All the Good Parts

by Loretta Nyhan

  “You’re killing me. What is it?”

  Wordlessly, he pulled an envelope from the visor and tossed it in my lap. It was thick, and embossed with an official seal I recognized. “Immigration.”

  “Read,” he said, the word almost a groan.

  It was a long letter, wordy and crammed with legalese, but the message came through clear as a bell. “You’re being deported!”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I don’t know.”

  I read the letter again, quickly, looking for a loophole. “It says you failed to comply with the conditions of your residency. You allowed your green card to expire and then misrepresented yourself when you reapplied. Donal—”

  “It’s my fault, I know.” He melted into the seat, the bones in his body giving up the fight to stay upright. “I was supposed to send five hundred dollars in with the green card form, along with some other fees. Kevin had just visited emergency. We had to pay the hospital back, or they’d send us to collections. I didn’t have the money.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me? We could have figured something out!”

  He shrugged, and I wanted to yank his gingery beard until it popped off. “I went back to it, but then Carly needed a root canal and Maura’d outgrown her shoes, and it seemed easier to file the application away and deal with it later. By the time I sent the form in, I was so panicked I sent it in as is, not realizing I’d left Jimmy V. on as my employer. When Immigration phoned, Jimmy told them he hadn’t seen me in months. He’d killed a bottle of Jameson the night before and was in tatters.”

  Donal had worked for Jimmy until he’d set out on his own. A few years back, Carly set me up with Jimmy, but on our first date he threw up in my purse. “Why didn’t you ask Jimmy to call them back?”

  “I didn’t think it’d be an issue! The government takes years to get on things.”

  “Not this time. They seem pretty on the ball.”

  Donal sighed. “Oh, Lee, haven’t you ever buried a problem and then forgot you’d ever dug a hole?”

  I wanted to rail at him, but the thing was, I had done that. Plenty of times. “Okay,” I said. “What do we do now?”

  He glanced at me, just for a second, and I caught the relief in his expression. “You’ll help me?”

  “Of course I’ll help you. Between me and Carly—”

  “No,” he said, with more vehemence than I’d ever heard from my mild-mannered brother-in-law. “I don’t want to worry Carly or the children until I’m forced to.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I get it, but I think you’re underestimating her. She’d more than help, she’d take over like a generalissimo.”

  Donal shook his head. “She’s had a lot to deal with of late, and I don’t want to add to her troubles. The boys are at a tough age, and Maura’s been difficult lately . . .”

  He trailed off, which led me to think there was more he wasn’t telling me. “And?”

  “She’s not infallible, Lee. Sometimes Carly is as bewildered by life as the rest of us.”

  If that was true, it was a side of herself my sister hid well, at least with me. “She’ll be angry when she finds out we kept it from her. And she will.”

  “My lawyer says the solution might simply be a mountain of paperwork. If that’s true, then I’ll never have to bother anyone but you.”

  “You have a lawyer?”

  Donal shifted, drawing his battered wallet from the pocket of his work jeans. He handed me a business card, plain black lettering spelling out Kara Svenson, Immigration Lawyer, and an address a few suburbs over. “I’ve got an appointment in twenty minutes, and I want you to come with me. She said to bring my wife, and I figured you’d do.”

  “Thanks a lot.” I looked down at my running tights, black faded to gray, and my threadbare T-shirt, leftover from my first artsy round with college. The word “Riot” spilled down one long sleeve and “Grrrl” down the other. A line of sweat bisected my sports-bra uniboob, and I could feel the hair that had escaped my ponytail sticking to the back of my neck. “I need to change.”

  “You’re fine as you are,” Donal said. “And anyway, we haven’t the time.”

  It didn’t feel right, participating in something this monumental in Carly’s place, but Donal looked so stricken I couldn’t say no. I nodded at him, and we began our drive to the lawyer’s office, both of us struck silent by worry.

