High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  The condo was a designer’s dream. It had spectacular panoramic views of Central Park through floor-to-ceiling windows. The ceilings themselves were 11 feet high, which made the condo seem even more massive. The beautiful open kitchen had only European-brand commercial-grade stainless steel appliances, and it opened up to an enormous living and dining area. The L-shaped plush couch was a light taupe, and the two modern black leather arm chairs across from it contrasted with the large, colorful impressionist paintings hanging on the walls. It boasted three guest bedrooms, plus a master suite to the right of the living room. The master bedroom had two large French doors, and it featured a walk-in closet the size of our kitchen back in L.A. Halmuni would have probably said this condo was better than all the “after” pictures of renovated homes she had seen on HGTV.

  Beverly took out a cotton handkerchief and blew her nose. She then moved to the shelves opposite the couch. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she wiped off the shelf with her hand. “I’m sensitive to dust, and my nose is telling me you have not dusted. I’m guessing that you couldn’t find the duster?”

  I swallowed, eyeing the opened front door. I had only 10 minutes until to be at Poseidon on time. To Sophia, officially late.

  Beverly approached the powder room, and I followed, hoping Ian did not make a mess when he rushed out earlier this morning. She found the hand towels in disarray around the sink counter and tissues on the floor. She picked up one with a look of disgust.

  “Kelly. You need to make sure you clean properly. This is really unacceptable.” She dropped into the waste bin with a frown before inspecting the next room.

  Oh, no. The bedroom. Ian and I had been tossing dirty clothes on the floor instead of using the hamper because we’d both been so exhausted from work. My suitcase was still open on the floor, rows of folded shirts splayed out for easy grabbing.

  “Look at this mess. How can you live like this? There are clothes all over the place,” said Beverly, clearly annoyed. “You are a guest in this house, and as a guest, there are certain protocols you must follow, such as making an effort to keep the place clean.”

  “Oh, yes, I was going to pick up. I’m usually a neat person; it’s just been hard to find time to unpack with work—”

  “And etiquette school?”

  My breath caught in my throat. Beverly smiled slyly, waiting for me to fess up. Refusing to take the bait, I silently followed her to the kitchen.

  Six leather and chrome bar stools framed the marble island in the gourmet kitchen’s center. The fridge was massive with two large steel doors, and the commercial-grade appliances were all state of the art.

  Beverly grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the fridge and then a Ridel water glass from one of the cabinets, checking the inside for stains before filling it. She turned her attention to me as if she expected an explanation. I just looked at her.

  “Mrs. Williams told me you haven’t been going to class.” She dumped the water in the sink. “Ugh, I can taste the soap.” She rinsed out the glass. “I expect you’ll be back tomorrow. After all, how will it look if you don’t follow through on your promises?” She set the glass down, and then riffled through the fridge, resorting my eggs and milk. Why?

  “Also, ‘neat’ is different than ‘clean.’ This house is neither.”

  I looked at the clock again. Officially late. I jingled the keys in my hand.

  “Am I keeping you from something?” She closed the fridge, keeping one hand on the handle.

  “I’m going to be late for work.”

  “Ah. That’s why you’re dressed like that.” She took a seat on one of the bar stools, her olive tan enhanced by the lamp. She waved her hand at me. “Well, I won’t keep you.”

  I squeezed the strap of my purse to prevent her from seeing me shaking. If she noticed, she didn’t say anything. Removing her iPad, she began scrolling with her perfectly manicured thumbnail.

  “I’m really sorry about the mess. I promise to clean it up when I get back from work.”

  “Kelly, do you know how many times you have told me you’re sorry? I don’t need your apologies. I just need you to do things right.”

  I almost said “sorry” again but caught myself.

  I walked quickly in the other direction, closing my bedroom door on my way out. Praying she wouldn’t go through my private things. Secretly knowing she would.

  * * *

  As I ran into the restaurant, breathless, Sophia looked up from her shift schedule. “You’re late.”

  “I bumped into Beverly Anderson.” I hoped this might warrant the tiniest bit of sympathy.

