The call came at 9:57 Wednesday morning. 37 days since I started working from home per company mandate, 29 days into California lockdown, 18 days since the last time I’d set foot in a building that wasn’t my home, and that was a masked/gloved grocery shopping trip.
We’d found out it was bad in late February, and decided not to head up before our planned trip the first week of April. We’d canceled that trip mid-March, certain that things wouldn’t get so bad with her before we could visit again. We were doing video conference calls, 2–3 times a week, chatting and keeping each other company. So the mid-morning call was shocking. We weren’t prepared for this. Hadn’t planned on this. We plan on everything. Ok, I do. My husband’s voice broke as he asked me to book a flight for the next day — Seattle/Vancouver, didn’t matter — and a rental car. No context, but I knew. I asked anyway, and he said simply, “she’s going downhill fast”.
Search sites revealed mediocre options. I’m a nervous flyer and, even if I wasn’t joining him, I didn’t want him on a non-major-carrier, making a sad and nerve-wracking journey worse. I hunted online for a bit before pivoting into what I knew needed to be. I closed the computer, calling my best friend, running to the basement for suitcases. I grabbed passports. I called my manager. I flung clothing into my suitcase, grabbed the gifts we’d planned to bring “whenever we could get there” and, by the time my husband got home at around 10:30, had decided that we were driving, and that I was going with him. I love her. She is one of the last maternal figures in my life. I’ve known her since I was 15, since her home was a haven to rebels hiding from parents. We were so misunderstood! And I wasn’t leaving my husband alone to face this. I had been left alone to face this once and made a vow to never do that to another human being that I loved. We piled things into the car haphazardly; suitcases, bags of personal protective equipment; sanitizer, gloves, masks, paper towels. And, yes, toilet paper. We took all the snacks from the house; we weren’t risking going into a gas station. We called my dad and our cat sitter to let them know, begging them for help, and hit the road at 12:15.
(All that travel last year meant my international travel preparation game was strong. I am still wishing I’d packed a pair of sweat pants, though.)
We left the Bay Area, and Redding was our first gas stop. We used gloves, we sprayed down the credit card. We got drive through In N Out. I got out of the car to retrieve the food and walk it to the parking lot, spraying the containers, my husband following me in the car to pay. We ate outside in the parking lot. We… did not use bathrooms (sorry, rural roads, thank you, lots and lots of camping trips).
We stopped again for gas in middle-Oregon, waiting until after 6 so that an attendant would not attempt to pump gas for us. An attendant was there anyway; we left a tip, after pumping our own gas. We noted the hearts in the lights of the buildings in Portland. We smiled as we drove through, texting “wave” to our friends there.
Our last gas stop was in Rochester, WA. Noted the hearts on the buildings in Seattle. It was 1:05 AM, too late to text “wave” to our friends there
I was driving when we reached the Canadian border at 2:57 AM. We were exhausted. We were concerned; not overly so, just generally trepidatious. “What if they don’t let me in? I guess you could turn back and drop me in Seattle, and I could rent a car and you could go ahead without me…?” We didn’t have much of a contingency plan. We had no plan at all aside from getting to her.
As we neared the border, the signs changed from “Staying home is saving lives. Keep it up, WA” to “Border crossings closed to nonessential travel”.
We had chosen the truck crossing. There was no one there. A single lane was open, absolutely everything else closed. We were the only car — no cars ahead of us for the time leading up to the border, none behind us.
The tall man in the booth (gloves, no mask) looked at us dubiously as he took our passports — my U.S., my husband’s Canadian. His face impassive, he said “we can let him in. I don’t think we can let you in.” We paused. “Why are you essential?” “He’s not even sure he can drive safely,” I said. He called his colleague over. A blonde woman with a knit cap. She stayed in the corner of the booth, nodding as he spoke. “Not only am I not sure we can let you in, but if we do let you in, we need to know that you can quarantine for 14 days. Can you quarantine for 14 days?” “Yes, we have an AirBNB cabin on the property where we’ll be staying. It’s fully separate from the house.” We went back and forth for some time there, no one coming up behind us. We were asked the usual questions — total value of items in the car. Any alcohol. Any weapons.
“We’ll be going through your whole vehicle.” “Of course.”
We gave our email addresses, our phone numbers. They are, absolutely, tracking our phones. We gave the address where we’d be staying. The name of the AirBNB when where we’re staying is rented out. We repeated an oath — that we understood what coming in would mean. That we understood we risked a 1,000,000 CA fine and/or 3 years in jail if we were found to be in breach of the oath. I don’t think my husband needed to read it aloud, but he did, with me. It was 3:15 and we got a lot of the words wrong. We were delirious. This man could not approve me. He did not know what to do with me. I got the sense that this was, for good reason, a rare situation. He had to bring us in. He had our passports, and directed us to park and come in. We drove to “lane 1” — again, the only car anywhere — donned masks and gloves (how strange to put on a mask to enter a government building), and headed inside. I have blue hair. Was wearing my travel t-shirt; a giant photo of our ginger cat, looking pensively up at us. He looks cute, but he just wants snacks. We were met with the same man, another, younger, smaller man, a brown haired shitkicker looking woman who I liked because she wasn’t trying to be nice or warm, which reminded me of me, and the Canadian border version of Hank from Breaking Bad. These were the only people in the building, and they were all at our counter. We were the only people trying to cross. These people wanted to help my husband. They did not want to help me.
