Chapter 30

My father stands in the doorway like he's forgotten how to enter a room. The jacket—brown corduroy, frayed at the cuffs—hangs loose on his frame. I haven't seen him in three years. Haven't wanted to.

"How did you find me?" My voice comes out flat.

"Your sister." He steps inside, and the door clicks shut behind him. "Nora, your mother—"

"Is not my problem anymore."

Daniel's hand finds mine under the table. A question in the pressure of his fingers.

"She's in the hospital," my father says. "St. Vincent's. They found a mass on her pancreas two months ago."

The immigration form sits between us, Jennifer's pen rolled against question one. When did you first realize you were in love with your spouse? The words blur.

"Two months." I pull my hand free from Daniel's. "You waited two months to tell me."

"She didn't want you to know." My father moves closer, and I can smell him now—coffee and something medicinal, antiseptic. "She made me promise."

"Of course she did."

Daniel stands. "I'll give you two some privacy."

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Stay."

My father's gaze shifts to Daniel, then back to me. Something crosses his face—confusion, maybe, or recognition. "This is the husband?"

"This is Daniel."

"The one you married for the green card."

The air goes thin. Daniel doesn't move, doesn't speak. Just stands there with his hands loose at his sides, waiting.

"Who told you that?" I ask.

"Your mother has her sources." My father pulls out the chair Jennifer vacated, sits without invitation. "She's been following your case. The whole thing. She knows about the fraud investigation."

"Then she knows more than she deserves to."

"Nora—"

"No." I stand now too, the chair scraping loud against linoleum. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to show up here after three years of nothing and expect me to—what? Drop everything? Come running?"

"She's dying."

The words land like stones in still water. Ripples spreading, inevitable.

"How long?" Daniel asks. His voice is quiet, careful.

My father looks at him with something like gratitude. "Six months. Maybe less. The cancer's aggressive. They tried chemo, but—" He stops. Swallows. "She wants to see you, Nora. Before."

"Before what? Before she dies? Before she apologizes for kicking me out when I was seventeen? Before she admits she was wrong about every single thing she ever said to me?"

"She's not going to apologize."

The honesty of it stuns me. My father has never been honest about my mother. Never admitted what she is, what she's done.

"Then why would I come?"

"Because she's your mother." He says it simply, like it's an answer. Like biology trumps everything else—the locked doors, the silent treatments, the way she looked through me like I was glass after I told her I was gay. "Because you'll regret it if you don't."

"Will I?" I lean against the table, arms crossed. "Or will I regret wasting what little time I have left on someone who never wanted me in the first place?"

My father flinches. It's small, barely there, but I see it. "She wanted you. She just didn't know how to—"

"Love me? Accept me? Treat me like a human being?"

"She did her best."

"Her best was shit."

Daniel moves then, just a half-step closer. Not touching me, not interfering. Just there.

My father's hands rest flat on the table, palms down. They're spotted with age, veined and thin. When did he get old? "I'm not asking you to forgive her. I'm asking you to say goodbye."

"Why? So she can die with a clear conscience?"

"So you can live with one."

The door opens again. Jennifer, right on schedule, carrying two paper coffee cups and a manila folder thick with documents. She stops when she sees my father.

"Mr. Chen." She sets the cups down, her lawyer face sliding into place. "I wasn't aware we were expecting you."

"I'm not here about the case." My father stands, and he's shorter than I remember. Smaller. "I'm here about family."

"Family." Jennifer's tone could cut glass. "The same family that hasn't contacted my client in three years? That family?"

"Jennifer," I say. "It's fine."

"It's not fine. We have one hour to prepare for an interview that could determine whether your husband gets deported, and we're wasting time on—"

"My mother's dying."

The words stop her. She looks at me, then at my father, then at Daniel, who's still standing there like a statue, like he's afraid to move and shatter something.

"I'm sorry," Jennifer says, and she means it. "But we still have work to do."

"I know."

"The interview is in three days. If we don't have our story straight, if there's any inconsistency, any hint that this marriage isn't legitimate—"

"I said I know."

My father picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. "I should go. But Nora—" He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper. "This is the hospital information. Room 412. Visiting hours are until eight."

He sets the paper on the table next to the immigration form. Two pieces of paper, two impossible choices.

"She asks about you," he says. "Every day. She wants to know if you're happy. If you're safe. If you're—" He stops. Starts again. "She wants to know if you're loved."

The irony is so thick I could choke on it. "Tell her I'm fine."

"Tell her yourself."

He leaves. The door closes. The three of us stand in the small room with its fluorescent lights and government-issue furniture, and nobody speaks.

Jennifer breaks first. "Do you need a minute?"

"No." I sit back down, pull the form toward me. "Let's do this."

"Nora—"

"I said let's do this."

Daniel sits beside me. His knee touches mine under the table, warm and solid. Real.

Jennifer opens the folder, spreads documents across the table. "Okay. Question one: When did you first realize you were in love with your spouse?"

I pick up the pen. My hand doesn't shake. "Daniel?"

"Yeah?"

"When did you know?"

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "The night you came home from the gallery opening. You were drunk and angry because some collector called your work 'derivative,' and you spent two hours ranting about the commodification of art while eating cold pizza in your underwear. You fell asleep on the couch with tomato sauce on your chin, and I covered you with a blanket. That's when I knew."

It's not romantic. It's not the story Jennifer probably wants. But it's true, and the truth of it sits in my chest like a weight.

"I didn't know you were awake," I say.

"I wasn't. You woke me up when you knocked over the lamp."

"I replaced that lamp."

"I know. You bought the ugliest one you could find because you said the old one was 'bourgeois.'"

Jennifer clears her throat. "This is good. This is the kind of detail we need. Specific memories, shared experiences. Things that prove you actually live together, that you know each other." She makes a note. "What about you, Nora? When did you know?"

