Only Because It’s You

Chapter 14 Kal

14

KAL

I spot Miz through the window of SanRemo Bakery, our long-established finish line. We always meet up here to reward ourselves after she finishes a long run, and I, a long ride. I feel relieved to see her. She never replied to my last text a few days ago, staying silent until she messaged me about meeting up today, and I’ve been bursting with shame at how rude I was toward her when she was giving me ideas for how to stay in Canada.

As soon as I pass through the sliding doors, I can feel all that butter and sugar seep into my skin, which is already porous from the heat. It’s only a little bit cooler inside, but I enjoy the moderate relief nonetheless, fanning my shirt as I admire the nearly 360 degrees of decadent Italian pastries, breads and bursting sandwiches in the display cases and shelves.

As I approach Miz, I notice she’s sitting at a four-top instead of our usual table for two. I look at her quizzically.

“Hey,” Miz says, smiling up at me warmly. Our outfits are accidentally matching—hers a tan linen top and denim skirt, and mine a light-brown button-down and my favourite denim Bermudas.

“Hey,” I say, suddenly feeling very self-conscious. It feels hard to look her in the eyes, so I direct my gaze to that wishing star above her left eye instead, a childhood scar from a feral cat, today freed from concealer. “I’m sorry,” I say simply, still standing, my hands slightly behind me like a butler’s.

She looks confused. “Huh?”

“I was so rude to you the other day when we were texting.” I move aside so one group of people can vacate their table while another swoops down on it. “You were only trying to help.” She waits me out, a smile now playing on her lips. “That’s all.” I sit down.

“Oh my god,” she says, laughing. “Don’t worry about it. You’re under a lot of stress! We’re apologizing for being ourselves now?” She shakes her head at me, smiling, then remembers something. “Oh, I haven’t ordered yet. I was waiting for you.”

“I’ll go,” I say, getting back up. We can’t risk us both going and losing our table. “The usual?” She gives a thumbs-up, distracted by an incoming call on her phone.

It takes me a couple of trips to transport the four new pastries we’ll try today, plus our double macchiatos. We toast our coffees. “Happy belated Ethiopian New Year,” Miz says, putting down her cup and digging into a slice of pistachio ricotta cake. “Did you call home? And more importantly, did you tell them anything?”

“Yes,” I say, taking a sip. “But no. They’re all still expecting me in January.”

“You’ll be there,” she says confidently, covering her full mouth. “Because you’re going.”

I break into a pistachio cannoli with my fork. “I’ll miss times like these.”

“Would you stop?” she says, exasperated. “You’re not getting deported, you know? Trust me, things will look up for you soon.” She has a mischievous grin on her face, twirling her fork at me like a magic wand.

I raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh yeah? You have a crystal ball?”

She peels the paper off a cupcake with pistachio icing. “By the way, I invited a friend to join us.”

“You did?” That explains this table for four and why she has been glancing at the door every time someone comes in. “Who?” I ask, hoping curiosity will mask my disappointment that our one-on-one time is being cut short.

“A friend of a friend. I don’t personally know her. But she keeps wanting to link up, and I felt awkward going by myself. What if she’s weird?”

“So am I here for my opinion or for your protection?” I ask with a laugh.

“Just be yourself,” she says, popping a hunk of icing into her mouth.

That’s an odd thing to say. Why would I be anything else?

An Ethiopian woman walks into the seating area and looks around. Miz stands and waves her over. I stand too as they greet each other somewhat formally.

“Nardos, this is Kalkidan,” Miz says. “My…cousin.”

The word hits me like a slap. Cousin? Since when? And why? She always introduces me either just by name or as the only best friend she still has from childhood. Despite the thoughts rushing through my head, I manage a pleasant smile as I shake Nardos’s hand. Miz asks her what she’d like to drink and goes to get it, leaving me alone with this stranger.

“Are you coming from work?” I have no idea what else to say to her. She is about our age, dressed in a black skirt suit and red shirt, her hair slicked back into a painfully tight-looking bun.

