Chapter 19 Miz
19
MIZ
“Miz, what’re you doing?” Aimé stares at my hands on the ride to the restaurant.
I stop mid-motion while sliding my wedding ring off my finger. “What? We’re done.” I turn to Kal for backup. “Right?”
But he and Silvio are watching me strangely too, as if I’ve started undressing in front of all of them. Speaking of which, I also need to get this dress off, like, yesterday.
Silvio takes over. “We still need pictures.”
“At the restaurant,” Kal says gently.
Right. Aimé frowns at me. What’s going on?
What’s going on is I was fine until the ceremony. Nervous, but not overly so. But since we were pronounced husband and wife, I’ve been itchy, and I blame this dress. I should have known better than to wear a wedding dress to a wedding that is not an actual wedding wedding. Outwardly, of course, I am, or I think I am, completely fine. After all, this is easy peasy, right?
“Oh,” I say. I slide the ring back down my finger and catch Kal’s eye. He gives me a sheepish smile and averts his attention out the window, looking at passengers on a streetcar travelling alongside us. I shouldn’t have jumped his mouth as if there was a rule that said I had to kiss the groom. Poor Kal looked dumbstruck. I didn’t think he would take a peck on the lips so seriously. Actors are in each other’s business all the time! And we were acting, right?
As soon as we’ve taken more photos at our restaurant table with our family-style servings of appetizers and entrees and bottles of wine, I haul Aimé to the bathroom to help me out of the dress so I can get into my own clothes, which we’ve brought along in a shopping bag.
“This is supposed to be your new husband’s job,” she complains in the bathroom, tugging at the lacing across the back. I brace my hands against the sink counter. I can’t wait to slip into my sweater dress and start eating.
“Hurry up, I’m hungry.”
“You still got room after you ate up half Kal’s face earlier?” Aimé asks innocently.
“That’s an exaggeration!” I say. “I had to do it for our application.”
She gets to the end of the lacing, and I release like a package freed from its shrink wrap and take in a heaving breath. “So, how do you feel, overall?”
I shrug, letting the dress fall to the floor while Aimé tries to catch it. She shakes it off before starting to fold it while I slide into my sweater dress. I sigh in contentment before answering. “Completely normal. Nothing’s changed. Everything’s exactly the same. Well…okay, that’s a lie. Something does feel different. But I know it’s not actually different. It’s only because I’m on high alert, which means what I think feels different is really just normal, y’know?”
Aimé stops folding the wedding gown, looking alarmed. “Did you take something?”
“Just a huge fucking risk, that’s all. No biggie.”
“You can say that again.” She puts the wedding dress into the bag, which we then tie shut. “Don’t worry—you’re in good hands,” she says, patting me on the back on our way out.
That, I’ve never doubted.
Over lunch, I ramp up my normal-girl act, but Kal is still playing shy guy, refusing to look at me, talking mostly to, or through, Aimé and Silvio.
“I’d like to make a toast,” Aimé says, during a lull in our conversation. Immediately, Silvio starts filming.
“Or not,” I say, covering Silvio’s camera with my palm.
“K-Money,” Aimé says, totally ignoring me. “Thanks for finally making this girl take a break from dating, which I’ve been trying to get her to do for ages now.”
Kal laughs and snaps his fingers. “Ah! You’ve uncovered my master plan.”
“Oh really?” I say. “Newsflash, friends, signing papers doesn’t mean I can’t date still.”
Aimé gasps and clutches her chest, scandalized. Silvio, still filming, hams horror. “But what if they’re watching?” he says. “Have investigators on you?”
That does send a little stab of worry through me. It’s not a far-fetched notion. Half my mom’s job was tracking down false claims. Aimé nods along sombrely. Kal hums thoughtfully, stroking his chin. He turns to me for my comeback to that, making full eye contact with me for the first time since the kiss. Oh thank God, we’re back!
“Puh-lease,” I say, waving them off. “You don’t have to worry about this guy dating though.” I jab my thumb sideways at Kal. “My guy, Mr. Hard-to-Get, is not about to jump into the dating pool now that he’s ‘married,’ right?” I say, directing my air quotes at him. History assures me that I’m right, but I feel a teensy pinch of what if he does?
He bobs his head side to side. “Mmm, depends. Marriage is stressful, I’ve heard. Don’t you know that Chris Rock bit?” He acts it out for us, doing a decent impression of the comedian using Mandela’s divorce as proof, which cracks us all up. “Being… attached might turn out to be just the thing that drives me to date, at last,” he says just as our desserts are being delivered, causing an involuntary little jump of the server’s eyebrows.
“Ah, shite, now you’ve uncovered my master plan,” I say. “God knows I’ve tried everything else to get you back in action.”
We start in on our desserts, falling quiet for a few bites except for moans and murmurs of delectable bliss. “Jokes aside though,” Kal says, semi-privately to me. “I would never want to stand in the way of you meeting the right person.”
“The coast is clear, Kal,” I say, taking a sip of wine. “Rest assured.”
“The one worthy of you is out there, Miz.”
