High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes. His anger had devolved into sadness, and he stood slumped in the corner. He started to say something, but his voice broke.

  I could see he was hurting, but I had to tell him this. “My reaction is to run away because I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried so hard to get along with your mom, but I will never be good enough for her. I also just wished you would’ve taken my side more.”

  “Taken your side—” He put both hands on his head, staring down at the table. God, this was terrible. He wouldn’t even look at me. I had never felt more uncomfortable, so distanced from someone I cared about. How could you make it all normal again?

  He finally looked up. “Look, sometimes, Kelly ... I just feel like you kind of play the role of the victim. When you don’t need to. Like I didn’t ask you to do those things with my mom. I didn’t ask you to go to etiquette school.”

  “Victim?”

  “Not like that. Never mind.”

  “Then like what?”

  “I said never mind.”

  I hated those words: “never mind.” As if anything could be dismissed with just two little words. He looked up at me, his eyes pulling me in. How could I want to keep fighting with someone and simultaneously pull them onto a bed at the same time? It was all very confusing. “Well maybe you just ... don’t know what it’s like. I’ve lost both my parents and now my grandmother. I have no family. I’ve had to support myself and my grandma for the last six years. Not to mention having to study my ass off so that I could get into Columbia on a scholarship. While most teenage girls were out doing girly things, I had no time for such luxuries. I had to budget for everything, including how much we would spend on food. So, yeah, maybe that does make me a victim. But, while I feel sorry for you that your mom disowned you, I never asked you to marry me. I’ve never asked anything from you. I only wanted you to love me. You don’t realize how lucky you are to have all that you have. Things have been given to you on a silver platter. You never had to work for any of it.”

  “Woowww. Have you forgotten that I lost my dad, too? Did you know that, when he was alive, he was verbally abusive? We all have issues, Kelly. No one has the perfect life.” He shook his head, keeping his eyes trained toward the living room.

  I looked away, too, trying not to complete my eye roll. I suddenly could imagine so clearly his fights with his exes. Immature arguments about petty things. It would’ve made me feel better if I didn’t feel like we were fighting the same way.

  “You don’t think I do everything in my power to not be associated with my family? To do things on my own?”

  I looked down. I didn’t mean that he didn’t work hard for what he had. But he also didn’t know what it was like to grow up without wealth and privilege. He always had a safety net with piles of cash to fall back on. That was a lot different than living paycheck to paycheck and hoping one day you could grab a steady job. And here he was, accusing me of feeling sorry for myself? Of course, I didn’t say any of this out loud. I was too tired to continue this argument.

  “I just want to feel like we’re a team,” I decided to say. “And I haven’t told you about a lot of this stuff because I never wanted to pit you against your mom. But sometimes I just feel, like, totally alone in trying to be someone who fits in with your family.”

  That seemed to crack him. His eyes softened. “But that’s what you don’t get. I don’t want someone who will fit with my lousy family. I want you.”

  I came closer. I couldn’t help it. Maybe this was the other side of love: the mood could drop instantly, but it could also resolve quickly. I met his hands halfway and wrapped my fingers around his. “I want to be with you, too.” With the backdrop of the city behind us, I suddenly imagined pulling him out in the rain, not caring about the shivering cold. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” He squeezed me close. “And I’m sorry for saying you feel sorry for yourself. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I should be more sympathetic about what you’ve been through. I think I’m just frustrated about this whole thing.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry for calling you a rich, spoiled brat.”

  “I didn’t think you did.”

  I laughed. “Well. I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  I pulled him to me. “Can we please just go sit on the couch and cuddle?”

  He chuckled. “Sure.”

  We settled in together as I wrapped the blanket around us. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. There was nothing more comforting than this position: hearing his heartbeat, feeling him stroke my hair, knowing I could fall asleep peacefully.

  “And, I just want you to know, once I finish law school, I’ll find a job,” he said. “I don’t need her money, anyway. We can still have the life we want.”

