Jessica Martinez - The Vow

Like she doesn’t notice, Annie soldiers on. “So we did.”

“Did what?” her mother whispers.

“Got married. We got married.”

“You didn’t.”

“We did.”

It’s Mr. Bernier’s turn to join in the fun, but he isn’t whispering. “No. You. Didn’t.” Not whispering at all. He’s somehow shouting without raising his voice from his normal speaking volume. We’re too far away to have felt the spit, but I heard the splatter with each word. I’m dying to see if the veins are still running underneath the skin or if they’ve somehow broken through, but I’m too scared to look at him. And I’m suddenly unsure about the future of my testicles. Should’ve worn the cup.

“We did,” Annie says again. “Two weeks ago. But I just moved my stuff into his apartment today.”

“You what?” her mother gasps.

I brace for the explosion of tears, but they don’t come. I’ve made the mistake of expecting my mother’s reaction when clearly Annie’s warrior mask is a genetic trait. Mrs. Bernier has gone whiter than her walls, but she looks more likely to slap Annie than faint.

Annie doesn’t repeat what they’ve already heard. She turns to her dad and says, “Don’t be mad.”

“I’ll be mad if I want to be mad. Don’t tell me not to be mad!” This time I actually feel the spit. One speck on my forearm and one on my cheek. I don’t wipe it on the off chance that he’s one of those predators who can’t see you if you don’t move, but when you do he disembowels you and eats your intestines like spaghetti.

“It was something I needed to do,” she says.

“What?” Mrs. Bernier says, her voice incredulous. “So Mo could stay?”

Maybe I’ll be the one who faints. I’d lean on something, but the nearest couch is halfway across the room and closer to Mr. Bernier.

I’m about to break my no-talking rule with some vehement denial when Annie says, “Partly.”

I take a step back and lean against the door. Holy hell, we should have talked about this before so at least we had a game plan when they guessed—as any half-thinking idiots would do—exactly why their daughter just married her soon-to-be-deported best friend. This is definitely not my most intelligent moment. Or set of moments.

“But I love him,” Annie says. “I really love him. And I couldn’t imagine my life without him, so yeah, maybe we would’ve waited a few years if things were different, but we didn’t have a few years.”

Mrs. Bernier is shaking her head, unblinking eyes on Annie. “Stupid!” she whispers. “Annie, look at what you’re doing to your life! You’re throwing everything away. You could do anything.”

“But I don’t want to do anything,” Annie says, and I see a momentary break in the mask, a single lower-lip quiver. “I want to be with Mo.”

“How the hell did you pull this off ?” Mr. Bernier shouts, jabbing a finger at my chest. He’s got Sasquatch-sized hands, huge and covered in blond hair. “You aren’t even eighteen, are you?”

I open my mouth but turn to Annie before I can perjure myself. Again, more lies we should have discussed—am I telling them I’m eighteen? Or do they know when my birthday is?

Annie’s not looking at me. “He had consent.”

He squints. “Consent? Whose consent? Your parents are in Jordan, aren’t they?”

“We got married before they left.”

Mrs. Bernier shudders. Finally a chip in the porcelain. “His family was there?” She closes her eyes and puts her palm to her forehead, letting her finger curl up over her hairline, and I’m temporarily distracted because I’ve seen Annie do that before. I’m not used to thinking of her as a product of these people.

“I am going to kill your father!” Mr. Bernier shouts, jabbing the finger in my direction again, and I’ve got panic and relief, hot and cold, coursing through me. My father. He’s not going to kill me. He’s going to kill my father. This is excellent news—for me and my testicles—and probably not the worst news for my father either, being in Jordan and all. And yet even from six feet away, I can see the violently stabbing finger is unmistakably aimed at my jugular.

“Um, he’s in the Middle East, sir.”

Annie glares at me, and I realize that was unnecessary talking on my part.

“Don’t you dare sir me like you’re some polite little bugger. I’ve always known you were a lying little snake. You’ve been planning this for years, haven’t you? I thought you guys believed you had to commit suicide to earn your virgins in heaven. Lucky you—two for one, right? Citizenship and your very own virgin that you don’t even have to blow yourself up for!”

My mouth is dry; my tongue is sandpaper. I’m too shocked to say a word, which is good, because I’m just thinking of the triple irony—Annie’s not a virgin, I’m not sleeping with her, and the only time I’ve wanted to kill myself is right now.

