Chapter 7 #2
And she does. How she came here as a child carried on her father's visa who came for work.
How the status evolved with her through school, the extensions granted, the paperwork that always seemed to sort itself through the machinery of her father's oversight.
How he went home two years ago and took with him, apparently, the working assumption that someone was still handling it.
She tells me the story, about a little girl who was moved away from her home, only to make a new one.
That now, she’s all alone, and saddest of all, how her parents will have ‘expected something like this’ which she says without self-pity, in a tone like she’s reporting a weather forecast, and she’s accepted it.
It’s actually heartbreaking, because I realize I know absolutely nothing about her.
I never even picked up on an accent, let alone the fact she’s practically as alone in her life as I am mine.
I listen without interrupting, which is something I’m able to do well. My grandmother always said the most expensive thing a person can do is start solving a problem before you’ve finished hearing it. Even though it’s taking every ounce of patience I have to not jump into action now.
When she finishes, she takes a long sip of the tea and looks at me with the eyes asking to confirm what she’s most afraid of.
I have an honest answer and an unusual resistance to delivering it.
Overcome with the strangest concern it’s going to hurt her, which is not something I’ve previously considered in the context of this woman.
“This letter,” I say carefully, “is the preliminary notice. Which means there are probably additional letters, at minimum one, that would have come after this. Terminating your status formally.” I watch her absorb it. “When you get home tonight, you need to go through all of the mail.”
She closes her eyes for one moment. “Of course there are more letters.” I’ve just told her she has to go through the most unimaginable haunted house of her own making.
I stand, which brings me back to my full height, and she looks up at me from the armchair with an expression I haven’t seen from her before, something open, and uncertain, and younger than she usually lets herself appear.
She is quiet for a moment. “Can I ask you for something else?”
“You can ask.” And I just hope whatever it is can be as easily found as that box of tea because I have this completely unreasonable desire to solve whatever problem I can for her.
“Can you put on The Greatest Showman?” She says it quickly, like she’s expecting to be rejected.
“I just, I don’t want to be alone, and whenever I feel bad, it’s the only thing that helps.
I even taught myself the choreography from the last song a few years ago.
I saw someone do it online, and I’m not very good, but my anxiety was really bad for a while.
So I’d put it on and do the steps until my brain had something to follow.
Kind of like what you just did, with the breathing, ya know?
Something physical, with a pattern. I don’t need to do the dancing, I just—” She stops herself mid sentence and redirects it.
Her eyelids look heavy with regret for even asking.
“Never mind. It’s so stupid, I shouldn’t have asked.
” She moves to stand, to hurry off like a bother, but I just reach for the remote control.
“Sit,” I say, and she does. Every bit of vulnerability she offers is followed by the shadow of self-deprecation that could only be painted by someone’s family. It’s why I put on the movie. Not out of softness, out of recognition. I can’t fix what’s happened, but I can give her this.
The opening song swells and fills the apartment and I watch her shoulders drop a fraction. She sinks back into the chair, closes her eyes for a moment, and though I expected them to re-open with tears, when they do, the tightened worry of the last hour is gone. Postponed until tomorrow.
The music moves through the apartment. I don’t watch musicals, I am definitely not learning their choreography.
But as it plays, the sound is familiar, not because I’ve ever seen it, but because of the frequency with which I’ve heard it coming from her apartment, and given what she’s just told me, my ribs crack open a bit more.
My back is to her as the movie continues to play. I’ve gone back to the kitchen island to do some research. Which is why I barely hear the whisper when she says it. “They just expired my life.”
I walk back over to her, and she’s standing now as the final credits roll.
“It’s your life, no one can take it from you.
” It’s the most cordial conversation we’ve ever had, because desperation makes people set aside all types of things.
“I’ll be honest, it’s not nothing,” I tell her.
“But tonight there’s nothing more that can be done.
Go home. Get some sleep, I’ll make some calls. ”