“I took the day off,” she says, assessing me intensely. “You’re an actor though. How interesting!”

I start, immediately feeling exposed. “Oh, Miz told you?”

Nardos confirms this by bizarrely reciting to me the main points of my own life, including that one of my sisters is very close in age to me. I’m beginning to suspect this is a setup, which is weird. But moreover, why would Miz bother with a setup when I’m so close to going back home?

Miz returns with Nardos’s drink and an extra fork. “I see you guys are hitting it off,” she says overenthusiastically.

“And how do you know each other?” I ask, narrowing my eyes very subtly at Miz.

“Friend of a friend,” Nardos says.

Miz proceeds to give me the bullet points about Nardos, who sits there grinning at me: when she came to Canada (fifteen years ago), what she does for a living (dental assistant), where her family are (back home, big, and reliant on her), what hobbies she has (movies). When Miz pauses for a breath, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom but only so I can be out of sight when I text her.

Me: Are you trying to set me up with this woman?

Miz:

Me: Why in God’s name?! I’m leaving, remember?

Miz: Not if you two vibe and she agrees to sign for you. SURPRISE!

Holy creator in the sky! I fall back against the wall. Sign for me? No wonder Miz has been so quiet. I thought she was mad at me, but she’s actually been trying to find me a wife ? A wise man once told me to pay attention to what is not said. Miz, while cycling me through all my options for staying in Canada, had specifically not mentioned spousal sponsorship. Not that it’s not an obvious solution. Everyone knows someone who’s done it. But I’m still annoyed.

Me: When were you going to inform me of this?

Miz: Well if u hadn’t run off! Hurry back. 2 more women to meet, and I don’t want them overlapping.

Me: What??

Miz: Options, man, OPTIONS, don’t make me have to come in there and get you.

I know it’s not an idle threat—she would barge into the men’s washroom to get me, breezily declaring, “Nothing I haven’t seen before!”—but I need a moment to absorb this, sort through my jumbled thoughts.

Marriage is serious, something that shouldn’t be abused, and this plan is exactly what that would be: an abuse of the sanctity of marriage. That’s not me. I step aside to let another man enter the washroom, and scratch my chin. I should be really mad at Miz for ambushing me like this, but I actually feel touched by the amount of effort she must have put into organizing this, all so I can stay in Canada.

Me “marrying” a stranger, could it work? I know there’s a strong chance that this audition Oliver has promised me won’t pan out, which means I will be forced to leave everything I’ve built here—my life, my friends, Miz. What if signing a marriage licence with someone I don’t know could be less of a holy union and more of a mutually beneficial exchange? Is that so absurd?

Yes, Kal, it is .

I sigh and head out of the washroom and return to the table.

Nardos winks at me jokingly as I sit down. “No need to worry,” she says. “I have experience. This would be my second time, so I know how everything goes.”

Miz’s cup clatters on the saucer. “Say what now?” she says.

Uh-oh. Eyes wide, I inch my chair away from the table.

“You’ve done this before?” Miz says.

“Yes,” Nardos says matter-of-factly.

“When?” Her tone is slightly sharp, and I swallow nervously.

Nardos looks up at the ceiling, unperturbed by the looming danger from Miz’s side of the table. “2010 to 2011. That’s around when you came,” she says to me, and again I feel far too overexposed.

Miz scowls. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

“I don’t…” Nardos falters. “It’s a good thing.”

“How’s it a good thing? It’s five years before you can sponsor someone new. I’m guessing you got divorced very recently?” I am impressed by how much research Miz seems to have done. “How is that going to look? You think they won’t realize you’re up to something when you show up with a new husband you’re sponsoring?” She throws her napkin down on the table. “You’ve wasted our time. Fuck!”

“Excuse me!” Nardos says, now getting heated, putting one hand up. I make some useless sound that is supposed to be calming or peace inducing, but I may as well not be at the table. She continues, “I will not be shouted at. I have more people who need me, you know!”

