Dream Things True (32 page)

“
S
í
,
” Alma said.

“
¿Para tres personas?
”
Abuela
Lupe was shaking her head slowly.

“
S
í
,
” Alma replied. “
Nada m
á
s tres personas.
”

She stepped out to get some air and saw Evan's mom heading straight toward her.

“Hello, Alma. I'm just on my way to water the impatiens. Why don't you join me?”

Alma followed Mrs. Roland to the flowerbed that wrapped around the patio, wondering how she was surviving the change of season without Alma's dad around to keep up the yard. Who planted the annuals for her this year?

Mrs. Roland picked up a prissy little watering can and sprinkled droplets on the new plantings.

“Should I bring over the hose?” Alma asked, trying to be helpful.

“No, thank you, Alma. This will do just fine.” Her voice was cold and hard. “You should know, Alma, that I do not approve of this.”

“Excuse me?”

Admittedly, Alma rarely interacted with Evan's mom, but this tone was new to her. Was it because of what Alma had said in front of all those people? Alma knew that Mrs. Roland hadn't told Evan about it. He would have said something. Or she would have seen it in his face. He was no good at hiding secrets.

Alma still hadn't gathered the courage to tell him about her decision, but he didn't seem to notice her anxiety. Maybe she was better with secrets. She had lived with one for so long.

“I told Evan not to go today.”

“You did?” Alma heard the surprise in her voice. “I, uh, I'm sorry, Mrs. Roland. I didn't know.”

Mrs. Roland looked up from the impatiens and smiled weakly. “My Evan, he has a kind spirit.”

Alma nodded.

“Just the other day,” Mrs. Roland said, “as I was cleaning out the game room…”

Alma tried to imagine Evan's mom cleaning. She couldn't.

“I remembered one of my favorite stories about Evan. It was a few days after Christmas, and he was just a little boy. Maybe six or seven.”

She put down the empty watering can. Alma felt sorry for those impatiens. There was no way they would survive the heat of the summer with Mrs. Roland trying to care for them.

“I took him into his playroom and I gave him a large cardboard box. I explained that since he had just been given so many wonderful gifts from Santa, he should consider giving away some of his old toys.”

Alma stared at the suffering impatiens and listened silently.

“At first he was confused. I told him that some children don't have parents, and others have parents, but their parents don't have enough money to buy them toys. Then I left the room. When I came back, the box was filled with all of his new toys. He was crying. He said he wanted the children to have the good toys, that he would keep the old ones.”

“That's a nice story,” Alma said.

It
was
a nice story. It captured something about Evan's spirit.

Mrs. Roland turned and looked directly into her eyes.

“Don't confuse mercy for love, Alma.”

She lifted her watering can and walked toward the house, abandoning Alma next to the thirsty flower seedlings, feeling as if she'd been punched in the gut.

They drove for hours—through Atlanta, past the airport, and then south on an almost empty highway. But no matter how far they drove or how hard Evan tried to make small talk, Alma couldn't get his mother's words out of her head.

When Evan stopped at Chick-fil-A, Alma stayed in the car. She felt paralyzed. He brought her fries and a Coke, and she sipped on the Coke to settle her nervous stomach, but she just watched the fries get cold, wondering—even though she hated herself for thinking so—whether he had bought her food as an act of mercy.

The closer they came to the detention center, the more desolate the roads became. They drove in silence through a deserted town square. A courthouse stood in the center with paint peeling in large sheets down the sides. Leaving the square, they passed by several sagging trailers propped up on cinder blocks. They made their way along an open stretch of road. Evan saw it first, a large sign that read “Correctional Facility” with an arrow pointing down a narrow street.

“It's not a correctional facility,” Alma said, her heart beating fast. “A correctional facility is a jail.”

Evan turned and approached another sign. This one read “Stewart Detention Center.”

“I don't know, Alma. I guess this is it,” he said, sighing.

They turned a corner and a building came into view.

“It's huge!” Alma exclaimed.

And it was.

The windowless white fortress stretched out behind a broad expanse of asphalt, separated from the parking lot by four long rows of chain-link fence, each topped with curling loops of razor wire glinting in the noonday sun. The glare was so strong that Alma threw her hands up to cover her eyes.

“Oh, good Lord,” Evan said.

Abuela
Lupe turned toward her and spoke rapidly. She asked whether maybe they had come to the wrong place? Perhaps there was a different building for the noncriminal detainees?

“
Madre Mar
í
a,
” she said. “
Mi hijo no puede estar aqu
í
. Mi hijito precioso no debe de estar aqu
í
.
”

And she was right. Alma's dad didn't belong here.

“Alma, look,” Evan said.

A row of police cars lined the edge of the parking lot. Along their sides were printed the letters “ICE.”

Her heart lurched as the memory of the raid at the poultry plant came tumbling back. She felt her breathing speed up.

“But Ms. Chen told us ICE isn't here on the weekends,” she said between deep gulps of air. “She said that it would be OK for me to come.”

“She said they
usually
aren't here on the weekends, Alma. Remember? She said they probably wouldn't be looking to arrest anyone here. It should be OK. You have your school ID, right?”

Evan's words were not exactly inspiring confidence.

Alma got out of the car and followed the others, on shaky legs, toward the barbed wire fence. A young pregnant woman wearing a bright red shirt and matching lipstick stood alone. She pressed a buzzer and waited. They were joined by an old man with an oversized baseball cap covering his sun-damaged face and a younger man neatly dressed in khaki shorts and a button-down shirt. A woman—she must have been his wife—walked toward them with three small girls, each of whom had her hair neatly brushed and braided. They all were Latino except for Evan.

The younger man pushed the large red call button again.

“Identify!” a voice barked from the small speaker.

“Visitors,” the man said.

The pregnant woman turned to speak to Alma. “Are you here to visit family?”

“My dad,” Alma replied.

“First time?”

“Yeah.”

The young woman glanced over at the three small girls, the youngest of whom was clinging to her mother's leg.

“I couldn't do it,” she whispered, gesturing toward the mother and her girls.

“Do what?” Alma asked.

“You know, bring little kids to see their dad here—talking on a telephone through a glass wall. I wouldn't want them to see him that way, you know?”

Alma was confused.

“I thought we got to go in a room with them,” Alma said anxiously.

“Nope. You sit in a cubicle and talk on an old-fashioned telephone—just like in the movies.”

A loud buzz broke through Alma's stunned silence, and the first gate churned open. They stepped into a holding area and waited for the gate to close. When it did, they were all enclosed in a narrow space, waiting for the second gate to open. Alma could feel the anxiety radiating off of the group. It was torture to stand here, trapped.

“Her dad is a nonviolent offender,” Evan said. “I'm sure it's different for them.”

“My husband's here because of an expired driver's license,” the woman shot back angrily. “There are no contact visits. Not for anyone.”

“Sorry,” Evan replied sheepishly. “I mean, I didn't mean to…”

“It's OK,” the woman replied. “It's just that, I hate the way they're treated like criminals. I get sort of emotional, you know?”

Yes, Alma knew. She was using every ounce of energy to keep from crying. At least, thinking of her dad inside this awful prison, she could stop obsessing over the conversation with Mrs. Roland.
When was the gate going to open?

Alma had an overpowering urge to run, or to climb the fence or something. She needed to calm down. She needed reassurance.

“Can I ask you a question?” Alma said to the pregnant woman. “It's personal.”

“Sure,” she replied.

“Are you, uh, legal?”

“Yeah, I was born here. In California. Aren't you?”

“No.”

The woman glanced over at the ICE vehicles lining the entryway. “I've never seen them bother anyone, but still … aren't you a little worried?“

Another buzz and the second gate churned open. Alma stared ahead at the fifty feet of sidewalk she would have to traverse before entering the building, her heart thumping wildly. If she stepped through the second gate and felt it close behind her, she would full-on panic.

