High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  “Make it 5:00 then. I’ll take care of your prep duties.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Don’t even push back on this. I need you here.”

  Didn’t she understand things were tenuous with Ian and me right now? This was not a good time. “The thing is, my boyfriend and I—”

  “Don’t care. You’ve missed a lot of work. If you don’t come in tonight, don’t bother coming back.”

  Wow. I was glad she wasn’t stooping to an ultimatum or anything. I squeezed my eyes shut, letting disappointment wash over me. “I’ll be there.”

  I dove into the laundry basket to find the dirty work clothes I was supposed to wash. I’d just have to douse them in body spray like Melissa did. And Ian would just have to wait.

  * * *

  I could barely think straight. My mind was awhirl with constant requests for refills of Diet Coke and San Pellegrino. Still, every now and then, Camy would break through my consciousness like a bad penny that kept showing up. Why couldn’t I let her go? Maybe I could if Beverly stopped parading her around on Facebook. Every other update featured the two new BFFs.

  It took every ounce of personal strength to quash my jealous thoughts from swirling into a nightmarish loop: Will Beverly ever like me? Why do I care if she likes me or not? Is she right that someone like Camy would be better for Ian than I am? Does Ian even know his mom is palling around with his ex? Should I care? Of course, I should care! What do I do?

  Shaking off my worries, I surveyed the room, watching the flow of well-dressed middle-aged couples and parties of thirty-somethings occupy every available seat. Classic soft rock music filtered in above the groundswell of chit-chat humming throughout the restaurant.

  I watched as the newest hostess, a blonde so young looking she could have passed for a high school sophomore, seated me a four-top. The whole family was clad head to toe in MLB gear, including caps and jerseys, leading me to guess they had left early from Yankee Stadium.

  I speed walked to the kitchen, avoiding a waiter with too much gel in his hair. Grabbing a quartet of glasses, I filled them with ice and water.

  I was halfway back to the table when the barely 18-year-old hostess stopped me. “Hey, that table is complaining they haven’t been waited on yet.”

  I looked back to see a group of middle-aged women peering over their menus, seeking me out. “They must have just got here.”

  The hostess shrugged. “They’re upset.”

  “Okay. I’ll take care of them.”

  After dropping off the waters, I made a beeline for the problem table. As soon as I saw her, my breath died in my throat, and I dropped my notepad.

  Beverly.

  Reaching down for the black leather case, I could feel the blood go straight to my cheeks. This couldn’t be happening. A bevy of immaculately dressed women gawked at me. All dressed in dark colors, they looked like they were uniformed in accordance with some sorority dress code. In addition, they all had microbladed, perfectly contoured eyebrows, filler-injected plump lips, and botoxed foreheads.

  In the middle sat Beverly, the Queen Bee of Manhattan snobbery. Her perfectly quaffed hair fell past her shoulders to form a diagonal “V.” A Chanel necklace rested on her black sheer silk blouse. As her lipsticked mouth formed into the beginnings of a cruel smile, I realized this would be one of those moments I would have to endure—to get through.

  No way this was an accident. Beverly had shown up here on purpose. To torture me.

  “Kelly! So you’re the reason we’ve been waiting.” Beverly gazed back at her friends with a flourish of her arms to indicate me. “Everyone, this is Ian’s little friend.”

  How many times must she get this wrong? “Hello, actually, I’m Ian’s girlfriend,” I corrected her.

  “Yes, well.” Beverly’s smile stayed plastered on her beautiful face. She turned to her friends, “They’re sleeping together, but honestly girls, if they were serious, why would Ian ask me to stay away from her?” Her friends looked appalled at such a thought and stared intently at me with disapproving looks. I felt like I was a puppy in a shelter and they were trying to ascertain whether they thought I was a well-behaved, cute puppy or one of the ugly, untrainable mutts no one takes home. I could tell from their looks that they thought I was the latter.

  I ignored her snide comment and tried to remain calm and professional. “May I take your drink orders, please?”

  Beverly tapped at the laminated menu with a long, French-manicured nail. “Get your pen ready, dear. We already know what we want.”