  She remained impassive. “You’re tables six through 10. You already got someone at seven. Ask if they want a drink.”

  I started off.

  “You going to clock in, scatterbrain?”

  “Right,” I breathed, stabbing the POS system beside her. Have a great day! popped up after I clocked in. I hated that thing.

  I still felt shaken from Beverly. It was amazing how just ten minutes with someone could revert you into an eight year old on the playground, flailing to control your emotions. And now it was affecting my work. My customer at table seven wanted a Diet Coke. I got him a Sprite. I confused sweet and sour sauce with French dressing. Forgot to ring someone out for Happy Hour. One mistake per shift and you were human. Any more and Sophia stalked you.

  When one of the chefs handed me my customer’s salads, I cringed. Damn. I forgot to request no wonton strips. I hated that feeling: the moment you realize you messed up but have no one to blame but yourself.

  Sophia must have sensed me choking because she stopped me in the kitchen. “What is going on with you today? Do you need to go home?”

  “I’ll do better. I’m just off.”

  Sophia’s nostrils flared. Not a good sign. My stomach hurt. I needed this job. She pushed the salad back to the expo line. “No wantons.” She turned to me. “I’ll get this. Take your 10. Then come back with your head on straight.”

  My mouth was dry. “Okay,” I squeaked.

  I holed up in the lounge at the little table where we would sneak off to wolf down employee-discounted food in between customers. I flung myself into a black plastic chair and typed out my S.O.S. text to Ian.

  “So your mom is back. She came in when I was heading to work and told me how messy everything was. She was really upset.”

  I pressed send. I didn’t care anymore. He responded immediately.

  “What?!? I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she’d stick around. Let me talk to her.”

  I sighed as I pressed my thumbs into my temples. I didn’t know what to do. Ian’s talking to her might just make it worse—on both of us. Plus, I hated bothering him with this, knowing he was busy interning at the human rights advocacy firm. I counted to five, breathing in and out, trying to calm myself.

  Something was eating at me. And it wasn’t Beverly. It was myself.

  * * *

  I wore the outfit Beverly had bought me for my return to etiquette school. I let the shoulders of the narrow blazer constrict my movements, hoping this might ground me. I pretended I was walking into a professional office, keeping my chin up as I nodded coolly to the receptionist. Then, I padded along that stupid purple carpet again in my stylish, yet very uncomfortable, new shoes. That’s who I would be today—Ms. Professional. I wouldn’t let Mrs. Williams criticize me for my outfit again. Tamping down my anxiety, I opened the door with my best attempt—at feigning confidence.

  Mrs. Williams looked at me in surprise. The same people from the first class lined the chairs. A vacant spot near the front was still open, taunting me.

  “Ms. Hopkins returns,” Mrs. Williams said from behind her lectern.

  “Hello. Good day, everyone.” I sat down, crossing my legs at my ankles underneath the table. The class quieted and looked at me.

  Today, the discussion was about afternoon tea etiquette. Mrs. Williams was showing everyone the proper way to stir their cups. Everyone in the class w
atched her intently as she said, “Never ever stir in a circular motion. You must stir in an up and down motion—12 o’clock position in the cup and then down to 6 o’clock—and only two to three times. And do not, repeat, do not dunk your biscuits in the tea! Now, everyone practice.”

  Mrs. Williams approached me. “I have to say, this is quite unprecedented. Someone misses etiquette training for days, then shows up without any communication.”

  “I had a lot going on—”

  “Not to mention the fact the last time you graced us with your presence, you disappeared to the restroom without another word. Is that the sign of a person with proper etiquette skills?”

  The room felt like it was closing in on me. “I’m here now.”

  Mrs. Williams’ expression didn’t change in the slightest. “And it looks like you’re already forgetting your manners.” She harshly tapped me on the shoulder again. “Posture! Chin up, shoulders down.”

  As I straightened, I happened to notice that twenty-something female with long, brown hair. She gave me a small, sympathetic smile. Before I could return it, Mrs. Williams was onto something else. “Now, Ms. Hopkins, since you’ve missed so much of our program, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind being a demonstrator again?”

