Chancers

by Susan Stellin

  “What’s this about?” I ask the CO, knowing he probably won’t have a clue.

  “No idea. They just want you down there.”

  When I get to the ICE office I’m told to sit and wait. There’s nothing to do except stare at all the posters on the walls—about safety, terrorism, and what to do if you’re feeling suicidal. Eventually an officer comes out of a back room, hands me some papers, and says, “You need to sign this.”

  “What is it?”

  “A new charge. You’re ineligible for cancellation. Just sign at the bottom saying you understand and I’ll send a copy to your lawyer.”

  I can’t fucking believe it: It’s the gun charge from 2006, which I finally pled guilty to in 2009—after more than two years of hearings. I was fed up going to court every six weeks, so I took the deal in exchange for a conditional discharge.

  “I’m not signing anything until I talk to my lawyer,” I tell him, so he makes me put my thumbprint on the letter to confirm I got it.

  Back in the dorm, people crowd around me asking what ICE wanted. I feel like screaming at everyone to get the fuck away, but I know we’re all in the same boat. When I mention the new charge, the Irish guy in the bunk next to me says, “I thought you were good with the judge?”

  “Me, too, but they must really want to get rid of me.”

  “They want to get rid of all of us. I’ll probably be gone by next week.”

  He’s getting deported because of a bar fight eleven years ago—even though he’s got a green card, has a wife and three kids, and has lived here since he was one. That’s how heartless these fuckers are.

  I really want to talk to Susan, but her parents are in town and she needs a break from dealing with my shit, so I call the law firm instead, going off about the new charge as soon as Michael picks up.

  “One minute I’m thinking I can win this thing, the next they’re telling me that no matter what the judge said, they’re still going to find a reason to deport me. I’d rather sign out now if this is all just a losing battle.”

  “I’ll have to read through the paperwork once I get a copy,” he says. “But I doubt this is going to impact your case. Some of these ICE lawyers like to make it tough on us—try not to worry about it, we’ll deal with it.”

  Easy for him to say. I spend the rest of the weekend convinced that ICE is going to trawl through my record and drag up every little run-in I’ve had with the police. I’ve heard so many stories about people getting stuck here for years, I almost feel like jacking it in. But I can’t imagine getting sent back to Scotland with my tail between my legs—I don’t even know who’d take me in. I’ve lost touch with everyone I know there, so how would I explain all the shit that’s happened to me? But the main issue for me is Liam. If I get deported, I can’t ever come back to the U.S.—not even for a visit. The thought that I’d hardly ever see him again is the main thing keeping me here.

  But I also feel like I owe it to Susan. I still can’t quite wrap my head around what she’s doing for me, or why she’s taken on this massive task. Maybe she feels responsible ’cause there’s no one else in my life who could do it—I don’t know, it’s humbling but sort of overwhelming. After all the shit I put her through, I’m not totally comfortable letting her go to all this trouble, especially if it looks like I can’t win.

  Once I talk to her, after her parents leave, she tells me not to get too stressed about the new charge—basically repeating what Michael said. Her other news is good and bad: She met with a new accountant and it sounds like the tax stuff is manageable, but I’ll probably owe a lot to the IRS.

  “So what if I pay thousands of dollars to the government and then they still deport me? I don’t want to land on somebody’s doorstep totally broke. They’re gonna take everything they can get from me and then tell me, ‘Now get the fuck out of here.’ It’s really not fair.”

  “You’re still going to have plenty of money,” Susan says, cutting me off. “You didn’t have much income the past few years, but you drained your IRA so there are penalties for that, and then you owe taxes on your house sale. But you’re in a lot better shape than most people these days. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve got any money left.”

  Susan is always setting me straight like that. She seems a lot more sure of herself than she used to be, and she doesn’t put up with any of my self-pity—kind of like Jimmy. She’s really helped me keep it together in here.

  After we hang up, I feel like I didn’t get a chance to say everything I wanted to tell her, so later on I start writing her another letter. It’s been kind of therapeutic to get all this stuff off my chest—coming clean about the lies I told and apologizing for how much I hurt her. As crazy as it sounds, I think all this writing has really helped us understand each other and deal with the past.

  Susan’s letters to me have been funny and supportive, but they can also be hard to read. Sometimes I wait till the end of the day to open them, needing that quieter time when I can really absorb what she’s written. Whenever she describes what she went through, I feel guilty about how much I strung her along—even in the throes of addiction, I knew I was keeping her in it. She was that last branch I was hanging on to, trying to stop myself from falling into the abyss. It was selfish, but it was almost a survival instinct: As long as I didn’t let go, I thought that there was still hope for me.

  But as much as we’ve written to each other lately, it stills feel like there’s this issue we haven’t addressed. It seems a bit presumptuous to come right out and ask if she’s thinking we might get back together, especially since I’m sitting here in prison and might get deported. And if I’m way off the mark, I’d feel like an ass. But she’s said and written a few things that made me wonder how she really feels about me—like telling me the other day, “I’m not doing all this so you can run back to Tracy the minute you get out of there.” I couldn’t tell if she was threatening to pull the plug because she thinks all her efforts will go to waste if I end up with Tracy, or if she was implying that in some way, she’s expecting something might happen between us.

