High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  I nodded and he lifted me up and wrapped me in a hug. I let myself imagine the doctor’s appointments and ultrasounds with him by my side. “And we can name him Jack,” I said. “Or Jackie. I kind of have a hunch it’s a boy, though.”

  He smiled through the tears, and I could see he was starting to imagine the future, too, the one we wanted together, even if it seemed too early. “I’d love that. Come here.” He pulled me into his lap, pausing. “But, um ... what about health insurance? The school doesn’t have maternal coverage. And my mom ... she won’t help. And you don’t work at Poseidon anymore.”

  I could tell he was trying to make these things sound non-accusatory, but it made me sink further into his lap. “Well, I can go on Medicaid,” I said, hoping it would be enough to cover it. “But what about you?”

  “I’m not the one pregnant. I’ll be fine.” He put his arms around my waist. “Plus, I’ll get a part-time job. I’ll move out of this place, and we can get a small apartment for the two of us and the baby. Then you won’t have to pay for your dorm.”

  I turned and kissed him, communicating what we already knew: we would be taking on this future together. And it would be worth it.

  I broke away from his lips, smiling, then pulled out my phone. “I’m just going to tell Melissa that we will be living together. I don’t think I can handle her reaction about the pregnancy right now.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Hey, Ian and I will be living together after this semester is over!!”

  “AHHHHHH!! LEVEL UP! But also don’t leave me lol. Jk. Just don’t forget about me, you little slut!”

  I shook my head, laughing. Yeah. I would definitely wait until tomorrow to tell her about the pregnancy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Ian put his head on the pillow beside mine, running his hand along my stomach. I was only 12 weeks pregnant, so you couldn’t really see anything there, but Ian liked to rub my tummy, anyway. These were our evenings now: me lying in bed after class, textbook in hand; Ian curled up next to me, hand on my belly.

  I had spruced up the room with some of my dorm belongings, the maroon pillows offsetting the dark blue comforter, the fuzzy, green rug resting against his black desk chair. Otherwise, it still looked like Ian’s home: the dark walls, the Columbia paraphernalia, the lacrosse stick and baseball bat standing in the corner. Luckily, his bed was a comfortable queen, and I already made the nightstand my own, decorating it with my matching office supplies.

  I aced all my classes last semester and was already into my second month of my sophomore year. The baby was due in early August. I would be 22 years old when the baby arrived. It seemed too young, but I kept reminding myself my mom was around that age when she had me.

  Ian was in his second year of law school. He would say, “One more year to go. Then I can get a job in a law firm that pays well. Then we can finally move out of this rabbit hole.” Although we lived in a small studio apartment, I was happy. I liked being creative in terms of where we could store things. It reminded me of one of Halmuni’s favorite programs on HGTV, about living in small homes that totaled less than 500 square feet. She would say, “Oooh, Kelly look, look ... bench that turns to dining table and storage, too! Soooo smart.”

  Ian and I agreed we would get married in the summer. We were both too busy with school work to even think about a wedding. Ian was also working part-time as a paralegal at a small firm to support us. Even though we couldn’t eat at those fancy restaurants and had to live on a very tight budget, we were excited about our future together. We finally felt light-hearted and free.

  Even with Ian by my side, I continued to think about Halmuni. It was difficult to feel happy over milestones when she wasn’t there to see them. Plus, I really needed her advice. Sure, it would have been quite a tense phone call telling her I was having a mixed-race baby out of wedlock, but she would’ve come around, just like she had come around about Ian. Still, I couldn’t wallow in those type of thoughts too long or else or they threatened to become all-consuming, especially with the rise in hormones circulating through my body. I just had to believe she was still watching me, looking out for all three of us.

  Turning my head toward Ian, I inhaled the scent of his shampoo. I loved how much he always wanted to be next to me and the baby. Sometimes I thought he would never take his hand off my stomach. He was determined not to miss the first kick, even if that probably wouldn’t happen until months from now.

