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We follow the signs to the international bridge and, holding hands, we go through the toll booth and pull into line. Scott wants to go over our story again.
“Remember,” he says, “you’re just coming for the weekend.”
“Okay. What if they know I’m not?”
“It’s okay. It’ll be fine either way. It’s just easier to do the immigration process if you’re already in the country, instead of trying to get in.”
The word “immigration” makes my palms sweat. I don’t like that word used to describe me. It conjures images of people huddled under a false floor in the back of a pick-up truck. I’m not trying to leave Canada, we’re just trying to be together.
We inch our way forward. The American flag comes into view, soaring high and proud above the country’s gates. It’s our turn.
Scott pulls up and puts the car in park.
“Citizenship?” the officer asks without looking at us. He’s punching the license plate into the computer.
“I’m American, she’s Canadian.”
The officer looks over. “Oh, Scott! Hey. What’re you up to?”
“Not much.”
The officer leans down and peers in at me. “You bringing anything into the country you’re going to be leaving?”
“No.” My voice sounds strange. I know I’m going to be leaving myself in the country.
The officer nods. “Okay. Have fun.”
Two hours later, we’re standing in the house of a justice of the peace in International Falls. He’s holding the ceremony in his basement, which he does from time to time, he tells us. My dad and Pat stand off to one side, and Scott’s mom and dad stand off to the other side, looking miserable. Scott and I each hold a copy of our vows in our hands so we can read them in turn. We’ve already looked through and, at my request, crossed out all the “obey” parts.
We listen to the justice lead the ceremony, and we each say our lines. For a moment, when we flip to the last page of our vows, I’m gripped with fear. I’ve known Scott for less than three months. I’ve never seen the city I’m about to move to. I must be crazy, to be standing here. But even as I think these thoughts, I know they’re just fears surfacing. My heart tells me I’m doing the right thing.
“I do,” I say. And I mean it.
The Dream
We spend the night in a Super 8 motel just outside Minneapolis. My appointment’s at eight o’clock, so we need to be close. Actually, it's not really an appointment. More like I have to sign in and spend the next six hours waiting to have my picture taken and my papers stamped.
We sit on cold plastic seats, surrounded by other people waiting for the same thing. I rest my head on Scott’s shoulder and tolerate the armrest digging into my side as I lean into him. I hold the number in my hand: eighty-six. The counter says number fifty-four is being served.
The room is packed, filled with people waiting, hoping, dreaming of the opportunity to call the United States home.?Men, women and children of all ages shift in their chairs, clutching papers, watching, waiting. Today we will each have a turn to rise from our chairs and walk up to the window.
I let my eyes close and listen to the hum of chatter, many languages mixing together. I wonder where all these people have come from, what their stories are. I can see their faces behind my closed eyes, and I wait for them to fade away.
In what feels like a few minutes, the pain in my side wakes me up, forcing me to lift my head from Scott’s shoulder. The counter says number fifty-eight is being served. Scott digs in his pocket for change and goes to buy us each a bag of Doritos from the vending machine. We finish them before the counter moves to fifty-nine.
After an eternity, it's my turn. Scott squeezes my hand and I walk up to the stone-faced woman behind the window. She takes my papers without looking up and starts flipping through. When she gets to the page with my picture she looks at me for the first time to make sure it’s me.
“Everything’s in order,” she says.
“Do you know how long it’ll take to be processed?”
“You’ll be receiving your card in the mail in a few months.” She stamps the last page and glances up again. “You should look a little happier,” she says.
“Excuse me?”
“You should smile.” It's more an order than a suggestion. “You’re about to live the dream.”
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