  I craned my neck, looking up at his clean-shaven, now relaxed face. “You sure you still want that?”

  He kissed me on the mouth. “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. To be with you. My mom is used to getting her way because of her money. It actually is liberating not to care anymore.” Suddenly he sat up, jostling us both so that we nearly fell off the couch. “And you know ...” he tilted his face down to mine. “Because of that ... we could just get married right now. Go to a courthouse. Today. If you want.”

  I shook my head. “Ian. You’re upset. I don’t want to get married just so you can get back at your mother.”

  “But I want to marry you. That’s why I gave you this.” He pointed to the ring on my finger.

  I looked down at it, hesitating for a moment. No Beverly sounded fantastic. But someone needed to keep her head on straight. “And we will. Trust me.” I took his face in my hands, kissing his nose. “Just not right now.”

  Halmuni taught me the importance of family. I always imagined marrying someone whose loved ones took me in as their own. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted or needed that until Halmuni’s death. And while Ian, so much of the time, seemed like enough, I didn’t want to rush into something with the fear something was missing.

  He held his face close to mine, smiling sadly. “Okay. I’ll have to wait a bit longer to make you Mrs. Kelly Anderson.” He kissed me again, then sat back, letting me return to my favorite position—arms wrapped around his stomach, my head on his heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “As I mentioned at the beginning of the semester, this exam will not be graded on a curve. That means—”

  I tried to focus on typing, filtering in Professor Mendez’s words, but it felt like the edges of the world were folding in, blurring. I could barely breathe. A sheen of sweat slipped down my back. You’re not going to throw up. I pressed my eyes closed.

  Halmuni used to stream Grey’s Anatomy when I got home from school. I remember one scene where Meredith kept puking. Her friend, the one who always hooked up with the hunky redhead, told her she could stop, that it was mind over matter. That scene now replayed in my head on a loop, the repetition inciting its own brand of nausea.

  I looked around to see if anyone had noticed my clenched fists, the determined expression on my face to not puke publicly. This had been happening for the last four days, and I wanted to cry from frustration. Melissa chalked it up to exam anxiety. But when I woke up, I never had a single thought beyond the need to rush to the toilet. How could it be anxiety if I had to vomit before even having a coherent thought?

  Sinking further into my chair, I tried to keep my head down, my fingers on my keyboard. Everyone around me typed away with fervor, their backs straight against their antique-looking, wooden chairs. My problem wouldn’t go away, though. Mind over matter could only subdue the rupturing feeling in my stomach for so long. I felt the surge of warning in my esophagus. Slamming my laptop shut, I leapt out my seat and bolted across the aisle. Ignoring Professor Mendez’s look of surprise, I raced through the double doors toward the restroom.

  After flushing and wiping my face off with a damp towel, I headed t
o the health center. This could not be anxiety. Maybe it was something I ate at the dining hall. Or some parasite. All of those clickbait stories with gross images swam around in my head. A six-foot tapeworm found! Parasite kills man and his dog!

  I fumbled for my backpack, pulling out my phone, looking for Melissa’s name. “Still happening,” I texted. “:/ Going to the health center”

  “OH NO!!! I’m so sorry!! Yeah definitely go, they can hook u up.”

  Luckily, I was close to John Jay Hall. After completing the short walk, making sure to tread beside the nearest trash cans, I stood outside the building, catching my breath. I stared at the black lanterns with their nasty spikes and black trim, imbuing the building with an ominous look, despite its sparkling clean, white interior.

  As I stepped into the lobby, a dozen students greeted me in plush blue chairs arranged around a white, circular table decorated with gossip magazines and Columbia catalogs. A sign next to the receptionist read, PLEASE TELL THE RECEPTIONIST OF ANY CONFIDENTIAL CONCERNS, right next to a vat of hand sanitizers and a box of facemasks.