  Kara Svenson worked on the shabbier part of town, in a one-story, octagonal building that bore the unmistakable architecture of a fast-food restaurant. When Donal approached the reception desk, I almost thought the admin would ask if he wanted the grilled-chicken combo, but instead, she gave him a clipboard and pen, and gestured toward the only two remaining seats in the waiting area. Crowding into the small room, Kara Svenson’s clients represented a modern version of Ellis Island—take a snapshot of the group and it could serve as a stock photo advertising the wonders of diversity. I took a seat next to a woman in a hijab, her dark, liquid eyes staring at me unabashedly. “I’ve been waiting over an hour,” she whispered, and I swallowed a groan.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, we were ushered into a cramped office by a harried assistant. Kara Svenson stood and shook both our hands. She was very blonde and younger than I thought, her flushed cheeks and round features reminding me of a milkmaid. “Can I see the letter?” she asked, and Donal passed it over.

  She didn’t give it more than a glance. “Pretty standard. We can ask for an appeal. We might get it, and we might not. If you don’t get it, we’ll go to court and the judge will decide if you move on to a removal hearing. All kinds of things can happen between now and then.”

  Donal pushed out the breath he was holding. My eyes flitted to the tissue box figuring prominently on the middle of her desk. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

  “Deportation. Probably temporary if he’s got someone like me in his corner.” I saw a hint of steel in her smile, enough to give me a little hope.

  “What are your rates?” Donal said, a note of panic in his voice.

  “The appeal will most likely cost a thousand, maybe two,” she said quickly. “More if we go to court. We’ve got a payment plan, Mr. Brophy. Most of our clients make use of it. It’s not our goal to add bankruptcy to your list of problems.”

  “Well, that’s comforting,” he said, and if I didn’t know him so well, I would have thought he was being sarcastic, but he wasn’t, just going into Donal Default polite mode.

  “If I file today, we’ll know in two weeks if your appeal has been granted,” Kara explained, though she was already standing, keeping us in motion. “You’ll fill out your forms and pay your fees and life will go on. Let’s hope that’s what happens.”

  Donal swallowed audibly. “What are the chances?”

  “There are too many factors involved to give you an accurate percentage, Mr. Brophy,” Kara said, sticking her hand out again. Donal shook it, though the action seemed instinctive, little to do with thought or intent.

  “Will you call us?” I asked as she turned to me.

  “I will. If you haven’t heard from me, it means I don’t have any information yet,” she said briskly, a bit rote, as though she’d said the same thing a hundred times during the course of a day. “The admin up front will have the necessary forms for you to fill out, and you can get the financials settled.”

  We were dismissed. I read a tattered poster about the Bill of Rights while Donal finished up with the paperwork, and then we were back in the van, driving aimlessly. “You need options,” I said after a while. “What if the appeal doesn’t go through?”

  Donal slapped a palm against the steering wheel in answer, but I knew if I didn’t press, he’d do nothing for two weeks but worry himself to a heart attack.

  “When are you going to tell Carly? You need a plan, and a backup to that one, and a backup to that.”

  Donal pulled into a Starbucks parking lot, probab
ly for the first time in his life. He didn’t believe in mass-market coffee. “Let’s get a cup of sludge,” he said in a voice only vaguely like his own. We gave our orders to the barista and found a table, sitting silently, warming our hands on our cups. I stopped pressing Donal, and after gingerly taking a few sips of his coffee, he began to talk.

  “My grandmother owns a farm outside of Kilkenny. If the worst happens, I could return to work it, and she’ll give me ten thousand euro.”

  “Return for how long?”

  His expression was pained. “Return, Lee. I don’t know for how long.”

  “With the kids?” It was a stupid question. Of course with the kids, and my sister, and my life. Poof! Gone! The anger I’d penned into the back of my brain broke free. “What the hell? You’re going to pack up my family and move to another country? Because you forgot to fill out a freaking form correctly?”

  “You’re welcome to come with.”

  “I can’t . . .” My head was swimming. I had school, a life—no matter how pathetic, it was mine.

