by Jaclyn Jhin
I waited four whole days until I couldn’t take it anymore. I just kept staring at my phone, but still not a word from Beverly or Ian. When I tried their numbers, the calls would go straight to voicemail. When I called the hospital, they would tell me Ian was still in a coma or, worse, Beverly would answer and tell me to leave him alone so he could get better.
My worry became an all-consuming obsession. I barely ate. I missed all my classes. I explained my situation to Melissa, Roy, Kevin, and B.B., and they all agreed I needed to let Beverly have her way. For now. Ian needed the best medical treatment available, and Beverly—and Beverly alone—could make that happen. But after four days, my impatience overwhelmed my better judgement, and I decided to go to the hospital.
When I arrived, I discovered Ian had been moved to the ICU three days earlier. After noticing my shock, the nurse explained this was standard protocol for coma patients. I tried to convince myself Ian’s situation was “standard” as I stood in the glass elevator watching the lights blink up and up. 7... 8 ...9...
Turning around, I looked out the window, nervously cracking my knuckles as the ground dropped away. Below me lay the sprawling medical campus. Doctors with lanyards casually walked between buildings, some on cell phones, others holding a salad or water bottle. Just another normal day. I was suddenly relieved Halmuni pushed me to become a lawyer and not a doctor. There was no way I would ever be able to handle interactions with the patients’ families: the look on their faces as I broke the terrible news, the tears, the grief. No, don’t go there.
Recalling how Ian had looked four days earlier, wrapped up like a battered, bloodied mummy, made my stomach ache. I just wanted to get off this elevator and be with him again. I prayed his eyes would open, that everything would go back to normal. With each ascending floor, I wondered if he was passing further and further beyond the realm of medical help. Stop that. Positive thoughts! Be strong. Ian needs you.
Exiting the elevator, I followed the signs to the ICU lobby. In spite of the terror growing inside of me, I appreciated the hospital’s attempt to make this a friendly place: the wooden paneling, a smiley face behind the hands of the clock, the numerous magazines fanned out on the table offering glimpses of happy families and better times.
However, the checkered linoleum floor told a different story. Dingy and scuffed, its many skidmarks told the real truth: it evoked mental images of nurses darting between dying patients, patient-laden gurneys hurriedly rolling their occupants to their ultimate fates, the heels of desperate spouses uselessly pacing, pacing, pacing. The walls may have tried to mask so much suffering, but the floors gave it away.
I approached the receptionist, a young woman in her late twenties with straight, brunette hair. A baseball player bobblehead wiggled on her desk.
“I’m here to see Ian Anderson, please.”
She clicked away with her mouse, frowning with each new click. “Ian Anderson II?”
Why is she asking so formally? Is it because he’s no longer with us? “Yes,” I said, no saliva in my throat.
“Looks like he was already discharged. About two hours ago.”
That made no sense. “But the person downstairs—”
“The system probably hasn’t updated yet. Yeah, looks like they cleared him to go home.”
“So, he must’ve been awake? He was in a coma,” I added.
She looked at me like I was stupid. “We don’t normally discharge patients if they’re still unconscious.”
It wasn’t worth getting into with this person. Obviously, she hadn’t been hired for her kind bedside manner. I pulled out my phone, dialed Ian’s number, praying he’d pick up. I needed to hear his voice again. To confirm he was okay.
It rang once, then went straight to voicemail. I started to leave a message, then changed my mind. His phone was probably off, and he wouldn’t know I had called. I had a better idea, anyway. I pulled up my Uber app, hoping there was still enough money left in my checking account to get me through the long ride.
* * *
Outside of agreeing to schlep me two hours to the Anderson compound in Connecticut, Sal, my driver, didn’t have much to say. Usually I wouldn’t have minded the silence; I might have even welcomed it. But today it oppressed me. It forced me to swim in my darkest fantasies. What if Beverly won’t let me in the house? What if she turns me away at the gate? In my mind’s eye, I kept seeing Ian in his full-body cast. Would he ever be the same again? Would we ever be the same?
