Three Things You Need to Know About Rockets

by Jessica Fox

  “Wait till you come to Lexington – then you can see where the war started.”

  “Skirmish,” he said.

  After two days alone in Boston, we returned to Lexington and Euan met my parents. The meeting went better than I had imagined. My father fixed Euan breakfast and offered to set out a vitamin plate for him, the ultimate gesture of welcome into the family. My mother took us to the Isabella Garner Museum, and had long conversations with Euan about American and Scottish colourists. As I walked behind them, allowing some space to grow as they disappeared into another room, I remembered that when Euan left in a couple of days, I would be going with him. I had been so focused on being a good host and tour guide that I had almost forgotten my imminent departure. My parents must have realised this too, but they never once reproached me for having been such a terror while I was home, nor did they make me feel guilty for now choosing to return to Scotland.

  At the end of our tour, I found my mom in the gift shop, leafing through a stack of postcards.

  “Thank you for letting me work things out and being so, so…”

  My mom interrupted me. “Your father and I love you.” She smiled sadly and patted my arm. “I’m sorry you weren’t happier at home.”

  “It’s not that, Mom, it’s just…”

  “I know, I know.” My mom picked up a postcard, distracting herself. “Euan seems very nice.”

  Euan headed over towards us, smiling and holding my jacket. We watched him walk through the crowds and I could feel my mom squeezing my hand. She leant in close, whispering, “I will miss you, though.”

  Chapter 46

  “The returning hero, to complete his adventure, must survive the impact of the world.” – Stephen and Robin Larsen, A FIRE IN THE MIND: Biography section, under C.

  Euan grabbed my heavy suitcase from the trunk and slid it onto the cracked sidewalk of Logan International Airport. The stale smell of fossil fuels filled my nostrils. Once again my life had taken me to an airport – I couldn’t seem to escape them. The smells, sounds and glass sliding doors were as familiar to me as an unwanted second home.

  Sliding out of the car, my floral-printed dress caught a gust of wind from a passing cab, and swirled up around my waist.

  “They’ll deport you in that,” said Euan as he appeared from behind the car. Luckily he was the only one to see. “A bit chilly in your grandmother’s dress?”

  I tried to give him my most hairy eyeball stare. “The 1950s look is in, it’s fashionable,” I said, touching the soft brown flowery fabric. I looked him up and down, noticing his open fly and paint-splattered shorts. “But I forgot you are the epitome of ‘en vogue’.”

  Euan and I smiled at each other.

  My parents stood on either side of the car, waiting for their goodbyes. Euan received an affectionate hug from my father while I said a goodbye to my mom and kissed her on the cheek. I could see her face muscles twitch, fighting against tears. Like a coward, I couldn’t bear to see her sad so I turned my attention to my father, hugging him quickly.

  “The house will feel empty without you,” he said, and handed me my suitcase, waving goodbye as we disappeared through the sliding doors.

  *

  As I walked through the empty, twisting lanes leading up to the immigration desk at Glasgow Airport, my suitcase wheeling obediently behind me, I enjoyed the thought that I wouldn’t have to see another airport for a long time.

  I was home.

  Euan and I had been on different flights, having booked mine last minute. Our plan was to meet at the baggage carousel after immigration check because our flights were to arrive around the same time. I looked behind me, but I couldn’t see Euan anywhere.

  I shifted my weight onto one foot, leaning against the tall immigration booth. This was taking longer than usual. I could feel my stomach growling and a cold chill crawl up my bare legs. My thin sundress was doing little to keep me warm in the air-conditioned airport.

  The immigration officer raised her eyes from my passport. “When was the first time you came to the UK?”

  I grew nervous. She could clearly see when I had first come to the UK, and when someone asks you a question that they already know the answer to, it’s not a good sign. I tried to peek at what she was looking at, but her hard stare made me look quickly away. Perhaps it was the one eyebrow that was making me most nervous. If both were raised then it would communicate an innocent element of surprise. One eyebrow arched, however, suggested a knowing suspicion. I’d obviously done something wrong.

  She repeated the question, this time with no tone of friendliness.

  “You mean, like the first time ever I came to the UK? That was with my parents, when I was fifteen.” I suddenly felt like Chunk from The Goonies, spilling my life story at the first sign of being in trouble.

  That was a typical, annoying trait of mine. The statement “if you are innocent then there’s nothing to fear” did not hold true for me. I was one of those people who felt guilty even when I had done nothing wrong. When driving and I heard sirens, my heart would pound faster. If a person shouted in a crowded room, I would look around thinking it was at me. It wasn’t that I had a guilty conscience, but rather that I assumed responsibility when there was no justification. I was compulsively anxious. Perhaps it was another legacy of being the grandchild of Holocaust survivors; in my DNA was a default deer-in-the-headlights position, like a virus in the software. Or perhaps it was the result of a warped egocentrism, assuming that the whole world, even conflict, revolved around me.

  “Not when you were fifteen,” the immigration officer sighed. “Recently.”

  “Oh, well, about half a year ago.”

  “For how long?”

  “About five months… I think.”

  “You think?”

