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“The Master Death File, it’s like this big list the social security people manage of everybody who’s cashed their chips,” I explain.
“Pegged out,” Jack adds.
“Gave up the ghost.”
“Bought the farm.” We’re getting punchy.
I stop spinning and smile at Jack, getting sucked into the playful reprieve.
“Bit the big one.”
“At room temp.”
“Didn’t pass go; didn’t collect two hundred dollars.”
“Jesus, are you guys finished?” our mom cuts us off, exasperated with our bullshit.
“Oooh, met their maker!” I couldn’t help myself.
“Paid the ferryman!” Jack shouts.
“Enough!” Dad booms.
Damn, he used the dad voice, I mouth to Jack, and we stifle our laughter.
My dad hands Lonan a printed copy of the email I received. His gaze darts back and forth over the words. When his eyes reach mine, he looks hurt.
“Bridget, when were you going to tell me about this?”
I shrug. “I didn’t want to tell you until I had a plan and knew what I was going to do about it.”
LONAN
What?I sit and listen for the next hour, trying to get caught up on the mess. I didn’t realize how short on time we were. Something drastic needs to happen.
Bridget stands up. “I need a break. My head hurts. I’m going for a walk.”
Jack rubs his face and leans back in his chair to look at the ceiling. The rest of the family is still digging through information like they will suddenly find answers that weren’t there five minutes ago.
* * *
I’m so thankful I don’t have a game tomorrow. I stay up late, pulling all the information I can think of about Homeland Security and visas from the internet. Our immigration system is an absolute holy mess. I don’t know how anyone gets a visa when everything is so confusing.
A Green Card won’t work because she needs to have applied a long time ago and would have needed a sponsorship anyway. Plus, those take up to twelve months to process, and she would have to go back to Vancouver and start over. Nope.
B-1 visa is out. She would have had to apply for that early on too. And she wouldn’t even be eligible since you can’t get one without proof that you’re not planning on abandoning your old residence—Bridget had sold half her shit. She didn’thavea residence when she moved here.
For everything else, she needs a sponsorship through employment, and the whole thing is a big Catch-22 that goes round and round again. This is so exhausting. I will not sit and take this day by day until she’s gone. That’ll be agony.There has to be something.
I hate using my fame to get things, but maybe somebody who works at the SSA is a fan? Could they speed the process along? I know I could get the rest of the team to help if need be. But who would we even talk to? It’s not like you can call the Social Security Administration and say,Hey, I’d like to bribe one of your workers to process some paperwork quickly. Are there any fans of Lonan Burke that work in your office? This whole thing is such a clusterfuck. I mean, how do people survive this?
Finally, at 1:00 a.m., I strike gold: the Fiancé Visa.
We have to be married within ninety days of applying for the visa, but during that ninety days, she doesn’t have to leave the country. She can stay in the States on her old identity so she’s able to keep her Canadian insurance while her paperwork processes. It gives us extra time for her social security shit to turn up. Should she be taken off that Master-Death-List whatever, the only thing changing is the name on our marriage license. I would never take back my proposal. Bridget is mine. She always has been and always will be. I’ll call my lawyer in the morning and see what he can do to get started. And then I need to talk to Ken and Lori—and Jack.
* * *
“I could marry her.”