I look at Daniel. At the necklace I gave him for his birthday—silver, simple, with a small compass charm because he's always getting lost. At his hands, which are never quite still. At his mouth, which I've kissed a thousand times and still don't know how to read.

"I don't know if there was one moment," I say. "Maybe it was gradual. Maybe it was always there and I just didn't see it."

"That's not specific enough," Jennifer says. "Immigration wants concrete details. Dates, times, places."

"Then I'll make something up."

"No." Daniel's voice is firm. "No more lies."

"The whole thing is a lie."

"Is it?"

The question hangs between us. Jennifer's pen stops moving.

"We got married for a green card," I say. "That's fraud. That's the definition of fraud."

"We got married for a green card," Daniel agrees. "But that's not why we're still married."

My throat tightens. "Daniel—"

"Question one," he says, looking at Jennifer but talking to me. "When did I first realize I was in love with my spouse? Six months ago. We were fighting about something stupid—I don't even remember what—and she said, 'If you're going to leave, just leave. I'm tired of waiting for people to leave.' And I realized I didn't want to leave. I didn't want to be anywhere else. I wanted to stay and fight and make it work, even when it was hard. Especially when it was hard."

Jennifer writes it down. Her pen scratches across paper, loud in the quiet room.

"Nora?" she prompts.

The hospital information sits next to the immigration form. Room 412. My mother, dying. My father, asking me to say goodbye. Daniel, asking me to tell the truth.

"I don't know," I say finally. "I don't know when I fell in love with him. But I know I'm terrified of losing him. Does that count?"

Jennifer looks up. "Yes. That counts."

She asks more questions. We answer them. Some truthfully, some with careful omissions. The line between fraud and reality blurs until I can't tell which side we're on anymore.

An hour passes. Then two. Jennifer fills page after page with notes, building our story, shoring up the weak points. She's good at this. She's done this before.

"One more thing," she says, checking her watch. "The officers will ask about your future plans. Where you see the marriage going. You need to have an answer."

"What kind of answer?" Daniel asks.

"The kind that makes them believe you're in this for the long haul. Kids, maybe. A house. Something that shows commitment."

I think about my mother in her hospital bed. About the years of silence, the locked doors, the way love can rot from the inside out.

"I don't want kids," I say.

Jennifer's pen pauses. "That's fine. Plenty of couples don't want kids. But you need to be on the same page about it."

"We've never talked about it."

"Then talk about it now."

Daniel shifts in his chair. "I always thought I'd want kids. Someday. But—" He looks at me. "It's not a dealbreaker."

"What if it is?" The question comes out before I can stop it. "What if you wake up in five years and realize you want something I can't give you?"

"Then we'll figure it out. Together."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer I have."

Jennifer closes her folder. "Okay. That's enough for today. Go home. Get some rest. We'll meet again tomorrow to go over everything one more time before the interview."

She leaves. Daniel and I sit in the empty room with our half-finished coffee and our carefully constructed story.

"You should go see her," Daniel says.

"My mother?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Because your father's right. You'll regret it if you don't."

I fold the hospital information, crease it sharp. "What if I regret it if I do?"

"Then at least you'll know."

Outside, the sun is setting. Orange light slants through the window, painting everything gold. Daniel's face, the table, the immigration form with its unanswered questions.

"Come with me," I say.

"To the hospital?"

"Yeah."

"Are you sure?"

I'm not sure of anything anymore. Not about my mother, not about the interview, not about what's real and what's performance. But I'm sure about this: I don't want to do it alone.

"I'm sure."

We stand. Daniel picks up the hospital information, slides it into his pocket. At the door, he stops.

"Nora? That thing I said. About knowing I loved you. That wasn't for Jennifer."

My hand rests on the doorknob. "I know."

"Do you?"

I turn to look at him. At this man I married for all the wrong reasons, who somehow became all the right ones. "Yeah. I do."

We leave the building together. The parking lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Daniel's car is parked under a broken streetlight, and when we reach it, he doesn't unlock the doors right away.

"What if she doesn't want to see me?" I ask.

"Then we leave."

"What if she says something terrible?"

"Then I'll be there."

It's not enough. It's everything.

We drive to St. Vincent's in silence, the radio off, the windows down. The city slides past—familiar streets, unfamiliar in the dying light. When we pull into the hospital parking garage, Daniel kills the engine but doesn't move.

"You don't have to do this," he says.

"I know."

"We can turn around right now. Go home. Pretend this never happened."

"Can we?"

He doesn't answer. Because we both know the truth: some things you can't pretend away. Some things you have to face, even when facing them might break you.

I get out of the car. Daniel follows. We walk through the automatic doors into the hospital's fluorescent brightness, past the gift shop with its wilting flowers and sad balloons, past the cafeteria where everything smells like disinfectant and despair.

The elevator takes forever. Fourth floor. Room 412. The door is closed.

I raise my hand to knock, and Daniel catches my wrist. Not stopping me. Just holding on.

"Whatever happens in there," he says, "we're still us. Okay?"

"Okay."

I knock. A voice from inside—not my mother's, someone else's—calls out, "Come in."

I push the door open. The room is dim, curtains drawn. My mother lies in the bed by the window, smaller than I remember, grayer, an IV line snaking into her arm. She turns her head when she hears us enter.

Our eyes meet. Three years of silence compressed into a single moment.

"Nora," she says. Her voice is paper-thin, barely there. "You brought a stranger."

"He's my husband."

She looks at Daniel, really looks at him, and something flickers across her face. "The one you married for papers."

"The one I married," I correct. "Period."

My mother's mouth twitches. It might be a smile. It might be pain. "Close the door," she says. "We have things to discuss."