  I could feel my deer-in-the-headlights DNA unfolding, instructing my body to go rigid, my eyes to grow wide. I was on no sleep, and worse, I now had to go to the bathroom.

  “Well, I’m doing my best to remember, but it would help if I could reference something, like my passport.”

  I reached for my passport, which she promptly slid to the far end of her desk. My heart sank. I shifted uncomfortably and looked behind me, watching the empty lanes now fill with people. I scanned the crowd for a mop of ginger hair but there was no sign of Euan. Perhaps his plane had landed before mine, and he was already waiting.

  “You know, it’s an offence to lie to an immigration officer.”

  “I know, which is why I don’t want to give you inaccurate information.” Frustration sliced through the cracks of my exhaustion, giving me a jolt of energy. “It’s impossible for me to come up with the exact dates of my travel for the past year without looking at a diary, an email, something.”

  If Euan was waiting, he’d be wondering where I was by now. I bit the inside of my lip. Perhaps, I thought, suddenly horrified, Euan would see that my plane had landed and when I didn’t emerge with the crowd, think that I’d had a change of heart. I could picture him watching confused as the last person emerged at baggage check, wondering why I was not there and then sigh, realising I had decided not to come after all. Rejected, he would leave the airport alone. The image was too awful to endure.

  “When was the first time you came to the UK?”

  “In September some time.” I resisted the urge to pee on the floor. I crossed my legs, squeezing my thighs together as the urge passed but my bladder started to feel tender, swollen.

  “So that means” –the immigration officer looked triumphant – “you admit to being here for seven months.”

  “No, not really,” I said slowly. “I only came a couple of weeks for my first trip, then longer the second time.”

  “Is this your luggage?”

  I nodded.

  “Is there any more?”

  I nodded.

  “Come with me.”

  I froze, unsure of what was happening. She looked over her shoulder beckoning me on. Without knowing what else to do, I re
luctantly followed and was led around a corner into some unmarked offices.

  Chapter 47

  “This aggression won’t stand, man.” – The Coen Brothers, THE BIG LEBOWSKI: Film section, across from Children’s section, bottom shelf.

  My first exercise in screenwriting had been, when I was fifteen, to write an interrogation scene.

  “Two characters, one room,” my drama teacher in high school had said. “That’s it. Be as specific as you want.” He hadn’t known what to expect from me. I could see it in his expression and the way he first had handed me my assignment. “Don’t just rely on dialogue,” he had added. “Tell us about the characters through what we see.”

  When I had returned the following day with my five-page script, his expression had changed. “This is good,” he had said, his eyes flicking curiously from the pages back to me. “I didn’t think you were so…”

  “Weird?” I had offered.

  He smiled. “Imaginative.”

  The immigration officer took me inside the small room with four bright walls covered in posters: “It is a personal right to have representation” and “If you are seeking asylum, there are organisations to call that could help you”. The lights clinked and buzzed overhead, emitting a harsh florescent glow, leaving nowhere unexposed.

  In my screenplay, I had made everything dark in the room, which was supposed to add to the growing tension, but now I could see that had been a mistake. Here, in this bright room, I felt more tense, like a turtle without a shell, vulnerable.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?” The immigration officer stood before me smiling. She had switched from bad cop to good cop, filling both roles perhaps as a result of the growing public sector cuts.

  I took a deep breath, still unsure of what was happening. “No water, thank you, but it’s been a long flight. Can I please use the bathroom?”

  “No, I’m afraid not yet.” She sat down at a long table, which stretched across the small room, and motioned for me to do the same. “Please sit,” she indicated, and I reluctantly obeyed.

  Two other officers appeared at the door, one with my luggage.

  “Can someone at least let Euan know that I’m in here?”

  The immigration officer ignored me and started reeling off several of the same questions as before. When did I first come to the country? How long have I been here? How long was my longest stay? I didn’t want to give false information by just guessing, but she started pushing me for answers. My brain fizzled with the stress of having to recall exact dates from more than half a year ago.

  “Look, I’m not being purposefully evasive, I just don’t remember exact dates without my passport or my journals.” I slumped back into my chair and a well of tearful frustration overwhelmed me. Don’t cry, Jessica, for God’s sake don’t cry. “I’ve never overstayed a visa. I know you’re only allowed six months with every stamp.”

  “You’re only allowed to stay six months within a year.”

  “I thought it was six months at a time.”

  “No.”

  “Well,” I could hardly hear myself speak. My heart was thudding loudly in my ears. “I didn’t know that, and no other officer seemed to either. They seemed fine to stamp my passport and allow me into the country.”

  The immigration officer stayed glued to her forms, silent and unresponsive.

  “Please.” I could feel myself panicking. “I haven’t done anything wrong. My whole life is here.”

  “What is the purpose of your visit to Britain?” she said softly, without looking up from her writing. The good cop had returned.

  “I told you. My boyfriend lives here. That’s all. I still work in the States and my family is there.”

  Her pen scraped against the paper and she started checking off a list of questions. She asked me what projects I had to go back for, what I was working on now and what my website was called. An image suddenly sprang to mind as her voice droned in the background. I was dressed as Charlie Chaplin in Modern Times, caught in the cogs of some great machine. Now that my name was on a form, it didn’t matter how innocent or guilty I was because I was caught in a process that once started, could not be stopped.

