High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  He led me onto the bed and told me to close my eyes. I heard him open a lotion bottle and rub it on his hands. The room filled with the smell of lavender. I loved the bed’s comfy softness and breathed in the clean, fresh sheets as I relaxed. The next thing I knew, I felt his warm hands on my back. I melted into the mattress, forgetting about everything—etiquette school, cleaning, Beverly.

  I just let myself drift away under his loving touch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I scrolled through Netflix for the umpteenth time. I could barely move. TV was my only realistic option. Using what little strength I had, I sat up on the couch, reaching for the Kleenex box. Another episode of MasterChef Junior sailed across the screen. Why I was torturing myself watching food shows when I couldn’t keep anything solid down, I couldn’t say. Maybe it was because the kids were so adorable.

  I blew my nose, emitting an almost cartoonish honk!, then let myself sink back into the couch’s recesses, the ache in my neck and back flaring up. Yesterday, it was my stomach; today, my whole body hurt. Turning over on my side, I wrapped the blanket tightly around me. Maybe tomorrow it wouldn’t feel like I had shards of glass in my throat each time I swallowed. Maybe tomorrow the throbbing pressure in my ears would ebb. Maybe.

  The key turned in the lock, and my breath quickened. I craned my neck to see who it was. Please be Ian, be Ian, be Ian. I saw a large, non-manicured hand open the door. Phew. He walked in, sporting one of his flannels and a take-out bag, one of my most favorite sights in the world.

  “Hey, how you feeling?”

  Too tired to pause the show, I laid my head back on the couch. “Still dying.”

  Proving beyond any doubt he was a good boyfriend, Ian sat down beside me, rubbing my feet over the blanket. “I brought some soup. Chicken noodle.”

  “Thank you.” I blew into another tissue, then curled up even further, hiding half of my face with the cream knit sofa throw. Why was it that the worse I felt, the better he looked? He wore a fitted charcoal suit accentuating his lean frame. A simple black tie hung over his starched white shirt. I had no problem at all picturing him as a high-powered attorney making partner, landing his own corner office overlooking the island.

  “Are you gonna stay with me?” I said in my raspy, nasally voice.

  “Wish I could, but I gotta get back. Things are heating up with that mosque case I told you about. Not even supposed to be taking a lunch break we’re so swamped.”

  Did I mention he was a good boyfriend?

  “Right, right. Back to saving the world.”

  Ian shook his head. “More like filling out paperwork. But it’s good experience.”

  I put my feet on his lap. “Save some trees. Stay and keep me company. Please?”

  He gently removed my feet and got up off the couch. “I’ll be back afterwards, sickie. Just fall asleep to the soothing voice of Gordon Ramsey, and I’ll be back before you know it.”

  I sat up. Too fast. It felt like all the blood went directly to my forehead. I felt dizzy and debated bolting to the toilet before anything serious happened.

  “Woah, careful. I got this.” He took off the lid of the soup and gave me a spoon. “Here.”

  The smell only increased my nausea, so I had to wave him away.

  He put it down and kissed me on top of my head. “I’ll be back, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I didn’t dare turn my head to watch him go. I kept staring at the floor until I heard the door shut. Then I fell backward waiting for the room to stop spinning. I took some cold syrup—the one that knocks you out. Sometime later, I was half-awake, half dreaming I was a kid again. My mother stood over me as she gently nudged me into the tub of steaming water. I tried to tell her I didn’t want shampoo—it seeped into my eyes—when a creaking sound tore me away.

  “Ian?”

  I slowly looked over. No no no no no.

  “Hello, Kelly.” Beverly strode in, this time wearing black skinny jeans with a white blouse and hot pink pumps.

  “Hi, Mrs. Anderson,” I croaked. I wish she didn’t just come and go as she pleased. It was nerve-racking. I did a quick mental survey of my surroundings. If she thought the place was messy before, she must be revolted now. I was too weak to pick the pile of clothes off the floor, dirty pans overflowed the sink, and the leftover take-out containers were still scattered atop the kitchen’s island. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Beverly? And you look absolutely dreadful.” She gazed down at me with a look of insolence.