  Small chuckles chorused around the table. I imagined them all coming out of a cloning machine, each with the same tastes and thoughts. East Coast Stepford Wives.

  “We would like a bottle of this Sauvignon Blanc.” She pointed to one of the more expensive bottles in the menu. “For appetizers, two orders of chicken satay. We don’t like the peanut sauce, so no need for that. And two orders of Peking Duck rolls. Make sure they don’t overdo it with the sauce.”

  The women nodded their heads in unison. At least they were consistent.

  “For mains, bring us eight quinoa kale salads with the miso salmon. Do not overcook the salmon. No quinoa for her and her,” she pointed. “They just want the kale and salmon. A bowl of edamame for the table now. Oh, and gluten-free bread for the table. With dipping oil and balsamic. Also, a Diet Coke for Pamela.”

  I was scurrying to write everything down when I saw the ink fade. No way. My pen was not dying right now. I made it to “Quinoa” before I started practically impaling the paper. “I’m sorry ... that was how many kale salads?”

  Beverly rolled her eyes and chuckled at the table, like isn’t this hilarious? Then, she spoke in her trademark slow voice perfected for simpletons like me. “There’s eight of us. Therefore, eight salads.”

  Of course.

  “She looks flustered,” said a lady who looked like she could be Barbie’s mom.

  “I’m fine. And that was a Coke?” I said, trying desperately to keep my composure.

  “No. A Diet Coke.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “Kelly, you mean, ‘got it’, not ‘gotcha’. Please use proper language around my friends and not street slang.”

  I collected all of their menus, trying not to make eye contact with Beverly. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back with—”

  “And you will take our menus, right, Kelly?”

  “Yes, I was just about to ask you for them,” I said through gritted teeth.

  I hurried back to the computer, eager to input these orders.

  “Ouch!” I felt a sharp pain in my arm.

  I turned to see the hostess from before carrying a tray of dirty plates. One of the knives had stuck me. Realizing what had happened, she apologized.

  A small bead of blood the size of a ladybug began to form. I dabbed it away. “Just. Be more careful.”

  She looked genuinely remorseful. Suddenly, I could see myself in her position months ago, trying to get the hang of this job. I wished people had been nicer to me back then. “No, it’s okay. I’m just stressed.”

  “Can I help?”

  “That’d be great. Can you grab eight waters and a Diet Coke?”

  “Yeah, got it. Also, you have another table on three.”

  Crap. I hadn’t been back to the baseball family yet, and I still needed to swing by the bar for wine. Sophia squinted at me from the hostess stand across the room. No doubt she could tell I was flailing with her hawk eyes.

  “You okay?” she mouthed.

  I nodded before rushing off. Twenty minutes later, all my tables had been handled in some capacity. With the help of Emily, the hostess, I had delivered their food and drinks. I was standing beside a column formed in the shape of conjoined mermaids, taking a split second break, when I noticed Beverly waving.

  Quickly, I darted over, determined not to let her faze me. When I reached the table, she lifted the plate of chicken satays I could barely hold, it was so hot.

&nb
sp; “Kelly, honestly, I can’t believe you didn’t check this before it came out.” She pointed to a pink piece of meat. “Do these look cooked to you?”

  I silently cursed the kitchen staff. Of all the tables to mess up an order. “Of course not. I’ll fix this.”

  I ran to the kitchen. Just as I slid the plate back over the metal expo line, Emily called out to me. “Hey, just sat you another table.”

  What? I was already slammed with the big party.

  “Okay. Fine. But can you please, please, get them waters?”

  It was never a good idea to tell the cooks they made a mistake, but it couldn’t be avoided today. I showed Raul, the nicest one, the undercooked meat. “Can you make it again?”

  Raul did nothing. He just stared at the plate like he had never seen one before.

  “And please ... HURRY!”

  I was just rushing back to refill Pam’s Diet Coke when I ran into Sophia. I had never seen her so angry. Her eyes had narrowed into tiny slits of rage.

  “Table Three just asked to talk to a manger. Me. Because they said they haven’t had anyone even take their drink orders in fifteen minutes?”