  Then in one of her letters, she told me my accountant had asked why she’s doing all this for me, and when Susan didn’t answer, my accountant said, “It must be love.” Susan wrote me, “I guess on some level it is,” but I couldn’t work out exactly what she meant. So when I sit down to write her—blocking out the telly, the phone calls, and the card games around me—I pretty much get straight to the point.

  You know what’s sort of funny? You using the word love—or at least partly agreeing with it—because during our relationship it was a word that you found so difficult to utter. I remember on one of the last days we were in Hawaii me saying I love you (and I did) and you just being silent and me getting upset and leaving you to go for a walk on the beach. I was mad ’coz all I wanted was for you to turn to me, hug me and say “I love you” but it never happened and in some ways I understand why and on the other hand I don’t! You also wrote that you thought that I was just looking for someone to love as if it could be anyone and that’s not true. I don’t love easily but when I do I do so for real.

  Anyway, I’m not sure why I’m bringing this up, I think maybe because of the way our relationship ended—it was bad I know and I accept most of the responsibility for it and I’m sorry I lied to you so many times. I didn’t want to hurt you—I wanted to love you and you to love me back. But somewhere in the insanity of addiction I’d convinced myself that if you couldn’t say you loved me then I’d just keep using (not quite as literal as that but that’s what I’m working out in my head now). I’ve also come to the conclusion that I was running from my addiction and in a way using you in the process—I’m trying my hardest to come clean here Susan, or as open + honest as I can be at this time.

  I know that no amount of sorrys will make up for how I hurt + disappointed you and my selfishness was—well it was selfish! You deserved more from me—even though I thought in my messed up head I was offering you everything and a
ll I wanted in return was your love + everything would be rosy!! How fucked up is that? Every time you did anything that pissed me off, depressed me, confused me I ran to the one thing that I thought gave me comfort and to the people who would tell me it’s okay, we’re on your side, fuck it, get high—who needs love when you have the perfect affair at your fingertips. That’s right, when you’re in a relationship using drugs is like having an affair. You can’t/won’t admit it, you keep it secret, you run to it when your lover pisses you off—and it’s always there. Addiction won’t desert you, leave you, disappoint you. It’s very reliable especially if you can afford it.

  Anyway, as you said maybe after all this is done and I’m clean, sober, straight thinking I’ll be able to find the love I have been looking for. At this point Susan, I don’t really know what I need, want, expect, desire—yeah I’ve got little thoughts in my head and happiness is better shared than alone and I’m a romantic at heart but you’re right maybe I have to work out what my insecurities are—not totally sure yet. Anyway I’m sort of blabbering on, probably not making total sense just trying to open up and express myself….

  By the time I’m done I’ve written thirteen pages, full of the usual bad spelling and shitty grammar. It’s the most focused I’ve been in a long time, and getting it all out feels like an achievement. After years of lies and denial, I want Susan to know that I can admit where I went wrong, and that the fight she’s signed up for is worth it.

  Sometimes the words just flow out of the pen—other times I can’t even come up with a sentence. I’ve been working on letters to a few friends and my old boss, asking if they’d write a letter to the judge for me, saying I’m a good person who made some mistakes but deserves a chance to stay in the U.S. In some ways, that’s a lot harder than writing Susan. She already knows where I am and how I ended up here. With everyone else, I have to start off with “I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a disappointment to you, but I’m in a prison in Pennsylvania being held by immigration…,” then explain everything that happened after I disappeared.

  That is really fucking painful. Especially since if I’d asked any of these people for help years ago, I might not be in this situation.

  —

  A FEW DAYS later, just after breakfast, the CO says to me, “MacIndoe! Get ready—you’re going to the dentist.” He tells me my oral surgery got approved, but the dentist is in town, so I’ve got to strip down to my uniform and boxers—no T-shirt or thermals. I guess if I try to escape, I’ll be running around almost naked.

  I can’t believe this actually got approved—I’ve had a cracked wisdom tooth for ages. I didn’t really feel it when I was using, but in Rikers I kept getting these crazy toothaches and the dentist there told me I had to see an oral surgeon. That was never gonna happen, so I’ve been dealing with these brutal waves of pain the whole time I’ve been locked up. The Advil I managed to get just doesn’t cut it.

  Once I get downstairs, two officers are waiting for me—both with guns strapped to their belts.

  “You the guy going to the dentist?” one of them asks. “I don’t know how you managed to swing that.”

  As he shackles my hands, feet, and waist, I wonder if it’s because the dental assistant here is Scottish—maybe she pulled a few strings.

  The dentist’s office is in a strip mall, and as soon as they take me out of the van, people look at me like I’m some violent felon. I don’t really care—I’m outside for the first time in months, feeling the cool fall breeze on my face. I want to stop and take it all in but the guards quickly lead me through the parking lot and into the office, my chains rattling the whole way.