  I kissed him on his forehead and then flipped to the next page of the textbook propped up against my thighs.

  “What color do you think his eyes will be?” Ian wrapped the white blanket around us, covering up his black work pants and dress socks.

  “Probably brown. Sorry.”

  “Why sorry? I love your eyes.”

  “But blue is so much prettier.”

  “They are a recessive gene.”

  I closed the textbook, telling myself I would learn about due process later, then scooted next to him, pulling the blanket over our shoulders. “You’ve already done some kind of gene chart, haven’t you?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Maybe. You know what I also learned?” He leaned on his elbow, propping his head on his hand.

  “What?”

  “Babies can hear music even when they’re in utero. But I don’t know what to sing.”

  I smiled, thinking of the perfect song. “I can teach it to you.”

  “Okay.” He sat up, rubbing his hands together like a dutiful student.

  I started to hum, but my shyness stopped me.

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Okay. But I don’t have the best voice.”

  “Neither do I. Just do it.”

  “Once there was a little old ant/Thought he’d move a rubber-tree plant...”

  A smile spread across his face. “I’ve heard you sing that song a lot. That’s the song your dad used to sing it to you when you were young, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s called High Hopes. It’s an old Frank Sinatra song. When I was young, my dad used to tell me that if I sung it, then all my problems would magically vanish. Really silly of me, but I believed him!”

  I proceeded to tell him the story of my dad chasing my mom. When I was done, Ian sat up, propping another pillow behind me. “I love that. I wished I could’ve met him.”

  “Me, too.” I sat up a little, looking at him from the side.

  I continued teaching him the words, and pretty soon we were both singing toward my stomach, trying not to break the lyrics with our laughter. “But he’s got high hopes! He’s got high hopes! He’s got high apple pie in the sky hopes!”

  After a couple rounds of the chorus, we laid back on the bed, hands intertwined. “Well, I think we just taught him what terrible singers his parents are.”

  Suddenly, as if in response, my stomach rumbled. “That’s not the baby.” I laughed. “Just my own stomach being mad at me.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m actually really craving some Kimbap.” I turned on my phone. It was already 10:00 pm. Even though it pained him, Ian had sold his beautiful car to make up for our lack of income. “But, really, it’s okay. I’ll just have a bowl of cereal or something. It’s late.”

  “No. I’ll go to that place you like on 6th Avenue.”

  “Ian—”

  He was already sitting up. “It’s fine, I’ll take the subway.”

  “Do you know how many stories Halmuni told me about subway assaults? Or about being spit on?”

  Ian looked at me. “You used to complain she did that.”

  “Well ... now ... I’m starting to think there was a point. Please, please don’t go on the subway.”

  He looked me in the eyes. I could tell he was deciding how seriously to take my plea. He sighed, grabbing his black fleece jacket. “Okay, fine. I’ll take your bike.”

  The Mantis. I had already accepted I would never get rid of that thing because that “thing” is how I met Ian. I turned the blanket in
my hands, extracting a few pieces of fuzz.

  “Kelly, don’t worry.”

  I looked up. He pocketed his wallet and then put one knee on the bed. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Okay, but I don’t even know if it still works right. Why don’t you just Uber it or take a taxi?”

  “They’ll charge an arm and a leg at this hour. Don’t worry. I have good balance.” He kissed me on the top of my head.

  “You really don’t have to go.”

  “It’s not just you I’m feeding. I’ll be back soon.” He smiled, and then walked out, closing the door gently behind him. I laid back on the bed, still feeling that tug of worry in my stomach. Maybe it was just the hormones.

  * * *

  At midnight, I paced back and forth through the living room, occasionally glancing at my reflection in the black TV screen, seeing my worried face become more and more grave. I should’ve known not to label women’s intuition as hormones. I called the restaurant again.

  “Hi, sorry, I just wanted to really double-check that order of Kimbap for Ian was picked—”

  “Miss. I already told you. Picked up,” said a male voice with a Korean accent.

