High Hopes

by Jaclyn Jhin

  I kept my eyes on Camy as we took the short drive down Santa Monica Boulevard toward West Hollywood, hoping to extract the real version of her. She had to be there, somewhere, deep down—the woman I was supposed to love.

  “Tuck in your shirt,” she said as she sipped from her Perrier. “Looks sloppy.”

  * * *

  My mother sat at the table at the Fig and Olive in Melrose Place, waiting for us, surrounded by a mountain of papers, a glass of Sauvignon Blanc within easy reach. She removed her sunglasses and stood up when she saw us, wrapping her arms around Camy and kissing me on the cheek. The image of them together made me shudder. Camy looked like my mother’s Mini-Me: similar wardrobe, faces caked with makeup. Forget daughter-in-law, Camy would’ve made the perfect daughter to Beverly Anderson. Camy even ordered the same drink just as soon as she slid into the plush booth.

  Sunlight poured in through the open windows, reflecting brilliantly off our water glasses. I reluctantly sat down, neatly folding my napkin in my lap. Camy and my mother made small talk about the scene in New York versus Los Angeles. Though I only half-listened, they both made the case with equal intensity that the former far-outweighed the latter.

  “It just comes down to culture, don’t you think?” Camy said, to which my mother readily agreed.

  Julia and Craig walked in, smiley eagerness plastered on their faces again. They behaved as if nothing at all was weird about last night, but I sensed they would strike any imaginable pose as long as they could walk away with my company. Fine. They could have it. Just get me out of here.

  After shaking hands, I sat back down, letting my eyes travel up to the ornate mural on the ceiling many feet above our heads. There, a group of angels wafted heavenward with upturned cherubic faces. They looked so happy and carefree. If it were at all socially acceptable, I would keep my neck craned to stare at them until this whole deal was inked.

  However, that was not to be. No one ever lets you off so easily. They actually want your attention. My mother and Craig reviewed details like the warranties and dividend shares, every now and then searching my face for assent. Whenever this happened, I kept my expression determined and serious as I hummed that haunting song in my head.

  At some point, my mother began handing over paper after paper to Craig. He was ready with his pen each time, smiling away. Julia looked on like she was watching a NASCAR race. Halfway through the thick packet, Craig excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  I used the break to lean into my mother, who was dog earing the next few pages. “Hey, I think I’m gonna go.”

  “What?”

  Camy rolled her eyes at me from the edge of the table.

  I ignored her, as well as Julia’s frozen smile. “You have my Power of Attorney, anyway. Sign for me.”

  She looked at me as if I had slapped her across the mouth.

  Camy took me by the hand.

  “Don’t,” I said with a stern look.

  I dropped her hand and stood up. I opened my mouth to say something else, to give Camy a reasonable excuse, or to go the other route—to say I didn’t give a shit anymore, but then I closed it. I had no words. Instead, I turned and walked out, not daring to look back at their stunned faces.

  * * *

  I could have gone back to the hotel. I could have gone anywhere really—to a bar to watch sports, to a bookstore to browse, to a part of town I hadn’t yet visited. Instead, I asked my driver to take me downtown.

  An African-American security guard sat at the front desk of the Harrington’s high-rise in a high-backed leather chair. Behind him, a split-screen monitor displayed various sections of the premises. An older man in his 50s, with a grey, bristly mustache and deep-set crevices, he kept his hands crossed in his lap as he leaned back to stare at me.

  Okay. Fine. Time to use that “natural charm.”

  “Hello there, I’m here to visit Craig Harrington.”

  He studied me for a second. “You were here last night.”

  “Yes, sir. He’s buying my father’s company.” Literally. Right now. Somewhere else. But you don’t need to know that.

  He mumbled something I didn’t catch.

  “So, can I go up?”

  For a second, I thought he would say no, but then he waved me through.

  “Appreciate it.”

  I took the elevator up to the penthouse floor. Trembling, my stomach felt like it was bouncing. Why am I so nervous?

