Visiting Hours
These days always begin early, the kind of early that feels unnatural. Waking up while it’s still dark and so cold you can sense the dewy morning even while bundled safely under the covers. Then comes the long drive; it takes hours to get there. We stop for breakfast on the way, and I order chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream as a special treat. We finally arrive, but there’s more waiting yet to do, in those cramped holding areas with heavy plastic bolted-together seats like at airport gates. This is the start of the noise that will last the rest of the day. Restless children wailing and climbing on weary mothers. Policemen with squawking walkie-talkies. From somewhere within, the perpetual buzz of locked doors being opened and then their heavy slam shut. Finally, it’s time to make our way, one by one, through the metal detector, which looms dauntingly in the middle of the room. We take off our shoes and pad through the imposing doorframe hoping not to hear the menacing beep that forces you to go back and do it over again. Once we’re safely on the other side of the metal detector, we get our hands stamped with a clear ink that feels cold and slimy on my skin. The door makes its buzz-slam for us, and then we’re inside the vast echo-y room filled with tables and just starting to fill with people. Now we’ve reached our destination, but the waiting is still not over. We have to sit and stare at each other until he arrives, which can take up to an hour. This process is endless. I wish I were back in my warm bed, snoozing. While we wait, the noise level escalates. Every surface is hard and unforgiving and deflects the increasing number of voices back into the room. Nearby, a woman, also waiting, offers her young child a crinkly package of vending machine crackers. The child immediately spills them all over the floor, and the woman yells obscenities. I try not to look. And then the door at the far side of the room buzz-slams, and this time when I look up he’s walking toward us, wearing the same olive green pants as many of the other men in the room. I can’t remember him ever wearing anything else. “Daddy!” I cry, though my small voice gets swallowed up by the din. He scoops me up and we all sit together at the table; I am perched on his knee. This is my favorite part, where my dad asks me questions, and I get to tell him about school and how all my teachers like me and think I’m smart. Soon, though, it’s time for the grownups to talk, and my attention wanders. My gaze drifts self-consciously to the table next to ours, where a woman is locked in an embrace and sharing a deep kiss with another man in olive green pants. It is obscene to my young eyes, but also fascinating. I force myself to look away. At a farther table sit a woman and a child about my age. They are playing a game of cards, still waiting for their man in green pants. In the center of the room is a table with three men, all wearing tiny knitted caps. They are all studying small, gilt-edged books, all dog-eared and tattered. Their collective serenity creates a forcefield around them, protecting them from the ruckus that fills the rest of the room. “Are you hungry?” my grandfather asks my dad. My attention snaps back to our own table. This is another fun part. Dad holds my hand, and we make our way to the vending machines, where the acrid tang of microwaved pizza hangs in the air. I feed dollar bills into a machine, press buttons. Change clatters into the tray below. We make our selections. I get a hot chocolate, like I always do when we’re here. We return to our table. I try to sip the sweet, rich drink, but it is too hot and scalds my mouth. I open a package of spongy snack cakes. Dad has a soggy microwaved sandwich. The meal is unremarkable except for the fact that we are sharing it together. “Ready to go, kiddo?” my grandfather asks me soon after we finish eating. I know the answer is supposed to be yes, even though I am not ready. We all stand and exchange hugs with my dad. He beams a big smile at me, though I can see his eyes welling with tears. I pretend I don’t notice, as much for myself as for him. If I start to cry, I know I won’t be able to stop. We walk together to the far side of the room, where Dad shows his identification to a man on the other side of a heavy glass window. The door buzzes, slams shut. And he’s gone. We show our stamped hands under a glowing purple light to another man through the window. The clear ink becomes an alien shimmer that proves to him that we are allowed to leave. And then that’s it. Dad stays here, and we make our way home. He isn’t with us when we stop for ice cream on the way back. He doesn’t wrestle with me on the living room floor later that night. He can’t come to my school and meet my teachers on parents’ night. All he can do is stay there and wait for us to come back.
