18
Marta
Marta is concerned about what Jason Franklin might be doing on her behalf and to whom he might be speaking. What if his questions give ICE more ammunition against her or, worse, reveal her location? What if he discovers her chances for reinstatement and asylum are poor? She wishes she had reminded him not to tell anyone he is from Boston. She wishes she had not given him her real name. She wishes she had never walked into his office.
Her worrying stirs up questions about her mother and sisters. Where are they? How are they surviving? Have they survived? Her brother is dead, and she is certain her father is also, but what of the others? Marta tries to see into the future, but she sees no one. If she is truly una hija de visión, why is there only blankness?
She runs every morning and sometimes in the late afternoon, stopping at Anna’s Taqueria and Area Four and the Saté Grill truck, where she eats voluminous amounts of food. When it rains, she runs up and down the stairs and along the corridors of Metropolis. She avoids Jason’s floor.
She throws herself into completing a chapter on her measurement tools. Although explaining the intricacies of multivariate statistics would bore most people to death, Marta enjoys the task. She loves finding ways to succinctly describe the graceful mathematics underlying her calculations. It is like taking apart a piece of machinery and putting it together in a simpler and more elegant way.
She thinks of how amused Jason was when she explained it to him, and how he appreciated her tongue-in-cheek hyperjargon. He is a good man. She was right about that, and she can tell he is a good attorney. It is also a positive sign that he specializes in immigration law. He knows what he is doing, and he will not give anything away to ICE. What is done is done, and she will just have to trust him.
Marta arrives at Jason’s door at the time and day she promised. She has been dreading this moment but becomes less concerned when he seems truly happy to see her. Perhaps the news is not as bad as she imagined.
“How goes the dissertation?” Jason asks when they are seated at his table.
“It is going very well, thank you. I finished the chapter I was telling you about the last time. And now I am writing up a description of each hypothesis and the data I collected to sustain or refute it.”
“The results of your varimax rotation?”
Marta laughs. “Not in this chapter, no.”
“But your data is showing that your variables affect later-life outcomes?”
“I believe it does, and I also believe you must have been a very good student to remember this.” She is pleased with this additional evidence of his intelligence.
“School always came easy to me.” He shrugs. “Not so much life.”
Marta would like to ask him more about his life and about his unconventional work situation. But despite all the years she has been in America, her reserve holds her back. Instead she asks, “Do you have any information for me?”
He opens his laptop, slides his finger along the touch pad, and taps a few keys. Then he turns the computer so they can both see it. “Let’s take a look.”
Marta flinches when she sees the logo on the top of the screen: an eagle encircled by the words “U.S. Department of Homeland Security.” Underneath, it reads “U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services.” She pushes her chair back a few inches and concentrates on Jason’s diplomas.
“The procedures are complicated and convoluted, and, in many ways, frustrating,” Jason is saying. “But let me walk you through them, and then we can do some brainstorming before we make any decisions.”
Her eyes snap back to the screen at his words. “I am very sorry, but as I know nothing of American law, I am afraid I will be of no help in the decision-making.”
“This is a collaboration, Marta. We need to work together to determine which steps you want to take. It’s a tortuous process, and there are lots of different ways we can go. We’ll do whatever you want to do.”
Marta despairs at his words. “How am I to know what I want to do?”
“I’ll break down all this legalese and we’ll work our way through it until you do.” Jason smiles. “Okay?”
Marta hesitates. “Okay.”
“As we discussed last week,” Jason begins, “I still plan to determine if your father, and therefore your family, falls within one of the groups specified by the administration for deportation. But whatever we find, we’re still going to need to apply for defensive asylum.”
“This is the same thing as political asylum?”
“It’s a form of political asylum. But you’re defending yourself against an existing deportation order. Which is different than if you’d just arrived in the US and wanted to stay because you’re afraid of persecution or torture in your home country.”
“I am afraid of persecution and torture in my home country.”
“That’s part of this too. But because you’re currently in violation of your immigration status, this is where we have to start.”
Marta stares at the cinder-block walls, the cement ceiling, and the huge steel door sealing them in. She tries to speak. No sound emerges.
“The two processes are similar,” Jason says. “In both, you have to convince the Executive Office for Immigration Review that your fears are credible. It’s just that you’ll appear before an immigration judge instead of an asylum officer.”
“This is worse than if I appeared before an officer?”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat this for you.” Jason looks her directly in the eye. “You didn’t comply with a deportation order, whether you did so knowingly or not. So you’ve been placed in removal proceedings for immigration violations, which, as you know, is why ICE is searching for you. The bottom line is that you’ve broken United States law. Therefore, in order to ask to stay in the country, you must go before a judge to explain why you broke this law and why there’s reason to reconsider the order. And, yes, it’s somewhat worse. It’s more adversarial.”
Once again, Marta appreciates his directness, but coils of fear begin to snake their way through her. Her mouth is dry, and although a water bottle is within reach, her hands are trembling, and she does not want Jason to see this. “But if I am able to convince the immigration judge that I will be killed if I return to Venezuela, he will be able to grant me asylum, yes?”