Alma yanked Evan's hand and pulled him in close to her.

“I can't do it, Evan,” she whispered urgently. “I can't go in there.”

She lunged forward and mashed on the red button next to the first gate. Nothing happened.

She heard Evan's voice, but it sounded like it was coming through a long, narrow tunnel.

“Alma, it will be OK.”

She glanced back at the row of police cars. “I'm sorry, Evan. I just can't.”

Her eyes were losing focus, white spots swarming the corners.

“But what about your grandmother?”

“You have to take her in.” She grabbed onto the fence to steady herself.

“I'm not leaving you, Alma.”

Was this another act of mercy? Alma's head suddenly cleared. She needed to be strong. The gate stopped and the others walked toward the facility. Alma sucked in a deep breath and spoke with authority.

“Take
Abuela
Lupe in and get started on the paperwork, Evan. I'll wait in the car.”

“No!” Evan said firmly. “I can't leave you out here.”

“You have to,” Alma said calmly. “I won't go in there.”

“Please, Alma,” Evan pleaded. “Let me stay with you.”

“I'm not going, and she needs to see her son. She needs your help.”

Evan grabbed Alma's hand and squeezed it. His palm was sweating. Alma looked at him and forced a single nod.

With that, he released her hand and jogged toward the prison while Alma stood trapped between two barbed wire fences, watching the gate slowly close.

 

 

By the time Evan and
Do
ñ
a
Lupe had finished filling out the forms, Alma still hadn't come in. Evan had no idea what to do. He wanted to check on her, but he had to see Mr. Garcia.

Evan heard the guard call his name. He stood up and walked with
Do
ñ
a
Lupe toward the metal detector. A dozen people passed through security together. The guard led them through several sets of barred gates and into a long, narrow visitation room, where five desks, separated by thin partitions, looked across thick glass. Five men dressed in blue jumpsuits sat awaiting their visitors.

It felt cold in the room, but the whole place was so awful and sterile that Evan couldn't be sure whether the chill in his spine was because of the temperature.

Evan watched as Alma's grandmother found her son on the other side of the glass. She sat down in a molded plastic chair and took the phone in one hand. Evan sat against the wall at the rear of the room and waited with several other people.

The family that had entered the prison with them was taking turns talking with a young man. The wife waited next to Evan with one of the children on her lap. The other two children sat on the floor at her feet.

“Where are you from?” the woman asked.

She spoke in slightly accented English.

“Gilberton. We're here with my girlfriend, but she didn't want to come in. This is her dad.”

“It's nice that you came,” the woman replied.

Evan's heart skipped a few beats, remembering why he was here and the conversation he would need to have with Alma's dad.

“How about you?” he asked. “Where did you come from?”

“North Carolina,” she said. “Near Charlotte. We're visiting my husband's brother.” She nodded at the child on her lap. “This is his little girl, Jessica.”

“Hi, Jessica,” Evan said. He almost asked
How are you?
, but considering the circumstances, he figured it was a dumb question.

“How old are you?” he asked instead.

She looked shyly into her lap and held up three fingers.

“Three. Wow. You're a big girl.”

“The other two are mine,” the woman said.

Alma's grandmother stood and gestured for Evan to come to the phone. With his heart lurching, Evan waved at the little girls and walked to the booth.

When his turn came to take the telephone, Evan realized that he needed a translator—desperately. For the first time in his life, he wished Whit were around. The phone line crackled and buzzed so much that Evan barely heard Mr. Garcia. It was going to be tough to understand his limited English.

Evan beat around the bush for a while. He asked about the conditions inside and tried to explain why Alma wasn't with them. It wasn't surprising that Alma's father was stoic and calm. He assured Evan that everything was fine, that he was being treated well, and that no matter what happened, things would turn out OK.