Page 10 of My Stepbrother's Wedding
“Where?” I tried not to sound as helpless as I felt.
“America.”
My eyes widened, dread seeping over me. “Just for a passport stamp?”
The woman lit a cigarette and stared at me like she enjoyed seeing me jitter. “Yes, you need stamp.”
I glanced at Dad and Elizabeth, who shared my open-mouth look of horror. My chest tightened, and my palms sweat. I looked at the woman like Dante peering into the seventh circle of hell. “But we have to be at a wedding in a few days.”
“How I know where you come from if no stamp?”
“Can you check your computer for our travel days?”
The woman smirked. “System no work.”
“Can you call the embassy?”
She shrugged dismissively. “Today holiday.”
“Do they have an emergency number?”
The woman growled and walked out the back of the booth without further explanation. I exchanged another uneasy glance with Dad and Elizabeth as she disappeared into a concrete building that reminded me of a dystopian Orwell novel. We stood clueless on the sweltering blacktop as the people in line behind us grew visibly impatient. Will would owe me forthis irritation once we made it to Malegonia … if we made it. Forcing me on this trip was the dastardliest thing he’d pulled since our parents got married, and each second made that clearer than the last.
“Ralph, what’s going on?” Elizabeth whispered.
Dad wiped the sweat from his brow and swallowed. “Did America have some issues with this country in the news a few years ago?”
Elizabeth and I shared a nervous gasp. Memories of headlines about faraway wars swirled in my mind like wolves circling an injured caribou.
“You don’t think they’ll take that out on us,” Elizabeth said. “Do you?”
“We’re about to find out.” Dad motioned toward the concrete building.
The customs official reappeared, as joyless as ever, a teacup-sized coffee in hand. She sat down behind the booth without so much as looking at us. My fingers fidgeted involuntarily until the woman’s cold eyes locked on me. A chill crept up my spine.
She slammed an entry stamp onto our passports and chucked them under the glass. “Go away,” she rasped.
I grabbed the passports and gave the woman an insincere nod. We hurried past passport control into the main terminal. With deportation averted, our concern about missing the connecting flight reemerged. We had less than an hour before takeoff. Fortunately, this airport was much smaller than the ones in Chicago and Rome. It reminded me of a bus station: dirty, lacking color, and filled with old aluminum benches and advertisements that drooped halfway off the wall. At least the screens with the flight information had an English translation. We rushed through the terminal to our gate just as boarding began. As we stepped onto our connecting flight, I said goodbye to Petrovistan and vowed never to set foot there again.
The new plane was almost identical to the last one but smelled moldy, as if the cabin had recently been flooded. Dad fell asleep the instant we sat down, and Elizabeth dropped off soon after. I stared out the window at the sizzling blacktop. After this flight, we still had one more to catch. I sighed. How could anyone get married in a place so far away? It was only common courtesy to get hitched within four time zones.
As I waited, an elderly lady slumped into the seat beside me. She wore a black skirt and head covering, nylon stockings rolled up to her knees. Her breath reeked of garlic and onions.The woman fiddled with her seat belt, unsure how to latch it, until I helped her. She said something I couldn’t understand, and I smiled awkwardly.
“Where you from?” she asked with a thick accent.
“Chicago,” I said.
“Oh, you married?”
I felt my face flush. “No.”
Her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and she patted my hand. “So you come to find husband?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.” I pulled my hand away.
She smiled a toothless grin. “Don’t worry, I help you.”
***