“Aw, that’s one of the nicest things I’ve heard.” I can barely conceal my eye roll.
“You don’t have to believe it. I believe it enough for the both of us.”
I stuff my mouth with icing. “Funk ew.”
“Ouch!” he says, wounded as if I’ve just cursed him out.
I swallow. “I said thank you , you goof!”
He offers me a forkful of his tiramisu. I move in to take the bite, but our angles are slightly off, and half of it smears across my cheek. We fall into a fit of giggles as Kal scrambles for his napkin.
He’s dabbing at the corners of my lips when we hear a loud “Ahem.” Oops—it’s the other half of our wedding party, watching us with dancing eyes.
“Y’all okay?” I say.
“But of course,” Silvio says.
“Everything’s great,” says Aimé.
—
On my way home, I drop the wedding dress off at the dry cleaner. I have no intention of picking it up. I consider pinging Sosina to let her know where she can get it. Maybe now, as we’re both married women, she’ll finally let me in on why, after shacking up, couples act as though they’ve taken a vow of silence alongside their vows of love. Or what happens after “Ale Gena,” after the bride and groom’s grand exit from the ballroom, adorned in their gilt-embroidered velvet capes and crowns. But I’ve already put my foot in it once, so I think better of it. Best not to push. Besides, Kal and I are not married married. Nothing will change because there’s nothing to change, right?
—
The next morning, I wake up and realize that something has changed: Every day, all week, at random times, I’ll experience alarms of I am freaking married to Kal! and flashes of that damn kiss. Each time I think about it, I cough and clear my throat, so much so that one day, Omar asks me whether I’ve caught a cold. More like cold feet too freaking late!
Kal is supposed to come over on Friday after I get home from the clinic to get started on the paperwork, and I’m filled with anxiety about being alone with him. So naturally, I start to reach for delay tactics—because I’m obviously a pro. I just have to find a way to flake.
Me: Maybe I should come over to yours later?
He replies way too fast.
Kal: No I want to work at yours.
Alrighty then. So much for that.
Kal: I don’t want you to be inconvenienced or have to go out of the way in the slightest.
Oh, please do let me get out of the way. That’s the whole point. But this is Kal, you goof , I remind myself. Kal who needs this, whose life’s direction is riding on this sponsorship. Chill.
So, on Friday, as agreed, Kal arrives at my place just as I am putting out snacks next to the printouts of the paperwork and some brand-new stationery on the coffee table.
“Is it too cluttered?” I say, casually leaning against the kitchen island while he slips his shoes off at the door. For ambience, I put the TV on CP24 on mute. “There’s more space on the coffee table, but we can switch and work here.” I’m blabbering. He walks in and surveys my arrangements. His hands are bare, I notice. I wonder whether he just forgot his wedding band or whether he deliberately kept it in the ring box. Not that I care. I’m not wearing mine either.
“Uh, no, it’s fine,” he says, texting on his phone as he drops his bag, then himself, onto the sectional. I sit at an angle to him, waiting for him to notice that I’ve bought all his favourite salty nibbles, including his fancy-ass pistachios. He finally tucks his phone under him, then takes his laptop out and makes room for it among the papers.
“Shouldn’t you sit next to me so we can both see? We can fill everything out online, you know?” he says, patting the seat on his other side.
“Oh, I thought we’d practice on paper first,” I say, moving to sit by his side.
“I’m okay to do it all online.” He shells and pops a pistachio in his mouth. My gaze zeroes in on his lips, as if they might be slightly altered from Monday, but they’re the same—moisturized, full, even. He notices my staring and swipes at his face. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Beer?” I shout, springing up. I scurry to the fridge and take out two bottles. Beer feels necessary. “TGIF!” When I sit back down, he has opened the Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada sponsorship webpage.
“Okay, let’s get to it.” I pick up a stack of ten stapled pages. “Document checklist.”
He pulls up a Word document on his laptop. “No need.”
On the screen are three headers: What I Have to Do. What Miz Has to Do. What Miz and I Have to Do Together. Underneath each header is a detailed bullet list of to-do items.
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Aw, you’re still a nerd!”
“One doesn’t go through the Canadian immigration system for eight years without staying organized, Miz,” he says, nudging me back.
I hum in agreement. “So, I guess since we’re together, we’re concentrating on What Miz and I Have to Do Together .”
“Yep,” he says. It’s only a two-item list. Item one, Proofs of Relationship , has subitems History of Contact , Cohabitation , Photos. Item two is form IMM5532.
“Number two is also known as the Relationship Information and Sponsorship Evaluation ,” Kal says, switching to a different window. “Of which Part C is all about how we met, who introduced us, who was involved and when in the evolution of our relationship, especially our wedding day, our living situation, et cetera.”
He scrolls to the first question. “When was the first time you met in person?” I read aloud then look at him, and he at me. “How far back do you want to go? The beginning beginning or when we reconnected here in Toronto?”
“Up to you,” he says.
“Me? This is your sponsorship.”
“But you’re the sponsor.”
“Someone has to be the decision-maker here.” I press my closed fist firmly on his forehead, as if I am stamping him. “There, from now on, you are the designated decision-maker, and I am at your service.”