My palm kept leaving little sweat stains on the windowpane of Sal’s Toyota Corolla. What Sal lacked in the verbal communication department, he made up for in cleanliness. The black leather was freshly vacuumed, and the interior smelled faintly of Windex. I nervously tapped my foot against the passenger seat in front of me, playing with a paperclip left in a tray by the door handle.
Recognizing the exit, my already frazzled mind slipped to near-panic mode. To stop myself from falling to pieces, I visualized summoning a sorely-lacking inner strength. I ran through a scenario in which I suddenly acquired that “tough, gangster type attitude” B.B. assumed. He would always say, “Don’t be a wimp; stand firm.”
I wouldn’t merely request Beverly let me inside, that heinous bitch—I’d demand to see Ian. If Beverly still refused me, I would slam my fists on the wrought iron, screaming to be let in. At least Franco would understand. Right?
“It’s just at the end of this street,” I said to the back of Sal’s tanned neck.
It felt eerie being back in this neighborhood, taking in the sweepingly ostentatious show of wealth once more, noting the endless lawns immaculately manicured. The enormous houses with their private gates staffed by suited foot soldiers seemed to all but challenge me: What are you doing here—again? Noticing just how far the horizon went, knowing the acres of land belonged to individuals so monumentally out of my league, left me deflated. What power do I really have here?
“Here, here.” I pointed to the gate. Sal eased up on the gas, slowly turning the wheel and rolling to a stop. I unbuckled as he shifted into park.
“Would you wait here for me? I need to go inside and get him.”
It sounded so casual, I surprised myself.
Tucking my jacket closer, I steeled myself against the biting wind. I was just walking over the curb toward the intercom when I noticed a security guard posted on the other side of the gate. Was he here before? Where was Franco?
Middle-aged and bald, the guard’s gut spilled over the top of his pants. He wore a white, long-sleeve button-up and black slacks. An iPhone and a heavy-duty flashlight were clipped to his belt like a gunslinger’s six-shooters. I did a double-take when I noticed a taser. Talk about overkill.
Beady, humorless brown eyes stared back at me. He kept both hands poised beside his weapon as he barked, “Can’t park here.”
Stay unruffled. “That’s my Uber. I’m just here to pick up Ian.”
He shook his head extra slowly as if to demolish any possibility of conciliation. “You need to get off the property.”
“If you’d just let me speak to Franco—”
“Miss, you need to leave now. You’re trespassing.”
Could I call the cops on him? I thought about case studies from class. What had Professor Mendez said about parental and spousal rights? Hadn’t Beverly disowned Ian? Did she have any right to him at this point? Shit. Why hadn’t I just married the man already?! I may have had a case that way.
I glanced back at Sal. The car was still running, but his head was down, fingers typing away on his phone. At least he was stranded out here along with me. Actually, that wasn’t true. He could drive off any time he wanted.
Something moving beyond the gate caught my eye. I turned to see Beverly at the wheel of a golf cart. She had assumed her usual look: a superbly fashionable outfit, hair straightened, face done, hands adorned in white gloves. Seeing her formidableness, I tried to summon that stronger version of myself again: the one who would scale the gate, tip over the cart, and make a break for
the house. I wished.
Instead, I did my best attempt to sound menacing as I rushed gate. “You had no right to just take him away from me! I’m his finance!” I yelled at the top of my voice.
The security guard stepped forward, reached through the gate and uncurled my fingers from the metal. Behind him, Beverly gazed on at me with wonder, like I was a tiny spider that managed to land in her lap. “Steve, it’s okay. I saw her on the monitor,” she said calmly.
I glared at the guard, who stepped backward to give me space.
“So how’d you get the hospital to release him?” I yelled to Beverly. “Pay someone off? You told me you would have Ian call me as soon as he was conscious again. You are a liar!”
