by Jessica Fox
My number was 304. Not all moments could be lucky ones.
“…87, 115, 304…”
I followed my fellow jurors as they funnelled into a long hall, which was equally brightly lit and disorientating. As we turned a corner, I slid the phone out of my pocket and discreetly tried to access my voicemail. Ducking my head down low, I held the phone to my ear, hiding behind the person in front of me.
“You have one new voice message. Press one to hear your message,” the automated voice blasted in my ear. Yes, I knew I had one voicemail message, why couldn’t it just play it? Why couldn’t things be easier? We invented these systems to help us, after all. Press one, get your eyes scanned, go into this room, look at your number, get out of the country, you can go here but not here. Systems complicating systems.
We were instructed to wait before two thick, closed, wooden doors. I quickly moved over to the other side of the hall, away from the prying eyes of the courtroom officer. My finger jabbed at the phone and luckily hit on the right button.
“Hi, Jessica,” the voicemail played, “it’s Bonnie, from the visa expediting office. Look, we just got your application back and I’m so sorry to say it’s been declined.”
The phone slipped from my hands onto the carpeted floor. I felt like a gladiator who had watched the last stroke come down on him. I wanted to crumple to the ground, to melt and disappear. I pictured myself, a liquid pool of a person, dripping past the plastic chairs, down the plastered walls of the building and into the ground.
As we filed into the courtroom and lined up in the chairs, we were told that we were going to be hearing a murder case. This meant we might have to serve for weeks, even months. It didn’t matter now. What could matter? There was no way I could get back to Euan. Tears were rolling down my cheeks. Sobs welled up in my chest and, before I knew it, were coming from my throat. It was actually happening. I, a repressed New Englander, was crying, hysterically, in public.
The judge looked at me suspiciously as I stood before her, tear-stained and choking on my words.
“Are you available for jury duty?”
“Yes.”
“Are you fit and able to judge impartially?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My visa was rejected.” I could hardly spit out the words without letting out snot-filled cries.
The judge asked me to leave her courtroom. The eyes of my fellow jury servers followed me, glaring. One looked me up and down as if to say, “Crying is not going to get you out of your duty honey.”
An officer met me on the other side of the door. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked in a surprisingly sympathetic tone.
“I just heard news that my visa was rejected…” I breathed a deep belly breath that my yoga teacher would have been proud of. I needed to ground myself.
The officer patted my arm. “Go home.” He took the paper from my hands and stamped it with an official-looking certification. “You’ve served your time today.”
Between sobs I mustered a smile. My world was falling apart but I had officially served my jury duty in a day. Although it may not have been an equal trade, every cloud has a silver lining.
Chapter 50
“There is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would come his way.” – W. H. Murry, THE SCOTTISH HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION: Exploration section, to the right of the fireplace, top shelf.
Name: Jessica Fox
Type: work no funds
Status: 6-month working visa
Expires: January 2011
It had arrived. I found myself touching the visa and flipping it over in my hands to make sure it wasn’t an apparition. There was a large sticker with my photo set squarely against a peachy background and an official gold and holographic seal on the top corner. I found myself reading and rereading the clear typewriter-like writing.
On reaching the last line, the thin blue passport suddenly felt heavy as if I were holding a large hourglass: Expires January 2011. Sand was already starting to fill up the bottom jar. Every moment I stood breathing here was a moment I was losing in Wigtown, with Euan.
After I had left jury duty two weeks before, time had gone gooey, like maple syrup. The news that my third visa had been declined had spread as quickly as the Wigtown tide. Euan spent endless sleepless nights emailing, protesting and fighting on my behalf, contacting everyone he knew. Wigtown residents bombarded the Border Agency with words of support and people sent in letters. The town rallied behind me, from Wendy at the picture shop to even the cranky teenager at the post office. Euan read some of the letters aloud and I felt humbled.
I’m not sure what, in the end, loosened the screw that released me from the cog in the immigration machine – whether it was Euan’s contacts or the woman at the UK embassy or the support of my friends. But one right call or letter to the right person pushed the right button. A week after my courtroom meltdown, I received notice that my appeal against the refusal of my visa application had been successful. They were granting me a six-month working visa, and I now held it in my hands.
In less than 24 hours I would be once again in Euan’s arms, sitting in our home above the Bookshop in the best, biggest, little town in Scotland: Wigtown. It felt too good to be true, a fairy-tale ending to what had been a truly epic, soul-testing adventure. As in any story, though, my granted wish came with massive strings attached. Like the Little Mermaid, who had only a finite time out of the ocean, the UK Border Agency gave me a certain amount of time to spend in Wigtown, after which it looked as if Euan and I would have few options left other than to apply for more visas or get married. At least, if all else failed, I would turn back into a US resident and not sea foam, but the pressure was still there. Every day was now precious.
I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed, trying to distract myself from the questions. There were still options. I could get a job and transition onto another visa, or we could try to get a partner visa instead. As Euan said, in his more lucid moments, this gave us options and most importantly would allow us to be together to make them happen.
I opened the now dust-covered black suitcase and found a bag from the Wigtown Festival still inside. I wondered, as I touched the green, scripted writing, if Euan and I would be different this time. I was not the same adventurer that I had been when I’d first arrived; I was more world-weary, wiser and I had my artistic passion back. I could also now work, I thought excitedly. Things will be different. I’ll be more independent. I’ll be more satisfied and most of all, I will be making films again. The rhythm that Euan and I were used to would change, and though the thought of this also worried me, I knew it would be the making of us.
Chapter 51
“There is a light that never goes out…” – The Smiths, “THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT”: Music section, last bookshelf on the right in the far back.
The person in front of me pushed back their seat, giving me little room for manoeuvre. Airlines seemed less to reward the first class with luxury seating, than simply to punish the coach class with hardly any seating at all.
I was by the window, watching the world, catching glimpses of the sea between the blanket of clouds. I felt myself rocketing forward. The blue expanse and white peaks quickly metamorphosed into Ireland’s rugged green coastline. We were almost there. My heart was racing.
A bell sounded and the ever-present fasten seatbelt sign lit up. “We will be making our final descent into Dublin Airport. Please return to your seats as the fasten seatbelt sign has been engaged.”
I tried to conjure up Melville. I needed his sage-like presence and willed him to appear next to me on the plane.
This he did, but then quickly got up and stood in the aisle, looking panicked. He was fading in and out of my imagination, like a radio station that was hard to tune into. Surely I can have Euan, Wigtown and my artistic voice too, I thought, though the last was more of a question than a statement. Melville was gone. There was only my own voice now, clear, like a golden bell, which gently rang: why not? why not?
I sat back in my seat, exhaling deeply, and stared avidly out of the window.
About the Author
Jessica Fox is a writer and film director. She has consulted for Harper Collins and was a resident storyteller and film director at NASA. Jessica's films have been shown at both US and International film festivals. She heads Mythic Image Studios and divides her time between the US and the UK. This is her first book.
Copyright
First published in 2013
by Short Books
3A Exmouth House
Pine Street
London EC1R 0JH
This ebook edition first published in 2013
All rights reserved
© Jessica Fox
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EPUB ISBN 9781780721149
MOBI ISBN 9781780721156