Somehow Annie is blocking all of this out and talking to her mother. Her voice is almost pleading. “Only his mom.”

“But why would you shut us out of your life like that?”

Annie is silent for a moment, and I wish she would say what I can tell she’s thinking. They shut her out first. Instead she says, “You know I couldn’t tell you. Look at Dad.”

All three of us turn and look at Mr. Bernier, who is pacing, sweat pouring down his face and neck, morphing into the Hulk. Any moment now he’ll tear his clothes off and turn green.

Mrs. Bernier shakes her head and lets her shoulders slump forward. It’s small, but maybe it’s evidence of understanding.

“We had to,” Annie repeats.

“Oh, Annie.” Her eyes become glassy. Finally. She blinks, and a line of tears rolls down each side of her face. “You didn’t have to. Maybe you think you’re in love, but you don’t even know what love is.”

“Don’t you have anything to say for yourself ?” Mr. Bernier roars at me. He’s not jabbing the finger anymore, but he’s flexing his fists and then shaking them out, flexing, shaking, flexing, shaking. “Do you even love her?”

“Yes.” I risk the unauthorized speaking, because if I need Annie’s permission to answer that, they aren’t going to believe anything I say. Besides, it’s true. “I’ve always loved Annie.”

“If you loved her,” he spits, “you wouldn’t have married her without her family’s permission. You wouldn’t want to take her away from the people who love her most. You wouldn’t want her all for yourself. Maybe that’s what you Muslims do, but here in America we don’t need to isolate our women just to force them into loving us.”

“No, of course not. You just isolate them from yourself and from everyone else so they don’t feel any love at all. So they’re looking for the first opportunity to escape and find someone who won’t hold them at arm’s length, someone who’ll actually love them.” I look at Mrs. Bernier. Then Annie. “Isn’t that right?”

The roar of drama is suddenly gone. The silence is cold and smells like lemon Lysol. The Hulk’s veins are still throbbing, but his face has gone from red to white. I wonder if he’s having a heart attack. This is why I’m not allowed to talk.

“Get out,” he says.

I turn, not feeling anything but the shrillness of that silence, and Annie turns with me.

“Not you,” he says. “I’m talking to him.”

She doesn’t turn around but puts her hand over mine on the doorknob. “I’m going with him.”

“Annie, no,” pleads Mrs. Bernier, and the sudden panicky shake in her voice makes me think of my mother. Against all odds, at this moment of all moments, I miss her. I feel like I’m little, and I’ve been unfairly picked on, and I just want to curl up in her lap and cry.

“I almost forgot,” Annie says softly, reaching into her purse and pulling out her car keys. She puts them on the glass table with a clunk that rings like chimes. “I don’t want these.”

And we leave.

Annie

We leave and I make it to the car. I don’t think I will at first. The softness in my knees and hips is spreading up and down my legs, and with every step down the driveway I’m surprised my joints don’t give out completely. Something is melting—cartilage? ligaments? bones?— and I’m liquid, warm and woozy, by the time I drag my body into the passenger seat.

Mo’s hand is shaking as he puts the key into the ignition, and he won’t look at me.

I put my head between my knees. “I told you not to talk.”

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t have said that.”

“I know.”

“I was hurting them enough on my own. They didn’t need that from you.”

“Maybe I have Tourette’s,” he says. “Except instead of screaming obscenities, I scream totally true things that I’ve been thinking and not saying for years.”

I press my forehead into my knees. Totally true things. Is that why what I’m feeling right now is not exactly sadness? It’s definitely not what I felt after I told Reed. That was a squeezing dark pain, purple and scarlet and black. This is opaque blue and ice-cold. I’m a little free.

If it wasn’t for that last over-the-shoulder glimpse—Dad’s face crumpling, Mom’s features permanently pained, with her eyes closed—I’d almost feel okay.

* * *

Our evening isn’t terrible. Not at all. I make grilled cheese again, Mo heats up a can of tomato soup, and we eat in front of the TV and drink our soup from mugs because Mo thinks it tastes better that way. It’s no gourmet feast, but when we’re done there are only golden crumbs on my plate, and my lips are buttery and warm. Even after I have food in me, I’m too drained to get off the couch, so we watch three episodes of Arrested Development, followed by Footloose (the newer one), which Mo pretends to hate.