Limits (27 page)

But she does something worse. She glares at me and sits down, silent and furious. The agent clears her throat, and I follow her, not daring to look back at my wife. I wonder if I just made an already bad situation worse.

“So, is this, um, protocol?” I ask, feeling like a crappy extra in an espionage movie. “To separate a couple for the interrogation?”

The word is in the air between us before I realize what I said.
Damn it.

The agent chuckles and shakes her head. None of the braids move.

“Please don’t be so dramatic, Mr. Abramovitz.” She swings open the door of her office and gestures to a black plastic chair. I sit and watch her perch on her office chair, flip open a folder, and gesture with her hands. “Just a regular old manila folder with some questions. No bright light shining in your face, no waterboarding.”

I attempt a subtler tactic. “I wish my wife could be here for this.”

“Mrs. Jeffries doesn’t water board either, I promise,” she deadpans. “Mr. Abramowitz, my name is Carlita Johnson. I’m your case review agent, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about your marriage to Genevieve...Rodriguez.” She flicks her eyes down the page to double check.

“Genevieve Rodriguez-Abramowitz,” I correct. She taps her pen on her folder, and I ramble like a fool. “Technically, I’m Adam Rodriguez-Abramowitz now. I know. It’s a mouthful.” I give her a wishy-washy smile, but she’s all business and is already taking notes.

Probably notes that read something like,
Husband is clearly a lying asshole.

“Can I assume you get along well with your parents-in-law, Mr.
Rodriguez-
Abramowitz?” Her pen is poised to write what I say, and that makes the words stick on my tongue.

“I...admire them.” I clear my throat and tug on my collar, wondering if it would make me look guilty to ask for some water. Isn’t it always the guilty guys who get dry mouth? “Genevieve’s family is nothing like mine. Her parents are kind of like these clan leaders who have all these clan members to take care of. Very old school.”

“How often do you see her parents?” I try to peek at Carlita Johnson’s notes, but she keeps the page tilted out of my view.

“Sunday dinners, mostly. But we’re trying to do that on alternate Sundays. We want to do our own thing sometimes, too. I mean—I want to. Maybe more than she does. But we agreed to work that out.”

I don’t mention that it was a fight last week when I needed to get things done in the lab, and Genevieve told me I had no choice except to go with her because it was Enzo’s birthday. When I told her that I thought it was ridiculous to have to go and eat cake and sing to her adult brother on his birthday, she barely talked to me the entire ride over.

“So you do Sunday dinners with the in-laws now, but you’re planning on doing them less?” she double-checks, and I wonder if she’ll compare my answer to Genevieve’s. Fuck.

“Yes,” I finally say, because I’m afraid to go back-tracking and sound like a bigger idiot. Or—worse—a liar.

“And your family? I understand you’re from Israel. Are they in Israel?” She says the name of my country with a strange semi-Hebrew flourish that doesn’t quite work.

“My dad, yes, he’s there. A few aunts, too, and then my cousins and uncles by marriage. I haven’t talked to them much lately.” I’m damn glad I’m wearing a dark jacket, because the sweat is dripping off of me, soaking me under the arms. How the hell do I admit that
I didn’t mention I was married to them?

Especially because Gen thinks I did. So I should lie, obviously, and say I did tell my family like a normal person would have.

Only I put my father’s contact information down on the paperwork the agency asked us to fill out, so they could call and verify with him. It isn’t likely, but if they do? I’m screwed. Gen is screwed.

My throat closes so tight, it feels like the sides are stuck together. What the hell have I gotten us—
her—
into? I’ll have to call as soon as we’re done here. Just call and tell everything, and accept up front that all my aunts will wail and beat their chests like martyrs because they missed the wedding. And my father...it makes my stomach clamp with nausea because my father will figure it out. He’ll guess why we did this. And he might even think it’s a good idea.

That I hate more than anything else.

“Has Genevieve been able to speak to them? Maybe on the phone? Maybe an online correspondence or even letters?” She uses her thumb to slide the cap on and off the pen, and her casual action makes me feel even more flustered.

“Not..um, not yet.” I fumble. “I’m not all that close. To them. My family. My aunts...they’re great. But they talk about my mother all the time, every time I see them. She died. Long time ago. I was ten. You know, it gets morbid after a while, always rehashing the past, always pointing out what she’s missing and how much she would have loved to be part of things. I miss her too, trust me. I do, miss her more than I can handle some days, but there’s a limit on how much I can deal with. And my father, he and I just don’t see eye to eye.”

My words flip and slide out, too much information, information that isn’t relevant, information I know Carlita Johnson is going to gather and somehow manage to use against me.

“Not all families get along.” The words are cool, almost careless, and she doesn’t mark the paper enough to possibly document all I said. Then it occurs to me: what if they
already
contacted my family? What if I just dug my own hole of lies, and I’m about to break my neck falling into it?

I keep my mouth clamped, because that wasn’t even a question, and I don’t need to implicate myself any further than I already have.

“So your wedding was on the smaller side, I’m guessing?” She makes a note before I answer, which irritates me.

Let me answer the question, Carlita.

“Gen is from a family of five siblings. Her mother is one of seven, and her father is one of four. Every one of her aunts and uncles came, plus their spouses and children and their children’s spouses and children. We also had friends from the university and family friends. It was pretty huge for a small wedding.”

I grin as I watch her mark a few things in her file, and then my grin fades because I wonder if what I said is entirely accurate. I remember Genevieve’s never-ending bridal magazines, which always had charts with clearly delineated headings and explanations. A small wedding was a definable thing, and I know there was a headcount average that coded it, though I don’t know specifics. If Carlita and Anisha Jeffries sit down and compare notes, will my answers be completely different from Genevieve’s?