“Either way, we have a good long timeframe. The officer might even ask why it took us so long to get married, at the interview.”
I toss back the sip I was about to take from my beer. “Inter-whatnow?”
“Miz, we’re a textbook case for an interview. By the time we submit this, we will have been married just a few months, conveniently right before my status expires. We don’t even live together.”
I wipe away a drop of dribble. I may be imagining it, but he sounds a smidge annoyed about that, as if I am weakening our application by not offering to share my space.
“That’s why we’re going to bury them in so many photos, texts, emails, all that,” I remind him, sounding upbeat. “But hey, listen, if you want to crash here for a few months, you know you’re welcome to.” I shrug. “On the couch,” I rush to add. “You know I wouldn’t wish my mattress on my worst enemy.”
He gets a strange look on his face, and I instantly worry I shouldn’t have said that. But he has slept on my couch before, so what’s the big deal? Ugh, I hate how everything feels fucking loaded all of a sudden.
“Just put the beginning beginning,” I say, trying to move on. “The truth is easier to remember.”
Kal types in the year, the city, and an approximate date that looks about right to me.
1. When was the first time you met in person?
Date (YYYY-MM-DD)
1996-04-27
Where?
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
I read the next part. Describe the circumstances of your first meeting. Another huge chunk of our early history that we’re supposed to compress down into a text box the width of a french fry.
My first time in Ethiopia, Kal had found me sitting by myself on a stone bench in one of the parkettes in Dad’s compound. He was on his way to his friend Bini’s place in the compound to cram for a final exam, arms filled with burgers and fries. I, of course, was not in school on account of Mom going bonkers and deporting me back to Dad. Instead, I was in my imitation Mary J. Blige outfit, boo-hooing for my lost real love. So when this cute, lanky boy, with his high-top haircut and shiny blue track suit, waved hello and asked whether I was okay with genuine concern, I latched on. And it didn’t hurt that he smelled like burgers and fries.
Kal hovers his fingers over the keyboard, waiting for me. “Just say we met at the restaurant.” He types that in, adding a few more details to use all the space provided. “Perfect.”
1. When was the first time you met in person?
Date (YYYY-MM-DD)
1996-04-27
Where?
Addis Ababa, Ethiopia
Describe the circumstances of your first meeting.
We met at a restaurant in Addis Ababa in the compound where she was visiting her father and I was visiting a friend.
“Doesn’t really do it justice though,” he says, pulling a face.
I shrug. “What can we do? If they want to know more, the interviewer will ask us.”
“ Officer , they are called officers.”
“Yes, Officer. No, Officer. Nunya bidness, Officer.”
Thankfully, the rest of the questions are pretty straightforward. It takes twenty minutes to hammer out the answers (with some unavoidable massaging of the facts): why we don’t live together and whether either of us lives with other people; the dates of my last five visits to him in Addis; who among our close friends and family know of our relationship; whether we had a wedding ceremony and who was there and not and why not.
In that time, Kal’s phone vibrates with texts no fewer than four times, all of which he jumps to check. Before we got married, I would have point-blank asked him who he was being so shifty about. But now…I’m scared it will bring on the Weirdness. So I heed my own words and mind my bidness.
Kal frowns at the next question on the form, scratching his chin as if it is a tricky one. “Are either of you pregnant?” He flicks his eyes questioningly at my belly.
“Ha ha.” I throw pistachio shells at him. I tick the No box on the form. “We should get our story straight though. As in, do we “want” them?”
“You know I do,” he says.
“Me too. So in theory, if we get asked, it’s a Yes . We want two?”
“Works for me.”
“Great.”
His phone rings. He snatches it and stands, giving me the just a sec finger. He paces over to the kitchen as he talks. My ears tag along while I pretend to read my to-do list on the laptop. But I can’t piece anything together from his yeahs and mm-hmms and uh-huh s. He hangs up and sends off a rapid-fire text.
“Excuse me. I have to step out for a second.”
“Okaaay.”
“Sorry, Miz. I just have to handle this outside. I won’t be long.”
He shuts my apartment door behind him. Then I hear the elevator. Oh wow, outside outside? She must be special to have survived the Questionnaire. I have a momentary unpleasant flashback to a month and a half ago when Daniel jetted that night I found the ring. I rest back on the couch, put my feet up on my unused printouts on the coffee table, and pull out my phone. Well shoot, I got people too. I text Aimé.
Me: So? Any ideas?
I want to know whether she’s come up with any way for me to return that damn ring while retaining my dignity.
Waiting for her response, I wander over to the window and look down at the street below, but then I feel like a creep spying on Kal so I use the bathroom instead. I’m cleaning up a little around the kitchen when Aimé finally responds.
Aimé: Why don’t you just go over to his place?
Me: Eh?
Aimé: Go over to his place WHERE HIS GYM BAG LIVES, as if to hang out, then FIND the gym bag, then PUT the ring inside it, where he’ll find it after you leave.
Me: Omg. Bold.
Just then, there’s a knock at my door.