  “I understand,” he said. “The offer is sincere, though I hope we don’t need to use it.”

  “You have to tell her.”

  Donal hunched himself over the steaming coffee. He looked like he wanted to jump into the cup and drown. “Do you think she’ll leave me? I’d consider it, if I was her.”

  My heart softened. My brother-in-law was a good man. Flaky, but good. “She loves you,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “And she knows how much you love her. I think Carly also realizes how rare that is. Don’t you trust her enough to tell her what’s going on? If anything, she would be such an asset in a courtroom. You wouldn’t need any ruddy-cheeked Kara Svenson pleading your case. Carly would have the judge eating out of her palm.”

  He was quiet for a while, finishing his drink. When he spoke, his voice sounded so defeated I wanted to cry. “I don’t ever want to disappoint her,” he said softly. “Yet, I have, again and again, since the day we met. Can we simply pretend this isn’t happening for two weeks? Kara said I might win the appeal, and then our lives can go on as usual.”

  “Can you do that? I don’t know if I’m capable. When Carly’s around, it’s like I have a Jumbotron strapped to my forehead announcing my thoughts.”

  “We have to try,” Donal insisted. “I know I’m asking for more than a lot when it comes to keeping something from Carly, but will you do me the favor?”

  I took a moment before admitting, “It’s not my place to tell her, it’s yours. I won’t say anything because it wouldn’t be right.”

  Donal released a heavy breath. “Thank you.”

  “So for the next two weeks, we’ll think positive thoughts.”

  “I haven’t prayed since fifth class at St. Vincent’s,” Donal said, “but I haven’t stopped since the letter arrived with the post.”

  Donal dropped me off a couple of blocks from home. A Brophy-free day meant I wouldn’t be grilled by Carly as to why my run lasted three hours, for which I was grateful. I slipped into my basement apartment, jumped in the shower, and sat at the edge of my bed for a long time, towel hiked high around my chest, hair dripping over my shoulders. The kids came home from school, their footsteps pounding at my heart. What would my life be like without them? Without Carly and Donal?

  The door opened, and my sister called to me. “Sorry! I know you want no part of anyone named Brophy today, but stand at the bottom of the stairs for a second.”

  I moved slowly, one hand grasping the top of the towel.

  Carly gazed down at me, puzzled. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, I just got out of the shower.”

  “That was quite a run. Apparently you’re training for a marathon.” She went quiet for a moment, but then shook off her suspicions. “Catch,” she said, and tossed a crumpled bag at me. Whatever it held was cylindrical and rattled. I tugged open the bag and drew out an extralarge bottle of prenatal vitamins.

  “Thought of you while I was out Costco-ing this morning,” she said, grinning and proud of herself. “I still think it’s irresponsible, but if you’re going to do it, you might as well do it less irresponsibly.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. “And now back to your day without us. Keep doing whatever it is you were doing. We’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

  Nursing 320 (Online): Community Health

  Private Message—Leona A to Darryl K

  Leona A: Is there always honor in keeping a secret?

  Darryl K: Secrets aren’t about honor, young Skywalker, they’re about sharing a burden. I’m sensing your burden is becoming a bit too much. If that’s the case, then feel free to unload it with a clear conscience.

  Leona A: You always make life sound so easy.

  Darryl K: Translation: you’re not going to take my advice.

  Leona A: No.

  Darryl K: Because you get off on being a martyr?

  Leona A: Because I’d really like to think my shoulders are broad enough to share a burden.

  Darryl K: Right now I’m picturing you as the starting linebacker for the Chicago Bears.

  Leona A: Go to sleep, Darryl.

  CHAPTER 11

  “So . . . did you ask anyone for a donation yet?” Maura kicked her sneakered feet onto the dash. I didn’t have the energy to nag her about it.

  We were on our way to meet Garrett at the library. Carly said she’d take Maura, but I insisted I’d do it, desperate to be out of the house. I wondered if I could get away with avoiding Carly for two weeks, but I figured I’d tackle that problem day by day, like quitting an oxy addiction or attempting a vegan lifestyle.

