Dreaming in English (33 page)

I open the binder and locate my ticket to Iran. I pull it out of its protective sleeve and hand it across the desk to Mr. Hernandez. “I was going back. See? My ticket cost several thousand dollars. I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t intend to use it.”

“Mr. Fakrhi spent several thousand dollars on a wedding ring,” he says. “Surely, he wouldn’t have bought it if
he
didn’t intend to use it. Would you like to see the receipt for that? I have it.”

“This isn’t how it looks on paper.” Ike’s voice trembles. “You’ve got to understand Tami, and then it makes sense. She’s super shy, super polite, and she finds it very difficult to stand up for herself. And her family’s tough! Her sister’s really pushy. But she said no. To her credit, she finally said no. It was late in the game, granted, but she did, and it was a huge moment for her. She would rather have gone back to Iran than marry someone she didn’t love. I find that honorable.
Very
honorable.”

Mr. Hernandez listens to what Ike has to say; then he looks at me. “So you’re telling me you’re the victim of your very traditional family, and you think I shouldn’t judge you based on what they were trying to do. Is that right? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, please,” I say. “This is what I think.”

He gives me a long, considering look.

“All right,” he says finally. “Fair enough.”

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thank you!” I say. “You’re very kind. You’re very decent.”

“Not so fast.” He pulls out a single sheet of paper from his folder. “I’ll judge you on this.”

Ike takes the paper that’s offered and reads it, expressionless. My chair is far enough back that I can’t see what it is.

“Did you know about
this
? ” Mr. Hernandez asks him. “I can’t imagine you think
this
is honorable.”

Ike sniffs, then hands the paper to me. I search his eyes for our common ground, but I can’t find it anymore. When I see what’s on the paper, I know why.

My eyes sink closed. I’m dead. It’s over.

“Why don’t you read it out loud?” Mr. Hernandez suggests, but there is absolutely no way I’ll read this out loud. I can’t even stand to read it silently.

“I didn’t write this!” I say. “It was my friend Eva. She did this without my knowledge.”

“You’re not one to take responsibility for your actions, are you?” Mr. Hernandez says.

You could balance a stack of coins on Ike’s shoulders. They’re that rigid.

“How did you find this?” he says. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask. I have to know.”

“I was wondering when someone would.” Mr. Hernandez smiles. “As it turns out, we received a phone call about the two of you. We received a tip on the fraud hotline. It seems that someone doesn’t think very highly of what you’ve done.”

I still have nightmares about her on my patio in her blue linen dress. She brought her deceitful banana bread and rummaged through her bag and pulled out that business card and showed me the back of it.
See this? This is the phone number to Immigration Enforcement. This is the number I call to have you deported.

She did it. She called. She did exactly what she said she’d do.

Stunned, I look to Ike.

Poor Ike.

His eyes are closed and he’s shaking his head. He can’t believe it, can’t believe his own mother would do something so awful to her own son. But I can, for I know better than he that a mother’s love can be toxic sometimes, even when it’s well intentioned.

“I
ke’s mother has always hated me,” I say to Mr. Hernandez. “She’s done some horrible things, and she’s not as nice as she seems. Please, you can’t believe what she’s told you.”

“Tami,” Ike says.

“What?” I say. “She has, Ike. You don’t even know all she’s done.”

“
Who called the hotline?
” Ike demands. “Was it my mother? ”

Mr. Hernandez smiles. “Haroun Mehdi called the hotline.”

Haroun!

I look at Ike, astounded. “Haroun’s
crazy
,” I say. “He’s—”

“He says he was your fiancé.”

“He was never my fiancé! You can’t trust
anything
he says. He’s—”

“He says he was.” Mr. Hernandez shrugs. “I tend to believe him. He was humiliated when you left him for Mr. Fakhri. He was so upset, apparently, that he went to significant lengths to track him down. It seems they bonded over their broken hearts, or at least over their failed engagements.”

“Please, can you just—” I practically throw my photo album at Mr. Hernandez. “
We love each other.
Ike and I love each other. Can’t you see that?”

I hate crying. I wish I wasn’t, but maybe it’s a good thing because I know most men can’t stand to see women cry, and maybe this is why Mr. Hernandez finally is willing to look through my photographs—at the pictures of us in San Diego, of me in a bikini for the first time in my life. Of us dancing in the coffee shop, the photo taken on a timer, one of my first slow dances with a man (the other time was also with Ike, at a country-western bar). Of Old Sport, the first dog I’ve ever liked, smothering me on our patio chair. Of us at Gates Pass, watching the sunset from the back of Ike’s pickup. Out at a bar with my ESL friends that night we saw Danny sing in his band.

“This is a
life
we have together,” I say. “Can’t you see that?”

Mr. Hernandez finally looks up. “I believe you love your husband,” he says, nodding. “And I believe your husband loves you.”

“Oh!” I sigh, so relieved.
“Thank you.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can use a tourist visa to get married so you can apply for residency.”

“That wasn’t what I did,” I say. “It really, honestly wasn’t.”

“The evidence suggests otherwise.” He gestures to his file folder. “We have at least two known fiancés prior to your marriage to Mr. Hanson here. We have records of money changing hands.” Upon seeing my confusion, he holds up a bank record of a money transfer from Masoud to Ardishir, my dowry of sorts. “We have plane tickets to Chicago bought with his credit card, in both your names. We have a contract spelling out when and under what conditions your residency application was to be filed. We have an admission on his part—”

“I didn’t sign that contract!”

“But you considered it,” he said. “At the very least, you considered it, and that speaks to motive.”

“But—”

“And we have that very damning ad you ran on the singles Web site.”

Mr. Hernandez holds up his hand. “We don’t need to go around and around on this. It’s okay. I have the information I need. Thank you very much for your time, and you can expect to receive our decision in the mail within a few days.”

Just like that. He hands back my binder.

“But please—”

“I have my next appointment.”

“We have more to talk about.” Ike’s voice is thick. “There’s so much you don’t understand about Tami. If only you knew her—”

“I know enough to know she’s a lovely person,” Mr. Hernandez says.

“Look at that binder,” Ike says desperately, taking it from me and trying to hand it back to Mr. Hernandez, who doesn’t accept it. “Look at the stuff in there. We
live
together. We have a
bank account
together. We’re opening a
business
together—in days, we’re opening it! We’re together
all the time.
Our marriage—” After a pause, he continues softly. “Our marriage is the most real thing I know. It’s the only thing I’m sure of. The only thing in this crappy world that makes any sense to me.”

I almost cry out. Since when does Ike think the world’s crappy?

I remember his father’s words:
Ike still thinks the world is good. Sometimes it takes just one very bad, horrible experience to make a person question that
.
And I don’t want you to be that thing.

But I am.

I am that thing.

“Please,” I beg. “Isn’t there anything we can do?” I search my brain for something that might help our case. A vaginal exam, like that woman from Canada had to get?

No! But there must be something.

“I know!” I say. “We have tattoos! See, look. Both of us.” I jump up and lower the waistband of my skirt to show Mr. Hernandez my heart tattoo with Ike’s name inside. “Ike, show him yours, too.”

Ike looks at me like I’m crazy. “Why would I show him my tattoo?”

“We wouldn’t have gotten them if we didn’t love each other.” I look to Mr. Hernandez. “They’re permanent! They’re forever!”

He laughs. “I can’t grant you residency based on a tattoo.”

“But, please. Ike’s my family, even more than my family’s my family. Please, Mr. Hernandez!”

He sighs. “Have a seat.”

Quickly, hopefully, I do.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” he says. “About the day my daughter took her test to get her driver’s license. Do you have your driver’s license? Here, I mean?”

I shake my head no.