“Yes. It’s called ‘credible fear,’ which you certainly have. And if the judge doesn’t approve the request, there’s an appeals process.”
“But if our request is rejected,” she says slowly, realizing what Jason is not telling her, “because I broke the law, I will go to jail while it is being reconsidered?”
“If that happens, I’ll try to persuade the court to release you on your own recognizance while the appeal is pending.” Jason pauses. “But I have to tell you, given the current political climate, it’s likely you’ll be placed in detention.”
The coils squeeze. “As I have broken the law by remaining in the country, is it possible they will put me in jail as soon as I enter the courtroom?”
“Again, if that happens, I’ll try to persuade the judge to release you.”
“But given the current political climate,” she says, “it is likely the court will not be persuaded.”
To this, Jason has no response.
Marta stumbles upstairs, locks the door, and collapses on her bed. There is a saying in Spanish, entre la espada y la pared, “between a sword and a wall,” which is analogous to the English “between a rock and a hard place.” And this is exactly where she finds herself. She cannot go before the judge. She cannot go home. She cannot spend her life in a self-storage unit.
The following morning, as she’s walking out the front door for her run, Rose calls her name. Marta does not want to respond, but politeness is inbred, and she turns. “Good morning, Rose.”
“Come on in for a sec, hon,” Rose says. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
Marta freezes and fears she appears like that proverbial deer in the car lights. She does not have the strength to bear any more bad news.
Rose steps closer. “Are you all right?” She takes Marta’s arm and gently guides her toward the open office door. “I’ve got some muffins. Made them myself just last night. Apple, right off the tree. The kids love them, my Vince too. You look like you could use a bit of fattening up.”
Marta allows herself to be led, accepts coffee and a muffin, and falls into being mothered. It’s soothing to be taken care of. It has been a long time. The coffee is delicious, and the muffin even better. Marta relaxes as Rose chats about the weather and the best way to keep a muffin moist. There is no reason to assume whatever Rose has to tell her is negative.
“Want to split another one with me?” Rose holds up a muffin.
It will not be good to run on a full stomach, but Marta nods. Then she agrees to another cup of coffee. She inhales the rich, dark aroma and wishes she could stay in this moment, secure in the knowledge that her bed and her desk are upstairs and will remain there. As will she.
“There’s something I want to tell you,” Rose begins tentatively.
Marta reluctantly lifts her nose from the mug. “Yes?”
“I went back and forth, but then I decided it would be better for both of you to know.”
Marta braces herself. For both of you to know. She has no idea what this means, but she prays Rose’s knife will be quick.
“There’s another girl living here.”
This isn’t at all what Marta expected, and for a moment she does not understand. “Another girl is living here . . . ,” she repeats slowly. “She is also in a storage unit?”
“Yes!” Rose cries as if bestowing a gift. “Just one floor down from you.”
Marta wonders how she is expected to respond to the information. “This is very nice. Thank you for telling me.”
“Would you like to meet her? Her name is Liddy. She’s wonderful. Beautiful and smart and lots of fun.”
Marta can only stare at Rose. Why would a beautiful, smart woman be living at Metropolis? But then why is Jason’s office here? Why is she?
“You’d be good for each other, and you’d both know someone else is around in case you need something . . .” Rose’s eyes grow moist. “I bet it can get very lonely. Scary, even.”
Marta leans over to tie a shoelace that does not need tying. Rose might be too nosy, but the woman has a kind heart. It would be good to have someone else to talk to, but how would she explain to this Liddy who she is and why she is here? It is too risky. Marta shakes her head.
“No one’s going to ask any questions,” Rose says. “Privacy is very important at Metropolis. As you know.”
Marta has always been aware that Rose would like to be taken into her confidence. In fairness, Rose has never asked any questions. She collects Marta’s money and lets her be. But Rose is right. It is lonely. And sometimes scary. This Liddy must want to hold her secrets as tightly as Marta does, so maybe the risk is less than she supposes. “Well . . .”
“How about right now?” Rose jumps from her chair. “I can just go up and get her.”
“Now?” This is too fast. “I, uh, I do not think it is possible. I was just on my way out for a run, and—”
“You’ll love her,” Rose says, and flings open the office door. “Your run can wait a few minutes. You stay put, and we’ll be back down in a sec.”
After Rose leaves, Marta glances out the window at the cars and the trucks and the pedestrians going past. She looks longingly after the runners. Rose has maneuvered her into the situation, but again, manners preclude her from leaving. She hopes this is not a mistake.
When Rose returns with Liddy, who is indeed a beautiful woman, not a girl, Marta recognizes immediately that there has been no mistake. When their eyes meet, Marta understands Liddy recognizes this also. They take each other in, and Marta is filled with amazement and gratitude, along with a calm contentment.
“Liddy Haines,” Rose says happily. “Meet Marta Arvelo.”
Liddy reaches out to shake Marta’s hand. But instead of the ritual greeting, Marta gently takes it and presses it between both of hers. Liddy does not move, and neither does Marta. No words pass between them, but Marta knows, as only una hija can know, that she and Liddy are inexorably linked and intertwined far into the future. For both good and, chillingly, for ill.