  “Yeah, I feel terrible.” I tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. I hadn’t looked in the mirror once today; I probably did look terrible.

  “Mrs. Williams told me you quit class again.”

  Jesus. Did that woman have anything better to do than gossip about me?

  “I’m not quitting. I just couldn’t get out of bed today.”

  “I can see that.” Beverly flopped onto the leather armchair, flipping through one of the many architectural magazines that stacked up here every week. “What’s the problem, exactly?”

  My problem is you won’t leave me alone. No matter how many times your son asks you.

  “Fever.”

  “How high?”

  “101.”

  Beverly dropped the magazine with a very audible scoff. “Oh, please, that’s practically a normal temperature. Ian used to get 104 fevers as a child, and he still wanted to go play outside.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to hold down the nausea creeping up my throat. “Well, I also didn’t want to get other people sick. That didn’t seem like good etiquette to me.”

  “Nice try.” She laughed. “We gotta toughen you up, hon’!”

  I glanced over at her, unconcerned my eyes were probably leaking contempt. I could barely lift my arm to grab more medicine, let alone humor her.

  “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Women need to be prepared for everything. You never know what this world will throw at you. You need to be strong. I’m sure you are making Ian worried. He has to work, so you shouldn’t bother him with your small cold.”

  “It’s the flu!” I shot back, using what little energy reserves I still had.

  God, why is she even here? Why won’t she just leave?

  “Perhaps you’re not getting the nutrients you need. Korean food is just rice and beef, right? Oh, and that horrible smelling, red cabbage thing. Not a very balanced diet, is it?”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Whatever inhibitions I’d had before had been broken down, along with the rest of my influenza-wracked body.

  “You are a horrible person,” I heard myself say. “I’ve let you get away with saying nasty things to me because you are Ian’s mom, but I’ve had enough. You are mean and selfish and petty and rude and ignorant. I can’t believe Ian is your son.” My face was flushed with anger and once I finished, I realized what I have done. OMG, I wish I could take back what I said—at least the last bit.

  Beverly sat still and put her magazine down. Not saying one word. The silence was painful. With a rising sense of panic, I didn’t know what to do, so I just stared at the TV. We said nothing as three eager kids stirred batter and fried meat on screen, racing against the clock, while Gordon Ramsay looked on critically from the distance.

  At last, Beverly broke the silence. “See that girl over there?” She pointed to the TV. “She’s so careless with that breadcrumb mix. It’s because she doesn’t know what she is dealing with. She may think she can stir the breadcrumbs that way, but she doesn’t realize that this one mistake will cost her everything.” She said it slowly in a steady way that scared me.

  “I ... I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean it that way. I want to get along with you, but it’s just been so hard,” I said, my voice wracked with regret.

  She got up. “There you go again, with your ‘sorries.’” She glared at me. “You say I’m ignorant? Look at the way you dress, the way you talk. That is ignorant. And I don’t like any of it. You don’t bel
ong with Ian. He deserves better. Someone civilized and accomplished. Let’s see who ends up winning, shall we?”

  Winning? Was this a competition? Suddenly it dawned on me that perhaps she was highly competitive. I mean, super-competitive. She must have felt she was competing with me for Ian’s love. For a second, I wondered if that was the reason Ian’s dad had such anger issues. Was he duking it out daily with his wife?

  “I meant ... you don’t know how the rest of the world lives. Most of us barely have enough to live on ...,” I whispered, gently wishing that I could just go back in time and take back everything I said.

  “ENOUGH!” she said and with that, Beverly grabbed her purse from the chair and stormed out.

  I started sobbing. She hates me. I shouldn’t have said what I said. But, what do I do now? Should I just give up? Should I end my relationship with Ian? I reached down under the table and grabbed his iPad, pushing on the Skype button. I put my knees up and propped it on my legs, feeling better just from the sound of the Skype dial tone. Pretty soon, I saw the edges of our bird-themed wallpaper in the living room, along with Halmuni’s face—mostly.

