High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  I smiled at Craig and Julia, nodding along. Perfectly.

  * * *

  My hand instinctively reached for the bill, but Craig stopped me. “Don’t even try.” He grinned wide as the Cheshire Cat. It’s like his smile just widened and widened as the night went on.

  I capitulated. “All right. But next time, it’s on me.” I put my hand on Camy’s bare shoulder. I already knew she was going to ask for my jacket later. Why didn’t she just wear warmer clothing? “Ready to go?”

  “Nonsense,” Julia said, writing down a tip. “Come over to our place. We have this huge chocolate mousse pie in the fridge just waiting to be eaten. I insist.”

  “That’s very tempting, but we should get going,”I replied.

  Camy tugged at my arm. “Oh, come on, darling. We never do anything fun.”

  I looked at her, at those imploring blue eyes that looked Photoshopped. Empty and blank with no soul behind them.

  “Besides, we just live up the street,” Craig added.

  * * *

  I lost the argument and the night dragged on. Leaving the restaurant on Bunker Hill, we accompanied Craig and Julia a couple blocks downtown. Buzzed, Julia staggered crookedly, one arm draped over Craig as we made our way toward the beckoning lights of the Staples Center.

  “You guys spend a lot of time in D.T.L.A.?” asked Craig.

  Before we could answer, Julia called back. “It’s gotten so

  cool!”

  “Like Manhattan,” Craig noted. “But with better weather.”

  I could see Camy wasn’t impressed. She preferred Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. She only wanted to stay where the über rich stayed—where all the high-end stores like Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Gucci were. I knew she didn’t like this area because if you wandered even one block off the main drag, you were deep into Skid Row.

  “Looks dirty to me,” Camy whispered into my ear. “Trash on the streets. Graffiti everywhere.” She pointed to the tarps beside a half-completed construction site as she wrapped my sports jacket closer.

  Craig waited for us to catch up to them, then turned to me. “We got in early, you know. Before gentrification,” he whispered.

  “We’ve always been early adaptors,” Julia smiled huge again.

  I started to return her smile, but then Julia stumbled on a beer can and nearly took down Craig with her.

  Once in their building’s elevator—made of glass so you could see the two, unfairly split worlds below—Craig pushed the button for the 15th floor. The penthouse. We rocketed skyward. With each passing level, I felt we were rising above the everyday struggle of “ordinary” people’s lives. Obviously, I was grateful for my family’s wealth—and too often I had taken it for granted—but ever since the accident I found myself slowly despising it, especially after being forced to spend a year living with my mother. She had insisted I stay with her after to supervise my recovery. She wouldn’t let me check my emails, watch TV, or call friends because she wanted me to “focus 100 percent on my rehabilitation.” Lacking the strength to argue, I gave in to her.

  I did manage to message my old roommates, Roy and Kevin, a few times. When I mentioned I was now engaged to Camy, they seemed genuinely shocked and disappointed, as if I had committed some heinous crime. I had been dating Camy right up until the day of the accident, so why did Roy and Kevin seem so surprised? After a year of physiotherapy, with armies of specialists coming and going through my mother’s place in Connecticut, I was finally well enough that I could return to Manhattan, but whenever I called them to announce I was coming in, they would always make an excuse not to see me. What had I done that they wanted to avoid me, I wondered.

  When I asked my mother why Roy and Kevin seemed so surprised that I was engaged to Camy, she explained that we had never announced it formally. Yes, we had intended to, but then the accident happened. I also asked her to explain why I had been riding a bicycle in the middle of the night. Both Camy and my mother said that I had been under a lot of stress at school and just wanted to get out and enjoy some fresh air. Why can’t I remember any of this?

  We walked into the Harringtons’ vast and swanky duplex loft, decorated in the minimalist style you saw marketed on trendy, redecorating reality shows. Spotless, cold, and clinical, it resembled a modern nightclub before the clubbers arrived. The duplex must have been at least 6,000 square feet. The kitchen and living room blended together in a splash of white, images from a 60-inch flat-screen TV the only spot of color in the high-ceilinged room. Doorways branched off to bedrooms in a narrow hallway. To my right, a floor-to-ceiling window showcased the neon rainbow of lights from skyscrapers buttressing the building on every side.

