Dream Things True (28 page)

Alma stepped away and looked directly into his eyes.

“You know that won't happen, right?”

“What, you're planning on dumping me when I go off to college?” he asked, trying to force a smile.

 

 

Alma didn't need to answer. They both knew how uncertain her future looked. If Alma returned to Mexico with her family, she could never get a tourist visa to come back to the States and visit Evan; if she stayed in Georgia, she'd never risk going to an airport with border patrol agents around every corner. Just the thought of it made her shiver.

Alma's dad and brother had been in the Gilbert County jail for three weeks. Everything was a mess there: Gilbert County sheriff's deputies had filled the jail with “illegals,” but Immigration didn't seem particularly interested in taking the next step. As a result, the jail was overflowing with people who had rolled through stop signs, failed to use turn signals, been driving without valid licenses. The sheriff just kept packing them in, hoping each day that the charter buses would arrive to take all of these “criminals” to a federal detention center and off the hands of Gilbert County.

In the meantime, someone needed to take responsibility for the Garcia household. Alma's grandmother was still staying with them, but in the eyes of the government, she was just a visitor passing through. All of her dad's assets—the trucks, the house, the business, the bank accounts—would be frozen unless he gave a US citizen something called power of attorney.

It was almost impossible to believe, considering how many birthday parties, baptisms, and
quincea
ñ
eras
Alma had endured over the years, but they were having a hard time finding someone. They had a broad network of friends and family in Gilberton, and everyone was willing to help the family out in this time of crisis. They had received so many meals that the fridge was overflowing with
caldos
and casseroles; they had prayed so many novenas that
la Virgencita
had to be completely sick of hearing the Garcia family name. But hardly anyone was a legal resident.

The only exceptions were Manny and his parents, who had just been busted by the IRS for failing to pay federal income taxes. They forgot—for a decade. So they were off the list of potential candidates. Honestly, Alma's dad wouldn't have trusted them anyway.

Technically, Evan could do it, but an eighteen-year-old kid with a trust fund was not really the best candidate to sell a house, a car, and a business. They hoped Alma's dad would be released from detention so that he could take care of everything, but in case he wasn't, they had to find someone. Mrs. King—master problem solver—stepped up and offered her services. They were on their way to pick her up now.

“Well, Evan, I got a call from your cousin yesterday,” Mrs. King said as she opened the car door and sank into the passenger seat.

She had just gone through cataract surgery, and though it clearly pained her to be separated from her Buick, she had to accept rides for at least another few days.

“Whit'll be headin' back to us in a week, now,” Mrs. King said.

“Is he going to live at home?” Alma asked. “Please tell me he isn't going to another boarding school.”

“No, Alma. His momma and daddy finally got some sense up in those heads of theirs. He'll be living in Gilberton in a group home for recovering addicts. It's called a three-quarters house.”

“I think it's gonna work this time, Mrs. King.” Alma said. “I honestly do. We talked a few days ago, and he seemed—I don't know. He seemed centered, or something.”

Alma wasn't sure why she had decided to forgive Whit on that afternoon he showed up at her house, a few days after she left him on the edge of Mathis Dam. She had been selfishly relieved to see him standing on her front stoop, with his tired eyes and beautiful, angled face. He had seemed so desperate when she left him, and it crossed her mind more than once how easy it would have been for him to lean out too far over the edge and plunge into the churning waters. Instead, he came to her and apologized. He gave her the pewter flask, and he told her that it wasn't such a good friend after all. He wanted to get well, and she wanted that, too.

Whit had turned back from the edge of the dam and faced the future that made him so afraid. There was something to be said for that.

After driving south for about an hour, they pulled off the interstate in the crisp light of a beautiful spring morning. They drove along a broad avenue, flanked on either side by parks filled with hot-pink azaleas and flowering dogwood trees that looked like wispy clouds hovering just above the ground. Even the high-rises of midtown Atlanta were clean and gleaming, new towers buffed to a sheen.