  “Did you ever work in film in the UK?” She asked and flipped over the piece of paper. There were more questions waiting to be answered.

  “No, of course not, I don’t have a working visa.”

  “But would you like to?” she persisted, staring at me hard.

  This was an odd question. My heart, which had slowed, began to race again. It wasn’t illegal to have hopes and ambitions, for God’s sake. Was she trying to trap me? I hadn’t done anything wrong, so why lie?

  “Yes, of course. I hope to one day be in a position where I could work, for example, for the BBC.” I watched as her pen flashed across the page and wished I had the ability to read bad handwriting upside down. “For now, however, visas are hard to come by…”

  My hand restlessly tapped on the table. In my screenplay, I had had my main character do the same. Sweat had started to appear on his upper brow, and I wondered if I looked just as nervous to the immigration officer who sat scribbling in her notepad across from me.

  The pen suddenly stopped. “Well, it’s good that you’ve been honest with us. It’s very good.” She looked at me. “If you’re honest, you have nothing to fear.” She smiled and stood.

  So that was that. My heart lifted. Perhaps they’d be letting me go now.

  “Would you like the Koran or the Bible?”

  “What?”

  “While you wait.” She repeated, “Would you like the Koran or the Bible?”

  Behind her left shoulder I could see a government-issued poster on the wall, with bold letters that read: “It is your right to ask for books of your faith”. I was tempted to ask for anything by Richard Dawkins.

  I shook my head. “Neither. But will you please let Euan know I’m in here. He will be worried.” Through the open door I could see two officers sipping tea, lounging in chairs outside. It’s not as if you lot are doing much anyway, I wanted to add.

  “Don’t worry,” the immigration officer smirked with an “I-know-more-than-you-think-I-do” expression. “We’ve been talking with him.”

  My heart suddenly sank. She closed the door. My bladder was beyond the point of exploding. I couldn’t feel it any more; it was as if it had emptied by magic, or soaked back into the body. Perhaps it was the dangerous amounts of adrenaline that were now pumping through my veins that made me impervious to any sort of feeling besides panic.

  Two officers came in and asked me to follow them into another small room. They took my fingerprints and mugshots of me against a high wall. This was actually happening. They were going to arrest me. Or worse, send me home.

  I was ushered back into the interrogation room, past my luggage, which was now waiting by the door. The immigration officer was already there, waiting for me.

  “So why didn’t you mention, when I asked you about work, that you volunteered at the book festival?” She had the tone of someone who had caught an elusive mouse and I looked to see what she was waving in her hand. It was my journal.

  “You read my journal?” I turned red. Not from embarrassment, but anger, thinking about all the personal hopes, dreams and aspirations I had written in there with a confidence that they would not be for public eyes. The sacredness of those words was suddenly soiled.

  “I’m the one who asks the questions here.” She slammed the journal down on the table. “Did you know it was illegal to volunteer without a volunteer visa?”

  I felt like laughing. Her bad cop was not terrifying any more but absurd. This whole thing was absurd. “I was not officially a volunteer, I just helped a friend.”

  “That still counts.”

  “So if I wanted to help an old lady cross the street, or set a dinner table for a friend, then that’s illegal without a volunteer visa?”

  The immigration officer was silent for a moment. “How can we know if you went b
ack to the Bookshop that you wouldn’t help your boyfriend with his business in any capacity?”

  “Well, now that I know volunteering in my position is illegal, I won’t. Look, Euan hires people from our community to work in the Bookshop. As I said, I have work in the States. I’m not taking anyone’s job, nor do I plan to, if that’s what you’re worried about. ”

  “That’s not what I’m ‘worried about’.” Her face looked as if she’d just eaten a lemon. “I’m concerned that you’ve been here too long without a proper visa.”

  “Well, we have months to go before qualifying for a partner visa. Would it be possible to allow me to stay until that time?”

  “No. I’m afraid we will have to send you back.”

  “What? Why? Please, wait, I even have my return ticket for two months from now, printed off here. See?” I pushed the piece of paper across the table but the immigration officer didn’t look interested. “I don’t see why you need to send me back.”

  “I’m sorry, you seem like a nice person but this is procedure. We’ve already done the paperwork for it.”

  She slid my passport onto the table and stamped it with a black, evil-looking stamp. “We couldn’t find a flight out today, so although this is highly unusual, I’m going to let you return to Wigtown for three days to get your things. Usually, we’d put people like you into a holding cell.”

  She looked at me expectantly as if I was supposed to show gratitude. I remained silent and stared at the floor.

  “You’re lucky you and your boyfriend’s answers were the same. Things could have been much worse for you.” Her tone was struggling to be sympathetic. “We’ll be holding onto your passport, of course. If you don’t appear at the airport an hour before your flight, there will be a warrant sent out for your arrest. An armed escort will lead you from check-in to the boarding gate.”

  She handed me a piece of paper with my return flight times.

  “You are free to go, Ms. Fox” The immigration officer opened the door. The last cog, as smooth as a twist of a Rubix cube, had turned.