  Camy made some comment about interior design that sparked Craig’s interest. He bobbed his head as she continued talking, his mouth parted, just dying to say something interesting as soon as she paused in her monologue. Meanwhile, Julia excused herself to the kitchen. I collapsed onto the startling white leather couch, straightening out an already-straight pillow.

  As Camy and Craig chatted, I didn’t even try to keep that stupid smile on my face. Something was gnawing at me, like a bad dream you didn’t quite understand. That name, B.B. Chu, sounded familiar. Each day I remembered something new, but it was usually trivial. It was frustrating; I felt like my brain was wasting all its memory power on the mundane while missing the bigger picture. After the accident, the doctors told me I was suffering from retrograde amnesia, that the blow to my head had erased whole sections of my memory. They said the condition could be temporary, but it could also be permanent loss. Only time would tell. Well, it has been three years already. Did this mean I would never remember the missing years before the accident?

  “Honey?”

  Shit.

  Craig and Camy looked at me expectantly. Julia did, too. She held out the chocolate mousse cake on a large plate. What did she want from me? Is she waiting for me to cut the cake and hand out fucking slices?

  Camy looked embarrassed. Great. She was definitely going to bring this up later. “Darling, why don’t you try the cake? It is amazing.”

  They were all waiting for an answer. “I’m not hungry right now. I’m still full from dinner. Can you please direct me to the bathroom?”

  They blinked back at me for a second before Julia put the plate down. “Let me show you. It’s complicated. I got lost the first time myself.”

  * * *

  I walked out of the bathroom, wondering if I could pretend to get lost for an hour. Then I heard it.

  “Just what makes that little old ant ... think he’ll move that rubber tree plant ...” A woman’s voice filtered through a half-open door on my right. The sound made me stand still. I couldn’t breathe. I knew that song. That voice. Where had I heard it before? There was something there. Something ... I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  I loitered in that hallway, ears perked, trying to make my mind work. The voice ebbed, replaced by the shrill sounds of children giggling. Something rose up in me, some unknown feeling. I had to lean against the wall; otherwise, I thought I would split in two. Though I didn’t remember it being warm when I entered the Harringtons’, beads of sweat formed on my brow. I wiped them away and pulled myself to my feet.

  “What’s the matter with you?” was the first thing Camy said to me when I rejoined the others.

  “Huh?” I just wanted to lie down and sleep for a month.

  Craig and Julia were digging into their cake. I could see my piece was still sitting there, but I didn’t want it.

  When I said nothing more, Camy went right on with her conversation. They were discussing the differences between the islands of Greece. I listened absently for a few moments while I watched a line of cars snake onto the 110 onramp.

  “Excuse me. I need to use your bathroom again.”

  “Again?”

  I didn’t wait for them to interrogate me further. I just got up and went back down the hall. In the distance, I could hear Camy apologizing for me being weir
d.

  The melodic singing picked up again along with children giggling as I passed down the long corridor. I leaned my ear against a door so I could hear clearer “... He had high hopes! He had high hopes! He had high apple pie in the sky hopes! So any time you’re feelin’ low, stead of lettin’ go, just remember that that ant. Oops, there goes another rubber tree ... Oops, there goes another rubber tree ... Oops, there goes another rubber tree plant ...” The tiny hairs on my arms stood up, and I had to hug the wall for support. My throat felt dry, and I couldn’t swallow. Nothing made sense.

  Pushing the door open the slightest crack, I stopped and peeked in. Faint illumination from a child’s night light reminded me of my own childhood, a feeling I hadn’t recalled in years. Safety and longing intermixed. It felt like I was outside of time looking in at my own self years earlier. The singing woman stood with her back to me. Opening the door a bit more revealed three little boys in two different twin beds. Two of them were white and appeared to be twins. Another seemed faintly Asian, but I wasn’t sure because he had blue eyes, and he sat off to the side, staring up at the woman. He must have seen a flicker of movement and turned his eyes up to me.

