I feel like I might’ve memorized the list of rules for visiting a relative at the local jail. I stared at the sign in the visitor waiting room for long enough today. No cell phones, no running, no loud noises. Don’t stand or jump on the tables. No jewelry, except wedding bands. Don’t play with phones. That one through me for a loop at first. If I can’t bring a phone, how could I play with it? It later dawned on me that this wasn’t one of those big open rooms with a bunch of detainees and their visitors sitting at tables like my middle school cafeteria.
This was the real deal, with cubicles and handsets and a window between us. There was a quick snafu, where he didn’t have his code for the phone yet. One of the guards got it for him and explained how to get his phone to connect with mine. But for a few minutes, all we could do is lipread.
“I’m so sorry,” he mouthed at me.
Eventually, we could talk. It was difficult. I don’t know if it was just the phone I was on, or if that was the default setting, but it took him almost yelling for me to be able to hear him, even plugging my other ear to cut down on the background noise surrounding me. In complete violation of the rules so clearly laid out in the waiting room, there was a screaming child, on top of the general volume that could get into the room I sat in.
He apologized a lot. “I’m so sorry I did this to us,” he told me, defeatedly. As I expected, he doesn’t know much about what’s happening. He’s hoping he’ll have his video conference tomorrow, or Tuesday. I explained there is sometimes a chance a detainee can get out on bond; however, he needs to request it.
I told him what other information I’d found on the deportation process (woefully little, sadly), and that I was trying to get some actual legal advice. It was my turn to apologize then, because it’s the weekend, and I couldn’t actually reach anyone. “I swear, they do this on the weekend so you have to stay locked up for a few days,” he said. “If they’d called me, I would have come in.”
“The house is so empty,” I told him. “At one point last night, I was telling the cats it was too early for them to eat. I fed them, and the next thing I knew, it was 10:30.”
“I don’t even know what time it is,” he replied.
So, I laid out the options, as they currently stand. Most optimistic, I stay here, and hope for the best outcome for him. In the meantime, I stay in the house and live with a very strict budget while I clean it up enough to sell. Less optimistic, I find an apartment with utilities included. I put the house up for sale as it is, and hope it sells quick enough to avoid it going into foreclosure. An apartment’s rent would be about the same as the mortgage, but I’d be spending significantly less on monthly utilities. Least optimistic, I put the house on the market as it is, and leave. The first time he was arrested, some family in Florida offered to pack up a POD with whatever I wanted to keep and drive me back down there. I’m sure the offer still stands.
If he can stay, there’s a decent chance he probably won’t have a job to go back to, depending on if/when he gets out. I called his boss and told him there was a family emergency in Canada. I’m a terrible liar, and I can only hope that the nervousness of actually calling this stranger made my lie more convincing.
“You have another option,” he said. “You can just leave me here.”
I’m not at that point. Once I have a clearer idea of what’s happening this week, I’ll decide.