  One of the guards takes my paperwork up to the desk while me and the other one sit down. Everyone in the waiting room is staring at me, probably not what they expected when they set off for the dentist this morning. A woman in a skirt and cardigan pulls her two small kids a little closer and whispers something to them. The boy doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second.

  “It might be a while,” the guard says when he comes back from the desk. “There are a few people ahead of us.”

  I’m surprised they’d have me sit in the waiting room instead of whisking me in and out, but I guess even a shackled prisoner can’t get quicker service at the dentist.

  “So is that a Scottish accent you have?” the big guard on my right asks.

  “Yeah, they’re trying to deport me back there, but I’m fighting to stay.”

  “I’m Scottish,” he says—in a totally American accent.

  “Really? You don’t sound Scottish.”

  “Well, my family’s from there—back in the day. Me and my wife go to the Highland Games every year.”

  For the next half hour, he tells me all about his Scottish heritage and asks me a million questions about haggis, whiskey, and castles. He says he’s lost a lot of weight lately, and it’s a pain ’cause not only does he have to buy new clothes and a smaller uniform, but now his kilt is too big so he can’t wear it.

  I like this guy. He’s funny and down-to-earth, which is refreshing but also a bit strange. It’s almost better when the guards are assholes—it’s easier to dislike them. As I tell him my story and how hard it’s gonna be if I get separated from my son, it’s obvious he feels bad for me. The other guy I’m not too sure about. He just seems bored and impatient.

  But I actually don’t mind the wait. This is the first real interaction I’ve had with a guard who treated me like a human being, not just a criminal. I’m sharing all these personal details with him, and he’s telling me about his wife and places they want to travel. By the time I get to the dentist’s chair, I feel like I’ve been hanging out with a new pal.

  The dentist gives me a couple of shots, then waits for the Novocain to kick in before trying to lever the broken tooth and roots out of my jaw. It’s tougher than he expected and my mouth fills with blood as the tooth cracks and splinters.

  My eyes are closed tightly when I hear a commotion by the door. I look up and see the Scottish guy stumbling toward a chair, with the other guard holding his arm.

  “Shit, I just about fainted,” he says, looking down at the floor. “I hate the sight of blood.”

  I almost start laughing, but my mouth is still pried open and there’s a tube jammed in there sucking up debris.

  It’s funny how much this whole outing lifts my spirits, even though getting a tooth pulled is no picnic. Then again, I’m in chains and these guys have guns. If I tried to make a break for it, I wonder if the Scottish guard would shoot me.

  —

  AFTER BEING IN Pennsylvania for six weeks, I finally get through to Liam. I’ve written him a few letters, but I don’t know if he got them ’cause he hasn’t written me back, and since he doesn’t have an account with the prison phone company, I can only try him when I get my free call every week. I’ve been out of my mind worried that he might not want anything to do with me—but this time, he picks up after a couple of rings.

  “Liam, it’s Dad.”

  “Oh,” he says. “I didn’t recognize the number.”

  It’s been so long since I’ve talked to him, I have no idea where to start, but I only get five minutes for these calls so I can’t exactly beat around the bush.

  “I’m in a prison in Pennsylvania,” I tell him. “Actually, immigration detention. Have you gotten any of my letters?”

  “A couple. Mom told me what happened, but I’d already heard some of the messages you left on the machine so I knew you were at Rikers Island.”

  Just hearing him say that makes me cringe.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you sooner. Your mum wanted me to wait until she talked to you first, and then things got pretty rough after I got picked up by immigration. To be honest, it’s been kind of a nightmare, so she didn’t want you to be dealing with that once you were back at school.”

  “I know….I was really worried about you.”

  Liam’s voice sounds a little off—I can’t work out if he’
s upset or if it’s the crappy connection. I feel so distant from him I just want to reach through the phone and hug him.

  “Listen, I’m really, really sorry about everything I’ve put you through. I know I wasn’t the best dad the last wee while. Everything sort of spiraled out of control and I couldn’t reel myself in….I guess you know why, but that’s not an excuse.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything,” he says, which we both know isn’t really true. But I don’t want to dwell on my situation right now—I want to hear about him.

  “What’s been going on with you? I heard you went to Ireland with your girlfriend over the summer.”

  “Yeah, we went to Scotland, too.”

  “Is this the same girl you’ve been dating for a while?”

  “Yeah, but we’re at different schools now so we don’t see each other as often.”

  It’s weird to think of him grown up and traveling with a girlfriend, visiting family I haven’t seen in so long. I ask him how everyone is—he fills me in on his cousins and how my parents are doing, then asks me what it’s like in prison. I tell him it’s really boring, but not as bad as what he probably imagines. He sounds different—more mature, I guess—which makes me realize how much I’ve missed out on over the last few years.

  There’s still a million things I want to say when the CO tells me my time’s up.

  “I have to go—I’ll try to call you next week,” I say quickly. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Dad.”

  Before I get a chance to wish him a happy birthday—he’ll be twenty soon—Liam hangs up. I put the phone down, wipe my eyes with my sleeve, and get up to leave. The CO looks at me and glances away—as if he’s uncomfortable seeing a grown man cry. But I’m sure that happens all the time in here.