  “Look.” He pointed at me.

  The woman whipped around, and I was instantly pulled into her dark brown eyes. They, too, looked remotely Asian. They swallowed mine in their pain. It was like she drowning and had to grip onto something—anything or she would sink. But quick as a blink, they let go and a hardness papered over her whole face. Bitterness tore down the corners of her mouth. She tightened her jaw and backed away from me.

  She stood there, staring at me, rocking back on her heels as if she was either going to fall over or bolt from the room.

  It was so soft I wasn’t sure I heard her say something at first.

  Then she repeated it. “Get out,” she hissed.

  Her brown eyes now glared, hatred pouring out. She looked like she wanted to hit me, or worse.

  I stepped back. “Okay, sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

  I quickly shut the door, startled. Maybe she was mad I had been listening. But I didn’t think she would’ve been that mad. The door had been open. Whatever the source of her rage, it seemed ... personal.

  I returned to the living room, shaken, while everyone scooped chocolate mousse into their mouths.

  “So, you up for talking final details, or do you want to wait for another time?” Craig asked, finishing a bite.

  I looked past his head. Do I know that face? And why did that song pull me in like that?

  I felt Camy’s hand on my arm. She turned to Craig. “Sorry. He’s a bit of a space case sometimes.”

  I removed her hand. “I’m fine.”

  Craig looked annoyed for a second, then changed his demeanor, turning his expression into a smile and nod. Just like me. Practiced.

  “You know ... we should probably call it a night,” Camy said.

  “Yes, plus, we’ll see you both tomorrow, with Beverly. We can talk more then.”

  Julia took away plates as we stood up.

  “Sounds lovely. Looking forward to it,” Camy said, filling the silence. She waited for me to do something, so I smiled.

  * * *

  Camy and I stepped outside to a cold gust of wind. She took my jacket from me again. “You’re always so distracted.”

  “Yeah.”

  She placed her fingers in mine, whispering seductively. “You know what could make you feel better ...”

  “I actually think I want to take a walk.”

  “Alone? It’s midnight.”

  “I’ll take you back first.”

  She looked at me, her eyes flickering with rage. Two angry women in one night. At least I understood her reasons. “This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about on the plane,” she said. “You need to try harder. I have certain expectations you know ...”

  I let her continue her tirade all the way back to our hotel. She ranted about the usual stuff: the inattention, the aloofness, all the times she felt disconnected. I apologized for it all. I made no excuses for myself. I told her everything she wanted to hear, until we hit the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire.

  “I’ll be back soon. I just need some fresh air.”

  “What?”

  I could hear her screaming after me as I pushed past the doormen into the night. Jacketless, I shivered as I headed toward main streets, witnessing more high-rise hotels, expensive couture shops, and over-priced restaurants.

  I could not get the strange woman out of my head. She was so angry. Even more than Camy. You didn’t get that angry at someone unless you knew them. But I didn’t know her. Or did I?

  Why can’t I remember?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  I had hoped the massage and sauna would do me some good. With my mother arriving in just a few hours, the walls felt like they were caving in. Just like they always did when she showed up. Soon, she, too, would be staying at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. In a different suite than Camy and me, yes, but her mere presence would suck all the available air out of the hotel. Before that happened, I had to get away. Had to regroup. This trip to the pool and spa would have to be my reprieve. Otherwise, I would crack. I could feel it.

  I purposely set my alarm for 5:00 a.m. and stabbed it off before Camy awoke, before she could ask me a zillion questions. Always a deep sleeper, she was bound to be out until noon after washing down her nightly Ambien with the room’s complimentary bottled water.

  The less Camy asked me, the better. Not only did I not feel like talking, I had no answers for her. After circling much of Rodeo Drive for hours on end last night, I was still no closer to understanding any of what had occurred in Craig’s apartment. I went to bed with the sinking feeling I would never unravel this mystery.