Mrs. King's son, looking distinguished with his gray suit and close-cropped hair, emerged from a bank of shining double-glass doors. He took Mrs. King's arm in the crook of his elbow and then turned toward Alma.

“Do you think you're ready for this?”

“As ready as I'll ever be?” she replied. She had tried to sound confident, but the statement came out as a question.

“Let me assure you, Alma,” he said, “Sue Chen is the best immigration attorney in this city—and one of the best in the nation. You're in good hands.”

Evan took her hand and squeezed it lightly. Alma smiled faintly and headed into the building.

“Are you OK?” Evan whispered in her ear.

“Yeah, why?”

“You look a little dazed.”

He rested his hand lightly on her lower back and gently guided her toward one of several long banks of elevators. Alma forced her attention toward the precise point where his hand touched the fabric of her shirt. She let his warm touch fill her senses. The elevator rose so fast that Alma's stomach lurched. By the time they arrived on the forty-eighth floor, she felt queasy and off balance. As the others walked out, she grasped onto the polished bronze railing behind her, feeling it cool and smooth against her hand.

“Are you sure you're OK?” Evan asked.

“Just nervous,” she said.

“Alma, she's a good lawyer,” Evan said. “Good lawyers fix complicated problems.”

Holding the door open with his foot, Evan reached for her hand and pulled her into his chest. She wasn't sure who might be watching, and she didn't care. She let herself listen for the steady beat of his heart.

“Everything's going to be fine,” he said. “You'll see.”

 

 

Voluntary removal.

Evan struggled to understand how these words were being used together. The lines of a silly song from elementary school ran through his head, reminding him that there was a term for this: oxymoron. According to Ms. Chen, this oxymoron explained why his friend Ra
ú
l was on his way from a prison cell to a bus bound for Mexico.

Evan was completely lost. Ms. Chen appeared to be extraordinarily capable. She sat erect at the head of this table in a handsomely furnished conference room, sipping her Diet Coke, wearing a dark suit and a simple strand of pearls, her jet-black hair pulled into a smooth bun.

She had been explaining for an hour, but none of it made any sense.

The good news was that Ms. Chen had gotten Ra
ú
l's misdemeanor charges dropped. Apparently Sheriff Cronin stepped in and determined that the machete in Mr. Garcia's truck was actually a tool and not a weapon. Evan wasn't really in the mood to thank his Uncle Buddy for this “favor,” especially not after he heard the other “good news” (Ms. Chen actually used this phrase). Ra
ú
l and Mr. Garcia had been transported from the Gilbert County jail to the Stewart Detention Center, a huge prison in some south Georgia town Evan had never heard of. This took them out of limbo and into the custody of the Department of Homeland Security.

Weren't those the people who dealt with terrorists? That's what Evan wanted to ask, but he kept his mouth shut.

Evan wasn't sure that he got all—or even most—of what Ms. Chen was telling them, but he was pretty sure that Ra
ú
l had waived his right to a hearing in front of an immigration judge. Ms. Chen explained that Ra
ú
l would take this thing called “voluntary removal,” to avoid having a felony on his permanent record. That seemed sort of reasonable to Evan, until Ms. Chen also explained that Ra
ú
l would be unable to reenter the United States for ten years, with or without the felony.

Ten years! Could that possibly be right?

He glanced across the table at Mrs. King's son, Reginald, who started pacing, running his hands over his short-cropped hair.

“Now, Sue, there must be some avenue we haven't explored?”

“No, Reginald,” Ms. Chen responded patiently.

“You mean to tell me that this boy—who came here when he was
five
years old, graduated from high school with honors, played on an all-state soccer team, and has never so much as gotten a ticket for jaywalking—you mean to tell me that there is
no way
, none at all, that he'll be able to return to the United States until he's thirty years old?”

“Yes, Reginald. That's right.” Ms. Chen responded matter-of-factly.

Reginald was a lawyer, but he didn't specialize in immigration. Evan took some comfort in the fact that he seemed just as baffled as Evan.

