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I knew I shouldn’t have brought him along, but family is family. It’s not like we’re close anymore, we just live together until I can save enough to move out of Basic and get my own place, but of course the algos don’t know that, they just see how much time we spend together. So now we’re stuck, Marlena and I, looking for him in the trendy alley bars he usually hangs at, because of course he’s not picking up and of course no one’s seen him in the last couple of days.  

I turn the corner and leave behind the restaurants and bars and there’s Marlena, sitting at the edge of a fountain in the square. They see me and throw their hands up in the air before collapsing them back to their sides and leaning back. I sit and we sigh. In three days it’ll be a week and the penalties will start to kick in. Three more weeks of that and I’ll be underwater, three months of that and I’ll probably end up leaving NH for good. And then it’s good ol’ Canada again and best of luck to you forever. 

They laugh…ruefully, is the word, I think. They’re in worse than I am, in a way. Their score’s pretty good (in the 150s I think) so they’ve got time, but they’ve just dumped Julián’s ass on the weekend. And then he pulls this. 

I do my worst Pacino, just when I was getting out, they pull me back in, and that gets a chuckle. I feel bad for them, but then again I have felt bad for them pretty much since the end of their honeymoon phase, and that was last year. 

“I can’t believe them, no one’s even looking for him,” they say looking at their phone, “it’s like they can’t think beyond the weekend” 

“Oh, I think they can. They’re just counting on us finding him. They’ll start getting itchy in a week, but until then I think it’s probably just you and me” 

“Fuck. What are we gonna do? I don’t want to have to call the cops” 

We agree. Marlena was a hard-core Anarchist – things would have to get pretty bad for them to even look in the cops’ direction. Me…I don’t want to think about it. 

“OK, look, by now he’s out of cash, he’s locked out of his banking, and anyone who looks him up is gonna want to avoid him, so he’s probably on his own, feeling like shit. So if you were Lucián feeling like shit, where would you go?” 

We talk about it for a while and end up making stupid jokes (Bed, Bath and Beyond!). It’s 11 PM and I’ve been going since 6 so I’m getting punchy. It’s nice spending time with Marlena, and it’s easier than I thought it would be to not think about it, I guess because we don’t even know what he’s actually done. The fact that it’s a criminal and not a civil process and that it was filed by a woman neither one of us knows doesn’t leave much room for hope, though. That fucking idiot. Marlena says it’s fine but they can’t be happy.  

We decide to walk to one of the community centres, the big one close to our apartment. When we first visited New Hope it was crazy to me that they still needed shelters. You’d think they’d go away with universal housing, but I guess you’d think that only because you’d never been abused or just straight up couldn’t stand it where you lived anymore. I’d certainly thought about making it down there a couple of nights when Julián had people over late on a weekday. 

We walk through a couple of bougie neighbourhoods with their faux-brick townhouses and I can’t help but look into the few windows that are still lit, trying to imagine how I’d set myself up there. I’m so close I can taste it, six months away from my apprenticeship and twice that from getting my certification. If I land the right gig, I’ll be fully paid off by the end of the year and out of basic housing. Home free. Julián free. 

Marlena doesn’t like me talking like that. They don’t like anything about Citizen Equity, says it just “perpetuates the systemic inequality that New Hope is supposed to be against”. They also got their 50K as a gift from their parents, but pointing that out would just be mean, no one’s more aware of that than they are. They still live in Basic and they run an Equity relief non-profit for international refugees – they’re not who the system is trying to filter out. In induction they tell you it’s easier if you join a community, they won’t tell you which one but most folks end up going with who they look like. So because my dad’s from Mexico I guess I’m gonna go hang with the Latinx crowd, right? Fuck that. I’ve more in common with the folks in the electrician’s program, for that matter. I didn’t move here to stay the same.   

We take the tram down Main street. It’s the night service and it’s packed with tech people in their 300 dollar hoodies. I feel the old resentment creeping up the back of my throat. I know it doesn’t make sense here, not with their taxes pretty much paying for my way through school this whole year. Their parents were well-adjusted doctors and lawyers, though. Where are the taxes on that? 

Marlena’s talking to one of them, a femme so pretty it’s uncomfortable to look in her direction, so I hunch in my seat and look at the Justice Process FAQ on my phone again. I’ve pretty much memorized it by now but reading the rules again makes me feel a little better. If someone doesn’t show for a summons within a week, everyone around them with a score over 100 starts getting hit. The more time you’ve spent with the person in the last year, the bigger the penalty. The longer they’re outstanding, the bigger the daily penalties get until you’re underwater. Then your credit score tanks and all your bills start going up, no one wants to risk a deadbeat. And god help you if you try to find a date online. The wrong side of utopia. 

We get to the centre, a big concrete rectangle painted in yellow and pink stripes, with a narrow line of cubicle windows lining each floor, about half of them lit from the inside. By then we’re starving so I talk Marlena into going to the canteen first. We get eggs and bacon from the woman staffing the till, she’s so tired she doesn’t even scan our IDs. I realize I was hoping to see another server I used to know from when I first got to NH, but of course she’s not here at 2 AM on a Saturday. We sit down and I sip my coffee and Marlena’s staring, so I nod to ask her but she keeps staring. So I turn around and there he is, sleeping on one of the couches against the wall, my little cousin, the joy of my life.  

Before I realize it I’m sweating all over, I’m boiling. I start to stand up and Marlena’s hand is on mine. 

“Let me try first”, she says, and I sit back down. By the time I remember where I am my food is already cold. I turn to look again and he’s awake and crying into her lap while she holds him. For all she knows he could have killed someone, but there she is, comforting his cheating ass, just like every other woman in his life. Even the god-damn city enables him, forgiving his minimum payments, letting him bail on training programs, sending him social workers. This city loves a rescue story, and Julián’s hits all the right notes: poor, not white, a refugee, young, an artist. A middle-class kid from Kelowna here to work hard and be able to afford a good life, on the other hand, not so much. Woe is me, boo-hoo-hoo. 

I’m nodding off when I hear Marlena call my name. I walk towards them – he’s standing behind her like he’s been grounded. His eyes are puffy and he reeks of booze but I stand up and hug him and feel my throat tighten.  

“¿Pos qué hiciste, pendejo?”¹ 

*** 

I’m late. I run into the courthouse building while still checking for Marlena’s text with where I’m supposed to be and I almost spill someone’s coffee. I could use a coffee, or a drink. This whole thing is exhausting. 

I get to the room and push the door open. I’ve been to five of these things already and they’re starting to blend into one long round of sitting in a circle and crying and repeating the same feelings, the same words. The circle is already set up and my chair is the only empty one, but people don’t seem to mind. Beth’s people are talking to Marlena and even Lucián is chatting with the minister. Beth is quiet but she smiles at me when I make eye contact as I sit down. 

The minister, a tall woman with horn-rimmed glasses, looks at each of us with a smile before asking us to check in. We go around the circle and it’s not as bad as the last time around – some folks even drop the word ‘grateful’ in there. Julián goes before I do and he starts blubbering right away, so when he stops I just say I’m glad this is almost over. Most of them nod. We all hold our breath when it’s Beth’s turn, but she says something noncommittal. 

The minister puts her hands on her lap and looks around at each of us. “We’ve learned a lot in these weeks, haven’t we?”, she asks. By now it’s like we’re conditioned to make agreeing noises when she strikes that tone, a heady mix of aunt, boss, and schoolteacher. “We’ve learned who Beth was and we learned how Julian’s actions hurt her and hers. We’ve learned about Julián and why he did what he did, and how that affected the people in his life. We’ve learned what it will take for him to make amends, and what we each have to do to make that happen.” 

She gives us the old spiel about restorative justice and about the city, though this time it’s grander, less self-conscious. She tells us we are now true citizens of New Hope because we’ve acknowledged what we owe to each other. After a few more minutes she finally gets to the agreement – they don’t like to call it a sentence, I guess – and I catch myself holding my breath even though I already know what she’s going to say. Lucián’s going into a program to deal with his alcohol issue, he’s signed up for an anti-violence men’s circle, and he’ll be paying for Beth’s therapy for two years. And of course, the rest of us have been elevated to official nanny status – we get to check in every three months to make sure he’s doing all of it. 

Beth stands up to speak. Her best friend sits beside her and holds her hand through the whole thing. I don’t want to listen to this again but I can’t stop. She says she felt erased when she told him to stop and he didn’t listen, that she checked out of her own body when he just kept going. That sometimes she feels like she’s checking out of her body again and doesn’t know what to do. I start sniffling and notice my cheeks are wet again. I do know what that’s like. Julian’s not sobbing anymore, he’s just looking at Beth’s chest and taking it in. He only starts to break down when she talks about the things she liked about him, and that she feels hope that she can be OK, that she might be able to forgive him one day. It’s the first time she’s used that word. I don’t know that I would have. 

We take a break to blow our noses and drink water. When I get back, Marlena’s talking to Julián in the corner of the room. I don’t know what their deal is but I get the feeling that they’ll be getting back together soon. I know I should be happy for them but my heart hurts a little. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m 10 years old again and my mom’s yelling at me for something another kid did. I know what Marlena would say, though: I had it way easier than he did. I guess she’s right. 

A few of Beth’s people say their piece and then it’s Julián’s turn. He stands up and takes out a folded piece of paper – I can’t believe he’s not winging it – and starts reading. His voice is trembling at first, but when he starts addressing Beth he breathes in and firms up. He doesn’t talk about his childhood, he doesn’t talk about his long history with booze, he doesn’t talk about being upset after Marlena dumped him. All he can do is work hard at being a better man, to earn the grace that Beth’s’ given him, and to ask for help even though he doesn’t deserve it. He turns to me and says he’s sorry he keeps letting me and Marlena down and he’s back to full-throttle sobbing now. 

Ah, what the fuck. I stand and hold him again, patting him on the back. The minister gets up and walks Beth and her people out of the room, leaving just the three of us.  

As I hold him I want so badly to believe that this time he’s going to learn. I don’t know what it is in people that makes some of them learn fast and some slow. I don’t know why some folks can’t stop giving and some folks can’t stop taking. I don’t even know why I told him to come with me in the first place. Family is family, I guess. 

I slap my hand hard on his back twice before I let him go. “Let’s go home, man.”