Beverly killed her electric engine, then stood behind the gate, a picture of icy calm. Finger by finger, she tidily removed her gloves. “You don’t wear anger well, dear.”
I breathed heavily, blowing away a loose strand of hair stuck to my face. The guard didn’t make any moves, but I noticed him grip the taser.
“Ian needs to rest,” she said coldly. “He needs peace and quiet to get stronger.”
“Let me see him.”
“You can email him.”
“Email him? Let me see him!” Rage tore through me. My whole body trembled. I grabbed hold of the gate again and shook it as hard as I could. “Let me IN!”
It happened so fast. I only caught a blur, then two large hands came at me through the spaces in the gate and pushed me back. “Miss, I told you to stand back from the gate,” the guard named Steve growled. “Do not threaten Mrs. Anderson and do not, repeat, do not grab hold of the gate again.”
Stumbling backwards, I reached for anything to stop me. I hit the ground at a funny angle, my legs and arms splayed out on the cold, hard concrete.
I never meant to say it. It must have been pure instinct. “The baby,” I whispered, covering my stomach with my hand.
“What?” Beverly’s eyes widened unnaturally.
My legs shook. Little bits of gravel clung to my jacket. My hands were red and scratched from the impact.
“The baby,” I said, loudly. “Our baby.” I glared at her. Challenging. What can you do now?
Her eyes traveled from my face to my stomach, and vainly to the guard. He stood still, unsure of his role, crossing his arms, frowning.
I remained staring at Beverly until she straightened her posture, clearing her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
You’re sorry? Well, that just makes everything better, doesn’t it? I propped myself against the car, not even daring to look at Sal. I hoped he wouldn’t try to take off after all of this. I wished the baby were already kicking so I would know it was okay.
“I’ll have Ian email you.”
“No—”
“I would have him call you,” she quickly followed. “But he can’t right now. Trust me. You’ll hear from him. That baby needs to be taken care of. After all, it is ... family.”
Trust you? Family? I wanted to tear through the gate, commandeer the golf cart, and race to Ian’s room. The adrenaline surge would give me such superhuman strength. I would carry him out myself, the three of us together again. The way we should be. But I can’t do that to the baby.
I looked between Beverly and Steve. “When Ian finds out that you didn’t let me in, he will never forgive you. And trust me, I’ll be back,” I promised, for the second time. No matter where she moved Ian, I would find him.
I turned, slowly walked back to the car, and opened the door. “Sal. It will just be me. Please take me back to Columbia.” I grimaced, imagining the last two hundred dollars of my bank account dwindling to zero. I would figure something out. I had to.
He started the engine. “Are you—?”
“Just go.”
I was confused. I didn’t understand why Ian wouldn’t call. Was he blaming me for what happened? I should have never let him take the stupid bike. Ian, where are you? Please. I need you. I put both my hands on my tummy. We need you.
As Sal backed the car out of the driveway. I stared at Beverly through the windshield. She looked at me for a few moments before leaning forward through the bars to say something to Steve with a hand in front of her mouth. I tried to control my breathing as we drove away, finally turning the corner out of her sight. No matter what she said, this would not be the last she’d see of me. I must speak to Ian.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
To: Kelly Hopkins
From: Ian Anderson
Subject: I’m Sorry
February 20, 10:02am
Dear Kelly,
I’m sorry I didn’t contact you until now. My mother told me to call you, but I needed time to think things through. I also prefer to email rather than talk because I want you to read what I have to say. I don’t want to argue with you. I’m emailing you from my personal email account because I told Columbia I’m not returning to law school and they shut down my email.
Now that I am back home, I’ve had a chance to reflect on everything that has happened since I’ve met you. I’ve made many mistakes in my life and this accident has caused me to realize I need to make amends. In particular, it has reminded how important family is to me. I cannot run away from my obligations of being an Anderson. As the only child, I have a duty to take care of my mother, as well as my father’s business.