  Seriously?

  She motioned for me to join her at the podium. “You’ll absorb more information this way.”

  I rose to my feet. “That would be fine.”

  Here we go again.

  * * *

  I welcomed Saturday with open arms. Embraced it. It was my 21st birthday. Sophia gave me the day off, and I didn’t have etiquette school. This allowed me to savor my freedom. Well, and to study. At Columbia, if you didn’t start preparing for your fall classes in July, you were setting yourself up for failure.

  Enjoying a few minutes of birthday liberty, I went through my Facebook wall, “liking” each birthday post from the high school acquaintances who barely spoke to me. Even Halmuni figured out how to write something. Is she getting better at social media? I thanked her for sending a pic of Christopher Hemsworth as Thor mouthing “Happy Birthday,” then went back to my Philosophy of Ethics textbook.

  Despite the occasional Facebook distraction, studying with the sun streaming through the beautiful glass windows gave me motivation. I sat at the kitchen table with my back to the fridge, gazing at the tips of skyscrapers as Ian’s shared playlist pumped through my Bluetooth speakers. Acoustic guitar and a man’s folksy, relaxing voice filtered in.

  I was just clicking onto a new tab to research a professor’s background when I heard the door click open. The only other people who had a key were Ian—and Beverly. I heard a woman’s voice and sank in my chair.

  “Do you see what I mean?” I heard Beverly’s laugh trickle in.

  Holding onto my mug of lemon tea, I walked across the living room, hyper aware of my pajamas and fluffy slippers. Is dropping in going to be a daily thing? I began to wish I had sublet that closet of a loft with Melissa. Though ludicrously small, it still offered privacy.

  Beverly and a middle-aged sturdy looking woman in black jeans and a grey T-shirt stood in the doorway, buckets of cleaning supplies at their feet.

  “Hi,” I said, holding my mug close for protection.

  “This is Lynette. She’s been with me since before Ian was even born. Lynette, this is Kelly, Ian’s friend.”

  I held onto the mug with one hand, while thrusting out the other assertively, like Mrs. Williams taught us. “Girlfriend. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, as well, Miss Kelly,” Lynette nodded. She had kind eyes.

  “Kelly, I brought Lynette here to teach you how to clean. Lynette, call me when you’re done, and I’ll have Franco pick you up.” Beverly put on a pair of Chanel sunglasses and then walked out.

  Once the door was shut, Lynette set the cleaning supplies against the wall. “Miss Kelly, I just want you to know I usually don’t do this. Usually, my clients go about their day while I clean. But Miss Anderson was, well, insistent.”

  “It’s not your fault. Do you want some water or tea or anything?”

  “No, thank you. Should we start with the living room?”

  “Sure.” I set my mug down on the nearest surface and rubbed my hands together. “This will be my birthday present.”

  She started to hand me a duster, then stopped. “Oh, dear. Today is your birthday?”

  “Yeah, but it’s okay.” I glided the fuzzy duster on one of the shelves, lifting up my mug.

  Lynette came over. “Do it like this.” She took the duster from me and flicked her wrist back and forth, revealing a shinier surface underneath. She grabbed a spray can from her bag. “Then use this finisher.”

  I used a white cloth to wipe down the finisher. “So you’ve worked for Beverly for a while?”

  She paused. “She didn’t always used to be this way. She changed after her husband passed.”

  I gave her back the cloth, now covered in grime.

  “Let’s do the bathroom and bedroom next. Here, put this on.” She gave me a respirator mask before pulling out a spray can. She spoke through her shield. “This liquid is an Anderson family secret. I have a hunch it’s a secret because it can kill you. But, man, does it get toilets clean.”

  I smiled through my mask. I never thought I’d spend my 21st birthday on the floor of the bathroom, wiping bathtubs and cleaning toilets. But at least Lynette made it endurable. After cleaning the toilet bowl, I leaned back against the bathtub to take a break. Cleaning was exhausting. I had no idea how Lynette did it every single day. How would I ever manage it even once a week to measure up to Beverly’s standards?