“Excuse me?” a new voice says above us. We all turn to look. It’s another Ethiopian woman, this one very short and bright skinned, with her short hair dyed maroon. “I’m Samri. I’m supposed to meet Mizan?” She looks from one woman to the other, then settles on me with a silent What’s going on ?

Miz grazes Samri’s arm. “Just a sec, hon.” She swivels back to Nardos, her voice murderous again. “And you think you’re the only person I would consider?”

I get up. “I’ll get you a chair,” I say to Samri.

But she follows me, whispering, “I had no idea it was a group interview. I’m gonna go.”

She slips away, mouthing sorry over her shoulder before I can attempt to convince her to stay. Just as well, I would not have done a good job of this interview. A horrible scraping sound from the direction of our table turns out to be Nardos springing out of her chair. It teeters dangerously. I move fast and catch it. Not that we could possibly attract any more attention than we already have.

She points her finger down at Miz. “I’m warning Hani about you!” Then storms off.

“Ha, it will be the other way around, honey,” Miz yells in her wake.

“Marry him yourself if you’re so concerned!” With that, Nardos is out of our lives, for good, I hope.

Miz rolls her eyes, then peers behind me. “Where’s Samri?”

“I think this,” I say, sitting back at the table, “was too much for her.”

“No!” Miz moans. She drops her face into her hands, elbows on the table, defeated. “And Helina cancelled earlier while you were hiding in the bathroom. I had really liked her for you. She’s also an artist, a singer.”

I rub her back. “It’s okay, Miz. There’s still Hani?” I say that for her sake, of course, not mine.

“No.” Miz sighs. “Hani was my…broker.” She pulls the plate with a Grand Marnier Italian pistachio babà and the remnants of the other pastries toward her. Devouring everything bite after bite, she tells me about all that led up to this, starting with her mother’s retirement party. Before long, I’m clutching my stomach, muscles sore from laughing at her run-in with Khadijah. I haven’t laughed like this in what feels like weeks.

She lobs a crumpled muffin liner at my head. “Shut up. It’s been exhausting to coordinate! How do people do it all the time?”

“You know, Miz,” I begin. “This kind of thing works best when it’s between people who already know each other well enough to dive into such a big commitment. Like siblings, extended family…” I pull back from adding established friends .

Miz swallows a bite. “Yeah, but I know you don’t have anyone here, so…”

“No, no, I don’t…” I gaze out the window at the row homes across the road.

She pushes crumbs around the plate, takes a hesitant breath. “I mean, you could go down to the States and—” She knows my extended family is all in the US.

I stop her with my hand. “If I wanted to be in the States, I would have moved there in the first place. I’m here because I want to be here .” Here where I could be just me, where my time could be mine and mine alone.

“And I’m glad for that,” she says, reaching across the table to grasp my hand. “I’m glad we’ve had these eight years.”

“Me too.” We smile at each other. I feel wistful, sad. “So, ‘cousin,’ huh?” I say, the word like a literal lump in my throat. “You know you’ve never, not once in the twenty-two years we’ve known each other, called me that.”

“I thought it would sound more reassuring than if I’d introduced you as a friend,” Miz says, shrugging. She takes her hand from mine and scrapes the dry foam inside her coffee cup with a stir stick. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I think it bears some thinking.”

“Oh boy,” she says, lowering the stick.

“I think, you’re not wrong. You’re the closest person I have to family here.”

“There you go, then.”

“However, you know I have more actual cousins than I know what to do with.”

“If only one of them lived in Canada.” She gives me a wry look. “Okay, it’ll never happen again.” She puts her hands together in front of her heart and bows. “I’m your friend. Full stop.”

“My very good friend,” I say. “As today’s events have shown.”

“Well, I’m sure Miss Nardos,” she says with disdain, “is already out there dragging my name. ‘Marry him yourself.’?” She scoffs. “As if!”

“As if what?” I keep my voice even, but I can feel my heart beating a little faster.