  The elevator doors opened. I readjusted my sports jacket, trying to take a deep breath but failing. What is wrong with me?

  I stepped past two doors, then knocked on Craig’s. Moments later, it swung open. In front of me stood the woman from the night before. This time, I noticed her enchanting face showed complexity. She had seen much joy. And much sadness. Tall and slender, she looked to be in her 20s. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt and yoga pants, she stood with one hand on the knob, the other holding a stuffed dog toy.

  She wore the same expression, like she was vacillating between punching me in the nose or running away. Behind her, I could see the three children, also playing with stuffed animals. The loft actually looked like a real home today, with toys sprawled around the living room, plates with half-eaten PB&Js strewn across the table.

  “What are you doing here?” Her nostrils flared. Heat behind her eyes.

  I tried to straighten up. You’re charming. You are. “Look, I know this is crazy. But I feel like I’ve met you before...”

  Her eyes widened. If I thought she looked angry before, I had no idea what extremes she was capable of. This wasn’t just anger. This was rage. I had to say something. “Um, that song. I know that song. I just don’t understand—”

  “You don’t understand?” She gripped the door harder, eyes on full-alert.

  “No. But I really want to.”

  “Is this some kind sick joke?” She raised her arm up, the toy dog coming with it. She grit her teeth like she was preparing to throw a hand grenade. “Are you pretending not to know me because it may jeopardize the deal with the Harringtons? Are you scared that I will tell them that I know what a complete asshole you are? If so, don’t worry I won’t tell them what an insensitive jerk you are, because I don’t care. I don’t want to waste my time talking about you. You’ve ruined my life, but it doesn’t mean that I have to be vindictive and ruin yours. I’m not like you. But look at what you’ve done to me ...”

  She started something else but her voice broke. She couldn’t continue. She was shaking now, her eyes filled with tears. I wanted to reach out to her, but didn’t dare try. The nervous feeling in my stomach spread to my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I felt dizzy. What have I done to her? How did I ruin her life?

  “Ian?”

  I turned around. Craig and Julia stood at the door behind me. “What are you doing here?”

  I turned to look at the mysterious woman once more. She had managed to wipe her eyes in the meantime.

  “Is there a problem?” Julia stole a glance at Craig.

  “Beverly said you weren’t feeling well,” Craig said, frowning. “We didn’t expect you to come ... here.”

  I cleared my throat, catching a glimpse of the little handsome boy who looked a bit Asian, who was now standing behind the woman, arms wrapped around her legs, one eye peeking out, watching me.

  “I thought I left my sunglasses here last night.” You weren’t even wearing sunglasses, idiot. “I asked your nanny to help me find them.”

  “Oh.” Craig looked at the woman. “Did you see anything, Kelly?”

  Kelly? Kelly. Kelly. Kelly.

  “No,” she said, still glaring at me.

  Craig frowned again. “Sorry, Ian. We’ll keep an eye out. Do you need a ride back to your hotel?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  I was just about to go when the little boy weaved through Kelly and Craig’s legs. He ran up to me, holding out a pair of cheap, toy sunglasses. “Here.” he said quietly.

  I stared back at him, amazed at
how he held my gaze. He had jet black hair and beautiful blue eyes.

  Craig looked down at him and chuckled. “I’m not sure those will fit Mr. Anderson.”

  Julia smiled, patted the kid on the head, then disappeared down the hall. The woman they called Kelly quickly grabbed the child’s hand and led him away. It was now just Craig and me in the foyer.

  “Talk to you soon, Ian,” Craig said, still a little on edge.

  Kelly didn’t look back once. A moment later, I heard the door close.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I pushed through the Beverly Wilshire’s entrance doors, ignoring the obsequious greeter at the front desk, searching for any bright Hermes bags or shiny Valentino high heels indicating the presence of my mother. A wedding reception was in progress, and the dizzying crush of tuxedoed men and women in formal gowns—combined with people queuing for The Blvd Lounge—made it difficult.