  Shit. I completely forgot about them. “I just—”

  She put up her hand like she was swinging back for a karate chop. “What did I tell you about mastering time? I had to comp their desserts.”

  I looked over at Beverly. She was laughing with her friends, enjoying herself. I wanted to stomp over there and slap her across her smug face.

  “I’m really trying. Seriously.”

  “Try harder.” Sophia walked around me.

  Returning to the kitchen, I waited by the partition between the serving area, pressing my hands on the warm metal. Behind me, I could hear Raul grumbling to the other chefs. Great. I just made another enemy.

  Sophia appeared out of nowhere. “Two servers already helped you pass out food to Beverly Anderson’s table, so I don’t know why you’re standing there.”

  She was right. I was feeling sorry for myself. I hadn’t thought about Derrick or Emily who had lent me a hand earlier. I hurried to the counter to deliver plates to their tables. There were so many entrees it took me a few minutes. By the time I returned to the kitchen, the re-cooked chicken satays were ready. I thanked Raul, then rushed off.

  When I arrived at Beverly’s table, I was in for a shock. It was empty. Dirty plates lined each side, crossed knives and spoons placed in the center. Napkins were re-folded beside them, empty wine glasses arranged together in the center. Someone else must’ve cashed them out. Why hadn’t they told me?

  I grabbed the receipt. Their total was $425. I couldn’t believe my eyes — the tip was for $5. At the bottom was a handwritten note from Beverly. “My girlfriends were VERY unhappy with the service. It took us forever to get our salads. You are lucky that we...”

  I crumpled the receipt, stuffing it my pocket. When I looked up, I realized some of the people at my other tables were staring. One man I vaguely remembered walking in raised his hand to snap his fingers.

  He was bald, a corporate executive type. “Yo!” he said, snapping away.

  He continued snapping, even though I was on my way over.

  Someone yelled at the bar. A waitress laughed at something a customer said. The baseball family was chatting away. The sounds all whizzed past my ears, blending together in one big swell of noise as my heart thumped in my chest.

  The man kept snapping at me. I saw another guy at a table. He was laughing and pointing and me, muttering something to the person beside him. They both looked like yuppies in their dark tailored sports jackets.

  “Yo!” More snaps.

  I threw my notepad at the bald asshole’s face. “STOP SNAPPING AT ME!”

  The pad hit him in the mouth.

  “Do you know hard I’ve been working tonight? You can wait two more minutes to get your fucking beer!”

  The whole restaurant quieted. I felt two strong hands grip my arms.

  “Get out of my restaurant,” I heard Sophia whisper. “You’re done.”

  I didn’t move on my own volition. Someone else led me out. As I passed the hostess stand, I noticed Emily. As soon as she saw me, she dropped her eyes.

  I heard voices behind me. The snapping man.

  “What the hell was that? Don’t you interview your people?”

  “Sir, that has never—”

  The sounds died off as I passed through Poseidon’s doors for the last time.

  * * *

  I dropped my purse on the floor and wilted into my bed, not even bothering to take my shoes off. I stayed on my stomach, feeling my breath go in and out, hoping the exhaustion would lull me to sleep.

  When the phone rang, I made myself sit up. It was B.B.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to hide the tiredness in my voice.

  “Kelly.” He sounded strange. Not his usual jocular self.

  My hand gripped the phone. “Is everything okay?”

  “It’s Halmuni. She had a stroke.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  When I was a kid, I used to see how long I could hold my breath under water. I would sink down, squeezing my eyes, holding my nose shut with my finger and thumb, waiting to touch the public swimming pool’s cool, white concrete floor. I would feel my long, brown hair float away from my face, suddenly weightless, basking in the depth of silence.

  Then, the pressure would start to build. The moment between serenity and panic. The moment your heart really made its presence known through vehement thumping. Sometimes I would try to defy that feeling, staying under until the thumping hit my brain. Then, finally, I had no choice but to let go and push for the surface—the desperate need to gulp in air and fill my lungs. But the wonderful thing about that swimming pool was no matter how desperate my situation appeared for a few seconds, I always knew fresh air was just a kick or two away.