  For years, my physical therapists recommended I make swimming my workout to rebuild the plasticity of my joints. Though I always promised I would, I seldom made the effort. It used to drive Camy crazy.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said. She also let me know in no uncertain terms I had let myself go. And she was right. Whenever I looked through old photo albums, I could barely recognize the skinny kid in the even skinnier jeans. It wasn’t just that I didn’t have the scars back then; I looked lighter, happier.

  Whatever. That’s just what being young is. Being too stupid to realize you’re, well ... stupid.

  But today I did heed the meddling well-wishers. The first one downstairs, I swam lap after lap until my sides ached and my eyes went blurry from the chlorine. Even then, I kept slapping and kicking the water until I could barely hold myself up to tread water.

  Stepping out of the pool, I wobbled over to the metal bar where I left my towel. My calves burned, and I was dying for water, but I felt good. My mind was a beautiful blank. No thoughts. No worries.

  “Okay there?” a middle-aged woman in an eggshell swim cap asked me from one of the lanes.

  “Good, thanks.”

  I could feel her eyes on me as I ripped open the sauna door. The blast of dry heat calmed me even more as I landed on the wooden slats. A miniature clock provided the only noise, ticking away the minutes below a smudgy red lamp.

  I put my elbows on the towel draped over my knees, clasping my head with my hands, glad to be the only occupant. Within seconds, the water evaporated from my skin. I felt a tightening in my chest as I tried to take in deep breaths. Sweat ran down my cheeks, pooling between my feet. As usual, all of the weighing concerns overtook my peace of mind, and I was back in worry-mode, my usual state of being. Crises and potential crises swirled around, each one begging for my attention: our impending wedding, our impending company sale, our impending ... life. I put my head in my hands, dreaming of blackness, the absence of thought. Just to make it all wash away.

  I closed my eyes as the minutes passed, feeling the heat do its work, breaking down the layers of tension, the anxiety. The longer I sat, the more I relaxed. I gave up trying to make sense of things, returning to th
at calmness from a few minutes ago. When the concerns slipped away and I could lay back against my towel in peace, she returned.

  The singing woman with the children. That song. That face. Who was she?

  I still couldn’t shake that image. The woman’s anger was... abnormal. She really hated me. But why?

  I hummed the song to myself, over and over, the sound bouncing off each wooden wall. The tune remained right in front of me, teasing, suspended in the growing heat. It had to be a key to something.

  * * *

  I opened the limo door for Camy. We were parked outside the Beverly Wilshire, minutes away from grabbing lunch with Craig and Julia to finalize the acquisition. This time, she wore an outfit my mother would approve: knee-length pencil skirt, a pink button-up T-shirt, and dangly earrings that nearly touched her shoulders. Her blonde hair had been slicked back into a high, tight ponytail.

  “Hey.” I said as I took her arm as she stepped in. “Do you want to skip this? I don’t think my mother needs me.”

  She narrowed her eyes like I had just said the most asinine thing imaginable. “What? Last time I checked, this was your company.”

  I waved my hand. “It was my father’s.”

  She found the farthest possible seat away from me and removed a Perrier from the mini-fridge. “And now it’s yours. We’ll be fabulously rich once you sell it.”

  I sighed as our driver pulled away from the curb. Sometimes I saw flashes of who I imagined Camy was before her parents forced her to attend debutante balls at age 13. That Camy would have skipped lunch and gone on an adventure. I knew that Camy existed because sometimes late at night, as her Ambien kicked in, vestiges of her former self appeared.

  In those moments, she would surprise me by telling some story about a mischievous prank she pulled in junior high or at summer camp. Unfortunately, if I laughed too hard, she got the wrong impression and would shrink, embarrassed, reverting back to the “public Camy” others expected. After the accident, my mother repeatedly reminded me how much I loved Camy and how ecstatic I had been when Camy accepted my proposal. But then why didn’t I feel “in love” with her? Why does everything she do and say irk me, instead? Did I lose all my feelings for her because of the accident?