  “Hey, birthday girl. You’re half my age.” Lynette sponged the bottom of the toilet. “If I can keep going, so can you.”

  I pushed myself up to polish the handles of the tub. Removing the rug from the linoleum floor, I laid it outside the hallway. Then I pushed the mop back and forth, catching strands of hair and pencil shavings from my eyeliner.

  “You said Beverly wasn’t always ‘this way.’ What’d you mean by that?”

  Lynette flushed the toilet. “I mean, she’s always been uptight. But after Mr. Anderson died, everything got worse. Not with me. But I’ve seen a big shift in how she treats other people.”

  “So I shouldn’t take it personally that she hates me?”

  Lynette lowered the toilet lid and peeled off her rubber gloves. “Ian is the world to her, especially now that her husband is no longer around. She just wants to protect him.”

  “I wish I could find a way to relate to her,” I said wishfully.

  “Hon, you probably will never be able to relate to her. You and her are made from different cloth. You just have to give her what she wants. Always remember she is used to getting her way. This includes the way she decorates her homes, the way she dresses, the way her housekeepers clean, and also who her son dates. Just keep trying to give her what she wants. I’m telling you, she really doesn’t like it when people talk back to her. So if you really love Ian, then tell Ian what is going on, be honest with him, but keep your mouth shut when you are with her.’ Just look pretty and say, ‘Yes, Beverly.’”

  “Okay, got it.”

  I stopped mopping. Looking at Lynette, I wished I had her courage and resolve. “You kind of remind me of my mom.”

  “That a good thing?”

  “Yes,” I said, laughing a little. “A very good thing. I miss her a lot.”

  “Well, I have an eight year old at home. I think once you’re a mom to one, you become a mom to a lot. Now pick up that mop and get to it.”

  I chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”

  * * *

  “It’s perfect!” I reassured Ian. I sat down at the kitchen table across from Ian and the bags of takeout he brought. He had gotten all of my favorite Korean dishes, a bottle of red wine, and two cupcakes with chocolate frosting and rainbow sprinkles.

  “Work ran late again. Otherwise, I could have taken you to a really nice restaurant. Bu
t I figured this was the next best thing.”

  “You do know what I like. Soon Du Bu, Kimbap and Kalbi on rice!” Actually, I preferred Korean take-out over any fancy restaurant hands down.

  “For the wine, I know I should’ve let you have the enjoyment of buying your first bottle of wine yourself now that you’re officially 21, but I still wanted to surprise you.”

  “No, no, I love it. Besides, I wouldn’t even know what to buy.” I eagerly poured the food into separate bowls, realizing just how ravenous I was from all the cleaning.

  Ian turned on some soft music from his phone as he dimmed the kitchen lamps. “It looks so clean in here. Did Lynette come by?”

  “Um.” I grabbed us both chopsticks and spoons and dug into the Kalbi. “Lynette came by. But she actually taught me how to clean.”

  “You mean you asked her?”

  “No.” I tentatively put a spoonful of soft rice in my mouth. “Your uh, mom, came by again. And told Lynette to teach me how to clean properly.”

  Ian put his piece of Kimbap down. “Wait. What?”

  Lynette was right. I needed to be honest with Ian. I had to tell him how I was struggling with Beverly. “Look. I didn’t want to say anything, but your mom is driving me insane. I want her to like me, but I don’t know what to do. Whatever I do, it never seems good enough for her.”

  I felt tears forming. Worse, I felt so stupid for saying this, like a spoiled brat. He put his arms around my shoulders, and I buried my head in his shoulder. “Babe, I’m so sorry. You should just tell me this stuff. Actually, I should have suspected it was too good to be true. My mom has never been an easy person to deal with. Look. I’ll make it up to you.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “No, come on.” He gently took my arm and led me out of the kitchen, punching up the volume of the music on the way out.

  “What are you doing?”

  He pulled me closer to him, walking toward the bedroom. “I said I’d make it up to you.”

  He turned off the bedroom light. Then he walked over, kissed me, and pulled my shirt up over my head. “Didn’t you say you wished you got more massages?”