“I mean, come on,” she says, eyeing me with her chin down as if I am missing the obvious.

I’m starting to wonder whether Miz is the one being avoidant. Say what she will about Miss Nardos, but the woman made a valid point. Here, no one will care for my well-being as diligently as Miz. And honestly, if I was going to take as drastic a step as getting married, there’s no one else—

No no no. I stop myself and revert to reality. “She doesn’t know you,” I say. “She missed the memo about you not being the marrying kind.”

“Exactly,” Miz says, jabbing the stir stick on the tabletop. “If I were, I wouldn’t be out there hustling like there’s no tomorrow.”

I laugh lightly but still very aware that our tomorrows are, in fact, dwindling. “And if you were, you wouldn’t get fake-married. I know this, speaking as the marrying kind.”

“Exactamento.”

We get quiet. I wait, feeling as if we are teetering on the brink of something monumental.

“But,” Miz starts, pushing us closer to the edge, “in life, there are extenuating circumstances.”

“There are,” I say as evenly as I can.

“And obviously, it wouldn’t be like me actually getting married to you in the forever sense. It would be me just doing you a favour. A sponsorship is a sponsorship is a sponsorship…” She looks at me intently, almost as if she’s holding her breath.

“…is a sponsorship.” My heart is full on racing now, from thrill or terror, it can’t decide.

“But…” she repeats, pulling us back. My heart with it. “I don’t know. It’s…you and me. Wouldn’t it be…? I don’t know if you’d want that.” She clasps her hands in front of her and almost looks nervous. “If you’d want…me.”

“I trust you,” I say simply. “What else is there to it?”

Now it gets really quiet at our table. Finally, Miz speaks, mostly to herself. “You know, it is a no-brainer. You and me.” She flicks at the crumpled napkin. “It’s just a piece of paper, but let me flip it back to you: Why won’t you let me sign for you?”

“I never said that.”

“But you’ve never brought it up. I’m sure it’s crossed your mind.”

It hadn’t, to be honest, but I decide to dodge the question. “It’s a big huge ask. How can I ask that of anyone?” I look up at the ceiling. “How can I ask that of you ?”

“Hey,” she says, reaching her hands out again and taking mine in them. The soft warmth of her skin and firm clasp immediately ground me. “What are cousins for, eh?”

It’s a joke that neither of us laughs at. That’s how I know we’ve left the realm of the hypothetical. Our gazes lock as tight as our hands. Everything falls away.

“It’s many pieces of paper,” I say carefully. I can feel her pulse trembling at her wrists. “And bureaucracy, time, energy. Most people don’t take that on…”

She tugs our hands. “I’m not most people.”

No. Miz is not most people. She is my people and has been for decades. “I trust you too,” she says. “I would do it only for you.”

“Same.” I sound out the words like a protective mantra. “Only because it’s you.”

“Only because it’s you,” she repeats smoothly. We both take huge breaths and let them out forcefully. She smiles shyly. “Whoa, this is happening, my guy!”

“I believe so!” I’m suddenly feeling shy myself.

“So when’re you sending shimagile to my dad?”

“What!”

“You know, your uncles and them, to do the proper asking?” she says deadpan, then cracks up, letting go of my hands. “I’m kidding! You should see your face!”

I wipe sweat from my head. “Phew! You had me.”

“I wish I had a picture,” she says with a laugh. Then, more seriously, “I don’t think we should involve our families in this. Do you?”

I imagine Abay’s reaction, how he would struggle at the idea of marriage as a tool, a means to an end. “Are you kidding?” I say, shaking my head emphatically. “No, definitely not.”

“This is between us,” she says. “Me, you, couple of random witnesses on the day of. That’s it. And, you know, the government.”

“But we will need someone to help with documents from back home though…” I say, knowing from her smile as I say it that the person who comes to both our minds, our only option really, is she who has never liked me being here: Eske.

“Good luck with that, future hozband.” She cracks up, throwing me a wink, and lets go of my hands.

Husband.