  I hung up, putting the phone by my side, continuing to stalk the small space between his desk chair and the door. I was making myself dizzy.

  My phone beeped. I immediately went for it, my nerves on edge.

  Kevin: “Haven’t seen him since yesterday when I was in the apartment!”

  Nash: “Yeah, sorry, I’m at my gf’s right now. Haven’t seen him. Everything ok?”

  No. It was not okay.

  * * *

  Ring. Ring.

  My eyes flickered open. I barely took in the living room before hurling myself toward my phone. I must’ve fallen asleep out here. I wondered how long I had paced before collapsing from exhaustion and worry.

  “Ian? Ian?”

  “Is this Kelly Hopkins?” The male’s voice was not Ian’s.

  My heart stopped. I clung to the phone, knees buckling. “Yes.”

  “My name’s Steve Korman. I’m an RN at Mount Sinai Hospital. You’re listed as an emergency contact in the phone of Ian Anderson?”

  This couldn’t be happening. “Where is he? Is he okay?”

  “He was in a hit-and-run accident.”

  I imagined Ian’s face right before the impact, his nervous determination trying to control that stupid bike. I saw the splayed food from the takeout boxes, his body meeting the pavement, the blood. Why had I ever let him go?

  “Now, I want to warn you ... he’s—”

  Somewhere in the time it took me to fling the door open I managed to hang up the phone, punch in for an Uber, grab my keys, and run. I would commit any crime if it meant I could ride in a police car to get there faster.

  * * *

  I only saw two colors in the emergency room. White walls, white sheets, white gowns, white curtains, and blue scrubs. They blurred past as a female nurse led me through the lobby doors, past the panic-stricken victims on gurneys waiting for rooms.

  In the distance, I made out a man’s guttural yell, followed by a woman’s shriek in what I think was Spanish. Desks occupied by nurses clustered in the middle, surrounded by signs labeled X-RAYS, EXIT, and LABORATORY. I was in a maze I didn’t want to find the end of, the hallways only leading to more suffering.

  An elderly man in a wheelchair dashed past us, muttering incomprehensible things to the male nurse by his side. I turned away, looking at the nurse as we stopped in front of a closed curtain. Her face was steady, unmoving. I realized I was merely part of another scene in her nightly horror show. What would devastate me was routine to her.

  I grimaced as the curtain’s slider scratched against the metal pole. My inability to recognize the person in front of me made me freeze.

  A shell of Ian laid in the bed. His arms, ribs and legs were mummified in a thick, white cast. His arms hung in the air, lifted by an apparatus above the bed, his legs elevated on pillows. His face was the only thing left unwrapped. His expression was blank, like a slate wiped clean, his lips set in a thin line. The monitors were poised on his right, scattered with neon numbers. On the other side stood an I.V. bag, its liquid contents slowly dripping through a tube leading into a needle planted in the middle of his hand.

  I think the nurse offered me a chair, but I stood there staring, hoping if I looked long enough, I would realize my eyes were just playing tricks on me. I think this was what doctors meant by shock. I couldn’t move. I kept thinking any minute his eyes would blink open and match mine. I would go over and kiss him, feeling his lips, again and again.

  “Excuse me, miss?”

  I snapped my head to the right, the nurse finally coming into focus.

  She scrolled through the computer. “He broke both arms, legs, and a few ribs. He’s in a coma, so we’re keeping him stable.”

  I took two steps to collapse in a worn, purple chair by the bed, reaching out to grasp his fingers.

  “Do you know who his insurance carrier is?” She looked at me expectantly, her fingers on the keyboard. I started calculating in my head what all of this would cost: the E.R. visit, the casts, the indefinite treatment. Ian’s words rang in my head. I’m not the one pregnant. I’ll be fine.

  “I don’t think he has any, or if he does, it’s probably just the basic plan... ” I said quietly. I couldn’t believe I didn’t force him to get insurance. Or that I let him get me food. Me. My stupid cravings. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. I shuddered, sinking deeper into the chair, realizing the full weight of this nightmare. This is my fault.