  “Hola, Kelly!” Halmuni yelled. I could tell she was reclining in her chair from the weird tilted angle.

  “How are you, Halmuni?”

  “Better than you! You look terrible. You crying?”

  I sniffled. “No, no. I just have the flu.”

  “If I there, I take care you. Where Ian?”

  “He’s at work. But he’s been super sweet.”

  “He get you soup?”

  “Yes. And he even went on his lunch break to get here from downtown.”

  “What kind soup? Korean chicken ginseng soup?”

  “No, Halmuni. Chicken noodle.” I propped up another pillow behind my head so it wouldn’t hurt my neck so much. “Although I do miss your ginseng tea.”

  “Yes. Always perfect amount honey.”

  In my mind’s eye, I saw Halmuni sitting up with me, running the shower so the steam would thin out my coughs. How I wished she were here with me right now.

  “I miss you so much.”

  Halmuni smiled her Halmuni smile, showing the gap between her front teeth. I could almost feel her rough sandpapery hand on my head, her hot breath against my ear. Even though it always smelled like cabbage, it had a calming effect on me. She was the one who squeezed me in her tight hug and made me feel safe.

  “How crazy lady?”

  I had told Halmuni about Ian’s mom on multiple occasions. After describing her in a way that matched the cast of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, she had a clear image in her mind and loved discussing her antics.

  “Please don’t call her that. I’m already having enough problems with her. Beverly came today. Said I should ‘toughen up.’ And I got so angry at her I said some mean things I probably shouldn’t have.”

  Halmuni grunted. “First of all, if anyone gonna tell you toughen up, who do you think it be?”

  I smiled. “You.”

  “Yes. You running fever, your body telling you something. Now tell me, what you say to her?”

  “Well, I told her that she is a mean and selfish and ignorant.”

  “Ha! Sounds like just what that crazy woman needed to hear. I’m happy you say that.”

  “No, Halmuni, this isn’t good. Now she’ll never approve of me, and it puts Ian in an uncomfortable position. Should I just give up and end it with him because his mom hates me so much?”

  Just then, my phone buzzed on the counter. It was Ian. He had sent a GIF of an orangutan falling off a swing set. “I know you feel like this right now but it will get better.”

  I smiled at the GIF, but tears swelled. My life seemed so much more complicated now, but life without Ian seemed so dark and empty.

  “You thinking stupid. If you love him, who care what his crazy mom says? Hey, why you not looking at me?” said Halmuni.

  “Ian just sent me something.”

  “Kelly, you need to stand up for yourself. Be like Housewives. They tear each other’s hair, rip clothing. Very strong. Be more like that.”

  “Yeah, cause that’s totally me.”

  “You are in New York now. Say it changed you.”

  “Look, I want Beverly to actually like me. But maybe you’re right, why should I care what she thinks of me?” I put my phone down and looked back at Halmuni, who had now reclined all the way back in her chair, playing with her tablet. “Halmuni. Please—stop tilting it. You’re making it worse.”

  She tried to sit up and must have dropped the tablet because now I had a perfect view of our ceiling. Still, Halmuni kept talking like nothing had happened. “Who care about crazy lady? Why you even want her to like you? She dumb for not like you already. Watch Real Housewives. Then you learn about Beverly. And Mrs. — what’s her name? The other crazy lady with stupid bag?”

  “Mrs. Williams. Lovely Mrs. Williams.”

  “I don’t know why you need to learn more manners. Me and your mom taught you enough.”

  “This is the One Percent kind of manners.”

  “Why you need to learn when only one percent?”

  I chuckled. “Goodbye Halumni.”

  “LOL.”

  I chuckled. “Love you, too.”

  I ended the call and put the iPad back on the table, picking up the remote. I went back to the master list of all the streaming devices the Andersons paid for and clicked on the search icon. I already felt ashamed but I started typing anyway. R-e-a-l...

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  I thought I felt happy after my high school graduation, but graduating from etiquette school made me positively ecstatic. I no longer had to see Mrs. Williams or endure her “teaching tactics” for three hours a day. More important, I proved her wrong. I showed her I could present myself just as well as everyone else in class.