  To the left sat a table littered with pamphlets on STDs, contraception, and a fish bowl full of those Crown condoms Melissa warned me about. I looked back at the lobby, trying to calculate how long it would take to be seen. A chorus of coughs and sneezes echoed behind me, and I hoped I wouldn’t catch anything else while I was here.

  “Can I help you?” The receptionist, a woman in her early 30s with straight, strawberry blonde hair, asked.

  “Um, yes, hi. I’m here for—”

  She cut me off by handing over a blue intake sheet. “Fill this out, please.”

  I filled out my name, student ID number, and the reason for the visit— nausea/vomiting for the last 4 days—then handed it back. Weaving around the center table, I searched for an empty seat in the corner, away from the floating germs.

  Minutes later, a nurse with a blonde bob and pointy glasses opened the white door. She reminded me of a dainty bird. “Kelly?” That was quick. I guess they must think my symptoms are pretty serious.

  “Hi.” I followed her into the white hallway. The door swung shut behind us as she led me in a room on the left-hand side.

  A medical examination table was set against the wall, with a thin, paper sheet on top. I hopped up and sat on it, crinkling the paper and accidentally ripping an edge. I almost kicked a red trash can labeled BIOHAZARD below my feet before settling my hands in my lap.

  The nurse opened up her folder, reading off the sheet. “So, repetitive nausea and vomiting.”

  “Yeah.” I crossed my feet, eyeing the instruments hanging on the side of the wall—the pointer that went down your throat and ears, the new kind of temperature gauge they rolled across your forehead.

  “Have you gone to the bathroom in the last hour?”

  “...No.”

  “Do you think you can go?”

  “I think so.”

  She stood up, opening up a cabinet below the sink and grabbing a small cup with a red, twist-on lid. “We should do a pregnancy test just to rule that out.”

  I slowly grabbed the cup from her. Pregnancy? I hadn’t even thought of that. Why hadn’t I even thought about that?! I wanted to kick myself. I was so meticulous in every other area of my life; why had I been irresponsible in the most potentially life-changing one? Either people told you it was scary-easy to get pregnant or it took years. I guessed I found false comfort in the latter. Ian seemed so lax about it, too, which only made it easier for me to forget about the potential consequences of our love-making. I was mad at both of us for being so blasé.

  The nurse opened the door with a sympathetic smile. As if she knew exactly the kind of beat-myself-up thoughts that were swirling in my mind.

  I hopped down from the table. The results had to be negative. This would all seem stupid the minute I got them back. Then I would tell Ian we needed to use two methods of birth control. Melissa told me horror stories about The Pill, but I’m sure Ian and I could figure out something.

  Opening the bathroom door, I realized there was another feeling bubbling in my stomach: excitement. What the hell am I thinking? I was NOT excited. The potential implications were horrible—I was not ready to be a mom. I could barely take care of myself. A child would derail my whole future. Then again, I really did see myself having a child with Ian. Still, the timing would absolutely suck. I was only 21!

  I locked the bathroom door. A Wicks air freshener was plugged into the wall, wafting in the faint touch of lavender. Black shelves on the opposite wall contained tampons and toilet paper. This was it. This sterile building was where I would learn if I had a child inside me.

  But it had to be something else. It just had to be.

  * * *

  I sat on the examination table, swinging my feet, waiting to see that blonde bob whisk back in the room, waiting for her to say, “negative.”

  After 10 painful minutes, she returned. The sad smile gave it away. She seemed a little nauseated herself. “It’s positive.”

  Sometimes you can reveal more of yourself to strangers than you can to a person you’ve known your whole life. Perhaps it’s because you know you may never see them again. But I didn’t want to react to the nurse. I didn’t want to respond at all because I didn’t want it to be real.

  Instead, I let the edges blur again, the sounds mute. I laid back on the table and stared up at the ceiling. It was the only way I could control the wild thumping in my heart, the squeal of worry jumping in my throat, the fingers curling by my sides.