  The nurse breathed in. “Okay, so, we will still treat him to the best of our ability here. But for as long as he’s in the coma ... um, these costs...”

  I didn’t want to hear the estimate. “It’s okay. I know who to call.”

  * * *

  It was the first time I had ever seen Beverly unkempt. And it would probably be the last. She wore black yoga pants and a hastily thrown on zip-up jacket, one side hanging off her shoulder, exposing the strap of a tank top. Her blonde hair was thrown back up in a bun, and her eyes were slightly swollen, remnants from foundation still hanging on to the creases of her eyelids.

  She lunged toward the hospital bed, narrowly missing the cast on Ian’s leg. She sobbed, her knees crumbling beneath her.

  I had no idea what to do. I had already spent an hour staring at Ian’s new form, imagining the fragments left below the skin. I had already done what she did: cried and sobbed, not caring if anyone could hear me. But I didn’t know if any of this made me qualified to comfort her. I stood up, uneasily, instinctively putting a hand on my stomach, then stopped. She can’t know.

  She must’ve seen me move out of the corner of her eye. She caught her breath. “Why doesn’t he have his own room?”

  “Well, this is a room—”

  “No. A room. Walls. Not curtain separators.”

  I stood, unmoving.

  “You don’t know what to do,” she snapped.

  The monitor reading Ian’s heartbeat beeped. That was the one thing I clung onto: a steady beep. As long as I could hear that, my own heart could keep thumping.

  “You should go,” she insisted. “I’ll take care of him,” she said. “I’ll let you know when he wakes.”

  No. With Ian literally between us, I could not let her pull him away. “I’m not leaving him,” I said sternly.

  She shook her head, disgusted, then leaned into me, her blue eyes dangerously close. “Unless you do what I say, I’m not going to pay a dollar.”

  Monster. She knew. She knew he didn’t have insurance. What if she had been spying on us? What if she already knew about the baby? What if she could find a way to blame this accident on me? Most important, how could I let Ian end up here, in a full-body cast, unconscious, with his mother lording over him? The kind of woman who would threaten to cut off his care just to spite me?

  I gasped, realizing the full impact of her words. “You’d do
that?”

  I’d called her bluff. She couldn’t really hate me this much, right? I stared back into her eyes and shivered. Maybe it wasn’t a bluff. Maybe my instincts had been right all along: she really was evil, a black widow of a woman biding her time to strike.

  Beverly looked away at last. “Just do what I say and get the hell out of here, or I promise I will make life very hard for you.”

  Ian, where are you when I need you? He could tell me how to play this hand with his mom: which cards to show, what bets to make.

  “I’ve already lost my husband,” she told me between gritted teeth. “I won’t lose my son. You’ve done enough. You’ve destroyed what’s left of my family.”

  “Beverly, please,” I pleaded. “Please let me stay. I know you are upset, but so am I. I ... I don’t know what I would do without him. Please have some sympathy for me and Ian. I know he would want me to be here with him.” Tears welled in my eyes.

  Beverly didn’t seem at all fazed. “You’ve done enough. I’ve never liked you. You’re probably the reason he’s in this coma. Why the hell would he be riding a bicycle at this time of night? Just leave. I promise I will get the best medical care for him. Once he’s better, I’ll make sure he contacts you. Right now, I don’t want to be distracted by you.”

  Every atom in my body told me to stay, but I was trying to think of the long-run—convincing myself there would be a long-run—and how Ian would’ve wanted me to react. Just let her have this round. There will be others.

  I cleared my throat, grabbing my phone. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “No, you will not be back tomorrow. Like I said, give him a few days. I’ll make sure he contacts you when he is out of his coma.”

  I stole one more glance at Ian, then pulled back the curtain and walked out, tears sliding down my face, the hospital once again becoming a blob of white, an occasional blue uniform scurrying past.

  I would be back. And Ian would be, too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN