Imperfect Spiral (26 page)

They were on their way back from a dance recital. Justin's parents had left work early to see their two little girls up on stage. They had taken videos—of course—and were looking forward to sending the film to Justin's older sister, the conservatory dance student. They were just promising the girls that they would transfer the video to the computer as soon as they got home, even though they needed to rush to get to a neighbor's house for a dessert-and-coffee party. Justin would be staying home with his two sisters.

And then a little boy ran into their car.

“
You
were in the car?” I croak. I think back to that night. I saw the shadows of four people in the minivan, two adult-size shadows in the front seat, two little kid–size shadows in the backseat.

“No. Oh, God, no. I wasn't in the car. I was hanging out with my friends. I needed to be home by eight thirty to babysit my sisters.”

I'm going over the time line of our so-called friendship in my mind.

“So when we first met in the park,” I say, “you knew who I was … and what happened.”

We'd joked about it, hadn't we? Like: ha-ha, you're stalking me, what a nutty idea.

“No. No. That was my park, too, you know. I'd seen you there with Humphrey, like I told you. But when you and I met there, I was just there—because. It's a place I like to hang out.”

“But,” I say, “you knew! You acted like you didn't know who I was, but you knew.”

“I wasn't sure at first. I wasn't sure if the girl and boy I saw in the park were the girl and boy involved in the accident. I was afraid you were—but I couldn't be sure until you told me.”

“Right—and I told you,” I say. “But you said nothing to me!”

He looks away from me.

“And I don't get it,” I say. “The articles I read said the family in the blue minivan had two daughters. Not two daughters
plus
an older son
plus
an older daughter.”

“They were wrong,” Justin says. “But it's not the sort of mistake that my parents were going to write a letter to the editor to complain about. My older sister and I aren't exactly standing up to be counted. We're trying to stay—invisible. That's what my parents want.”

This still isn't adding up. The newspaper said the people in the blue minivan were named Guzman. And Justin's last name is Folgar. At least that's what he told me.

“Another thing they didn't get quite right,” he says. “Another thing we saw no reason to correct. They did, at one point, say my father's name is Eugene Folgar Guzman, which is true. But then they only called him Mr. Guzman. He's not Mr. Guzman. We're not the Guzman family. Hispanic names don't work like
that. He's Mr. Folgar Guzman, or—to make it easier—just Mr. Folgar.”

“How could you say nothing to me!” I say. “We see each other, we talk, and you've got this huge secret!”

Now Justin turns to look me full in the eyes. And he looks so forlorn.

“I didn't want to ruin it,” he says.

“Ruin it? Ruin what?”

“I didn't want to ruin us,” he adds. “I know I was wrong.”

Wrong? Not just wrong. Something deeper than wrong. Did he become my friend—excuse me, my “friend”—just to get the inside scoop on what I was telling the cops? To see if he could find out what the authorities knew—whether they knew about the existence of him and his older sister, the dancer?

“Wrong” doesn't begin to describe it.

Later that week, I'm at the public bus stop near school when I see Becca walking toward me. The school day was done almost ninety minutes ago. Becca, I figure, is heading home from her newspapering work. Unlike me, she lives within walking distance of school. As for me, I wasn't staying after school; I had an appointment with my therapist, whose office is in a building on this street.

I didn't go in there with a piece of paper today. There's too much to write down. Too much confusion, too. I should at least have written a word cloud, with words like
betrayal, empathy, disbelief, understanding, suspicion, trust
, all in larger or smaller letters depending on their importance in my mind. Only I couldn't say which of those words is more important to me right now. And I didn't want to tell Dr. Gilbert about Justin and his
family. I don't know if I wanted to protect myself from feeling naïve or to shield Justin from being found out. So we were back to sitting there and mostly just kind of looking at each other.

Now, seeing Becca approach, part of me wants to run and hide. She'll know something is bothering me. Dr. Gilbert knew, too, but she's not the type to grab hold and shake and poke and prod you until you spill the beans. I don't think therapists do that. Becca, though—that's her all over.

“What's wrong?” she says the minute she sees me.

“I'm just tired,” I say.

She looks at me skeptically. “Are you coming from therapy?”

“Yeah, that'll wear a person out.” Great, now I'm just making things up. “What are you working on for the paper?”

I succeed in diverting Becca from the question of my appointment. She tells me about the article she's working on, which—I guess I am not meant to get away from this—is about immigration issues.

“There's this new group. They're called ‘US-2.'” She spells it out for me. “As in, the words ‘us, too.' But also like the U.S., second edition, you know—US-2. Clever,
n'est-ce pas
?”

I saw the flyers announcing today's first meeting. “US, Too!” at the top of the sheet, “US-2” at the bottom.

“What are they doing?” I ask.

“So far, they're gathering information about the anti-illegal immigration proposals in the county council and the state legislature. I think they're going to have a rally. You know, about the accident stirring up debate about undocumented immigrants.”

I nod. I don't tell her that by now I could write my own article about it all.

“So this is part of that. And for some of the kids, it touches really close to home.”

“It does?”

“Some of the kids who came to the meeting are actually undocumented immigrants. You'd never know it—” She stops herself. “I don't mean anything by that. I don't mean there's a typical way an undocumented alien looks or anything….”

“It's okay, Becca,” I say. “I am not the Politically Correct Police.”

“Anyway, two kids were brought here as babies by their parents. They're all undocumented, the whole family, but it's not as if these kids did anything wrong themselves. I mean, as far as they feel, they're Americans, you know?”

I nod again.

“Then three other kids were citizens themselves, because they were born here, but their parents are here illegally.”

“So, but—”

“So the undocumented kids, now that they're teenagers, have issues. They can't get driver's licenses, because you need to show that you're in the country legally to get a license. And the legal kids, they're always worried that something is going to happen to their parents.”

“What I don't get,” I say, “is how the accident or all the racket about it in the papers and online affects these kids. I mean, I know it's hard for them, but it's no harder today than it
was six months ago, right?” Unless those kids happen to be Justin and his sisters, but I keep that part to myself. “They couldn't get driver's licenses back then, either, could they?”

Becca thinks this over. She hadn't really considered that. “True. They couldn't get licenses. Or after-school jobs. I guess I have to make that clear in my article.”

But what is harder, and what is different, she says, is the new attention on immigrants and the focus on uncovering whether foreigners are legal or not.

“So, let's see. Here's what could happen under some of the proposals,” she says. “Say you're at a party with your friends and it gets rowdy,” she says. “And the police are called. All the other kids get sent home. If there's been drinking, maybe some kids get citations. If you're undocumented, though, you get handed over to the immigration authorities. And next thing you know, you're deported back to a country that you don't know anything about, and that you've probably never even visited.”

“There's got to be a more sympathetic scenario that the US-2 people can come up with than rowdy teenagers,” I say.

“There is,” Becca says. “In my notes somewhere.”

“Like,” I continue, “Adrian once got a ticket for jaywalking.”

“Are you serious?” Becca asks.

“Yup. For crossing Wisconsin Avenue downtown in the middle of the street, not at the crosswalk.”

“That's crazy!”

“Anyway, he wasn't arrested,” I say. “But it was a ticket, like
a parking ticket. Only unlike a parking ticket, you know, he was face-to-face with the policeman. Actually, policewoman. And so I suppose if he were here illegally—”

“If the policewoman thought he might not be a citizen,” Becca says, “one of the proposed laws would have her ask for proof that he was actually legal. And if he wasn't, if he didn't have that, then—”

“He'd be turned over to the immigration police,” I say.

“That's it,” Becca says. “And that's just one example.”

“But, Becca,” I say.

“But, Danielle,” she responds. An old pattern for us, from our middle school days.

“How is it that all this—all this
stuff
comes out of what happened to Humphrey? I mean, these kids you're talking about were going about their merry way, and now they're worried about being deported because of—” I won't blame Humphrey. “Because of
me
?”

“
C'est dommage
, I know.” Becca sighs. “It's such a shame. But I'm not sure they were going about their merry way. Their problems just felt less—immediate, I guess. Now illegal immigration is this big cause célèbre around here.”

We hear a bus approaching and look down the street to see if it's mine. It's not. Becca keeps her eyes looking away from me, and says, “I thought you might be at the US-2 meeting, actually…. But if you had therapy …”

When I don't say anything, Becca picks up where she left off. “Of course it's not your fault, but—remember that guy
arrested last year for crashing his car into those teachers? He was here illegally. That's when it all kind of started. Now your accident has pushed it all to the surface again.”

Ouch.
My accident
. Well, it is.

“The point is, it's not just what happened this summer that started it all,” Becca says. “So don't take that on. But—maybe instead of staying on the sidelines, it might be really good if you got involved, don't you think?”

“Some of us aren't joiners,” I say. “Have you ever known me to join things?”

“I know,” Becca says. “I guess I think this isn't about being a joiner or not.”

My bus rumbles down the street. I let it pass.

“What, then?” I press.

“What, then, is about taking the next step. Doing it for you; not for some group that's holding meetings. I mean, take camp. You
loved
camp, Danielle. Loved it, loved it, loved it.”

Yes, I did.

“And I understand why you didn't take the next step and become a CIT,” she says. “But what if you had tried? I'm not saying you could have just pushed yourself past your problem with putting yourself out there—with public speaking, or semi-public speaking, or being the center of attention. I know it's not that simple. But what if you had put yourself in that position as a CIT?”

I shudder. I mean, I physically, visibly shudder.

“I know how awful that sounds to you. But, believe me, you
would not have melted. You wouldn't have self-destructed. I know you have it in you.”

Have it in me
. That's what she says about my becoming a lawyer. But I wasn't shuddering at the thought of public speaking or semi-public speaking or my usual phobic worries. I was shuddering at the thought that I could have saved Humphrey by the simple act of going back to camp last summer. Yes, Becca, it
is
that simple.

“Look, forget it,” Becca says. “Forget I said anything. I talk too much.”

She's said this before. Not that it stops her.

“No, it's okay,” I say. “It's just that, Becca, all this just feels like too much. All these issues stirred up by the accident—I know they're important, and they matter, but to me the accident is about Humphrey, not a bunch of issues.”

“You can talk to me about that, Danielle,” Becca says quietly.

Can I? I know she would listen. Would she get it? Maybe; she's a people person, and she's a kid person. But it's Humphrey. Can anybody really get Humphrey if they didn't know Humphrey?

Anyway, I'm not even sure I know what I mean when I say that the accident is about Humphrey. I don't know how that translates into words.

And now there's the whole Justin complication. I just told Becca that to me the accident is about Humphrey and only about Humphrey. That the issues—immigration, street safety, whatever—are not my issues. It's true this is what I've been
thinking and feeling for weeks. But am I still saying this because I really feel it, or because this is what I'm used to feeling?

I do not know.

“Thanks, Becca,” I finally say. “I know I can talk to you. That means a lot. I just—don't have the words right now.”

She nods, hesitates, and then says, “That isn't a feeling I have a lot of personal experience with….”

We both laugh at the reality that Becca
always
has the words.

“But I understand,” she concludes.

“And when it comes to the issues,” I say, “maybe I should be motivated by what happened. It's just—I'm not sure what I think about them.”