  I squinted as I maneuvered through the crowd, smartphone flashes popping all around me. I raced around young couples, slipping through plush couches and wooden chairs. More employees took up the greater lobby, smiling, eager to assist with me with anything I wanted. I broke off eye contact. There was only one person who could help me now.

  I found her seated with Camy at a table of the lounge tucked away in a private corner.

  “Mother!” I shouted.

  She and Camy turned, each with a hand caressing a glass of champagne. Camy avoided looking at me directly and took a distracted sip from her champagne flute.

  My mother settled on her signature look of disappointment. “Don’t shout.” She waved her hand, annoyed.

  I sat at the empty seat between them. My mother searched in her purse for something. “You couldn’t stick around for a few more minutes?” she asked, clearly annoyed. “Your dad would have been furious you weren’t there to actually sign the documents yourself.”

  I didn’t care about the deal. “Did I—was there someone I used to know named Kelly?”

  I thought my mother was having a heart attack. Her breathing seized. She dropped her purse, spilling credit cards, keys, and lipstick. All the color in her face drained. Then, just as quickly, she regained her composure.

  A waiter saw the spillage and came over to pick the items off the floor. “Let me help you with that, Ms. Anderson,” he said as if he had been responsible for the accident.

  “Thank you.”

  She and Camy watched the waiter recover each item as if it was the most interesting thing they had ever witnessed. It was obviously a tactic they were using to avoid answering my question.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the waiter finally left, and I asked again, “Mother, did I know someone named Kelly?”

  She assumed a nonchalant pose, stood up from her chair and said, “She isn’t worth talking about. Please be a dear and sign the bill. I’m very tired.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Oh, just some girl from Columbia. To be honest, I had completely forgotten about her.”

  There was obviously more she wasn’t telling me. I glanced at Camy. She looked bored. She handed my mother her bag and stood up, as well.

  “She was just some gold digger,” my mother said casually, adjusting her strap. “Used to follow you around like an eager puppy. Honestly, it was pathetic.”

  I looked between the two of them, trying to see who would crack first. Camy kept her expression blank, except for a tinge of annoyance. She rubbed the space between her eyebrows and sighed. “Ian, can you just get the bill so we can go? We all know you had many admirers at Columbia. Do we need to make a big deal about each one?”

  My mother stared past me. “See? Now you’re making Camy upset. I’m going up to my room.”

  I didn’t budge. When my mother took me home from the hospital, she not only become my primary caretaker, but my memory-supplier, as well. With retrograde amnesia, I remembered who I was, as well as most of the major events in my early life, but the two or three years before the accident were a black hole. When I needed more info, she supplied it. Supporting her was Dr. Root, an A-List psychotherapist, whom I saw regularly for therapy sessions to “enhance cognitive function,” as my mother would say, but also to make me “talk about my feelings.”

  During all this time, there had been no mention of a “Kelly.”

  “He’s not moving,” Camy said quietly as if I weren’t there.

  I looked over at her, at those startling bright blue eyes. So beautiful. So empty.

  After one year of physiotherapy and psychotherapy sessions, I could have returned to Columbia to finish law school, but my mother insisted I go back to work at my father’s hedge fund. During this past year, my mother and I constantly fought. Rage would erupt in me without warning. It didn’t matter the context. Once I kicked a wicker chair so hard I shattered its legs. Another time, I put my fist through a mirror. I spent the next hour picking shards of silvered glass from my palm and wrist.

  Dr. Root called these moments “my episodes.” My bouts of explosive anger seemed to matter little to my mother. Even if we were in public, she hid away these inconvenient outbursts with calm just as efficiently as this hotel tucked away its Prohibition-era lounge behind an innocuous front.

  Looking up at the uncanniness of her wrinkle-free face, I suddenly found myself marveling at the ways she always managed to avoid inconveniences. Whatever unpleasantness threatened to topple Beverly’s cool pose—the death of my father, money complications, mortality itself—she faced it with cold, uncompromising resolve. Nothing ruffled her. She just clicked right past it in her high heels, smashing through any barrier, leaving the Camy’s of the world to pick up the pieces.

