relaxing and carefree.” I returned to where we were sitting and stretched out my arms, hoping the sun might turn my flesh golden tan. Maybe I didn’t need a magic fountain, because already I could tell this summer in New York City was going to be glorious. I looked up at the sky. It seemed like some cosmic-scale artist had mixed dozens of different shades of blue, from robin’s egg to royal, and splashed them across the heavens. Wispy clouds hung there like spun sugar, and a jetliner’s contrail made a straight white slash.

  “Ian, I’m glad I decided to stay, too.” I put my hand on Ian’s. “But how you managed to convince Halmuni ...”

  Ian laughed. “Now, that was a team effort.”

  I nodded. “Quite a team we make.”

  Ian turned and gave my hand a squeeze.

  A week earlier, Ian had sent Halmuni a basket of gourmet goodies and a pricy bottle of Soju along with a note saying, “I look forward to meeting Kelly’s Halmuni. Sincerely, Ian.” She had loved it. Then we had both Skyped Halmuni to convince her my working here for the summer at Poseidon made more financial sense than coming home. Airfares were outrageously high during the summer, and besides, I had just gotten a raise.

  (While these financial arguments were all true, they weren’t exactly the real reasons I wanted to stay. That reason was sitting right beside me on the stone bench.)

  Ian had ended our Skype conversation by assuring Halmuni he would take care of me and thanked her for raising such a wonderful granddaughter. I knew that, like my dad, Halmuni couldn’t help herself—she liked Ian. I think she also realized it didn’t matter that he wasn’t Korean. She told me that she recently watched a Korean documentary and was shocked to learn the divorce rate there was sky high because Korean men were hardly ever home—they called them “MIA husbands.” The report also said many Korean wives no longer saw any value in marriage after years of being with uncaring or unfaithful men. After that program, she said, “Forget Korean men. Doesn’t matter. Just need honest, smart and good man – like Ian.”