“Who stood as your groomsmen, Mr. Rodriguez-Abramowitz?” She says my name like it’s a tongue twister.

I sigh. “Call me Adam, okay?”

“Okay, Adam. Who were your groomsmen?”

“Genevieve’s brothers, Enzo and Cohen.” I grit my teeth and hope that’s the end of that train of thought.

“Are you close with them?” Carlita flips her page, filling her sheets up with the briar patch of my half-lies, sort-of truths, and twisted admissions.

“No.” When I say the word, she looks up, eyes bright.

“No?” Her pen makes a deliberate mark on the sheet I can’t see, no matter how I twist my neck.

“Enzo and Cohen are different from me, I guess. I’m a little more academic. They’re cool and all, but we just don’t have the same interests. Also, they’re kind of possessive about Genevieve, and they love showing it.” Especially when showing it causes me physical harm or gut-wrenching embarrassment.

“You had no one stand with you who was your choice? No friend, no colleague?” Her pen is practically leaping out of her hand, overeager to show what shambles my life is in, how I could easily have barnacled onto someone who had what I needed.

“I stood with Genevieve,” I answer, and this time, the truth is undeniable. “She’s the only one who matters.”

Carlita’s face is placid as she makes hieroglyphic squiggles next to my answer sheet. “What size bed do you share with your wife?”

“A king. Her parents own a furniture place, so we have all kinds of extravagant stuff in our little shoebox.” Her eyes flick up and I rush to add, “Not that I’m not grateful and all. I am very grateful. It’s just that Gen has worked there since she was young, and, even though all that stuff was given as a gift, I sometimes feel like she sees it as an exchange for indentured service at the furniture store.” I laugh like it’s a joke, but Carlita just tilts her head and looks at me with black, bright eyes, like she’s wondering how she got a job interviewing raving assholes all day.

“Who makes breakfast in your home?” She draws a long, neat line across the paper, and my overzealous imagination goes bonkers. What the hell does that line mean?

“I don’t eat breakfast,” I say, my eye on the line. “Just coffee. But if it’s a weekend or something, Gen does. She makes this recipe, this French toast my mother made when I was a kid. And—I shouldn’t even say this—but hers is better. Which is weird, because it’s pretty hard to compete with a childhood memory, right?” Carlita looks at me with no expression. “Especially when you throw a dead mother into the memory mix.” I say it just to see if I get a rise out of her.

Because I’ve gone off the fucking deep end.

This isn’t a game. This isn’t a joke. This is my life, and my wife’s. If we’re caught without all our i’s dotted and t’s crossed, there could be fines. Jail time. On top of deportation for me. Gen would lose her school grants. She would be shamed and punished because I’m too much of a dickhead to keep my mouth shut when I feel cornered.

Carlita slides the cap on her pen and places it at the edge of the folder. I figure my time is up, but she asks, “Where do you keep the spare toilet paper?”

“Excuse me?”

I feel offended, even though that’s ludicrous. I’m sure if she’s asking me a question, it must be a US government issued question. And I get why this process has to be invasive. The whole point is to shine a light on all different aspects of a marriage.

But our
toilet paper
? It feels like she’s overstepping. Like nothing in my marriage is sacred. Like this is all some big joke.

But I don’t have any room to get pissed over the ridiculous nature of these questions. I’ve got a responsibility to make this work, and that means gritting my teeth and getting through it.

“Genevieve’s abuela knits these stupid dolls.” I try to describe them, but my fury is blocking me. We’re already talking about a pretty private thing, and now I have to reveal this absurd detail that drives me fucking nuts. “These dolls have dresses with ruffly...ruffles.” I wave my hand to illustrate. “And they have this long, narrow cylinder that you pop into the toilet paper tube, then the skirts cover the roll. They sit on the tank.”

And watch me conduct my business like creepy little Mexican bathroom monitors. I hate them, but I know better than to mess with Abeula’s bathroom voodoo.

For the first time in the entire interview, I think Carlita is about to smile. “What is Genevieve’s birthday?”

“August twelfth.” The words hardly have time to settle before I sit up, startled. “Wait. No. August thirteenth.”

Is it thirteen? Or twelve? She told me. She told me she didn’t believe in bad luck because she had to face the thirteenth on her birthday every year.

Wait. Or did she tell me she felt like she escaped bad luck because she was born just
before
the thirteenth?

Fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck.

Sweat pools at my lower back, and I feel like I’m hyperventilating.

Carlita’s pen scratches on the paper.

“Her favorite show?”

The dancing one? The mystery one with the detective so good-
looking, no one seems to mind the colossal plot holes? The period piece with that uppity family that only runs for a few weeks each year? She likes them all.

“Her least favorite food?”

She always cooks. And buys the groceries. And agrees about where to eat out. She loves food, but she can’t love
all
food. What does she hate? Why don’t I know?

I stumble through answers, hardly remembering what I said the minute after I said it.

“What type of curtains do you have in your living room?” Carlita’s stare is cool and disturbingly patient.

Like she knows she has all the time in the world to let me dig myself deep into my own grave.

“The walls are red.” My mouth is completely dry. I need some damn water! ‘Not an interrogation’ my ass.

“And the curtains?” she presses.

Genevieve leaves them drawn back all the time to let as much light in as possible. She and Cece picked them out the day we moved in. Enzo hung them too low and too close to the edges of the window. I know every goddamn detail about these curtains except the one that matters.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just can’t remember.”

Carlita stands up, and I jump to attention. She puts her hand out and I shake, shocked that she’s—as far as I can tell—a living, breathing human and not some cyborg with programmable feelings.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Adam. We’ll be in contact soon.”