The Vow

Mr. Bernier appears, hands in his pockets, glaring first at Annie, then at me, and I’m filled with awkward dread like I’ve never experienced before. I could drown in this. Or more likely, spontaneously combust.

“Should we sit down?” I ask.

Annie shoots death beams from her pupils directly at my head. Right. Not allowed to talk. But I’m not sure I can survive this kind of nervousness in silence.

“No,” Mr. Bernier says. His voice is terse, and unlike his wife, his eyes, his face, his whole body is aimed at me. “I’ll sit if I need to sit.”

I stare at the floor, shut my mouth, and vow never to disobey Annie again.

“Mo and I have some news, and we hope you’ll be happy for us even if it seems a little hard to understand at first,” Annie starts. It sounds vaguely rehearsed, but I’m pretty sure my jittery rambling would not be any better, so I continue on with my job of keeping my eyes on the floor and my mouth shut. “We’ve sort of been together as more than just friends for a little while now, but we’ve kept it a secret. We didn’t think you would approve.”

I hazard a glance at Mr. Bernier, but I’m so disturbed by the symmetrical blue veins running up either side of his forehead and over the shiny skin-wrapped cranium, that I have to look back down.

“Anyway, so a couple of weeks ago we decided we wanted to get married.”

A sharp intake of air sucks in the sound all around us as Mrs. Bernier’s hand flies to her mouth. It’s the nuclear bomb, the mushroom-cloud moment, when everyone is watching in horror, but the horror hasn’t actually set in yet.

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.”