Younger, smaller man:
“You drove straight from the Bay Area.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a long drive. What time did you leave?”
“About noon.”
“So you didn’t stop.”
“Just for gas. Three times.”
“No hotel?”
“No. We didn’t even use restrooms.”
“OK. Well, he can come in. I’m not sure you can.”
“If it matters, I haven’t had contact with anyone but my husband since the 28th.”
Hank:
“It doesn’t matter. The US numbers are bad.”
“I’m from the Bay Area. Our numbers are better than most of the US…?”
“They’re still much worse than ours.”
“I understand.”
Brown haired shit-kicker woman, to her colleagues:
“We need to call this up to CBSA.”
Hank:
“Wait… over there.”
We stepped away from the counter to the center of the room. I curled up into my husband. I apologized for complicating this trip — it was the last thing I wanted. We waited.
First guy:
“Ok, so are you two…?”
“We’re married.”
“Do you have evidence of that?”
Thankfully, we’re in the middle of a refinance. I pulled out my phone, where I had, just last week, taken photos of our marriage license.
“How long have you been married?”
“7 years.”
[I left out “She married us.”]
…
“Do you have health insurance?”
“I do, through my employer.”
“Who’s your employer?”
“[Fortune 500 software company]”
Younger, smaller guy perks up.
“What do you do for them?”
I tell them. Then, “We have great insurance. Plus, I can get help anywhere in the world, if I need it.”
“Yeah, they’re a good company. Big.”
“We have rockstar insurance.”
First guy:
“Because we can’t have you taking a hospital bed from a Canadian who needs it.”
“I absolutely understand. I wish our government cared as much about us.”
“You’re a risk.”
“I understand.”
Smaller guy:
“Tell me more about the residence where you’ll be staying.”
I describe the AirBNB; the completely separate free-standing structure about 50’ from the main house. The kitchen, loft, fireplace.
“Please wait.”
We go back to the center of the room again. We are exhausted, hopeless, making the plan to turn back.
“Come on over.”
…
“We’re going to let you in. Because you have proof of marriage, and good health insurance… and because we know this isn’t a trip you wanted to take.”
I don’t waterworks very often. I certainly don’t authority-waterworks, because they know it’s a blatant attempt at manipulation, and because it’s not productive. When I heard these words, I burst into tears. I couldn’t hold it together. Mask on, mask still on, never off, we retrieved our passports. I thanked them.
To my husband: “We know you’re going to see your [her]. You’re a citizen. We can’t stop you. You [to me] need to stay in the other building.”
“Absolutely.”
“You made it past federal. In about half a block, there’s a road block. It’s provincial. They need to know where you’re going to be quarantining. If you can’t prove that, it won’t matter that you passed here because they’re just going to turn you right around.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck. With everything.”
We left the building. On the landing outside, we held each other. Shaking. We walked back to the car, discarding gloves, removing masks, sanitizing hands. They did not, in the end, go through our car.
My husband drove. It turns out he could drive. And, 1/2 block later, a full barricade. We rolled down the window. A red-haired man there asked where we were going, the purpose of our visit. We told him.
“Do you have accommodation?”
“We do.”
“Do you have accommodation where you can quarantine for 14 days?”
“We do.”
“You’re not supposed to stop for anything until you get to your destination. Do you have enough gas to get to [a 40 minute ferry ride and an hour drive north of Vancouver]?”
“Yes, we just tanked up.”
The ginger took my husband’s passport. He was 2 feet from the car, no mask, no gloves. He took our names, phone numbers. We got paperwork outlining Canada’s rules on Covid 19. They did not ask for any of my documentation at the provincial stop.
We were cleared. Our adrenaline spiked, we drove from the border to the ferry, arriving at 4:50 AM. We parked, falling asleep repeatedly until it was time to board the ferry. We slept the entire ferry ride.
We made it to our destination. A beautiful respite of trees and wildlife.
She saw us passing the house, through her window, to the cabin out back that would be our quarantine home.
“Just kidding, I’m not really sick,” she yelled to us. We broke up laughing. It was 9 AM exactly.
Would that she were kidding. But that she can joke means we got here at the right time.
Until 2 weeks from now, when we can hug, I am here, quiet. Had we flown, had we arrived separately, I would be back home by now.
Forced peace, a gift from the Canadian government, at the closing of a life.
[ETA: My husband’s brother, a Canadian citizen with expired passport, was allowed in with a lot of questioning and the same quarantine restrictions just a few hours later. HER (the she in question) sister, not a citizen, was turned away at the border and may not see her sister again in this lifetime.]
phreddiva 