  This epiphany opened the floodgates in my damaged brain. It revealed something so basic, so incredibly simple, yet monumental. I didn’t belong to Beverly Anderson. I didn’t belong to Camy, either. Or to anyone else in this make-believe world. None of it had anything to do with me.

  My mother couldn’t force me to accept unwanted obligations. Especially not marriage. She couldn’t even lord wealth over me. Per the contract I had helped draft, I owned a large chunk of the proceeds our company sale delivered. I was now independently wealthy. Set for life. She couldn’t do a thing to me. Not anymore.

  Turning around was easy. Slipping into the elevator was easier. I heard them call after me, but I was gone.

  The number of revelers in the lobby had grown in my absence. I slipped between them, skirting past the celebrants in their dressy finest. I even saved an apologetic grin for the greeter I had earlier ignored.

  * * *

  “I need to remember,” I said impatiently to Dr. Root.

  I was beyond frustrated by what had happened in Los Angeles. Here I was, sitting in a chair in Dr. Root’s Upper East Side office, trying to understand why I felt the way I had when I met Kelly and, more important, why was she so angry with me. Had I been a complete A-hole before the accident? Is that why I’m no longer friends with Roy and Kevin? Had I become like my father, a selfish prick who just wanted to make as much money as possible, friendships be damned? Was that possible?

  I didn’t want to believe that about myself. I could imagine spiraling into depression at the thought of this, so I focused on where I was, hoping perhaps Dr. Root could help me. As was his habit, Dr. Root, bald, with a ridged forehead and a grey beard, leaned forward like he was a swimmer at the blocks, ready to launch himself into the water, his fingers steepled at the base of his long thin nose.

  “Ian,” he said slowly in his characteristic monotone, drawing out both syllables. This was his game. Deaden your life force with slow-motion drudgery.

  But I hadn’t taken the red-eye here to get entangled in his human quicksand. “Look, I just need help remembering. Are you gonna help me or not?”

  The more I seethed, the more he stalled. He kept his fingers close to his face, almost as if he was playing some invisible trumpet as he leaned back. It took him so long to hit the straight back chair, it felt like a full minu
te had passed.

  “We’ve talked about this before,” he said, elongating the pronunciation of each word. If I were a stenographer transcribing this moment, I would put an ellipsis between each one—that’s how slowly he talked. “When you suffer from a traumatic injury like you did, sometimes the mind can do things. Strange things. Like make you forget.”

  Great, thanks for the help.

  “We could try hypnotherapy.”

  “Isn’t that for like, people who are into Tarot cards and Ouija boards?”

  Even the way he shook his head looked smug. “Not necessarily. We can try a hypnotic regression session. It could serve to release past memories, items locked away in your subconscious.”

  I sighed. I’m ready to try anything at this point.

  After placing a warm blanket over my shoulders, he instructed me to remove my shoes and get comfortable. I dropped my hands into my lap and closed my eyes just like he instructed, taking slow, deep breaths.

  “Now ...” He began. At least he had a soothing, quiet voice. I could imagine him giving tax advice on some AM radio station. Granted, it would be a station I would turn off for fear of falling asleep at the wheel. “I want you to imagine an empty room ...”

  I had tried guided meditation apps before and had some familiarity with what we were doing. As he proceeded to offer suggestions, I relaxed my limbs, allowing them to grow heavy like they were weighed down by bricks. The more he continued, his calming, lullaby voice pulled me in deeper. A few minutes in, I felt like I was in the room he was describing, floating on air, all my muscles slack.

  “Ian?” I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  I blinked my eyes open.

  “It’s okay. You just fell asleep during our session.”

  “Shit. Wait. Is that a good thing?”

  Dr. Root sat back down, noting something on his yellow legal pad. “It means you were very relaxed, so that’s always a good thing.”

  “No. I mean for my memories. Will I remember stuff now? Ask me something.”