  “You have some options.” She turned to the wall of brochures.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. I was actually pregnant. There was no rewind. Nothing to fix. This was my fate now: being a parent in college.

  “I’m not sure what you’d like the next steps to be, but—”

  I bolted upright. “I’m going to keep it.”

  I could have deliberated. I could have taken days to mull things over, to analyze every part of this decision’s potential impact. But I didn’t want to dwell over the life of my child. The child I was having with Ian. We were going to get married; we were going to have a child. The timing sucked, but I still felt it was meant to happen. And telling the nurse this, in this moment, meant I couldn’t go back; it meant cementing the decision, the one only I could make, the one I thought I wanted. I was functioning off adrenaline: off the fear, off the strangeness of a life-altering moment, off the confusing flare of slight happiness.

  The nurse nodded, slowly. She started talking again, but I was in another world, preparing how to tell the person who was about to go through the same emotional rollercoaster as me.

  * * *

  This wouldn’t be like one of those cute viral videos of a pregnancy-reveal, pink or blue streamers flying around the room. The fact that I didn’t know what to expect only made the uneasiness in my stomach worse, diminishing any previous excitement.

  I sat on the edge of Ian’s bed, looking out a window covered by half-open blinds. Ian worked on his computer, studying for a test. I told him it was important. He obviously didn’t realize how important.

  “Sorry, one sec.”

  I felt the soft, slightly scratchy fabric of his Columbia blanket beneath my fingers, watching him. He was wearing one of his red flannels again, with black sweatpants and mismatching blue and white socks. His room smelled like that fabric softener, the pillows perfectly propped up behind me. He kept pressing his fingers to his temples and rubbing them. Already stressed. Great.

  “Okay, done.” He closed the laptop, then turned around, elbows on his knees, giving me his full attention. Usually I appreciated that, but now I wasn’t sure I could handle it. What will he say!?

  “What?” He laughed. “The look on your face is freaking me out a little.”

  These life changing words – I’m pregnant. Then the reality would hang above both our heads.

  He reached out his feet to kick mine and I instinctively smiled at the touch. Maybe he would
be excited. Happy.

  “So, I haven’t been feeling well these last few days.”

  He frowned, waiting, his feet no longer kicking mine.

  “I went to the health center.” I slipped one of the strings of the blanket through my fingers, looking down. “And, well, I’m pregnant.”

  The pause that followed made me wish we were fighting instead. Anything but this. His whole body froze, and I felt like I could see the heart in his chest stop beating. This was not a precursor to a happy reaction.

  “How is that possible?”

  “Well—” I wasn’t sure whether to go into contraception effectiveness or reproductive biology.

  “We used condoms.” His words crunched together angrily, like if he built a good enough argument, he could make the situation disappear. As if a pregnancy could be overturned with by well-considered debate.

  “Well, they aren’t always effective. And you know, you really should have a backup—”

  “How could you not -?” He snapped at me. He put his hands on his head, not finishing his sentence. I didn’t want to hear the rest of it, anyway.

  “Me? I told you I wasn’t on the pill.”

  He spun around in his chair, running his hand over his hair a few times. He looked out the window while I stayed sitting on the bed, feeling the dark hue of the walls closing in.

  Maybe he wasn’t really mad. Maybe he felt like me: scared to death. I put down the blanket and walked over to him, squatting down on the floor, touching his arms. “Hey.” I realized he was crying. He hurriedly wiped off his face. “I’m scared, too.”

  He nodded, and then let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m upset. This was just ... unexpected.”

  I let myself laugh a little. At the ridiculousness. The ability of one moment to completely change our future. It didn’t seem right.

  He reached down to hug me, and I felt that little flutter in my stomach again, the little reminder of potential happiness.

  He suddenly put both hands on my cheeks, looking me straight in the eyes, unblinking. “I will not leave. Okay?”