“
Nothing?
Not a
damn thing
we can do about this?” Reginald asked.

“No, Reginald. But if Ra
ú
l doesn't attempt return and keeps a clean record, he will be able to apply for a visa—if he qualifies—after the ten-year period is up.”

“And what sort of visa would he qualify for?” Reginald asked.

“That's a tough one,” Ms. Chen replied. “Ra
ú
l is an intelligent young man,” she said, shrugging. “If he gets an advanced degree in Mexico—perhaps in engineering or computer science—he may be able to return on a temporary work visa … eventually.”

Who was this woman kidding? Alma had explained enough to Evan that he knew Ra
ú
l probably wouldn't even be able to find a job there. How was he going to afford college and graduate school?

“But if he refuses to take voluntary removal, the felony on his record will, in effect, make his bar on reentry permanent.” Ms. Chen said.

“Lord have mercy,” Mrs. King muttered under her breath.

“So he would never be able to come back?” Reginald asked.

Ms. Chen nodded.

“Well,” Reginald replied, “that's just plain crazy.”

Evan couldn't even look at Alma, who was slumped silently in the chair beside him. He didn't have to. He felt the despair releasing in soft waves from her body.

Ms. Chen launched into more legal gibberish, this time about Alma's dad.

Thankfully, Reginald stepped in again.

“So, let me be sure I've got this,” Reginald said. “Mr. Garcia will not waive his right for a hearing. And we are aiming for the judge to grant him permission to be released from custody for a couple of months to get his affairs in order, sell his business and his home.”

“That's right, Reginald,” Ms. Chen said.

“And he would buy his own ticket back to Mexico, and then give the court proof that he left the country before a certain date?”

“Yes,” Ms. Chen said. “This option is called ‘voluntary departure.' But if he doesn't leave by the date agreed upon, he will be put back into detention and ‘removed,' with a felony on his record.”

There was that word “voluntary” again. Wasn't that supposed to mean doing something because you
wanted
to do?

Ms. Chen leaned forward and looked at Alma intently.

“Alma,” she said. She spoke softly, reaching her hand out across the table. “There is something difficult that you will need to prepare for, if your father is released from custody.”

Something difficult? Ms. Chen must be a complete hard-ass if she didn't think
all
of this was difficult.

Everyone was looking at Alma now, but Evan couldn't do it. He couldn't take seeing her so upset. Ms. Chen said that if Mr. Garcia was fortunate enough to be granted “voluntary departure,” he'd be wearing some sort of device around his ankle.

Suddenly realizing what she was talking about, Evan blurted out, “Do you mean a
LoJack
?”

Ms. Chen glared at him, her eyes casting darts. He actually shuddered.

“Excuse me, Ms. Chen,” he said, looking down at the table. “I'm sorry I interrupted.”

Ms. Chen said that Mr. Garcia would also face the ten-year bar on reentry, an “unavoidable consequence” of having been in the United States continuously for more than a year without permission.

Suddenly, Evan felt a terror coursing through his body. He closed his eyes and heard Reginald ask the awful question forming in his own mind.

“For whom, exactly, is this a consequence, Sue?
Anyone
who has been in continuous residence? Regardless of age?”

Would they kick Alma out? Would they make her wait ten years to come back? Those were the questions Evan knew they needed to ask, but he couldn't bear to hear the answers.

Ms. Chen said something about “extraordinary circumstances,” and then Mrs. King broke in. She had barely spoken at all until now.

“Lord have mercy,” Mrs. King said. “You are just going to have to slow down, Ms. Chen, and we're gonna need for you to explain all this in laymen's terms.”

Thank God for Mrs. King.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. King,” Ms. Chen said. “Let me just give you an example. Let's say Reginald, here, falls in love with an undocumented immigrant from Mexico and they go off and get married.”

Reginald chuckled.

“Well. Wouldn't we all be praising the good Lord for that?” Mrs. King said. “It's about time for him to settle down, don't you think?”