“Well, there’s a written portion and then there’s the road test,” he says. “My daughter did great on the written portion. She aced it, and she did great on the road test, too, except for one small mistake. When she was parallel parking, she scraped the side of the car in front of her, the one she was trying to fit in behind. Just barely, she hit it. It didn’t even leave a scratch. Well, the instructor, he was really nice about it, but he said, you know, that as a matter of policy, if you strike a car on your road test, no matter how slight, there’s simply no way they pass you. There’s just ...” He shrugs. “No way. You see what I’m saying? ” He eyes me. “In driver’s test terms, you’re lurching down the road here, hitting virtually every car in your path, whether it’s parked or moving. One of these mistakes alone might have disqualified you—fiancé number one. Fiancé number two. Money being exchanged. Internet ads being placed. A rushed Vegas wedding. You can say what you want, and I do believe you love each other—I’ll grant you that. But all evidence indicates that your intentions were in violation of U.S. immigration law, and that’s what I have to base my judgment on. You understand? It’s not personal.”

The funny thing is, I do understand. If a country gives you a tourist visa, they want you to come as a tourist, and then go home. That’s what you promise when you sign up for the visa. It’s a reasonable process and a reasonable law, and I appreciate the fact that he’s being so ... reasonable. I don’t like his decision. I hate it, but at least it’s not
arbitrary.
This is all I want for Iran. If Iran would just have reasonable laws and enforce them reasonably, none of us would ever want to leave. It’s our home, and we want to be proud of it. But instead, we’re made to feel like exiles in our own country. All a person wants is to be treated with decency. That’s all anybody wants. So
thank you
, Mr. Immigration Official, for treating me in a way I’ve never been treated by my own government. Thank you, even though you’re telling me I must go.

“I understand,” I tell him.

“Well, I don’t.” Ike’s eyes are blazing. “She’s not a threat to anyone. She’s a
great person.
”

“I’m not saying she’s not a good person,” Mr. Hernandez says. “But that’s not what I make my judgment on. Now, I almost never do this, but you’re both very nice people, and here’s the thing—I have never before told anyone they’ve failed their interview while they’re here in my office. There’s just no point. It’d be a nightmare. Constant headaches. It might even be dangerous for me. So I keep the interview pleasant and smooth, and I send a letter with my decision after they’ve left. You see why I do this?”

We failed. He’s telling us we’ve failed. Oh, poor Ike. His jaw is clenched. His fists are clenched. His heart—that’s clenched, too.
I’m so sorry, Ike.

When neither of us answers, Mr. Hernandez continues. “You’ll be receiving your letter in a few days. When you do, you have a major decision to make.” He looks at me. “You can accept it and leave the country voluntarily. If you do this, then in ten years’ time, you can try again. You can file a visa of some sort. Tourist or marriage or otherwise, and it’ll be considered with no prejudice against you because of this situation.”

“Ten years,” I say, stunned.

“You’re young,” he says. “It’s not as long as it seems.”

Ten years. I look over at Ike. He might have gray hair by then. He’ll certainly have children by then—several children, with another woman, another wife! And they’ll be so beautiful and he’ll be such a good dad, and he’ll have his chain of coffee shops. And me? What will I have?

“Don’t send me back to Iran,” I plead to Mr. Hernandez. “A
day
there feels like a death sentence—ten years would kill me.”

I’d be like Maman, all the time seeking refuge in my bedroom, yearning for days I can’t get back.

“We’re going to appeal,” Ike says. “You can’t do this. You don’t understand us. You don’t know what we mean to each other. We mean
everything
to each other.”

“I believe you,” Mr. Hernandez says. “And I’m still denying your application for residency, based on the grounds of marriage fraud.”

“We’ll fight this,” Ike says. “We’ll go to court, and we’ll fight.”

“You absolutely will not win,” Mr. Hernandez says. “Your appeal will be denied, and at that point, your wife’s deportation won’t be considered voluntary, and she’ll never be able to come back, not under any type of visa, no matter how much time has passed.”