  After hearing about Halmuni’s death, I felt like that kid again, underwater, but I couldn’t kick up to the surface anymore because there was no surface to break. I was drowning. I was left reeling in the moment of panic, the one where my lungs seized, legs flailed, my hands reaching for any solid perch. And I had absolutely no idea how to find fresh air.

  “What can I do to help?” Ian asked.

  My lips remained shut, my hands busy tossing things into my suitcase.

  We were standing in the guest bedroom of his family’s condo that I’ve been using over the summer. The sheets and comforter lay half on my bed, half on the floor. A couple pillows had been tossed around. Half my closet was now in this suitcase, shirts and pants thrown together in one mass of wrinkly fabric.

  I turned, Ian blurry in my misty vision. For once, his confidence melted. I could tell he felt completely powerless. I glanced down at his feet, one set awkwardly in front of the other as if still deciding whether or not to stay in the room to watch me pack. From the moment he arrived, he had tried to swoop me up in his arms, but I had pushed him away. I didn’t want to be touched. I just wanted to see Halmuni.

  “I should have spent the summer with her.” I zipped up the suitcase.

  “There’s no way you could have known this would happen.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” I shouldn’t have spent my entire summer trying to impress your mom. She’ll never be happy with me. Ever. I stood up and walked past him.

  He grabbed my arm. “At least let me take you to the airport.”

  “I already called an Uber.” I had never spoken to him like this: the minced words, the indifference. I kept thinking about how he was the reason I didn’t say goodbye to Halmuni. It was because of Beverly and that dumb etiquette school, but really I wouldn’t have cared about Beverly if I hadn’t cared about him. I knew I was the one who had ultimately decided to stay in New York, but if I had never met Ian, then maybe my life would be different right now. Simpler. Easier. Happier?

  He looked at me, stung, as I made my way to the silver shoe stand and grabbed my black work shoes.

  His ha
nd made its way to my arm again. “Please, don’t leave like this. I’ll go with you.”

  I stopped my erratic movements for a second, finally really looking at him. He had rushed over from work, his button-up shirt and slacks clinging to his muscular frame, tie slightly undone. Fear etched across his face.

  Every good moment between us had been displaced. All I could feel were my lungs pulsing, screaming for air. Why did I even come? Or stay? Everything with Poseidon, etiquette school, and Beverly now seemed like a giant and tragic waste of time. And I needed to get away from Ian so I could think clearly again.

  He put both hands on my elbows, locking eyes with me. “Please.”

  Just tell him. You can’t do this kind of thing over text. “I need time away from you,” I said, shaking. “I need to see what I want.”

  I went to turn, but he kept his hand firmly on my arm. “No.”

  “I’m sorry.” Breaking away, I picked up the handle of my suitcase.

  “Kelly.” His eyes softened but his hand gripped harder around my arm. “I don’t think ... I don’t think you can make this decision right now,” he pleaded.

  The exhaustion of crying seeped through my whole body. I relaxed my arm in his, wrapping my hands around his waist. This was my sip of air. I inhaled the smell of the fabric softener he used on his clothes, trying to remember what life was like just 24 hours ago.

  I looked up at him, seeing his own tears match mine. I pulled him closer and kissed him, feeling his lips press harder. It would have been easy to stand there, collapsing into him, letting him move my body for me. But this was not where I belonged. Family was the most important thing, and with Beverly in the way, I would never be able to find it here.

  I broke away, ending the kiss abruptly. “I can’t.” I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. I heard him yell out the first syllable of my name before I slammed the door behind me.

  * * *

  Halmuni’s funeral would last three days, keeping in line with Korean tradition. B.B. and a handful of extended family members, faces I vaguely recognized from childhood, stood beside me, clumped together on the shiny wooden floor in the mourning room of the Jang Ryae Shik Jang. This Korean funeral home was beautiful, the altar sprawling with calligraphy, bouquets of white flowers surrounding an old framed picture of Halmuni. All of us wore black clothes and socks, but no shoes. I wondered if I should have asked B.B. to request everyone wear white; Halmuni had grown up before Korea adopted the western tradition of black funeral attire.