  The final day lasted only an hour and included a mini awards ceremony, during which we each received a Certificate of Completion. Demonstrating our new poise in action, we had to properly stand up and carry ourselves toward Mrs. Williams’ waiting hand.

  We posed as we shook it, looking her directly in the eye just as we were taught. Maybe it was the hired photographer snapping photos of us dressed in our smartest outfits, or Mrs. Williams’ solemnity about the whole thing, but it all made me feel like I was back in grammar school performing for adult approval.

  As might be expected, Mrs. Williams called my name last. I smoothed out my knee-length, black skirt under the table before approaching her with the cardstock paper in front of my chest. With fancy scrolled font and my name plugged into the middle, it looked like any generic certificate. I imagined shoving it into the bottom of one of my drawers as soon as this was over.

  “Beverly is an old friend of mine,” said Mrs. Williams out of the side of her mouth as the camera’s flash bulb popped. “She told me to go hard on you. But you didn’t crack.”

  I smiled in spite of my anger, teeth showing, my cheeks uncomfortably stretched. I was about to return to my seat when she caught me by the shoulder.

  “I used to think Asians lacked manners. I mean, look at how quickly they eat. But you proved me wrong. I’m happy you made it through.”

  Made it through. That was an accurate description. Part of me wanted to tell her the real definition of etiquette was being sensitive to others. That preening and sitting with your shoulders back didn’t qualify you for acceptance into society. What really mattered was how you treated people, especially those who had every reason to feel uncomfortable for any number of reasons: their class, their race, their innocent mistakes.

  Instead, I said nothing. I returned to my seat, the edges of the certificate dampening from the sweat on my fingers. I put my hands in my lap, wiping my palms on my skirt beneath the table.

  “Congratulations, graduates.” Mrs. Williams gushed. “Feel free to enjoy the refreshments.”

  Excused at last from the formal ceremony, my fellow professionally-dressed cohorts made their w
ay to the buffet line. I watched as they carefully selected their tiny plates of mixed fruit and chocolate chip cookies, daintily sipping from china tea cups. They all looked depressingly uniform, like a bunch of robots.

  Walking over, I stood behind the ponytailed woman who always gave me sympathetic smiles in response to Mrs. Williams’ criticisms. I knew I was supposed to use my new skills to effortlessly mingle, but I just wanted to leave. Why couldn’t Mrs. Williams have taught us polite exit strategies out of uncomfortable social situations? Excusing oneself to the bathroom then sneaking off wasn’t approved, so what else was there?

  When it was my turn at the refreshments table, I carefully used the tongs to place a few raspberries and slice of pineapple onto my white fine bone china plate. Putting my napkin beneath my plate like I had been taught, I approached Mrs. Williams. Mustering all of my courage, I prepared my remarks. I was going to tell her she was a bigot, a hypocrite, a phony.

  “Yes?” The deep ridges between her eyes creased.

  I shakily extended my hand. “Thank you for everything.”

  Walking away from the group of perfectly composed graduates, I placed my plate on top of the table and headed for the door.

  * * *

  It was mid-summer, and I still hadn’t gotten used to being away from home. Still, Skyping with Halmuni every week helped ground me, especially whenever I felt overwhelmed by school or work. For someone else, it might’ve felt like a dream to live in a multi-million-dollar condo in the Upper East Side rent-free, but I could never get comfortable here. It wasn’t just the random drops-ins or the cleaning tutorials or re-tutorials; it was the overwhelming sense I didn’t belong and never would. I wasn’t a resident or tenant. I was a guest and could expect to be barged in on at any time or kicked out for any reason.

  Homesickness haunted me. As I lay perched on the windowsill overlooking Central Park and the crush of honking motorists, joggers, dog-walkers, and power-walking executives from day to day, nagging questions ran through my head. Once you left your hometown, I wondered, did every place feel temporary? Maybe transitioning to adulthood meant finally finding your identity apart from a location, achieving permanence when everything appeared so temporary.