  “Well, Auntie Lee?”

  “No, not yet.” I glanced at her eager face. “Don’t get your hopes up. I might never ask anyone. It’s just something I’m thinking about.”

  Maura didn’t hide her disappointment. “Why not just ask? My mom always says I need to speak up if I want to be heard.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that, sweetness. What I’m asking for is kind of a big deal.”

  “Well, of course it’s a big deal,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest, “but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t ask.”

  “You sound like your mom,” I said. She made a huffing sound and turned toward the window, but not before I caught the barest hint of a smile.

  Garrett sat in the same study carrel as last time, papers spilled out in front of him. He didn’t realize we’d arrived until we stood at his back.

  “Hi, Garrett!” Maura nearly shouted, earning a shush from a patrolling librarian.

  Garrett smiled broadly at her. “How are you, Miss Maura?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, blushing. Maura kept her head down as she settled into her seat, embarrassment catching up with her. Garrett turned his beaming gaze to me, and I squirmed like a worm in a patch of sunlight. I couldn’t take those crystalline blue eyes straight on, so I looked down, my eye catching the paperwork on his desk. His resume, handwritten on lined paper, was at the top.

  “You’re writing your resume?” I asked idiotically.

  “Working on it,” he said. “Not really my forte, though. I’m more of a numbers person.”

  “I can help you with that,” I said, finding myself eager to volunteer. Garrett was someone you wanted to help. “I need to stick around here for the hour, so why don’t I make myself useful?”

  His expression turned politely skeptical. “You sure I wouldn’t be taking you away from your own work?”

  “Not at all.” Even if I hadn’t finished my homework, I would have offered, because I was nosy. Getting my hands on the professional life of Garrett, the homeless tutor, was much more interesting than trolling Facebook or checking out baby-and-me books I’d probably never use.

  “Auntie Lee is a good writer,” Maura said, her cheeks pink. “She’s smart and always gets good grades in school.”

  I tried to laugh, but it came out a strange bark. “I don’t know about that, but I can pr
oofread pretty well.”

  Garrett slid a bunch of papers from his pile and handed them to me. “I tried to write down everything I could, but I don’t know how to put it together. I’d appreciate anything you can do with it, but please stop if you start to get a headache.”

  He nervously glanced at the clock, and I left them to it, taking a carrel clear on the other side of the room. Tossing my purse down, I spread his papers out before me. The slant of his handwriting screamed lefty, and the cramped, uneven style told me his fingers were used to typing on a computer keyboard instead of holding a pen.

  His full name was Garrett B. Winston. What did the B stand for? Brian? Bartholomew? In art school there was a Southern guy named Billiam. Not William, Billiam. Maybe Garrett was of that variety? Garrett Billiam Winston. Not bad.

  I recognized his address as across town, on Hilliard Street. I assumed he’d listed the halfway house. Did prospective employers check for that? I guessed there was no way around it. Gmail e-mail address, which also couldn’t be avoided. He earned his degree, as Carly said, at the University of Illinois. BS, double major—computer science and engineering. 3.98 GPA. Magna cum laude.

  Up until eighteen months ago, Garrett B. Winston had made good use of his stellar education at the financially successful, überhip Rocket Industries, where he worked as an engineer. His responsibilities were many, his accomplishments frequently celebrated, and his salary—an impressive six figures scribbled messily in the margin—was more than I could ever hope to make, even with a BSN.

  What the hell happened to him? What happened to all that money?

  Not your business.

  But I could easily convince myself that it was. If I dared ask any of the men on my list, it should be Garrett. He was exactly the type to disappear into the ether, never to be seen again. I could sufficiently romanticize his situation—tortured genius! Society didn’t understand him!—to our future child. It wasn’t likely he’d ever come to stake his claim, demanding visitation or co-custody. Maybe Maura was right, and I should simply ask for what I wanted.