During these weeks of recovery, I have come to realize how unfair I have been to you. I used you. I wanted normalcy in my life, and you were the perfect stranger who was there, at the right time. I used you to run away from my problems. Only now do I realize the extent of my insensitivity. I am truly, truly sorry. My mother was right in saying we come from two completely different worlds. We don’t belong together. We will end up fighting because of our differences. And because you can’t get along with her, it has caused a rift between myself and her, which has made me miserable. If I have to choose, I must choose my mother. It was stupid of me to think otherwise. You belong with someone who is more like you. Someone who understands where you come from and can appreciate you more than I can.
Our child needs a more stable father, a role model. Not someone like me who has made a horrible mistake. I wish I could tell you things will get better, but they won’t. I also think you should consider aborting the child or giving it up for adoption. It doesn’t make sense for you to keep it when the baby won’t have a stable family. I will wire you $50,000 from my account. Please do it for the sake of the baby. Don’t bring a child into this world whom you can’t take care of. I did love you, but for the wrong reasons. And love isn’t enough anyway. I realize that now. I’m sorry, Kelly. Please forget about me and move on.
* * *
To: Ian Anderson
From: Kelly Hopkins
Subject: Re: I’m Sorry
February 20, 10:20am
Ian,
This is crazy! I’ve read your email three times, and I just don’t get it. I don’t understand how you can suddenly change like this. I think we just need to talk. Are you angry at me because you think the accident wouldn’t have happened if I didn’t have that stupid craving? I’ve been blaming myself every day since you were hurt. I know you say I act like a victim sometimes, but I think I have every right to be upset by what you just sent me.
I love you so much—that has not changed. Are you scared for me to see you? I don’t care if you can’t move a muscle in your body; I will always want to be there by your side. If you can just convince your mom to let me through the gate, then we can see each other. Then you can remember why we have always made this work. Can you please just call me? I’ve already called your mom, but she won’t pick up. I’m going to keep emailing you until we see other again.
You did not “use” me. I never felt used by you. Do you remember that pinky promise you made me after the Thanksgiving from Hell? You said that money and status weren’t important to you. I don’t believe you c
an suddenly say that you need to go back to your duties as an Anderson. You’ve never wanted to do that. There must be another reason. Please please let me see you.
And I also don’t believe you would want us to abort or give up the baby. I’m not going to do it because I know you are just saying this now out of anger or maybe your mom is making you say that—I know you don’t truly mean it. I’m keeping this baby, Ian, because he/she is a part of me and a part of you.
Love you. Always.
* * *
To: Ian Anderson
From: Kelly Hopkins
Subject: Are You Getting These??
February 27, 8:02am
I’ve been writing to you every day and I’m not sure if you are getting my emails? I haven’t heard from you in a week. Please send me something—anything—so I know you’re okay. Please. Do you want me to go to your mom’s place again? Can you walk out to the front of the gate? Please Ian.
I love you. Always.
* * *
To: Ian Anderson
From: Kelly Hopkins
Subject: Ian?
March 21, 11:35am
I hope you’re still checking this email. This is now #30 of my daily emails and I’m really trying not to give up hope. Or lose it.
I re-read your email every day, but it still makes zero sense. If you were using me, why would you propose to me? We’re engaged! You came to my grandmother’s funeral because you said you can’t live without me. Why have you changed your mind? Why can’t you pick up the phone when I call you? Are you being brainwashed by your mom?
Ian, will you just please call me? I miss your voice so much, and I know the minute we talk you’ll remember all the reasons we’re together.
This month has been absolute torture. I don’t get sick anymore, but my back and feet hurt, and I know you would’ve given me massages all the time. I miss your hand on my stomach. The way you look at me in the morning. The random, funny texts you used to send me all throughout the day. I can’t imagine having this baby without you. He hasn’t kicked yet, but I feel like you’ve already missed so much.